Quotes About Mystery

Our friend Nunheim was filled full of .32s just about an hour after he copped the sneak on us - deader'n hell. The pills look like they come from the same gun that cut down the Wolf dame. The experts are matching 'em up now. I guess he wishes he'd stayed and talked to us.

Nora was eating a piece of cold duck with one hand and working on a jig-saw puzzle with the other when I got home. I thought you'd gone to live with her, she said. You used to be a detective: find me a brownish piece shaped something like a snail with a long neck. Piece of duck or puzzle?...

Dorothy wants to talk to you. Don't ask her to eat with us. When Nora returned from the telephone she had a look in her eye. Now what's up? I asked. Nothing. Just 'how are you' and all that. I said: if you're lying to the old man, God'll punish you.

She tilted her head to the right. You didn't even tell me you had taken the case. I had done what? Oh, I see what you mean. Well, I hadn't and haven't. My getting shot ought to prove I was an innocent bystander. Does it hurt much? It itches. I forgot to have the dressing changed this afternoon. Wasn't Nora utterly terrified? So was I and so was the guy that shot me. There's Halsey. I haven't spoken to him yet.

Alice opened the door when I rang. She had on green pyjamas and held a hairbrush in one hand. She looked wearily at Quinn and spoke wearily: Bring it in. I took it in and spread it on a bed. It mumbled something I could not make out and moved one hand feebly back and forth, but its eyes stayed shut.

Samuel Spade's jaw was long and bony, his chin a jutting v under the more flexible v of his mouth. His nostrils curved back to make another, smaller, v. His yellow-grey eyes were horizontal. The v motif was picked up again by thickish brows rising outward from twin creases above a hooked nose, and his pale brown hair grew down—from high flat temples—in a point on his forehead. He looked rather pleasantly like a blond satan.

To swipe the immortal lines uttered by Sam Spade in The Maltese Falcon, a great mystery should take the lid off life and let [you] look at the works.

It was his wife we objected to. Her name was Leda, but he called her Tip. She was very small and her hair, eyes, and skin, though naturally of different shades, were all muddy. She seldom sat- she perched on things - and liked to cock her head a little to one side. Nora had a theory that once when Edge opened an antique grave, Tip ran out of it,...

I just tell you what happens. I don't explain it.

A bullet kissed a hole in the door-frame close to my noodle.

I told him about the letter Wynant had sent his sister. He said: "He writes a lot of people, don't he?

What was her fearsome secret?" I told her what Dorothy had told me. "It sounds like a lot of hooey." "Why?" "Why not? Everything else we've got from them has been hooey.

guess I can put two and two together." "Sometimes the answer's four," I said, "and sometimes it's twenty-two.

I had seen the girl somewhere before. She was a slender girl in a glistening blue gown that exhibited a generous spread of front, back and arms that were worth showing. She had a mass of dark brown hair above an oval face of the color that pink ought to be. Her eyes were wide-set and of a gray shade that wasn't altogether unlike the shadows on polished silver that the poet had compared them to. The Girl With The Silver Eyes

Just you, darling. Lanky brunettes with wicked jaws.

She's in," he said when I joined him. "She went up the road, cut across through some bushes, came back to the edge of the cliff, and slid feet-first through a cellar window." That was nice. The crazier the people you are sleuthing act, as a rule, the nearer you are to an ending of your troubles.

Nora stopped drinking to ask: "Did Wynant really steal it?" "Tch, tch, tch," I said. "This is Christmas Eve: try to think good of your fellow man.

the Charles-Street Avenue house.

Desapareció -dijo Spade- como desaparece un puño cuando se abre la mano

looking at Spade with cobalt-blue eyes that were both shy and probing.

God works at the edges of life, in the alleys, far away from the clout and the image and the prestige so esteemed by the world. God's people have always been marginalized. The Bible makes this clear and normative: We are called to the edges, like Abraham – to trust in a God of the edges who moves us and leads us in ways we can't comprehend, and in ways the world dismisses as crazy.

A secret society within a secret society.

Someone was tapping on the window.

maybe somebody finally shot the dog.