Quotes About Mystery

Poirot said "you will find,M.le docteur,if you have much to do with cases of this kind,that they all resemble each other in one thing." "what is that?" I asked curiously "everyone concerned in them has something to hide

If my Rolls-Royce splashes you with mud as you're waiting for a bus, you'll know that I've taken to crime.

Reflection had never been Mrs Oliver's strong point.

The little man removed his hat. What an egg-shaped head he had.

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

It's so difficult, isn't it, to get to know people when there is a murder? And quite impossible to have any really intellectual conversation.

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.

Shaitana was a man who prided himself on his Mephistophelian attitude to life. He was a man of great vanity. He was also a stupid man-that's why he is dead.

Mary Jordan did not die naturally. It was one of us, I think I know which one.

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

I think somebody deliberately wanted to frighten her.

I told you there was nothing to it," said Arbuthnot apologetically. "But you know what it is—early hours of the morning—everything very still—the thing had a sinister look—like a detective story. All nonsense, really.

I don't like anyone who comes and dies in my house on purpose to annoy me," said Lord Caterham obstinately.

That, of course, depends entirely on who you mean by 'they'. It's a very vague term. Who is or are 'they'? Is there such a thing, are there such persons as 'they'? We don't know. But I can tell you this. If the most popular explanation of 'they' is accepted, then these people work in very close, self-contained cells. They do that for their own security. ~Jessop

When I know what the murderer is like, I shall be able to find out who he is.

Evidence of identification was given by the husband, and the only other evidence was medical. Heather Badcock had died as a result of four grains of hy-ethyl-dexyl-barbo-quinde-lorytate, or, let us be frank, some such name.

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

Because of his face." "His face? But—" "Yes, I know what you're going to say. It's a sinister face. That's just it. No man with a face like that could be really sinister. It must be a colossal joke on the part of Nature.

Mas não tão inteligente quanto Hercule Poirot!

The caught murderer is necessarily one of the failures. He is second-rate.

But how can any one be in there? There's no door except into this room. Your memory is excellent, Hastings. Now for the deductions.

Sarah King looked long and searchingly at Hercule Poirot. She noted the egg-shaped head, the gigantic moustaches, the dandified appearance and the suspicious blackness of hair.

The intense interest aroused in the public by what was known at the time as "The Styles Case" has now somewhat subsided.

Miss Marple had her breakfast brought to her in bed as usual. Tea, a boiled egg, and a slice of pawpaw.