"“Ah!” Poirot shook his forefinger so fiercely at me that I quailed before it. “Beware! Peril to the detective who says: ‘It is so small — it does not matter. It will not agree. I will forget it.’ That way lies confusion! Everything matters.”"

"I specialize in murders of quiet, domestic interest."

"Now there is no murder without a motive."

"Yes, he is intelligent. But we must be more intelligent. We must be so intelligent that he does not suspect us of being intelligent at all."

"Two is enough for a secret."

"See you, one should not ask for outside proof — no, reason should be enough. But the flesh is weak, it is consolation to find that one is on the right track."

"“Tcha! Tcha!” cried Poirot irritably. “You argue like a child.”"

"Everything must be taken into account. If the fact will not fit the theory — let the theory go."

"The fellow is an absolute outsider, anyone can see that. He's got a great black beard, and wears patent leather boots in all weathers!"

"I am not keeping back facts. Every fact that I know is in your possession. You can draw your own deductions from them."

"I did not deceive you, mon ami. At most, I permitted you to deceive yourself."

"The happiness of one man and one woman is the greatest thing in all the world."

"Nothing", I said sadly. "They are two delightful women!" "And neither of them is for you?" finished Poirot. "Never mind. Console yourself, my friend. We may hunt together again, who knows?"

"Understand this, I mean to arrive at the truth. The truth, however ugly in itself, is always curious and beautiful to seekers after it."

"I have no pity for myself either. So let it be veronal. But I wish Hercule Poirot had never retired from work and come here to grow vegetable marrows."

"Eh bien, Mademoiselle, all through my life I have observed one thing — 'All one wants one gets!' Who knows?" His face screwed itself up comically. "You may get more than you bargain for."

"I do not argue with obstinate men. I act in spite of them."

"“You have been to the Riviera before, Georges?” said Poirot to his valet the following morning. George was an intensely English, rather wooden-faced individual. “Yes, sir. I was here two years ago when I was in the service of Lord Edward Frampton.” “And to-day,” murmured his master, “you are here with Hercule Poirot. How one mounts in the world!”"

"Men are foolish, are they not, Mademoiselle? To eat, to drink, to breathe the good air, it is a very pleasant thing, Mademoiselle. One is foolish to leave all that simply because one has no money — or because the heart aches. L´amour, it causes many fatalities, does it not?"

"I was wrong about that young man of yours. A man when he is making up to anybody can be cordial and gallant and full of little attentions and altogether charming. But when a man is really in love he can't help looking like a sheep. Now, whenever that young man looked at you he looked like a sheep. I take back all I said this morning. It is genuine."

"I saw a particular personage and I threatened him — yes, Mademoiselle, I, Hercule Poirot, threatened him." "With the police?" "No," said Poirot drily, "With the Press — a much more deadly weapon."

""Life is like a train Mademoiselle. It goes on. And it is a good thing that that is so." "Why?" "Because the train gets to its journey's end at last, and there is a proverb about that in your language, Mademoiselle." "'Journeys end in lovers meeting'" Lenox laughed. "That is not going to be true for me." "Yes — yes, it is true. You are young, younger than you yourself know. Trust the train Mademoiselle, for it is le bon Dieu who drives it"."

"For Poirot, uttering a hoarse and inarticulate cry, again annihilated his masterpiece of cards and putting his hands over his eyes swayed backwards and forwards, apparently suffering the keenest agony. “Good heavens Poirot!” I cried. “What is the matter? Are you taken ill?” “No, no,” he gasped. “It is — it is — that I have an idea!”"

"You give too much rein to your imagination. Imagination is a good servant, and a bad master. The simplest explanation is always the most likely."

"She shrugged her shoulders slightly. “What can one do?” “You are a philosopher, Mademoiselle.”"

"Précisément! The body — the cage — is everything of the most respectable — but through the bars, the wild animal looks out."

"See you, my dear doctor, me, I am not one to rely upon the expert procedure. It is the psychology I seek, not the fingerprint or the cigarette ash."

"Tout de même, it is not necessary that he should be killed on the Orient Express. There are other places."

"“It makes me madder than a hornet to be disbelieved,” she explained."

"“Me, I am convinced it is the truth,” said M. Bouc, becoming more and more enamoured of his theory."

"“Do you always travel first-class, Mr. Hardman?” “Yes, sir. The firm pays my travelling expenses.” He winked."

"I have the little idea, my friend, that this is a crime very carefully planned and staged. It is a far-sighted, long-headed crime. It is not — how shall I express it? — a Latin crime. It is a crime that shows traces of a cool, resourceful, deliberate brain — I think an Anglo-Saxon brain."

"It was abominable — wicked. The good God should not allow such things. We are not so wicked as that in Germany."

"The impossible cannot have happened, therefore the impossible must be possible in spite of appearances."

"Mon ami, if you wish to catch a rabbit you put a ferret into the hole, and if the rabbit is there he runs. That is all I have done."

"If you confront anyone who has lied with the truth, they usually admit it — often out of sheer surprise. It is only necessary to guess right to produce your effect."

"“I like to see an angry Englishman,” said Poirot. “They are very amusing. The more emotional they feel the less command they have of language.”"

"Exactly! It is absurd — improbable — it cannot be. So I myself have said. And yet, my friend, there it is! one cannot escape from the facts."

"But how much are the delicate convolutions of the brain influenced by the digestive apparatus? When the mal de mere seizes me I, Hercule Poirot, am a creature with no grey cells, no order, no method — a mere member of the human race somewhere below average intelligence!"

"‘Yes, my friend,’ he said. ‘It is so easy to be an American — here in Paris! A nasal voice — the chewing gum — the little goatee — the horned-rimmed spectacles — all the appurtenances of the stage American…’"

"An Englishman thinks first of his work — his job, he calls it — and then of his sport, and last — a good way last — of his wife."

"Every murderer is probably somebody’s old friend."