The Clocks (Hercule Poirot, #39)

by Agatha Christie

The orange cat was still sitting on the gatepost of Diana Lodge next door. He was no longer washing his face but was sitting up very straight, lashing his tail slightly, and gazing over the heads of the crowd with that complete disdain for the human race that is the special prerogative of cats and camels.

“Don’t worry,” I said. (Surely the most fatuous words in the English or any other language.)

“How are you? How’s crime? Got your dead body identified, I see.