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

by Agatha Christie

There was a kind of cool efficiency in the way she was eating her breakfast and in the way she called to the attendant to bring her more coffee, which bespoke a knowledge of the world and of travelling.

He was at the stage of a meal when one becomes philosophic.

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

“The impossible cannot have happened, therefore the impossible must be possible in spite of appearances.”