“You do not quite understand me, Mr. Shaitana. My words were in the nature of a warning. You asked me just now to admit that your idea of a collection of murderers was amusing. I said I could think of another word other than amusing. That word was dangerous. I fancy, Mr. Shaitana, that your hobby might be a dangerous one!”
Mr. Shaitana laughed, a very Mephistophelian laugh.
He said:
“I may expect you, then, on the 18th?”
Poirot gave a little bow.
“You may expect me on the 18th. Mille remerciments.”
“I shall arrange a little party,” mused Shaitana. “Do not forget. Eight o’clock.”
He moved away. Poirot stood a minute or two looking after him.
He shook his head slowly and thoughtfully.
Two
DINNER AT MR. SHAITANA’S
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.