Several of my personal favorites, anyway. 🙂 In no particular order…
“If only, Hastings, you would part your hair in the middle instead of at the side! What a difference it would make to the symmetry of your appearance. And your moustache. If you must have a moustache, let it be a real moustache– a thing of beauty such as mine.”
Repressing a shudder at the thought, I took the note firmly from Poirot’s hand and left the room.
-Peril at End House
“Dear me,” I said, recovering from the shock. “I suppose next time I come home I shall find you wearing false moustaches– or are you doing so now?”
Poirot winced. His moustaches had always been his sensitive point. He was inordinately proud of them. My words touched him on the raw.
“No, no, indeed, mon ami. That day, I pray the good God, is still far off. The false moustache! Quel horreur!”
He tugged at them vigorously to assure me of their genuine character.
“Well, they are very luxuriant still,” I said.
“N’est ce pas? Never, in the whole of London, have I seen a pair of moustaches to equal mine.”
A good job too, I thought privately. But I would not for the world have hurt Poirot’s feelings by saying so.
-The A.B.C. Murders
“I assure you, I am really a very humble person.”
“It is so. Except– I confess it– that I am a little proud of my moustaches. Nowhere in London have I observed anything to compare with them.”
“You are quite safe,” I said dryly, “you won’t.”
-Lord Edgware Dies
[Mrs Oliver]: “Mrs Ap Jones Smythe, or whatever her name is, did make a codicil to her Will leaving all her money to the au pair girl and two witnesses saw her sign it, and signed it also in the presence of each other. Put that in your moustache and smoke it.”
“Japp!” exclaimed Poirot, disengaging himself from the Countess’s arms.
“It would be better, perhaps, if I went into the other room,” said the Countess.
She slipped through the connecting door. Poirot started towards the door to the hall.
“Guv’nor,” wheezed Mr Higgs anxiously, “better look at yourself in the glass, ’adn’t you?”
Poirot did so and recoiled. Lipstick and mascara ornamented his face in a fantastic medley.
“If that’s Mr Japp from Scotland Yard, ’e’d think the worst– sure to,” said Mr Higgs.
He added, as the bell pealed again, and Poirot strove feverishly to remove crimson grease from the points of his moustache: “Wha do yer want me to do– ’ook it too?”
-The Labours of Hercules, “The Capture of Cerberus”
“Doubtless she has been informed of my identity,” said Poirot, trying to look modest and failing.
“I think it is the famous moustaches,” I said. “She is carried away by their beauty.”
Poirot caressed them surreptitiously.
“It is true that they are unique,” he admitted. “Oh, my friend, the ‘tooth-brush’ as you call it, that you wear– it is a horror– an atrocity– a wilful stunting of the bounties of nature. Abandon it, my friend, I pray you.”
-Lord Edgware Dies
“And then, figure to yourself, Hastings, an idea of the most unreasonable seized this Mr. Pearson! Nothing would suit him but that we should go ourselves to this eating house and make investigations. I argued and prayed but he would not listen. He talked of disguising himself– he even suggested that I– I should– I hesitate to say it– should shave off my moustache! Yes, rien que ça! I pointed out to him that that was an idea ridiculous and absurd. One destroys not a thing of beauty wantonly. Besides, shall not a Belgian gentleman with a moustache desire to see life and smoke opium just as readily as one without a moustache?”
-“The Lost Mine”
While the Lovely Young Thing made a suitable reply, Poirot allowed himself a good study of the hirsute adornment on Mr. Shaitana’s upper lip.
A fine moustache– a very fine moustache– the only moustache in London, perhaps, that could compete with that of M. Hercule Poirot.
“But it is not so luxuriant,” he murmured to himself. “No, decidedly it is inferior in every respect. Tout de meme, it catches the eye.”
-Cards on the Table
He looked at himself in the glass. Here, then, was a modern Hercules– very distinct from that unpleasant sketch of a naked figure with bulging muscles, brandishing a club. Instead, a small compact figure attired in correct urban wear with a moustache– such a moustache as Hercules never dreamed of cultivating– a moustache magnificent yet sophisticated.
-The Labours of Hercules
What was even more humiliating was that he had no real ideas, even now, as to what had actually happened. It was ignominious. And tomorrow he must return to London defeated. His ego was seriously deflated– even his moustaches drooped.
-Dead Man’s Folly
Poirot stroked his own magnificent mustache tenderly. “It is an art,” he murmured, “the growing of the moustache! I have sympathy for all who attempt it.”
It is always difficult with Poirot to know when he is serious and when he is merely amusing himself at one’s expense. I judged it safest to say no more.
“Poirot,” I said, as he remained rapt in thought. “Hadn’t we better go on? Everyone is staring at us.”
“Eh? Well, perhaps you are right. Though it does not incommode me that people should stare. It does not interfere in the least with my train of thought.”
“People were beginning to laugh,” I murmured.
“That has no importance.”
I did not quite agree. I have a horror of doing anything conspicuous. The only thing that affects Poirot is the possibility of the damp or the heat affecting the set of his famous moustache.
-Lord Edgware Dies