Arthur Conan Doyle Quotes

Killers can seem smart when you can't figure out who they are.

In the same way he's fascinated by crosswords, the puzzle of solving the murder is what drives him on.

Forensics I've always found absolutely fascinating. Anything to do with clues. And checking things out and solving.

I was the weirdest kid: I wanted to see the police file - in grade school! I was convinced I could crack the case if I just had that file.

I was a big Nancy Drew reader. Nancy figures it out. Case closed.

People don't just love mysteries. They are obsessed with them - especially the kind that are never definitively solved.

I've always been a fan of investigation shows.

I was always a big fan of 'Quincy,' and I loved the idea of puzzle solving.

They wouldn't tell Scipio how much of the counterfeit cash was left since, as Riccio put it, 'You're a detective now, after all.

There is always a pleasure in unravelling a mystery, in catching at the gossamer clue which will guide to certainty.

I don't like mysteries, which is why I want to solve them. It bothers me that there are things I don't know.

Every mystery ever solved had been a puzzle from the dawn of the human species right up until someone solved it.

Puzzles are like songs - A good puzzle can give you all the pleasure of being duped that a mystery story can. It has surface innocence, surprise, the revelation of a concealed meaning, and the catharsis of solution.

When a man wants a mystery, it is generally better to leave him mystified. Nobody loves a clever woman.

There's a mystery there, a clue, a nut, a bolt, and if I put it together, I find me.

The secret is that there is no secret.

You say that your fare told you that he was a detective?" "Yes, he did." "When did he say this?" "When he left me." "Did he say anything more?" "He mentioned his name." Holmes cast a swift glance of triumph at me. "Oh, he mentioned his name, did he? That was imprudent. What was the name that he mentioned?" “His name," said the cabman, "was Mr. Sherlock Holmes.

I was fifteen when I first met Sherlock Holmes, fifteen years old with my nose in a book as I walked the Sussex Downs, and nearly stepped on him. In my defense I must say it was an engrossing book, and it was very rare to come across another person in that particular part of the world in that war year of 1915.

The rules of magic, my dear, are best not discusses. For once we understand the illusion, we no longer believe it.

Who are you?" "No one of consequence." "I must know." "Get used to disappointment.

She walks away, and I am too stunned to follow her. At the end of the hallways she turns and says, "Have a piece of cake for me, all right? The chocolate. It's delicious." She smiles a strange, twisted smile, and adds," I love you, you know." And then she's gone. I stand alone in the blue light coming from the lamp above me, and I understand: She has been to the compound before. She remembered this hallways. She knows about the initiation process. My mother was a dauntless.

It was the hat. He looked sweet in the hat. How could a man in a fuzzy blue hat have used human bones to pave his roads?

I know you followed me. Don't look so surprised. It's called a rearview mirror.

What a fine persecution—to be kept intrigued without ever quite being enlightened.

If Cape wasn't your last name, what was your real one?" I asked, deathly curious now. "Ahhhh," he complained. "Pincas Huckleburr.