Cards on the Table. Agatha Christie

could even show you objects in your own line, M. Poirot!’

      ‘You have then a private “Black Museum”.’

      ‘Bah!’ Mr Shaitana snapped disdainful fingers. ‘The cup used by the Brighton murderer, the jemmy of a celebrated burglar—absurd childishness! I should never burden myself with rubbish like that. I collect only the best objects of their kind.’

      ‘And what do you consider the best objects, artistically speaking, in crime?’ inquired Poirot.

      Mr Shaitana leaned forward and laid two fingers on Poirot’s shoulder. He hissed his words dramatically.

      ‘The human beings who commit them, M. Poirot.’

      Poirot’s eyebrows rose a trifle.

      ‘Aha, I have startled you,’ said Mr Shaitana. ‘My dear, dear man, you and I look on these things as from poles apart! For you crime is a matter of routine: a murder, an investigation, a clue, and ultimately (for you are undoubtedly an able fellow) a conviction. Such banalities would not interest me! I am not interested in poor specimens of any kind. And the caught murderer is necessarily one of the failures. He is second-rate. No, I look on the matter from the artistic point of view. I collect only the best!’

      ‘The best being—?’ asked Poirot.

      ‘My dear fellow—the ones who have got away with it! The successes! The criminals who lead an agreeable life which no breath of suspicion has ever touched. Admit that is an amusing hobby.’

      ‘It was another word I was thinking of—not amusing.’

      ‘An idea!’ cried Shaitana, paying no attention to Poirot. ‘A little dinner! A dinner to meet my exhibits! Really, that is a most amusing thought. I cannot think why it has never occurred to me before. Yes—yes, I see it all—I see it exactly… You must give me a little time—not next week—let us say the week after next. You are free? What day shall we say?’

      ‘Any day of the week after next would suit me,’ said Poirot with a bow.

      ‘Good—then let us say Friday. Friday the 18th, that will be. I will write it down at once in my little book. Really, the idea pleases me enormously.’

      ‘I am not quite sure if it pleases me,’ said Poirot slowly. ‘I do not mean that I am insensible to the kindness of your invitation—no—not that—’

      Shaitana interrupted him.

      ‘But it shocks your bourgeois sensibilities? My dear fellow, you must free yourself from the limitations of the policeman mentality.’

      Poirot said slowly:

      ‘It is true that I have a thoroughly bourgeois attitude to murder.’

      ‘But, my dear, why? A stupid, bungled, butchering business—yes, I agree with you. But murder can be an art! A murderer can be an artist.’

      ‘Oh, I admit it.’

      ‘Well then?’ Mr Shaitana asked.

      ‘But he is still a murderer!’

      ‘Surely, my dear M. Poirot, to do a thing supremely well is a justification! You want, very unimaginatively, to take every murderer, handcuff him, shut him up, and eventually break his neck for him in the early hours of the morning. In my opinion a really successful murderer should be granted a pension out of the public funds and asked out to dinner!’

      Poirot shrugged his shoulders.

      ‘I am not as insensitive to art in crime as you think. I can admire the perfect murder—I can also admire a tiger—that splendid tawny-striped beast. But I will admire him from outside his cage. I will not go inside. That is to say, not unless it is my duty to do so. For you see, Mr Shaitana, the tiger might spring…’

      Mr Shaitana laughed.

      ‘I see. And the murderer?’

      ‘Might murder,’ said Poirot gravely.

      ‘My dear fellow—what an alarmist you are! Then you will not come to meet my collection of—tigers?’

      ‘On the contrary, I shall be enchanted.’

      ‘How brave!’

      ‘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.

       CHAPTER 2

       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 hot-headed 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