Quotes About Detective

What are you doing, Poirot?" "I dissect rucksacks. It is very interesting.

So you think that the coco- mark well what I say, Hastings, the coco- contained strychnine?" "Of course! That salt on the tray, what else could it have been?" "It might have been salt." replied Poirot placidly.

Miss Howard: Like a good detective story myself. Lots of nonsense written, though. Criminal discovered in last Chapter. Everyone dumbfounded. Real crime - you'd know at once.

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.

Hercule Poirot spread out his hands in his most foreign manner.

I came across a man in Belgium once, a very famous detective, and he quite inflamed me. He was a marvellous little fellow. He used to say that all good detective work was a mere matter of method. My system is based on his—though of course I have progressed rather further. He was a funny little man, a great dandy, but wonderfully clever.

You're a man milliner, Poirot. I never notice what people have on." "You should join a nudist colony

As the visitor left the office, Tuppence grabbed the violin and putting it in the cupboard turned the key in the lock. "If you must be Sherlock Holmes," she observed, "I'll get you a nice little syringe and a bottle labelled Cocaine, but for God's sake leave that violin alone.

Are you really a detective, then?" "At your service, Madame." "I thought there were no detectives on the train when it passed through Yugo-Slavia—not until one got to Italy." "I am not a Yugo-Slavian detective, Madame. I am an international detective." "You belong to the League of Nations?" "I belong to the world, Madame," said Poirot dramatically.

It has just happened that I have found myself in the vicinity of murder rather more often than would seem normal.

Hemlock in the cocktails, wasn't it? Something of that kind.

Inspector Slack had been abominably and most unnecessarily rude. I was looking forward to a moment when I could produce my valuable contribution and effect his discomfiture. I would then say in a tone of mild reproach: "If you had only listened to me, Inspector Slack….

You must remember, too," he added, "that we deal with no ordinary criminal, but with the second greatest brain in the world." I forbore to pander to his conceit by asking the obvious question.

We will sit here and drink coffee, and you shall all three listen to Hercule Poirot while he gives you a lecture on crime.

If you must be Sherlock Holmes," she observed, "I'll get you a nice little syringe and a bottle labelled cocaine, but for God's sake leave that violin alone.

La mejor receta para la novela policíaca: el detective no debe saber nunca más que el lector.

Heart failure, it explains nothing! I have yet to meet a corpse whose heart it still beats.

There is no detective in England equal to a spinster lady of uncertain age with plenty of time on her hands." He

Hercule Poirot stared hard at Superintendent Sugden's moustache. Its luxuriance seemed to fascinate him.

Poirot was standing in the larder in a dramtic attitude. In his hand he was brandishing a leg of mutton. 'My dear Poirot! What is the matter? have you gone mad?' 'Regard i pray you this mutton! But regard it closely!

mrs. McGinty's dead..how did she die? down on one knee..just like I mrs. McGinty's dead..how did she die? holding her hand out..just like I mrs. McGinty's dead.. how did she die? sticking her neck out..just like I

Poirot closed his eyes. What he perceived mentally was a kaleidoscope, no more, no less. Pieces of cut-up scarves and rucksacks, cookery books, lipsticks, bath salts; names and thumbnail sketches of odd students. Nowhere was there cohesion or form. Unrelated incidents and people whirled round in space. But Poirot knew quite well that somehow and somewhere there must be a pattern . . . The question was where to start.. . . .

Do you mean to tell me, Superintendent, that this is one of those damned cases you get in detective stories where a man is killed in a locked room by some apparently supernatural agency.

Reflection had never been Mrs Oliver's strong point.