Cards on the Table

‘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 fox-hunting, 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!’