Cards on the Table

He played the part of the devil too successfully. But he was not the devil. Au fond, he was a stupid man. And so - he died." "Because he was stupid?" "It is the sin that is never forgiven and always punished, madame.

Do you believe in the value of truth, my dear, or don’t you?” “Of course I believe in the truth,” said Rhoda, staring. “Yes, you say that, but perhaps you haven’t thought about it. The truth hurts sometimes – and destroys one’s illusions.” “I’d rather have it all the same.” said Rhoda. “So would I. But I don’t know that we’re wise.” Mrs. Oliver; Rhoda Dawes

You do not comprehend. It is not the victim who concerns me so much. It is the effect on the character of the slayer." "What about war?" "In war you do not exercise the right of private judgement. That is what is so dangerous. Once a man is imbued with the idea that he knows who ought to be allowed to live and who ought not - then he is halfway to becoming the most dangerous killer there is - the arrogant killer who kills not for profit - but for an idea. He has usurped the functions of le bon Dieu.

Hercule Poirot spread out his hands in his most foreign manner.

There is the natural liar...Always says the thing that sounds best.

Oh, my dear friend, it is impossible not to give oneself away - unless one never opens one's mouth! Speech is the deadliest of revealers.

Speech is the deadliest of revealers.' - Hercule Poirot, Cards on the Table

I'm not the head of Scotland Yard," said Mrs. Oliver, retreating from dangerous ground. "I'm a private individual -" "Oh, you're not that," said Rhoda, confusedly complimentary.

But I don't doubt it will be essentially the same type of crime. The details may be different, but the essentials underlying them will be the same. It's odd, but a criminal gives himself away every time by that. Man is an unoriginal animal," said Hercule Poirot. "Women," said Mrs. Oliver, " are capable of infinite variation. I should never commit the same type of murder twice running." "Don't you ever write the same plot twice running?" asked Battle.

Excuse me, Monsieur Poirot. If you'd like to ask any questions, I'm sure the doctor wouldn't mind. Of course not. Of course not. Great admirer of yours, Monsieur Poirot. Little gray cells -- order and method. I know all about it. Doctor Roberts

As a matter of fact I don’t care two pins about accuracy. Who is accurate? Nobody nowadays. If a reporter writes that a beautiful girl of twenty-two dies by turning on the gas after looking out over the sea and kissing her favourite Labrador, Bob, goodbye, does anybody make a fuss because the girl was twenty-six, the room faced inland, and the dog was a Sealyham terrier called Bonnie? If a journalist can do that sort of thing I don’t see that it matters if I mix up police ranks and say a revolver when I mean an automatic and a dictograph when I mean a phonograph, and use a poison that just allows you to gasp one dying sentence and no more. What really matters is plenty of bodies! If the thing’s getting a little dull, some more blood cheers it up. Somebody is going to tell something – and then they’re killed first! That always goes down well. It comes in all my books – camouflaged different ways of course. And people like untraceable poisons, and idiotic police inspectors and girls tied up in cellars with sewer gas or water pouring in (such a troublesome way of killing anyone really) and a hero who can dispose of anything from three to seven villains singlehanded.

Anne’s awfully sensitive,’ said Rhoda. ‘And she’s bad about—well, facing things. If anything’s upset her, she’d just rather not talk about it,

Every one's got their own ways of working. I know that. I give my inspectors a free hand always. Every one's got to find out for themselves what method suits them best.

He has neither what I call the outward vision (seeing details all around you what is called an observant person) nor the inner vision--concentration, the focusing of the mind on one object. He has a purposefully limited vision. He sees only what blends and harmonises with the bent of his mind.

Anne e groaznic de sensibilă, continuă Rhoda. Şi nu se pricepe să iasă din situaţiile neplăcute. Dacă o supără ceva, preferă să nu vorbească despre asta, deşi nu-i foloseşte la nimic - cel puțin, nu cred. Lucrurile sunt la fel, indiferent că vorbeşti despre ele sau nu. Doar fugi de ele şi te prefaci că nu există.

He was a man of whom nearly everybody was a little afraid. Why this last was so can hardly be stated in definite words. There was a feeling, perhaps, that he knew a little too much about everybody. And there was a feeling, too, that his sense of humor was a curious one.