Black Coffee: Novelisation

This is a 1998 novelisation of a play Agatha Christie wrote early in her career and which was performed in 1930. It concerns theft of a formula for an explosive devised by scientist Sir Claud Amory, and then murder as he is poisoned by a member of his household, just as Hercule Poirot arrives, called in by Sir Claud to investigate the theft. This is a classic locked room mystery, but I found the characters uniformly rather irritating. As in a number of other Christie novels, nationalist stereotypes of the time against Italians in particular, grate rather. I found Captain Hastings' character completely pointless here - he contributes nothing whatsoever to the plot. Poirot comes across as rather more arrogant than usual as well. Overall, show more definitely not one of my favourite Christies, though it functions as well as ever as a lightweight page turner. show less

"‘George,’ he called, ‘please take my heavy tweed suit and my dinner jacket and trousers to the cleaners. I must have them back by Friday, as I am going to the Country for the Weekend.’ He made it sound like the Steppes of Central Asia and for a lifetime."
Tweed? No, I cannot....no to Poirot in tweeds.

I am all in favour of fan fiction, especially when it is done well. Unfortunately, Black Coffee fell flat on so many counts.
What is, in my opinion, even worse is that the book was authorised, even commissioned, by Christie's estate. Subsequently it was published as part of the official Agatha Christie catalogue. This is just plain wrong.

Christie did write the play Black Coffee in 1929 to experiment with play-writing herself after show more stage adaptations of her previous books failed to impress her. However, I guess she must have had her reasons for not developing this particular story into a full novel - although many, many elements in the story do appear in later stories.
Or maybe Charles Osborne would just regurgitate the tricks and techniques of Dame Agatha's better known works to cover his lack of imagination? After all, he did write the book some 20 years after Christie's death.

My dismay at Agatha Christie Ltd and the publishers for allowing this book to be published as part of the official series is not, however, solely because it is so obvious that it was a financial decision to milk the franchise.
I'm disliking that this book should be the best available work of fan fiction and should be worthy of publication - especially when readers may pick this up and actually think it was written by Christie.

The obvious lack in sincerity in Osborne's portrayal of the characters is downright upsetting. So, not only does he make Poirot wear tweeds, but he also turns him into something that he is not. For all of Poirot's eccentricities, the Poirot Christie had created may have had high standards but he has always had some empathy with other people.

"An inveterate snob, he was already predisposed in Sir Claud’s favour by virtue of his title. If he were to be found in Who’s Who, a volume in which the details of Poirot’s own career could also be discovered, then perhaps this Sir Claud was someone with a valid claim on his, Hercule Poirot’s, time and attention."

No. Just, no. show less

This book sucked which is why I kicked it to the proverbial curb when I got to 40 pages in. I often say that a good DNF review can steer potential readers away from a book that the reviewer articulates why it would be a waste of time. Honestly, all you have to know is that Agatha Christie did not write this novel. Instead, Christie wrote a play called "Black Coffee." However it was not turned into a novel. Decades later, Charles Osborne would take up the mantle and write this. I have no idea why anyone thought the guy could pull this off, and the foreword by Christie's nephew talking about what a good job Osborne did must have been in jest.

This is a bad novel aping to sound like Christie. I don't know how else to spell it out. It's like show more trying to see your reflection through a really dirty mirror. You can almost see yourself, but then you move a little and that's all she wrote. I just could not get past how unlike Poirot this sounds in Osborne's hands. He obviously did not get our egg head shaped detective at all. Yes, Poirot is vain, but is not so far up his own ass that he would be acting like he does in this book.

The overall mystery, did not interest me either. Poirot is called in when a man named Claud Amory is worried that someone in his home is hoping to steal secret formula.

Don't even get me started on why Amory doesn't just leave his home and come to Poirot. That would make too much sense. Instead Poirot goes to Amory's home to help and of course finds him dead. Amory has been poisoned by coffee he had after dinner. Of course my first thought is who drinks coffee after dinner. I can't drink coffee after noon or I will be up all night. Insomnia sucks. Oh wait, back to this terrible book. Poirot now has a household of suspects. Hastings is also in this one and of course just like Poirot acts so alien you think he and Poirot have been body snatched by aliens.

I finally called it a day at page 40. Back to the library this book goes. Well I got my first DNF of 2017, maybe the Book gods are coming back....sigh. show less

Summary: Poirot is too late to help Sir Claud, who has been fatally poisoned and his secret formula stolen by someone in his household.

I like my coffee black. But I think I would pass were I visiting the home of Sir Claud Amory.

Black Coffee was actually Agatha Ch4ristie’s first stage play, overshadowed by the widely staged The Mousetrap. The play was moderately successful, playing in several theatres from December 1930 through June 1931. It also appeared as a film version in 1931. Among those over the years who played the suspicious Italian Dr. Carellia was Charles Osborne. Forty years later he approached the Christie Estate with a proposal to novelize the stage play. This book, published in 1998, was the result.

Sir Claud Amory show more reaches out to Poirot for help. He is working on an atomic formula that would create a powerful weapon. He suspects someone in his house wants to steal it. Before Poirot arrives, he finds the formula missing. He stages an elaborate effort to recover the formula at a dinner party with members of the household and guests. He locks them into the library. After coffee is served, he tells them the lights will be turned off, the thief can return the formula, and life will go on. Then he drinks his coffee, the lights go out and come on just as Poirot arrives.

An envelope is by his side. But Sir Claud is very dead. And the envelope is empty.

The authorities ask the guest to remain. Beside servants, there is Sir Claud’s sister Caroline, his spirited niece Barbara, his son Richard, who is in financial straits, Richard’s wife, Lucia, who he recently married in Italy, Sir Claud’s efficient secretary Edward Raynor, and Dr. Carelli, ostensibly Lucia’s friend. Instead, he is blackmailing her, threatening to reveal her past.

Poirot is accompanied by Captain Hastings. Soon they learn that someone used hyoscine to poison Sir Claud’s coffee, explaining the bitterness he complained of when drinking it. Suspicion focuses on Lucia, who had been seen taking some tablets from a medicine box they had been looking at earlier in the evening. She had served the coffee. And there was her past. She was the daughter Selma Goetz, an international spy. She had tried to keep this secret from the family but Dr. Carelli knew and Sir Claud had received a cryptic warning about her as well.

Poirot knows she isn’t the murderer, nor her husband, who confesses to protect her. Eventually he sets a trap to catch the thief and murderer. But the murderer turns the tables, using the same poison in Poirot’s drink.

This is a short piece, and while a bit formulaic, makes for a diverting read. It makes sense that this was a stage play. All the action takes place in the library. The character of Poirot is consistent with the other novels. Although the stage play preceded the nuclear age, the story also raises the question about the morality of such super weapons. Although this is not up to the standard of The Murder of Roger Ackroyd and And Then There Were None, any Christie and Poirot lovers will want to read this, particularly to learn the plot of Christie’s first stage play. show less

Published as One, Two, Buckle My Shoe in England and The Patriotic Murders in the US, it turns out that I had never read this one, thinking it a Tuppence and Tommy mystery, not an Hercule Poirot mystery.

I had to remedy that at once, and finished it this morning. It is a classic Poirot although he never once mentions his little ‘grey cells’. Seemingly inconsistent pieces of evidence and seemingly inconsequential scraps of conversation lead Poirot on his merry way to solving a complex and surprising set of murders.

Some, but not all, of Christie’s mysteries have deeper themes than bringing a murderer to justice, and this book has one. However, even describing the theme would be a spoiler, so mum's the word.

I enjoyed this book. Most show more of Christie’s mysteries have typical British prejudices of the time and Dame Agatha was never hesitant to trot out stock characters and generalizations about their behavior. It doesn’t matter, though, because I realize she was a product of her times and glean the interesting, intelligent, and good out of her mysteries. Always excepting Tuppence and Tommy, of course. show less

I’m not much of a mystery reader, but I’ve never read Agatha Christie and I wanted to, so thus, this book. I read the first fifty pages in a flash. This is not what I’d expected from Agatha, I thought. This is light reading. Lots of dialogue, minimal action.As I looked more carefully at the book, I found out why. Despite the enormous AGATHA CHRISTIE written on the front cover, Black Coffee, the book, was not actually written by Christie. It is derived from a play Christie wrote, but it was actually written as a book by someone else. So, have I read Christie or haven’t I? I think not. I must still seek out a Christie for the whole experience. Black Coffee was watered down Christie.

I'm rereading all of Agatha Christie's novels, in the order that they were published.

Black Coffee was published as a play in 1930. This is a novelization of that play. Technically, it is out of the Christie canon that I am pursuing, but I thought it still fit into the original publication order. It's a bit derivative--Christie was plagiarizing her own works! There was some other novel where there was a muddle over the coffee cups (was it The Murder of Roger Ackroyd?) and Christie often had some pseudo-scientific formula or invention around which the plot circled.

The writer, Charles Osborne, didn't quite get the Christie vibe in his writing, and he said Poirot was bald! Nevertheless, this isn't a bad book, just not as engaging as the show more real thing. show less