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March 18 - April 5, 2025
“What I understand you to mean is, that in physical appearance I do not resemble a Hercules?” Dr. Burton’s eyes swept over Hercule Poirot, over his small neat person attired in striped trousers, correct black jacket and natty bow tie, swept up from his patent leather shoes to his egg-shaped head and the immense moustache that adorned his upper lip. “Frankly, Poirot,” said Dr. Burton, “you don’t! I gather,” he added,
what are you going to do then with your leisure hours?” Poirot was ready with his reply. “I am going to attend—seriously—to the cultivation of vegetable marrows.”
Take this Hercules—this hero! Hero, indeed! What was he but a large muscular creature of low intelligence and criminal tendencies!
These gods and goddesses—they seemed to have as many different aliases as a modern criminal. Indeed they seemed to be definitely criminal types. Drink, debauchery, incest, rape, loot, homicide and chicanery—enough to keep a juge d’Instruction constantly busy. No decent family life. No order, no method. Even in their crimes, no order or method!
He looked at himself in the glass. Here, then, was a modern Hercules—very distinct from that unpleasant sketch of a naked figure with bulging muscles, brandishing a club. Instead, a small compact figure attired in correct urban wear with a moustache—such a moustache as Hercules never dreamed of cultivating—a moustache magnificent yet sophisticated.
Yet there was between this Hercule Poirot and the Hercules of Classical lore one point of resemblance. Both of them, undoubtedly, had been instrumental in ridding the world of certain pests . . . Each of them could be described as a benefactor to the Society he lived in. . . .
In the period before his final retirement he would accept twelve cases, no more, no less. And those twelve cases should be selected with special reference to the twelve Labors of ancient Hercules. Yes, that would not only be amusing, it would be artistic, it would be spiritual.
“I am, I may say so without undue modesty, at the apex of my career. Very shortly I intend to retire—to live in the country, to travel occasionally to see the world—also, it may be, to cultivate my garden—with particular attention to improving the strain of vegetable marrows. Magnificent vegetables—but they lack flavour.
I felt that to take a little money away from these people who really wouldn’t miss it and hadn’t been too scrupulous in acquiring it—well, really it hardly seemed wrong at all.” Poirot murmured: “A modern Robin Hood!
In my experience jealousy, however far-fetched and extravagant it may seem, is nearly always based on reality.
There is nothing so intangible, so difficult to pin down, as the source of a rumour.”
Wicked temper she had—real Eyetalian—her black eyes all snapping and looking as if she’d like to put a knife into you. I wouldn’t have crossed her when she was in one of her moods!”
She was temperamental, you know—very Russian in her moods.
Thoughtfully, Hercule Poirot caressed his moustaches. Yes, indeed, impossible to mistake the moustaches of Hercule Poirot.
“Monsieur comprehends, does he not, that at this altitude it is impossible to have the coffee really hot? Lamentably, it boils too soon.” Poirot murmured: “One must accept these vagaries of Nature’s with fortitude.” Gustave murmured: “Monsieur is a philosopher.”
She interested herself in just those aspects of public life which were generally felt to be proper spheres of womanly activity.
“Thousands, they say he made, out of that Palestine Oil business. Just a crook deal, it was.” “Whole lot of ’em tarred with the same brush. Dirty crooks, every one of ’em.”
A clear conscience—that’s all one needs in life. With that you can face the world and tell everyone who interferes with you to go to the devil!”
I came out here to have a good cry. It’s silly, I know. Crying doesn’t help. But—sometimes—one just feels that life is quite unbearable.”
Occasionally Poirot was distressed to find that a callous younger generation had never heard of him.
Poirot smiled. “Women,” he said, “are a miraculous sex!
Poirot said with dignity: “My remarks are, as always, apt, sound, and to the point.”
There is a golden rule in life, Georges, never do anything yourself that others can do for you.
“Is he then an unhappy man?” Poirot said: “So unhappy that he has forgotten what happiness means. So unhappy that he does not know he is unhappy.” The nun said softly: “Ah, a rich man. . . .”
One needed the agility of a wild cat, and the will-power of a Napoleon to manage to knit in a crowded tube, but women managed it!
