I specialize in murders of quiet, domestic interest.

I have wanted . . . to commit a murder myself. I recognized this as the desire of the artist to express himself! . . . But-incongruous as it may seem to some-I was restrained and hampered by my innate sense of justice. The innocent must not suffer.

"Look here," I said, "people like to collect disasters."

I don't know. I don't know at all. And that's what's frightening the life out of me. To have no idea.

No sign, so far, of anything sinister—but I live in hope.

You gave too much rein to your imagination. Imagination is a good servant, and a bad master. The simplest explanation is always the most likely.

Writers are diffident creatures -- they need encouragement.