One of -- if not the -- worst golden age mysteries I have actually finished was Hughes' The So Blue Marble. I disliked it so much that I was reluctant to try another of her books. But the marble book was her first, so I thought maybe her writing became more to my liking. Sadly, no. I gave up on this on Page 62, not really caring about what happened or about any of the characters, which seemed cardboard cutouts to me. The idea of a train-set mystery drew me in, but this was a lumbering milk run compared to the sleek superliner of Christie's Orient Express. The main dread was what I felt having to pick it up again to continue reading.
