One, Two, Buckle My Shoe (Hercule Poirot, #23)

by Agatha Christie

There are certain humiliating moments in the lives of the greatest of men. It has been said that no man is a hero to his valet. To that may be added that few men are heroes to themselves at the moment of visiting their dentist.

“No, my friend, I am not drunk. It is that I have been to the dentist and I need not go again for six months. It is a beautiful thought.”

Between five and twenty past twelve and half past one something happened—and presumably nearer the former time.”

“Was it his own pistol?” “No, it wasn’t. He hadn’t got a pistol. Never had had one. According to his sister there wasn’t such a thing in the house. There isn’t in most houses.

How nice that must be

It was a car of sporting build—one of those cars from which it is necessary to wriggle from under the wheel in sections.

He looked encouragingly at George. “Now, my good Georges, what have you to say about the matter?” George pondered. He said: “It strikes me, sir—” “Yes, Georges?” “You will have to find another dentist to attend to your teeth in future, sir.” Hercule Poirot said: “You surpass yourself, Georges. That aspect of the matter had not as yet occurred to me!” Looking gratified, George left the room.

You’re talking like a thriller by a lady novelist.”

“Well, if I read something that is written down in English I can understand what it means—I am not talking of abstruse stuff, formulae or philosophy—just plain businesslike English—most people can’t! If I want to write down something I can write down what I mean—I’ve discovered that quite a lot of people can’t do that either!

Everything was costly but simple. The vast wealth that owned it was only indicated by the smoothness with which this apparent simplicity was produced.

“I am very odd. That is to say, I am methodical, orderly and logical—and I do not like distorting facts to support a theory—that, I find—is unusual!”

Carter, he thought dispassionately, was definitely what the English call a “wrong ’un.” He was an unpleasant young bully of the kind that appeals to women, so that they are reluctant to believe the worst, however plain the evidence.

They were chic, these little London girls. They wore their tawdry clothes with an air. Their figures, however, he considered lamentably deficient. Where were the rich curves, the voluptuous lines that had formerly delighted the eye of an admirer?

Poirot likes them thicc

“I am not concerned with nations, Monsieur. I am concerned with the lives of private individuals who have the right not to have their lives taken from them.”

“The world is yours. The New Heaven and the New Earth. In your new world, my children, let there be freedom and let there be pity … That is all I ask.”

“Because thou hast rejected the word of the Lord, he hath also rejected thee from being king.”