“Your story is a lie, Tom! Actually, it is ridiculous.“
“All stories are ridiculous, Brenda.”
Herbert Fallowes, Inclined to Murder.
“I will write a novel,” declared Jason, “but only if it can be a nineteenth century novel. None of that modern business, full of nastiness and zig-zags.”
Nicholas Crisp, A Suitcase Fell on Her Head.
With exemplary adroitness, Mr. Desmond Davies stepped over and past the corpse of his own integrity.
Victoria Salt, A Compendium of Opening Lines.
Jack opened the window and paused. Then, he simply pointed in. No words were necessary.
Gwenda Reid, Murder in Retrospect.
“Yes, I used to have a bit of a reputation,” admitted Dean. “But I was able to get rid of that.”
Dell Arbogast, The Null Hypothesis and Other Stories.
“Oh, it’s not that he thinks only of himself, Janet. Not necessarily. It’s that he just does proceed. And proceed in a thieving way.”
Everson Dwight, Being and Murder.
Grigoriev’s last words concerned some business about “the dreadful numbers” and about “a geometry of lies.”
Hilary Fewkes, The Banality Killings.
“They told me that she simply vanished, in the middle of a sentence,” said Lottie, brushing aside a tear.
Rubina Malcolm, The Black Box.
“Wanting to understand it is the mistake,” insisted Daniels. “Do not try to understand it.”
Ellery Close, The Erasmus Homicides.
But the vulture needn’t know that he is a vulture. Circling a carcass just comes naturally.
Nigel Swarbrick, A Bootful of Nails.
dennis scharnberg 