Quotes About Murder

In fact,' said Poirot, 'she stabbed him in the dark, not realising that he was dead already, but somehow deduced that he had a watch in his pyjama pocket, took it out, put back the hands blindly and gave it the requisite dent.

It's all very well to talk like that," said Mr. Rafiel. "We, you say? What do you think I can do about it? I can't even walk without help. How can you and I set about preventing a murder? You're about a hundred and I'm a broken-up old crock.

But I don't doubt it will be essentially the same type of crime. The details may be different, but the essentials underlying them will be the same. It's odd, but a criminal gives himself away every time by that. Man is an unoriginal animal," said Hercule Poirot. "Women," said Mrs. Oliver, " are capable of infinite variation. I should never commit the same type of murder twice running." "Don't you ever write the same plot twice running?" asked Battle.

I had just finished carving some boiled beef (remarkably tough by the way) and on resuming my seat I remarked, in a spirit most unbecoming to my cloth, that anyone who murdered Colonel Protheroe would be doing the world at large a service.

There is no such thing as a plain fact of murder. Murder springs, nine times out of ten, out of the character and circumstances of the murdered person. Because the victim was the kind of person he or she was, therefore was he or she murdered! Until we can understand fully and completely exactly what kind of a person [she] was, we shall not be able to see clearly exactly the kind of person who murdered her. From that spring the necessity of our questions.

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

A murderer is seldom content with one crime.

Murder—the wish to do murder—is something quite different. It—how shall I say?—it defies God.

Men and women don't react in the same way. What it comes down to is this. Men are the more sensitive sex. Women are tough. Men can't take murder in their stride. Women apparently can. The fact is, if a man's committed a murder for a woman, it probably enhances his value in her eyes. A man feels differently.

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

You have no sense of proportion, Hastings. We cannot catch a train earlier than the time that it leaves, and to ruin one's clothes will not be the least helpful in preventing a murder.

In my experience, bossy women seldom get themselves murdered. I can't think why not. When you come to think of it, it's rather a pity.

One does see so much evil in a village," murmured Miss Marple in an explanatory voice.

Murder can sometimes seem justified, but it is murder all the same. You are truthful and clear-minded--face the truth, mademoiselle! Your friend died in the last resort, because she had not the courage to live. We may sympathize with her. We may pity her. But the fact remains--the act was hers--not another.

What a poisonous woman! Whew! Why didn't somebody murder her!" "It may yet happen," Poirot consoled him.

Oh dear, I never realized what a terrible lot of explaining one has to do in a murder!

Ah, but you must have a Christmas uncomplicated by murder.

mrs. McGinty's dead..how did she die? down on one knee..just like I mrs. McGinty's dead..how did she die? holding her hand out..just like I mrs. McGinty's dead.. how did she die? sticking her neck out..just like I

Clotilde, Miss Marple thought, was certainly no Ophelia, but she would have made a magnificent Clytemnestra---she could have stabbed a husband in his bath with exultation. But since she had never had a husband, that solution wouldn't do. Miss Marple could not see her murdering anyone else but a husband---and there had been no Agamemnon in this house.

Ten little Indian boys went out to dine; One choked his little self and then there were nine.

Does a man who commits suicide stab himself in ten—twelve—fifteen places?" he asked. Poirot's eyes opened. "That is great ferocity," he said. "It is a woman," said the chef de train, speaking for the first time. "Depend upon it, it was a woman. Only a woman would stab like that.

It's a fine murdering day, (sang Bunch) And as balmy as May And the sleuths from the village are gone." A rattle of crockery being dumped in the sink drowned the next lines, but as the Rev. Julian Harmon left the house, he heard the final triumphant assertion: "And we'll all go a'murdering today!

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.