Perform the ritual that puts me in the part

Being left to my own devices this week with a pile of unfamiliar Agatha Christie, I naturally read them one after the other. I have nothing especially to note about Why Didn't They Ask Evans? (1934) or The Sittaford Mystery (1931) except that it turned out to be a duplicate of the US-titled The Murder at Hazelmoor and I swapped it out for Dolores Hitchens' Cat's Claw (1943), but Christie's They Came to Baghdad (1951) is a reasonably wild ride of a novel which mixes several different flavors of spy thriller with a romance conducted on an archaeological dig at Tell Aswad, which I didn't even need to bet myself had been excavated by Max Mallowan. Minus the nuclear angle, its global conspiracy is right out of an interwar thriller—Christie to her credit defuses much of the potential for antisemitism with references to Siegfried and supermen instead—as is its Ambler-esque heroine gleefully launching herself into international intrigue with little more than her native wits and talent for straight-faced improvisation, but its spymaster is proto-le Carré, the chronically shabby, fiftyish, vague-looking Dakin, a career disappointment rumored to drink who never looks any less tired when dealing with affairs of endangered state. He gave me instant Denholm Elliott and never seems to have recurred in another novel of Christie's, alas. I made scones with candied ginger and sour cherries and lemon tonight.