The Murder on the Links (Hercule Poirot, #2)

by Agatha Christie

“Do you remember the Styles Case?” I asked. “Let me see, was that the old lady who was poisoned? Somewhere down in Essex?” I nodded. “That was Poirot’s first big case. Undoubtedly, but for him the murderer would have escaped scot-free. It was a most wonderful bit of detective work.”

Elsewhere, I have described Hercule Poirot. An extraordinary little man! Height, five feet four inches, egg-shaped head carried a little to one side, eyes that shone green when he was excited, stiff military moustache, air of dignity immense! He was neat and dandified in appearance. For neatness of any kind he had an absolute passion. To see an ornament set crookedly, or a speck of dust, or a slight disarray in one’s attire, was torture to the little man until he could ease his feelings by remedying the matter. “Order” and “Method” were his gods. He had a certain disdain for tangible evidence, such as footprints and cigarette ash, and would maintain that, taken by themselves, they would never enable a detective to solve a problem. Then he would tap his egg-shaped head with absurd complacency, and remark with great satisfaction: “The true work, it is done from within. The little grey cells—remember always the little grey cells, mon ami.”

“Mon ami, two people rarely see the same thing. You, for instance, saw a goddess. I—” He hesitated. “Yes?” “I saw only a girl with anxious eyes,” said Poirot gravely.

“Man is a vain animal.

“I know you by name, Monsieur Poirot,” he said. “You cut quite a figure in the old days, didn’t you? But methods are very different now.” “Crimes, though, are very much the same,” remarked Poirot gently.

“Your idea of a woman is someone who gets on a chair and shrieks if she sees a mouse. That’s all prehistoric.