Who shot him? I asked. The grey man scratched the back of his neck and said: Somebody with a gun.

Listen, Dundy, it's been a long time since I burst into tears because a policeman didn't like me.

I haven't laughed so much over anything since the hogs ate my kid brother.

What I try to do is write a story about a detective rather than a detective story. Keeping the reader fooled until the last, possible moment is a good trick and I usually try to play it, but I can't attach more than secondary importance to it. The puzzle isn't so interesting to me as the behavior of the detective attacking it.

I haven't any sort of plans for the future but I reckon things will work out in some manner.

Three times I have been mistaken for a prohibition agent, but never had any trouble clearing myself.

My way of learning is to heave a wild and unpredictable monkey-wrench into the machinery.