The Jewel Robbery at the Grand Metropolitan by Agatha Christie

1920's swag.

Not exactly the most original premise, The Jewel Robbery at the Grand Metropolitan is probably the best out of the recent batch of Agatha Christie stories that I have read lately, which really isn't a glowing endorsement. Hercule Poirot and his ever-loyal sidekick Hastings are taking a brief holiday from sleuthing, enjoying some well-earned R&R at a fancy Brighton hotel. Naturally, Poirot barely has time to unpack before his services are required once again and those famous “little grey cells” are switched back on. Vacation denied.

Enter a wealthy couple, with the wife in particular being very proud of her jewel-encrusted necklace. She’s eager to show it off, until she goes back to her room and discovers it’s vanished. Gasp. The local inspector and others quickly zero in on the usual suspects: it must be the servants! The lady's maid and the chambermaid were both in the room at the time, so it must be one of them. Right?  Poirot, however, is not entirely convinced. Given the layout of the room, it seems highly unlikely that either woman could have grabbed the necklace from its supposedly secure location and hide it before the mistress returned. Hastings even supplies a helpful little floor plan of the room (which is neat, I guess?), while Poirot does what Poirot does best: quietly observes, thinks circles around everyone else, and eventually outsmarts the lot of them.

All that said, the story itself just isn’t very compelling. From the outset, it’s hard to feel invested in the mystery or particularly care about how it all turns out. Yes, Poirot’s eccentricities and razor-sharp intellect are always a pleasure, but even he can’t entirely save a story that feels this slight. His charm carries it some of the way, just not memorably across the finish line.