Sleuth is written with a certain literary coquetry which the innocent mistake for style. Apart from an initial incredibility in the story's premise—which the audience has to allow in order to have fun with what follows—the rest is clever enough for those who like the game.

There is some stage wit in the recipe, even a dab of social comment. It is suggested that detective stories and thrillers (all except this one, of course) appeal to the privileged of a heartless class society and are to a degree a sign of decadence. This is not to be taken seriously and no one in the audience pays it any mind: it is embroidery….

I am little interested in such toys as Sleuth. I do not in the least resent those who like to play with them, but I am a little miffed when reviewers rhapsodize about them...