Poirot Investigates quotes

“Ah! Sacré!” cried Poirot. “Is it that you expect her to promenade herself in the streets of London in a cowboy hat, or with bare feet, and a bunch of curls, as an Irish colleen?

Always with you it is the non-essentials!

Remember the case of the dancer, Valerie Saintclair.”

“

You really have the best opinion of yourself of anyone I ever knew!

” I cried, divided between amusement and annoyance.

“

What will you? When one is unique, one knows it!

And others share that opinion—even, if I mistake not, Miss Mary Marvell.”

It had become rather a pose with him to consistently belittle my abilities, and I think he was chagrined at finding no loophole for criticism. I was secretly rather pleased with myself, though I tried to conceal the fact for fear of irritating him.

In spite of his idiosyncrasies, I was deeply attached to my quaint little friend.

“Bien!” he said at length, with a curious look on his face. “The plot develops. Pass me, I pray you, that Peerage on the top shelf there.” He turned the leaves. “Ah, here we are!

“

Mon Dieu! It is that in this country you treat the affairs gastronomic with a criminal indifference.

”

“Si, si, mon ami, it is a pity that you study not the psychology. She told you that the letters were destroyed?

Oh, la la, never does a woman destroy a letter if she can avoid it! Not even if it would be more prudent to do so!

”

“

But you were so enjoying yourself, my friend. I had not the heart to shatter your illusions.

”

If the cause of the death had been heart failure, I should have been more sanguine.

Heart failure may always be translated as the inability of the local G.P. to discover what his patient really did die of, but a haemorrhage seems fairly definite.

Still, we can but make some necessary inquiries. Five minutes to pack your bag, Hastings, and we will take a taxi to Liverpool Street.”

“

That is to say, when there is no question of a beautiful woman!

”

“

Madame, you of all people should know that there are no dead!

”

“

Wonderful is the word! It’s a blinking miracle.

But there must be a catch somewhere. Big premium, I suppose?”

I rather wished Poirot had been there.

Sometimes I have the feeling that he rather underestimates my capabilities.

The whole thing was rather amusing, and I propounded the thing as a mock problem to Poirot on the following morning. He seemed interested, and questioned me rather narrowly as to the rents of flats in various localities.

“

Observation was always your strong point, Hastings! Nothing escapes you.

No, the man is not a Jap. He is an Italian.”

I may as well confess at once that they were rather disappointing.

In detective novels clues abound, but here I could find nothing that struck me as out of the ordinary

except a large bloodstain on the carpet where I judged the dead man had fallen. I examined everything with painstaking care and took a couple of pictures of the room with my little camera which I had brought with me.

“

Oh, as far as that goes, I am very good at cracking the nuts! A veritable squirrel!

It is not that which embarrasses me. I know well enough who killed Mr. Harrington Pace.”

“

But at a price, Hastings, always at a price, croyez-moi!

”

… I wait—eh bien, to the intelligence of Hercule Poirot the case is perfectly clear, but for the benefit of others, not so greatly gifted by the good God—the Inspector McNeil, for instance—it would be as well to make a few inquiries to establish the facts.

One must have consideration for those less gifted than oneself.

”

“Do not enrage yourself, Hastings. In verity, I observe that there are times when you almost detest me!

Alas, I suffer the penalties of greatness!

”

“The man who had a duplicate key, the man who ordered the lock, the man who has not been severely ill with bronchitis at his home in the country—enfin, that ‘stodgy’ old man, Mr. Shaw!

There are criminals in high places sometimes, my friend.

Ah, here we are. Mademoiselle, I have succeeded! You permit?”

“No, indeed, Lady Willard,” said Poirot quickly. “

I, too, believe in the force of superstition, one of the greatest forces the world has ever known.

”

“Not in Brussels,” declared Poirot. He gazed at the Pyramids thoughtfully. “It is true that they, at least, are of a shape solid and geometrical, but their surface is of an unevenness most unpleasing. And the palm-trees I like them not.

Not even do they plant them in rows!

”

“You misunderstood me, Hastings. What I meant was that I believe in the terrific force of superstition.

Once get it firmly established that a series of deaths are supernatural, and you might almost stab a man in broad daylight, and it would still be put down to the curse, so strongly is the instinct of the supernatural implanted in the human race.

I suspected from the first that a man was taking advantage of that instinct. The idea came to him, I imagine, with the death of Sir John Willard. A fury of superstition arose at once.

“You misunderstood me, Hastings.

What I meant was that I believe in the terrific force of superstition.

Once get it firmly established that a series of deaths are supernatural, and you might almost stab a man in broad daylight, and it would still be put down to the curse, so strongly is the instinct of the supernatural implanted in the human race.

“We cannot be sure. He knew young Bleibner too, remember, and may have suspected something, or, again, the doctor may have thought that a further death motiveless and purposeless would strengthen the coils of superstition. Furthermore, I will tell you an interesting psychological fact, Hastings.

A murderer has always a strong desire to repeat his successful crime, the performance of it grows upon him.

Hence my fears for young Willard. The figure of Anubis you saw tonight was Hassan, dressed up by my orders. I wanted to see if I could frighten the doctor. But it would take more than the supernatural to frighten him.

I could see that he was not entirely taken in by my pretences of belief in the occult. The little comedy I played for him did not deceive him. I suspected that he would endeavour to make me the next victim.

Ah, but in spite of la mer maudite, the heat abominable, and the annoyances of the sand, the little grey cells still functioned!

”

“

The sight of so many jewels makes me wish I had turned my brains to crime, instead of to its detection.

What a magnificent opportunity for some thief of distinction! Regard, Hastings, that stout woman by the pillar. She is, as you would say, plastered with gems.”

Poirot was busy mopping a grey suit with a minute sponge.

Never was there a dandy such as Hercule Poirot. Neatness and order were his passion.

Now, with the odour of benzine filling the air, he was quite unable to give me his full attention.

“I assist a—how do you call it?—‘charlady’ to find her husband. A difficult affair, needing the tact. For I have a little idea that when he is found he will not be pleased. What would you?

For my part, I sympathize with him. He was a man of discrimination to lose himself.

”

“

Because uncertainty creates panic.

That is one reason. Were the Prime Minister dead, it would be a terrible calamity, but the situation would have to be faced. But now you have paralysis. Will the Prime Minister reappear, or will he not? Is he dead or alive?

All that matters is the little grey cells within. Secretly and silently they do their part, until suddenly I call for a map, and I lay my finger on a spot—so—and I say: the Prime Minister is there! And it is so!

With method and logic one can accomplish anything!

This frantic rushing to France was a mistake—it is playing a child’s game of hide-and-seek. But now, though it may be too late, I will set to work the right way, from within. Silence, my friends, I beg of you.”

He can be headed off from foreign countries; ports and railway stations are watched; and, as for concealment in this country, his features and appearance will be known to everyone who reads a daily newspaper.

He’s up against civilization.

”

“But not you, I suppose?” said Japp good-humouredly, winking at me. “He couldn’t baffle you, eh, Monsieur Poirot?”

Poirot endeavoured, with a marked lack of success, to look modest.

“Me, also! Why not? It is true that I approach such problems with an exact science, a mathematical precision, which seems, alas, only too rare in the new generation of detectives!”

“By no means. These things are all good in their way. The danger is they may assume undue importance.

Most details are insignificant; one or two are vital.

It is the brain, the little grey cells”—he tapped his forehead—“on which one must rely. The senses mislead. One must seek the truth within—not without.”

“

I find it a good sign when a case is obscure.

If a thing is clear as daylight—eh bien, mistrust it! Someone has made it so.”

In spite of the fact that he has shaved his beard and moustache and those bushy eyebrows, and has cropped his hair close.

A woman nearly always knows her husband, though the rest of the world may be deceived!

”

“Not exactly,” said Poirot, with an enigmatical smile. “

I am more interested in Count Foscatini’s appetite.

Did he partake of every dish?”

“Strange,” he murmured. “

We all have the little grey cells. And so few of us know how to use them.

Good morning, Signor Ascanio. I believe your story. It is very much as I had imagined. But I had to make sure.”

“

Never, never will you use the brains the good God has given you.

Recall to yourself some words I uttered after leaving the flat that night. I referred to the window-curtains not being drawn. We are in the month of June. It is still light at eight o’clock. The light is failing by half-past.

Then quickly to the service telephone—dinner for three! It comes, he lays the table, dirties the plates, knives, and forks, etc. But he has to get rid of the food too.

Not only is he a man of brain; he has a resolute and capacious stomach!

But after eating three tournedos, the rice soufflé is too much for him! He even smokes a cigar and two cigarettes to carry out the illusion. Ah, but it was magnificently thorough!

But you will see, I shall be right; and then Japp, to whom I have already given a hint, will be able to arrest the respectable Graves. I wonder how much of the money he has spent.”

Poirot was right. He always is, confound him!