This is one doozy of a weird book that reads like Christie writing Poirot fanfic, jerking him out of the genteel English parlors of his comfort zone to make him jump off of trains and don disguises in search of a quartet of international supervillains bent on world domination and chaos for... reasons? I lost count of how many times Hastings passed out, only to awake safely after the action concluded to hear how Poirot narrowly thwarted doom yet again, and I cringed every time a caricature of a Chinese person appeared on page to speak in offensive dialect. Not Christie's finest moment.