Sublime

“There’s murder in this and the Lord knows what all. I’ve got no liking for a blindfolded game. How do I know what you’re up to? You can tell me what you know—everything—or you can find yourself another detective. That’s flat.”

She’s in no danger just now. Maybe the lad was stringing me, maybe he wasn’t, but either way he wouldn’t have spilled it to me if he meant to do anything.

“Unless he’s one whale of an actor, he’s a lot in love with his wife,” the detective said with certainty. “That’s enough to justify taking the story to him.”

It seemed like a nice neighbourhood to have bad habits in.

Not one of the six—except Steve, and perhaps Kamp—would have hesitated to favor himself at the expense of honesty had the opportunity come to him; but where knowledge of trickery is evenly distributed honesty not infrequently prevails.

one of his best-selling authors, Willard Huntington Wright, better known to hundreds of thousands of readers as S. S. Van Dine.

Silence held for several minutes, in the darkness of the coupé’s interior, and then the detective’s harsh voice put a sceptical question: “And who are these certain parties that want her out of the way?” “Be yourself!” Scuttle Zeipp admonished him. “I’m laying down on ’em, right enough, but I ain’t feeding ’em to you.” “What are you giving me all t