Quotes About Investigation

They found he'd had a lethal dose of something that only a doctor could pronounce properly. As far as I remember it sounds vaguely like di-flor, hexagonal-ethylcarbenzol. That's not the right name. But that's roughly what it sounds like.

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

Well, perhaps you're right, Miss Blacklock, but my own diagnosis would be a severe attack of Nosey Parkeritis …

Loyalty it is a pestilential thing in crime. Again and again it obscures the truth.

Either her dream had taken a very odd turn or else - or else Mary had really rushed into the room and had said (incredible! fantastic!) that there was a body in the library.

And briefly and succinctly, he put Miss Marple's theory of the crime before the doctor, ending up with her final suggestion.

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.

Every one's got their own ways of working. I know that. I give my inspectors a free hand always. Every one's got to find out for themselves what method suits them best.

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

Well," said Adam, as Poirot went out. "First girls' knees, and now draughtsmanship! What next, I wonder!

They are never really dead, these super criminals

Excuse me, Monsieur Poirot. If you'd like to ask any questions, I'm sure the doctor wouldn't mind. Of course not. Of course not. Great admirer of yours, Monsieur Poirot. Little gray cells -- order and method. I know all about it.

The great thing in these cases is to keep an absolutely open mind. Most crimes, you see, are so absurdly simple.

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

I think each one of us in his secret heart fancies himself as Sherlock Holmes.

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

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

My good Japp, is it possible that you throw the mud in my eyes? I know well enough that it is the Chinaman you suspect. But you are so artful. You want me to help you—and yet you drag the red kipper across the trail.

Does a man who commits suicide stab himself in ten—twelve—fifteen places?" he asked. Poirot's eyes opened. "That is great ferocity," he said. "It is a woman," said the chef de train, speaking for the first time. "Depend upon it, it was a woman. Only a woman would stab like that.

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.

You know, Maureen, I seem to have seen that name somewhere." "Home Perm, perhaps. He looks like a hairdresser." Poirot winced.

Murder develops. Yes, like a photograph, isn't it?