his egg-shaped head. Anyway, what is an egg-shaped head? When people say to me, ‘Which way up is the egg?’ – do I really know? I don’t, because I never do see pictorial things clearly, but nevertheless I know that he has an egg-shaped head covered with suspiciously black hair, and I know his eyes occasionally shine with a green light. Twice in my life I have actually seen him – once on a boat going to the Canary Islands, and once having lunch at the Savoy. I have said to myself: ‘Now, if you had only had the nerve, you could have “snap-shotted” that man in the boat, and then when people have said, “Yes, but what is he like?” you could perhaps have produced that snap shot and explained matters.’ But life is full of lost opportunities.
If you are doubly burdened, first by acute shyness, and secondly by only seeing the right thing to do or say twenty-four hours later, what can you do? Only write about quick-witted men and resourceful girls, whose reactions are like greased lightning!
Yes, there have been moments when I have disliked M. Hercule Poirot very much indeed, when I have rebelled bitterly against 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
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