Hercule Poirot

— What's the matter with him? Train-sick or something?
— Some of us, in the words of the divine Greta Garbo, «want to be alone».

— Mr. McQueen. Since our last conversation, I have learnt the true identity of your late employer.
— Y-you d-don't say.
— Ratchett was, as you yourself suspected, merely an alias. He was, in fact, Cassetti. The gangster who masterminded the kidnapping and killing of little Daisy Armstrong. You had no idea of this?
— Oh, no, sir. If I had... I'd have cut off my right hand so I couldn't type his lousy letters. And I'd have killed him with my left.

— Did you know that Mr. Ratchett was of Italian extraction?
— Ah... So that accounts for his hot temper.
— His real name was Cassetti. The name means nothing to you? Do you remember the Armstrong case?
— No, Sir. Oh, yes, yes. The little girl.
— Cassetti was responsible for her murder. How does that strike you?
— I have often thought, Sir, that instead of our employers requiring references from us, we should require references from them.