The door of Mr. Shaitana’s flat opened noiselessly. A grey-haired butler drew it back to let Poirot enter. He closed it equally noiselessly and deftly relieved the guest of his overcoat and hat.
He murmured in a low expressionless voice:
“What name shall I say?”
“M. Hercule Poirot.”
There was a little hum of talk that eddied out into the hall as the butler opened a door and announced:
“M. Hercule Poirot.”
Sherry glass in hand, Shaitana came forward to meet him. He was, as usual, immaculately dressed. The Mephistophelian suggestion was heightened tonight, the eyebrows seemed accentuated in their mocking twist.
“Let me introduce you—do you know Mrs. Oliver?”
The showman in him enjoyed the little start of surprise that Poirot gave.
Mrs. Ariadne Oliver was extremely well-known as one of the foremost writers of detective and other sensational stories. She wrote chatty (if not particularly grammatical) articles on The Tendency of the Criminal; Famous Crimes Passionnels; Murder for Love v. Murder for Gain. She was also a hotheaded feminist, and when any murder of importance was occupying space in the Press there was sure to be an interview with Mrs. Oliver, and it was mentioned that Mrs. Oliver had said, “Now if a woman were the head of Scotland Yard!” She was an earnest believer in woman’s intuition.
For the rest she was an agreeable woman of middle age, handsome in a rather untidy fashion with fine eyes, substantial shoulders and a large quantity of rebellious grey hair with which she was continually experimenting. One day her appearance would be highly intellectual—a brow with the hair scraped back from it and coiled in a large bun in the neck—on another Mrs. Oliver would suddenly appear with Madonna loops, or large masses of slightly untidy curls. On this particular evening Mrs. Oliver was trying out a fringe.
She greeted Poirot, whom she had met before at a literary dinner, in an agreeable bass voice.
“And Superintendent Battle you doubtless know,” said Mr. Shaitana.
A big, square, wooden-faced man moved forward. Not only did an onlooker feel that Superintendent Battle was carved out of wood—he also managed to convey the impression that the wood in question was the timber out of a battleship.
Superintendent Battle was supposed to be Scotland Yard’s best representative. He always looked stolid and rather stupid.
“I know M. Poirot,” said Superintendent Battle.
And his wooden face creased into a smile and then returned to its former unexpressiveness.
“Colonel Race,” went on Mr. Shaitana.
Poirot had not previously met Colonel Race, but he knew something about him. A dark, handsome, deeply bronzed man of fifty, he was usually to be found in some outpost of empire—especially if there were trouble brewing. Secret Service is a melodramatic term, but it described pretty accurately to the lay mind the nature and scope of Colonel Race’s activities.
Poirot had by now taken in and appreciated the particular essence of his host’s humorous intentions.
“Our other guests are late,” said Mr. Shaitana. “My fault, perhaps. I believe I told them 8:15.”
But at that moment the door opened and the butler announced:
“Dr. Roberts.”
The man who came in did so with a kind of parody of a brisk bedside manner. He was a cheerful, highly-coloured individual of middle age. Small twinkling eyes, a touch of baldness, a tendency to embonpoint and a general air of well-scrubbed and disinfected medical practitioner. His manner was cheerful and confident. You felt that his diagnosis would be correct and his treatments agreeable and practical—“a little champagne in convalescence perhaps.” A man of the world!
“Not late, I hope?” said Dr. Roberts genially.
He shook hands with his host and was introduced to the others. He seemed particularly gratified at meeting Battle.
“Why, you’re one of the big noises at Scotland Yard, aren’t you? This is interesting! Too bad to make you talk shop but I warn you I shall have a try at it. Always been interested in crime. Bad thing for a doctor, perhaps. Mustn’t say so to my nervous patients—ha ha!”
Again the door opened.
“Mrs. Lorrimer.”
Mrs. Lorrimer was a well-dressed woman of sixty. She had finely cut features, beautifully arranged grey hair, and a clear, incisive voice.
“I hope I’m not late,” she said, advancing to her host.
She turned from him to greet Dr. Roberts, with whom she was acquainted.
The butler announced:
“Major Despard.”
Major Despard was a tall, lean, handsome man, his face slightly marred by a scar on the temple. Introductions completed, he gravitated naturally to the side of Colonel Race—and the two men were soon talking sport and comparing their experiences on safari.
For the last time the door opened and the butler announced:
“Miss Meredith.”
A girl in the early twenties entered. She was of medium height and pretty. Brown curls clustered in her neck, her grey eyes were large and wide apart. Her face was powdered but not made-up. Her voice was slow and rather shy.
She said:
“Oh dear, am I the last?”
Mr. Shaitana descended on her with sherry and an ornate and complimentary reply. His introductions were formal and almost ceremonious.
Miss Meredith was left sipping her sherry by Poirot’s side.
“Our friend is very punctilious,” said Poirot with a smile.
The girl agreed.
“I know. People rather dispense with introductions nowadays. They just say ‘I expect you know everybody’ and leave it at that.”
“Whether you do or you don’t?”
“Whether you do or don’t. Sometimes it makes it awkward—but I think this is more awe-inspiring.”
She hesitated and then said:
“Is that Mrs. Oliver, the novelist?”
Mrs. Oliver’s bass voice rose powerfully at that minute, speaking to Dr. Roberts.
“You can’t get away from a woman’s instinct, doctor. Women know these things.”
Forgetting that she no longer had a brow she endeavoured to sweep her hair back from it but was foiled by the fringe.
“That is Mrs. Oliver,” said Poirot.
“The one who wrote The Body in the Library?”
“That identical one.”
Miss Meredith frowned a little.
“And that wooden-looking man—a superintendent did Mr. Shaitana say?”
“From Scotland Yard.”
“And you?”
“And me?”
“I know all about you, M. Poirot. It was you who really solved the A.B.C. crimes.”
“Madamoiselle, you cover me with confusion.”
Miss Meredith drew her brows together.
“Mr. Shaitana,” she began and then stopped. “Mr. Shaitana—”
Poirot said quietly:
“One might say he was ‘crime-minded.’ It seems so. Doubtless he wishes to hear us dispute ourselves. He is already egging on Mrs. Oliver and Dr. Roberts. They are now discussing untraceable poisons.”
Miss Meredith gave a little gasp as she said:
“What a queer man he is!”
“Dr. Roberts?”
“No, Mr. Shaitana.”
She shivered a little and said:
“There’s always something a little frightening about him, I think. You never know what would strike him as amusing. It might—it might be something cruel.”
“Such as foxhunting, eh?”
Miss Meredith threw him a reproachful glance.
“I meant—oh! something Oriental!”
“He has perhaps the tortuous mind,” admitted Poirot.
“Torturer’s?”
“No, no tortuous, I said.”
“I don’t think I like him frightfully,” confided Miss Meredith, her voice dropping.
“You will like his dinner, though,” Poirot assured her. “He has a marvellous cook.”
She looked at him doubtfully and then laughed.
“Why,” she exclaimed, “I believe you are quite human.”
“But certainly I am human!”
“You see,” said Miss Meredith, “all these celebrities are rather intimidating.”
“Mademoiselle, you should not be intimidated—you should be thrilled! You should have all ready your autograph book and your fountain pen.”
“Well, you see, I’m not really terribly interested in crime. I don’t think women are: it’s always men who read detective stories.”
Hercule Poirot sighed affectedly.
“Alas!” he murmured. “What would I not give at this minute to be even the most minor of film stars!”
The butler threw the door open.
“Dinner is served,” he murmured.
Poirot’s prognostication was amply justified. The dinner was delicious and its serving perfection. Subdued light, polished wood, the blue gleam of Irish glass. In the dimness, at the head of the table, Mr. Shaitana looked more than ever diabolical.
He apologized gracefully for the uneven number of the sexes.
Mrs. Lorrimer was on his right hand, Mrs. Oliver on his left. Miss Meredith was between Superintendent Battle and Major Despard. Poirot was between Mrs. Lorrimer and Dr. Roberts.
The latter murmured facetiously to him.
“You’re not going to be allowed to monopolize the only pretty girl all the evening. You French fellows, you don’t waste your time, do you?”
“I happen to be Belgian,” murmured Poirot.
“Same thing where the ladies are concerned, I expect, my boy,” said the doctor cheerfully.
Then, dropping the facetiousness, and adopting a professional tone, he began to talk to Colonel Race on his other side about the latest developments in the treatment of sleeping sickness.
Mrs. Lorrimer turned to Poirot and began to talk of the latest plays. Her judgements were sound and her criticisms apt. They drifted on to books and then to world politics. He found her a well-informed and thoroughly intelligent woman.
On the opposite side of the table Mrs. Oliver was asking Major Despard if he knew of any unheard-of-out-of-the-way poisons.
“Well, there’s curare.”
“My dear man, vieux jeu! That’s been done hundreds of times. I mean something new!”
Major Despard said drily:
“Primitive tribes are rather old-fashioned. They stick to the good old stuff their grandfathers and great-grandfathers used before them.”
“Very tiresome of them,” said Mrs. Oliver. “I should have thought they were always experimenting with pounding up herbs and things. Such a chance for explorers, I always think. They could come home and kill off all their rich old uncles with some new drug that no one’s ever heard of.”
“You should go to civilization, not to the wilds for that,” said Despard. “In the modern laboratory, for instance. Cultures of innocent-looking germs that will produce bona fide diseases.”
“That wouldn’t do for my public,” said Mrs. Oliver. “Besides one is so apt to get the names wrong—staphylococcus and streptococcus and all those things—so difficult for my secretary and anyway rather dull, don’t you think so? What do you think, Superintendent Battle?”
“In real life people don’t bother about being too subtle, Mrs. Oliver,” said the superintendent. “They usually stick to arsenic because it’s nice and handy to get hold of.”
“Nonsense,” said Mrs. Oliver. “That’s simply because there are lots of crimes you people at Scotland Yard never find out. Now if you had a woman there—”
“As a matter of fact we have—”
“Yes, those dreadful policewomen in funny hats who bother people in parks! I mean a woman at the head of things. Women know about crime.”
“They’re usually very successful criminals,” said Superintendent Battle. “Keep their heads well. It’s amazing how they’ll brazen things out.”
Mr. Shaitana laughed gently.
“Poison is a woman’s weapon,” he said. “There must be many secret women poisoners—never found out.”
“Of course there are,” said Mrs. Oliver happily, helping herself lavishly to a mousse of foie gras.
“A doctor, too, has opportunities,” went on Mr. Shaitana thoughtfully.
“I protest,” cried Dr. Roberts. “When we poison our patients it’s entirely by accident.” He laughed heartily.
“But if I were to commit a crime,” went on Mr. Shaitana.
He stopped, and something in that pause compelled attention.
All faces were turned to him.
“I should make it very simple, I think. There’s always an accident—a shooting accident, for instance—or the domestic kind of accident.”
Then he shrugged his shoulders and picked up his wineglass.
“But who am I to pronounce—with so many experts present….”
He drank. The candlelight threw a red shade from the wine onto his face with its waxed moustache, its little imperial, its fantastic eyebrows….
There was a momentary silence.
Mrs. Oliver said:
“Is it twenty-to or twenty past? An angel passing … My feet aren’t crossed—it must be a black angel!”
[Cards on the Table -Agatha Christie] Two. Dinner at Mr. Shaitana’s