Death on the Nile (Hercule Poirot, #18)

by Agatha Christie

He wants to own his woman; he doesn’t want her to own him.”

“Why can’t Jackie take it like a man?” demanded Simon resentfully. A very faint smile twitched Poirot’s upper lip. “Well, you see, Monsieur Doyle, to begin with she is not a man.”

“What do you do for a living? Nothing at all, I bet. Probably call yourself a middle man.” “I am not a middle man. I am a top man,” declared Hercule Poirot with a slight arrogance. “What are you?” “I am a detective,” said Hercule Poirot with the modest air of one who says “I am a king.”

“It’s so dreadfully easy—killing people. And you begin to feel that it doesn’t matter . . . that it’s only you that matters! It’s dangerous—that.”