29 Quotes Tagged: poirot

My last name is Poirot, like Agatha Christie's famous detective Hercule Poirot; no relation to the fictional character.

"Mr. Satterthwaite looked cheered.

Suddenly an idea struck him. His jaw fell.

"My goodness," he cried, "I've only just realized it! That rascal, with his poisoned cocktail! Anyone might have drunk it! It might have been me!"

"There is an even more terrible possibility that you have not considered," said Poirot.

"Eh?"

"It might have been me," said Hercule Poirot."

There is at Christmas time a great deal of hypocrisy, honourable hypocrisy, hypocrisy undertaken pour le bon motif, c'est entendu, but nevertheless hypocrisy!

I do not argue with obstinate men. I act in spite of them.

"You've a pretty good nerve," said Ratchett. "Will twenty thousand dollars tempt you?"

It will not."

If you're holding out for more, you won't get it. I know what a thing's worth to me."

I, also M. Ratchett."

What's wrong with my proposition?"

Poirot rose. "If you will forgive me for being personal - I do not like your face, M. Ratchett," he said.

Sometimes I feel sure he is as mad as a hatter and then, just as he is at his maddest, I find there is a method in his madness.

Do you believe in the value of truth, my dear, or don’t you?”

“Of course I believe in the truth,” said Rhoda, staring.

“Yes, you say that, but perhaps you haven’t thought about it. The truth hurts sometimes – and destroys one’s illusions.”

“I’d rather have it all the same.” said Rhoda.

“So would I. But I don’t know that we’re wise.

Miss Bulstrode had another faculty which demonstrated her superiority over most other women. She could listen.

"But Aunt Maureen makes smashing omelettes." Julia Upjohn.

"She makes smashing omelettes." Poirot's voice was happy. He sighed.

"Then Hercule Poirot has not lived in vain, he said. It was I who taught your Aunt Maureen to make an omelette."

I don't want to write about it at all.
I want, you see, to think about it as little as possible. Hercule Poirot was dead - and with him died a good part of Arthur Hastings.

Put that in your mustache and smoke it.

I am not mad. I am eccentric perhaps — at least certain people say so; but as regards my profession. I am very much as one says, 'all there.

At the small table, sitting very upright, was one of the ugliest old ladies he had ever seen. It was an ugliness of distinction - it fascinated rather than repelled.

"Trains are relentless things, aren't they, Monsieur Poirot? People are murdered and die, but they go on just the same. I am talking nonsense, but you know what I mean."
"Yes, yes, I know. Life is like a train, Mademoiselle. It goes on. And it is a good thing that that is so."
"Why?"
"Because the train gets to its journey's end at last, and there is a proverb about that in your language, Mademoiselle."
"'Journey's end in lovers meeting.'" Lenox laughed. "That is not going to be true for me."
"Yes — yes, it is true. You are young, younger than you yourself know. Trust the train, Mademoiselle, for it is le bon Dieu who drives it."
The whistle of the engine came again.
"Trust the train, Mademoiselle," murmured Poirot again. "And trust Hercule Poirot. He knows."

"Ah, mais c'est Anglais ca," he murmured, "everything in black and white, everything clear cut and well defined. But life, it is not like that, Mademoiselle. There are things that are not yet, but which cast their shadow before."