Hotel porter:
Just thinking about the lusts of men makes me want to heave.

Bob Rusk:
I don't know if you know it Babs, but you're my type of woman.

Bob Rusk:
Don't forget, Bob's your uncle.

Inspector Oxford:
Mr. Rusk, you're not wearing your tie.

Sir George:
I say, that's not my club tie, is it?

Richard Blaney:
You can inform Mrs. Blaney that one of her less successful exercises in matrimony has come to see her: Mr. Blaney.

Chief Inspector Oxford:
I expect she'll turn up sooner or later. These days, ladies abandon their honor far more readily than their clothes.

Chief Inspector Oxford:
No, discretion is not traditionally the strong suit of the psychopath, dear. Believe me, that's what we're dealing with. You ought to read his wife's divorce petition.

Richard Blaney:
Do I look like a sex murderer to you? Can you imagine me creeping around London, strangling all those women with ties? That's ridiculuous. For a start, I only own two.

Bob Rusk:
If you can fix up a lot of idiots, why not me?

Solicitor in Pub:
Let's hope he slips up soon.

Doctor in Pub:
In one way I rather hope he doesn't. We haven't had a good juicy series of sex murders since Christie. And they're so good for the tourist trade. Foreigners somehow expect the squares of London to be fog-wreathed, full of hansom cabs and *littered* with ripped whores, don't you think?