Why should I play the hypocrite? Si, si, that is
what you do, all of you. The airman who has
made a difficult flight, the tennis champion--they
look down their noses, they mutter inaudibly that
'it is nothing.' But do they really think that themselves?
Not for a moment. They would admire the
exploit in someone else. So, being reasonable men,
they admire it in themselves. But their training
prevents them from saying so. Me, I am not like
that. The talents that I possess--I would salute
them in another. As it happens, in my own particular
line, there is no one to touch me. C'est dornrnage,t As it is, I admit freely and without the hypocrisy
that I am a great man. I have the order,
the method and the psychology in an unusual de
34
Agatha Christie
gree. I am, ir; fact, Hercule Poirot! Why should I
turn red and stammer and mutter into my chin
that really I am very stupid9. It would not be
true."
"There is certainly only one Hercule Poirot," I
agreed--not without a spice of malice, of which,
fortunately, Poirot remained quite oblivious.
Lady Chatterton was one of Poirot's most ar-dent
admirers. Starting from the mysterious con-duct
of a Pekingese, he had unraveled a chain
which led to a noted burglar and housebreaker.
Lady Chatterton had been loud in his praises ever
since.
To see Poirot at a party was a great sight. His