“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.”