Quotes About Detective

Agatha Christie

Can't you ever leave murder alone, woman? Even murder in retrospect?

Det kan du stole på. Liker du detektivfortellinger? Det gjør jeg. Jeg leser alle sammen, og har navnetrekkene til Dorothy Sayers og Agatha Christie og Dickson Carr og H.C. Bailey.

Agatha Christie

Years since I've seen you, Moosior Poirot. Thought you were growing vegetable marrows in the country." "I tried, Japp, I tried. But even when you grow vegetable marrows you cannot get away from murder.

A good way behind came Hercule Poirot. He trod softly like a cat.

Agatha Christie

like a good detective story,' he said. 'But, you know, they begin in the wrong place! They begin with the murder. But the murder is the end. The story begins long before that—years before sometimes—with all the causes and events that bring certain people to a certain place at a certain time on a certain day.

Come now, monsieur, you're not going to run down the value of details as clues?

Murder, do you mean?" Miss Marple looked shocked. "I don't know why you should assume that I think of murder all the time." "Nonsense, Jane. Why don't you come out boldly and call yourself a criminologist and have done with it?

Vaguely reminiscent of a large bumblebee, Chief-Inspector Fred Davy wandered around the confines of the Criminal Investigation Department, humming to himself.

Agatha Christie

Guy Carpenter frowned and came into the drawing room through the window. He had a long face like a horse, he was pale and looked rather supercilious. His manner was pompous. Hercule Poirot found him unattractive.

They left the cabin. Race locked the door and took the key with him. "We can come back later," he said. "The first thing to do is to get all the facts clear.

One wants to know," said Miss Marple, "what really happened." "She was killed." "Yes, but who killed her, and why, and what happened to her body? Where is it now?" "That's the business of the police to find out.

Yes, yes, it is as I say. You tell your lies and you think nobody knows. But there are two people who know. Yes—two people. One is le bon Dieu—" He raised a hand to heaven, and then settling himself back in his chair and shutting his eyelids, he murmured comfortably: "And the other is Hercule Poirot.

For some reason, Poirot had always been a person it was easy to talk to.

These problems were Miss Marple's first introduction to the world of detective story readers. Miss Marple has some faint affinity with my own grandmother, also a pink and white pretty old lady who, although having led the most sheltered and Victorian of lives, nevertheless always appeared to be intimately acquainted with all the depths of human depravity.

I wish you would always have Miss Marple and not Poirot," and the other "I wish you would have Poirot and not Miss Marple." I myself incline to her side. I think, that she is at her best in the solving of short problems; they suit her more intimate style. Poirot, on the other hand, insists on a full-length book to display his talents.

Poirot laughed. "The moral of that is, always look under the mats!

Who is Mr. Radnor?

I like a good detective story," he said. "But, you know, they begin in the wrong place! They begin with the murder. But the murder is the end. The story begins long before that—years before sometimes with all the causes and events that bring certain people to a certain place at a certain time on a certain day.

It Isn't Strychnine, Is It?

After this conversation, Monsieur Poirot, I shall wonder that there is anyone left alive!