Character: Hercule Poirot. Page 4

- It seems our luck a little bit worse.
One passenger train is dead. Monsieur Ratchett.
- Still got to him.
- Do you think killed him?
- No, no, I just thought he was not disease, but the enemies he had.

- You sell fake gangsters and here's the result. I'm looking for criminals, I'm not defending them.
So you're saying "no" to my dirty money?
- You say "no", Mr Ratchett.

If afterlife exists, I will appear before the court, as we all do. But, hell, I'm not in a hurry there.
- I have you at gunpoint?
- No, not you. The whole world.
- I live in this world. Take it away.

- I think you have the wrong compartment.
- The train is full, and it seems that we are with you, how to say it... roommates.
- Here is how?
- I also do not like. But it's cozy.

I feel the very soul of the city in these simple, humble bread. The whole world is intent on destruction, rather here every day in order quietly baked masterpieces.

Imperfections stick out like the nose in the middle of the face. Because of this, life is unbearable, right? However, it is very convenient for the investigation of crimes.

- I don't want you hear, do not want to live! she exclaimed, beside herself.
- I know... I know. For each of us there comes a time when death seems more tempting life. But it passes and mountain passes, and sadness. I understand that you now can't believe me. And there is no need for such an old man like me say all this. Empty talk, everything I say now, for you, empty talk.

- Trust the train, Mademoiselle, because it is Le bon Dieu!
Again, there was a dial tone.
- Believe train, ' said Poirot. And Hercule Poirot. He knows.

- Life is like a train, Mademoiselle. It goes. And I know it well.
Why?
Because trains always arrive at the destination.

Those who are accustomed only to listen, not just speak for themselves: they keep their sorrows and joys to themselves and anyone they are not tell.

Men are stupid, aren't you, Mademoiselle? Eat, drink, breathe the fresh air is wonderful, Mademoiselle. And only a fool will part with it all only because he had no money, or because his heart is broken.

Squirrel, my good Georges, collects nuts in the autumn, and in winter eats. People, George should learn from their smaller brethren. I always do. I was the cat, sitting at a mouse hole. I was dog walking on the trail and not herded with him. And also, my good Georges, I was a squirrel. I put little facts. Now I take care of their stocks and take out one nut, a nut, which I put - let me see - seventeen years ago.

You can, of course, to love a thief, Mademoiselle, but not a murderer.

- Do you think that real life is like in novels? - asked Katherine.
- Why not? Fiction is based on reality.
But it is better than the reality, firmly believes Katherine.