The Clocks (Hercule Poirot, #39)

by Agatha Christie

In old days the public didn’t really mind so much about accuracy, but nowadays readers take it upon themselves to write to authors on every possible occasion, pointing out flaws.”

Miss Waterhouse was tall, angular, and the kind of woman with no nonsense about her who is extremely intolerant of nonsense in others. “Is there any reason, James, because someone was murdered in the next door house that I shall be murdered today?” “Well, Edith,” said Mr. Waterhouse, “it depends so much, does it not, by whom the murder was committed?” “You think, in fact, that there’s someone going up and down Wilbraham Crescent selecting a victim from every house? Really, James, that is almost blasphemous.” “Blasphemous, Edith?” said Mr. Waterhouse in lively surprise. Such an aspect of his remark would never have occurred to him. “Reminiscent of the Passover,” said Miss Waterhouse. “Which, let me remind you, is Holy Writ.” “That is a little farfetched I think, Edith,” said Mr. Waterhouse. “I should like to see anyone coming here, trying to murder me,” said Miss Waterhouse with spirit. Her brother reflected to himself that it did seem highly unlikely. If he himself had been choosing a victim he would not have chosen his sister. If anyone were to attempt such a thing it was far more likely that the attacker would be knocked out by a poker or a lead doorstop and delivered over to the police in a bleeding and humiliated condition.

“I wonder if I could ask you a few questions, Mrs. Hemming, about—” “Anything you please,” said Mrs. Hemming, interrupting him. “I have nothing to hide. I can show you the cats’ food, their beds where they sleep, five in my room, the other seven down here. They have only the very best fish cooked by myself.”

The interrogation of the neighbors was quite excellent 😆

“Number 19, did you say?” said Mrs. Hemming, pausing irresolutely in the middle of her back garden. “But I thought there was only one person living in the house, a blind woman.” “The murdered man was not an occupant of the house,” said the inspector. “Oh, I see,” said Mrs. Hemming, still vaguely, “he came here to be murdered. How odd.”

He is not quite, as you would say, my cup of tea. He is, in fact, not a cup of tea at all. He is more like one of these American cocktails of the more obscure kind, whose ingredients are highly suspect.”

“Let us not discuss the Bomb,” said Hercule Poirot. “If it has to be, it has to be, but let us not discuss it.”