Sensationalism dies quickly, fear is long-lived.

Your idea of a woman is someone who gets on a chair and shrieks if she sees a mouse. That's all prehistoric.

The two words expressed volumes.

And how do you know that these fine begonias are not of equal importance?

Mr. Satterthwaite looked cheered. Suddenly an idea struck him. His jaw fell. "My goodness," he cried, "I've only just realized it! That rascal, with his poisoned cocktail! Anyone might have drunk it! It might have been me!""There is an even more terrible possibility that you have not considered," said Poirot. "Eh?""It might have been me," said Hercule Poirot.

Use your little grey cells mon ami" (Hercule Poirot in 'The Mysterious Affair At Styles')

Oh please tell me we're not doing the Poirot thing again — the suspects in the library with the candlestick or whatever'.Max looked at him [DCI Cotton]. 'Fruitcake in this case. And what would you prefer? A car chase? It’s the most efficient way to flush out a killer, as Dame Agatha Christie well knew.

There was only one thing about his own appearance which really pleased Hercule Poirot, and that was the profusion of his moustaches, and the way they responded to grooming and treatment and trimming. They were magnificent. He knew of nobody else who had any moustache half as good.

There is something about the defencelessness of youth that moves me to tears. Youth is so vulnerable. It is so ruthless--so sure. So generous and so demanding.

It is the courage, the insistence, the ruthless force of youth.

I should have known when I first saw that picture. For it is a very remarkable picture. It is the picture of a murderess painted by her victim-it is the picture of a girl watching her lover dies.

Eh bien, then, you are crazy, or appear crazy or you think you are crazy, and possibly you may be crazy.

But when you say crazy, that describes very well what the general appearance may be to ordinary, everyday people.

For somewhere," said Poirot to himself, indulging in an absolute riot of mixed metaphors, "there is in the hay a needle, and among the sleeping dogs there is one on whom I shall put my foot, and by shooting the arrows into the air, one will come down and hit a glass house!