Agatha Christie

“ Now would a man ever have thought of noticing a thing like that?"
"Did you ever!" cried Miss Monro. "I suppose we do notice things. I remember Claudie, now I come to think of it, always fiddling with his bread at table. He'd get a little piece between his fingers and then dab it round to pick up crumbs. I've seen him do it a hundred times. Why, I'd know him anywhere by that one trick of his."
"Is not that just what I say? The marvellous observation of a woman. And did you ever speak to him about this little habit of his, mademoiselle?"
"No, I didn't, Mr. Poirot. You know what men are! ”

“ Five minutes later Jane murmured softly:
"I don't know London very well, Julius, but is it such a very long way from the Savoy to the Ritz?"
"It depends how you go," explained Julius unblushingly. "We're going by way of Regent's Park!"
"Oh, Julius—what will the chauffeur think?"
"At the wages I pay him, he knows better than to do any independent thinking. Why, Jane, the only reason I had the supper at the Savoy was so that I could drive you home. I didn't see how I was ever going to get hold of you alone. You and Tuppence have been sticking together like Siamese twins. ”

“ Put yourself in King Victor’s place, Lemoine. Use your imagination. You’ve just come out of prison. You’re getting on in life. You’ve lost the first fine rapture of the adventurous life. Say, even, that you meet a beautiful girl. You think of marrying and settling down somewhere in the country where you can grow vegetable marrows. You decide from henceforth to lead a blameless life. Put yourself in King Victor’s place. Can’t you imagine feeling like that?”
“I do not think that I should feel like that,” said Lemoine with a sardonic smile.
“Perhaps you wouldn’t,” admitted Anthony. ”

“ He laughed suddenly.
"I mustn't lose my temper; it's too palpably absurd. Why, if I killed her I should have had no need to steal her jewels, would I?"
"That is true," murmured Poirot, with a rather crestfallen air. "I did not think of that."
"If ever there were a clear case of murder and robbery, this is it," said Derek Kettering. "Poor Ruth, it was those damned rubies did for her. It must have got about she had them with her. There has been murder done for those same stones before now, I believe."
Poirot sat up suddenly in his chair. A very faint green light glowed in his eyes. ”

“ What a terrible part she has had to play, poor woman. Imagine the shock when she goes to identify the body and, instead of what she expects, sees the actual lifeless form of the husband she has believed miles away by now. No wonder she fainted! But since then, despite her grief and her despair, how resolutely she has played her part, and how the anguish of it must wring her. She cannot say a word to set us on the track of the real murderers. For her son’s sake, no one must know that Paul Renauld was Georges Conneau, the criminal. ”

“ You know who killed Lord Cronshaw?"
"Parfaitement."
"Who was it? Eustace Beltane?"
"Ah, mon ami, you know my little weakness! Always I have a desire to keep the threads in my own hands up to the last minute. But have no fear. I will reveal all when the time comes. I want no credit—the affair shall be yours, on the condition that you permit me to play out the dénouement my own way."
"That’s fair enough," said Japp. "That is, if the dénouement ever comes! But I say, you are an oyster, aren’t you?" Poirot smiled. "Well, so long. I’m off to the Yard." ”

“ She stared at Ursula as though she had never seen her before.
“Married to Bourne?” she said. “Really, M. Poirot, I don’t believe you.”
Ursula flushed and began to speak, but Flora forestalled her.
Going quickly to the other girl’s side, she passed her hand through her arm.
“You must not mind our being surprised,” she said. “You see, we had no idea of such a thing. You and Ralph have kept your secret very well. I am—very glad about it.”
“You are very kind, Miss Ackroyd,” said Ursula in a low voice, “and you have every right to be exceedingly angry. Ralph behaved very badly—especially to you.” ”

“ Surely no woman as beautiful as Mary Cavendish could be a murderess. Yet beautiful women had been known to poison.
And suddenly I remembered that first conversation at tea on the day of my arrival, and the gleam in her eyes as she had said that poison was a woman’s weapon. How agitated she had been on that fatal Tuesday evening! Had Mrs. Inglethorp discovered something between her and Bauerstein, and threatened to tell her husband? Was it to stop that denunciation that the crime had been committed?
Then I remembered that enigmatical conversation between Poirot and Evelyn Howard. ”

“ At the time of Ruth's death, I was faced with absolute disaster." He laughed suddenly. "One is faced with absolute disaster when one is up against a man like Rufus Van Aldin."
"And then?" asked Katherine in a low voice.
"And then," Derek shrugged his shoulders, "Ruth was murdered—very providentially."
He laughed, and the sound of his laugh hurt Katherine. She winced.
"Yes," said Derek, "that wasn't in very good taste. But it is quite true. Now I am going to tell you something more. From the very first moment I saw you I knew you were the only woman in the world for me. ”

“ Tuppence shivered. His words woke a vague alarm in her. What if there was some one concealed in the house? Some one who might bar that door on them, and leave them to die like rats in a trap? Then she realized the absurdity of her thought. The house was surrounded by police who, if they failed to reappear, would not hesitate to break in and make a thorough search. She smiled at her own foolishness—then looked up with a start to find Sir James watching her. He gave her an emphatic little nod.
"Quite right, Miss Tuppence. You scent danger. So do I. So does Miss Finn."
"Yes," admitted Jane. ”

“ When I asked her if she knew that Jack Renauld was here that night, she answered ‘He told me.’ Now, Hastings, what was Jack Renauld doing here on that eventful evening, and if he did not see Mademoiselle Marthe whom did he see?”
“Surely, Poirot,” I cried, aghast, “you cannot believe that a boy like that would murder his own father.”
“Mon ami,” said Poirot, “you continue to be of a sentimentality unbelievable! I have seen mothers who murdered their little children for the sake of the insurance money! After that, one can believe anything.” ”

“ Why should Madame Daubreuil murder M. Renauld? We can find no shadow of a motive. She does not benefit by his death; considered as either mistress or blackmailer she stands to lose. You cannot have a murder without a motive. The first crime was different. There we had a rich lover waiting to step into her husband’s shoes.”
“Money is not the only motive for murder,” I objected.
“True,” agreed Poirot placidly. “There are two others. The crime passionnel is one. And there is the third rare motive, murder for an idea which implies some form of mental derangement on the part of the murderer. ”

“ You may smile, Hastings—but to penetrate a man's personality, to know exactly what he will do under any given circumstances—that is the beginning of success. It is a duel between us, and whilst he is constantly giving away his mentality to me, I endeavour to let him know little or nothing of mine. He is in the light, I in the shade. I tell you, Hastings, that every day they fear me the more for my chosen inactivity."
"They've let us alone, anyway," I observed. "There have been no more attempts on your life, and no ambushes of any kind."
"No," said Poirot thoughtfully. ”

“ What's that got to do with it?"
"Nothing whatever," said Poirot mildly. "A little idea of mine, that was all. Me, I am famous for my little ideas."
"Are you really?" said Raglan, studying him with a puzzled expression.
The superintendent went into a roar of laughter.
"Many's the time I've heard Inspector Japp say that. M. Poirot and his little ideas! Too fanciful for me, he'd say, but always something in them."
"You mock yourself at me," said Poirot, smiling; "but never mind. The old ones they laugh last sometimes, when the young, clever ones do not laugh at all." ”

“ He turned to me abruptly. “Tell me, Hastings, you yourself—have you no suspicions of anybody?”
I hesitated. To tell the truth, an idea, wild and extravagant in itself, had once or twice that morning flashed through my brain. I had rejected it as absurd, nevertheless it persisted.
“You couldn’t call it a suspicion,” I murmured. “It’s so utterly foolish.”
“Come now,” urged Poirot encouragingly. “Do not fear. Speak your mind. You should always pay attention to your instincts.”
“Well then,” I blurted out, “it’s absurd—but I suspect Miss Howard of not telling all she knows!” ”