Quotes About Suspense

It is deplorable...to remove all the romance - all the mystery!

The dog hunts rabbits. Hercule Poirot hunts murderers.

In fact-Dr. Sheppard!

In an English village, you turn over a stone and have no idea what will crawl out. Miss Marple

I have always disapproved of murder.

And that very same evening - that very same evening - Lord Edgware dies. Good title that, by the way. Lord Edgware Dies. Look well on a book stall.

Miss Howard: Like a good detective story myself. Lots of nonsense written, though. Criminal discovered in last Chapter. Everyone dumbfounded. Real crime - you'd know at once.

Hercule Poirot spread out his hands in his most foreign manner.

Murder develops. Yes, like a photograph, isn't it?" "It's very much like photography really," said Dermot. "Quite a good comparison of yours.

It has just happened that I have found myself in the vicinity of murder rather more often than would seem normal.

Hemlock in the cocktails, wasn't it? Something of that kind.

Either her dream had taken a very odd turn or else - or else Mary had really rushed into the room and had said (incredible! fantastic!) that there was a body in the library.

You must remember, too," he added, "that we deal with no ordinary criminal, but with the second greatest brain in the world." I forbore to pander to his conceit by asking the obvious question.

La mejor receta para la novela policíaca: el detective no debe saber nunca más que el lector.

Heart failure, it explains nothing! I have yet to meet a corpse whose heart it still beats.

Just look, Letty." Miss Blacklock looked. Her eyebrows went up. She threw a quick scrutinizing glance round the table. Then she read the advertisement out loud. "A murder is announced and will take place on Friday, October 29th, at Little Paddocks at 6:30 p.m. Friends please accept this, the only intimation.

Do you mean to tell me, Superintendent, that this is one of those damned cases you get in detective stories where a man is killed in a locked room by some apparently supernatural agency.

Murder develops. Yes, like a photograph, isn't it?

an air of infinite reluctance M. Poirot climbed aboard the train. The conductor climbed after him.

And, frankly, I don't like murder. It's the sort of thing that's fun to read about in the paper or to read yourself to sleep with in the way of a nice book. But the real thing isn't so good.

Just exactly what's up on this train? It seems bughouse to me.

Why, he's Hercule Poirot! You know who I mean—the private detective. They say he's done the most wonderful things—just like detectives do in books.

We established ourselves on the grassy knoll as Poirot had suggested,

Miss Marple,' said Sir Henry, "you frighten me. I hope you will never wish to remove me. Your plans would be too good.