Cards on the Table. Agatha Christie

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 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