Murder on the Orient Express (Hercule Poirot, #10)

by Agatha Christie

It was not till they were eating a delicate cream cheese that M. Bouc allowed his attention to wander to matters other than nourishment. He was at the stage of a meal when one becomes philosophic.

“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.