After the Funeral (Hercule Poirot, #33)

by Agatha Christie

And Poirot twirled his moustaches with enormous energy.

Mr. Goby was small and spare and shrunken. He had always been refreshingly nondescript in appearance and he was now so nondescript as practically not to be there at all. He was not looking at Poirot because Mr. Goby never looked at anybody.

Such remarks as he was now making seemed to be addressed to the left-hand corner of the chromium-plated fireplace curb.

He shook his head sadly and shifted his gaze to an electric plug socket.

“I must say I’m glad to hear it! To be always right must be sometimes monotonous.” “I do not find it so,” Poirot assured him. Inspector Morton laughed.