The ​Mysterious Affair at Styles (Hercule Poirot 1.) (Arthur Hastings 1.) 87% 37 csillagozás

With a long drawn exclamation of ecstasy, Poirot led the way back to the morning-room.
„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. Ah, my friend, I am like a giant refreshed. I run! I leap!”
And, in very truth, run and leap he did, gambolling wildly down the stretch of lawn outside the long window.
„What is your remarkable little friend doing?” asked a voice behind me, and I turned to find Mary Cavendish at my elbow. She smiled, and so did I. „What is it all about?”
„Really, I can't tell you. He asked Dorcas some question about a bell, and appeared so delighted with her answer that he is capering about as you see!”
Mary laughed.
„How ridiculous! He's going out of the gate. Isn't he coming back to-day?”
„I don't know. I've given up trying to guess what he'll do next.”
„Is he quite mad, Mr. Hastings?”
„I honestly don't know. Sometimes, I feel sure he is as mad as a hatter; and then, just as he is at his maddest, I find there is method in his madness.”
„I see.”

Chapter Ten

„Yes, he is intelligent. But we must be so intelligent that he does not suspect us of being intelligent at all.”
I asquiesced.
„There, mon ami, you will be of great assistance to me.”

I had often before noticed that, if anything excited him, his eyes turned green like a cat's.

Poirot was an extraordinary looking little man. He was hardly more than five feet, four inches, but carried himself with great dignity. His head was exactly the shape of an egg, and he always perched it a little on one side. His moustache was very stiff and military. The neatness of his attire was almost incredible, I believe a speck of dust would have caused him more pain than a bullet wound.

Imagination is a good servant, and a bad master. The simplest explanation is always the most likely.

118. oldal

Every murderer is probably somebody's old friend

Mrs. Cavendish gave me some tea, and her few quiet remarks heightened my first impression of her as a thoroughly fascinating woman. An appreciative listener is always stimulating, and I described, in a humorous manner, certain incidents of my Convalescent Home, in a way which, I flatter myself, greatly amused my hostess. John, of course, good fellow though he is, could hardly be called a brilliant conversationalist.

5. oldal, Chapter I. - I go to Styles (Bantam Books, 1983)

„What would you really choose as a profession, if you could just consult your inclination?”
„Well, that depends.”
„No secret hobby?” she asked. „Tell me – you're drawn to something? Every one is – usually something absurd.”
„You'll laugh at me.”
She smiled.
„Perhaps.”
„Well, I've always wanted to be a detective!”
„The real thing – Scotland Yard? Or Sherlock Holmes?”
„Oh, Sherlock Holmes by all means. […]”

7. oldal, Chapter I. - I go to Styles

Only I heard him, and glancing up curiously at the little man I saw that his face was working with suppressed excitement, and his eyes were as green as a cat's.

At that moment Dr Bauerstein pushed his way authoritatively into the room. For one instant he stopped dead staring at the figure on the bad, and at the same instant Mrs Ingelthorp cried out in a strangled voice, her eyes fixed on the doctor.
– Alfred! Alfred! – and she fell back, motionless on the pillows.
With a stride the doctor reached the bad and seizing her arms worked them energetically, applying what I new to be artificial respiration. He issued a few short, sharp orders to the servants.