Little Grey Cells. Agatha Christie

being yoked to him for life. (Usually at one of these moments I receive a fan letter saying: ‘I know you must love your little detective by the way you write about him.’)

      But now, I must confess it, Hercule Poirot has won. A reluctant affection has sprung up for him. He has become more human, less irritating. I admire certain things about him – his passion for the truth, his understanding of human frailty, and his kindliness. And he has taught me something – to take more interest in my own characters; to see them more as real people and less as pawns in a game.

      In spite of his vanity he often chooses deliberately to stand aside and let the main drama develop. He says, in effect, ‘It is their story – let them show you why and how this happened.’ He knows, all right, that the star part is going to be his later. He may make his appearance at the very end of the first act, but he will take the centre of the stage in the second act, and his big scene at the end of the third act is a mathematical certainty.

       19 January 1938

      ‘Words, mademoiselle, are only the outer clothing of ideas.’

       The ABC Murders