Quotes About Mystery

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

Ma come sapete, la natura umana è quella che è..

Life is only one of the Great Illusions.

Poirot was standing in the larder in a dramtic attitude. In his hand he was brandishing a leg of mutton. 'My dear Poirot! What is the matter? have you gone mad?' 'Regard i pray you this mutton! But regard it closely!

I neither see nor comprehend. You make all these confounded mysteries, and it's useless asking you to explain. You always like keeping something up your sleeve to the last minute.

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.

The other two waited respectfully while M. Bouc struggled in mental agony.

The family would come under suspicion," he said, "and it might remain under suspicion for a long time—perhaps for ever. If one of the family was guilty it is possible that they themselves would not know which one. They would look at each other and—wonder … Yes, that's what would be the worst of all. They themselves would not know which…

Bundle frowned. This business of the clocks was curious. She must get hold of Bill Eversleigh. He had been there, she knew. To think was to act with Bundle. She got up and went over to the writing desk. It was an inlaid affair with a lid that rolled back. Bundle sat down at it, pulled a sheet of notepaper towards her and wrote. Dear Bill,—

My good Japp, is it possible that you throw the mud in my eyes? I know well enough that it is the Chinaman you suspect. But you are so artful. You want me to help you—and yet you drag the red kipper across the trail.

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.

Poirot closed his eyes. What he perceived mentally was a kaleidoscope, no more, no less. Pieces of cut-up scarves and rucksacks, cookery books, lipsticks, bath salts; names and thumbnail sketches of odd students. Nowhere was there cohesion or form. Unrelated incidents and people whirled round in space. But Poirot knew quite well that somehow and somewhere there must be a pattern . . . The question was where to start.. . . .

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.

There you are, Ariadne," said Robin. "The whole plot of your next novel presented to you. All you'll have to do is work in a few false clues, and—of course—do the actual writing.

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.

One little soldier boy left all alone; He went and hanged himself and then there were None.

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

I, too, believe in the force of superstition, one of the greatest forces the world has ever known.

Miss Marple is a white-haired old lady with a gentle, appealing manner—Miss Wetherby is a mixture of vinegar and gush. Of the two Miss Marple is much the more dangerous.

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.