I am the first to admit that I read mystery novels just for the conclusion: that fleeting moment of satisfaction when everything clicks into place. It makes the world feel reasonable, manageable.

In his introduction Penzler points the finger at readers like me and warns that this is a book we will hate.

But I didn't. I found myself laughing at the cleverness of the brutal, untold endings. I liked the way they left you, in the dark without a match, puzzling together in your mind what happened next. I liked them because they weren't stories that left you wondering how someone did the crime -- they left you wondering about human nature, and all it entails. These weren't neat crimes that lacked a Poirot to tie them up, and for that I am grateful.