One

MR. SHAITANA

“My dear M. Poirot!”

It was a soft purring voice—a voice used deliberately¹ as an instrument—nothing impulsive² orpremeditated about it.

Hercule Poirot swung round.

He bowed.

He shook hands ceremoniously.

There was something in his eye that was unusual. One would have said that this chanceencounter awakened³ in him an emotion that he seldom had occasion to feel.

“My dear Mr. Shaitana,” he said.

They both paused. They were like duellists en garde.

Around them a well- dressed languid London crowd eddied⁴ mildly. Voices drawled ormurmured.

“Darling—exquisite⁵!”

“Simply divine, aren’t they, my dear?”

It was the Exhibition of Snuffboxes at Wessex House. Admission one guinea, in aid of theLondon hospitals.

“My dear man,” said Mr. Shaitana, “how nice to see you! Not hanging or guillotining much justat present? Slack season in the criminal world? Or is there to be a robbery here this afternoon—that would be too delicious.”

“Alas, Monsieur,” said Poirot. “I came here in a purely⁶ private capacity.”

Mr. Shaitana was diverted for a moment by a Lovely Young Thing with tight poodle curls upone side of her head and three cornucopias⁷ in black straw on the other.

He said:

“My dear—why didn’t you come to my party? It really was a marvellous party! Quite a lot ofpeople actually spoke⁸ to me! One woman even said, ‘How do you do,’ and ‘Good-bye’ and‘Thank you so much’—but of course she came from a Garden City, poor dear!”

While the Lovely Young Thing made a suitable reply, Poirot allowed himself a good study ofthe hirsute⁹ adornment¹⁰ on Mr. Shaitana’s upper lip.

A fine moustache—a very fine moustache—the only moustache in London, perhaps, that couldcompete with that of M. Hercule Poirot.

“But it is not so luxuriant,” he murmured to himself. “No, decidedly it is inferior in everyrespect. Tout¹¹ de même, it catches the eye.”

The whole of Mr. Shaitana’s person caught the eye—it was designed to do so. He deliberatelyattempted a Mephistophelian effect. He was tall and thin, his face was long and melancholy¹², hiseyebrows were heavily accented and jet black, he wore a moustache with stiff waxed ends and atiny black imperial. His clothes were works of art—of exquisite cut—but with a suggestion ofbizarre.

Every healthy Englishman who saw him longed earnestly and fervently¹⁴ to kick him! They said,with a singular lack of originality¹⁵, “There’s that damned Dago, Shaitana!”

Their wives, daughters, sisters, aunts, mothers, and even grandmothers said, varying the idiomaccording to their generation, words to this effect: “I know, my dear. Of course, he is too terrible.

But so rich! And such marvellous parties! And he’s always got something amusing and spiteful totell you about people.”

Whether Mr. Shaitana was an Argentine, or a Portuguese¹⁶, or a Greek, or some other nationalityrightly despised by the insular¹⁷ Briton, nobody knew.

But three facts were quite certain:

He existed richly and beautifully in a super flat in Park Lane.

He gave wonderful parties—large parties, small parties, macabre¹⁸ parties, respectable parties anddefinitely “queer” parties.

He was a man of whom nearly everybody was a little afraid.

Why this last was so can hardly be stated in definite words. There was a feeling, perhaps, that heknew a little too much about everybody. And there was a feeling, too, that his sense of humourwas a curious one.

People nearly always felt that it would be better not to risk offending Mr. Shaitana.

It was his humour this afternoon to bait that ridiculous-looking little man, Hercule Poirot.

“So even a policeman needs recreation?” he said. “You study the arts in your old age, M.

Poirot?”

Poirot smiled good-humouredly.

“I see,” he said, “that you yourself have lent three snuffboxes to the Exhibition.”

Mr. Shaitana waved a deprecating hand.

“One picks up trifles here and there. You must come to my flat one day. I have some interestingpieces. I do not confine myself to any particular period or class of object.”

“Your tastes are catholic,” said Poirot smiling.

“As you say.”

Suddenly Mr. Shaitana’s eyes danced, the corners of his lips curled up, his eyebrows¹³ assumed afantastic tilt¹⁹.

“I 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, thejemmy of a celebrated²⁰ burglar—absurd childishness! I should never burden myself with rubbishlike that. I collect only the best objects of their kind.”

“And what do you consider the best objects, artistically²² speaking, in crime?” inquired Poirot.

Mr. Shaitana leaned forward and laid two fingers on Poirot’s shoulder. He hissed²³ his wordsdramatically.

“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 thesethings as from poles apart! For you crime is a matter of routine: a murder, an investigation²⁴, a clue,and ultimately (for you are undoubtedly²⁵ an able fellow) a conviction. Such banalities would notinterest me! I am not interested in poor specimens²⁶ of any kind. And the caught murderer isnecessarily one of the failures. He is second-rate. No, I look on the matter from the artistic²¹ point ofview. 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 leadan 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 myexhibits! Really, that is a most amusing thought. I cannot think why it has never occurred to mebefore. Yes—yes, I see it exactly … You must give me a little time—not next week—let us saythe 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 mylittle 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 tothe kindness of your invitation—no—not that—”

Shaitana interrupted him.

“But it shocks your bourgeois²⁷ sensibilities? My dear fellow, you must free yourself from thelimitations of the policeman mentality²⁸.”

Poirot said slowly:

“It is true that I have a thoroughly²⁹ bourgeois attitude to murder.”

“But, my dear, why? A stupid, bungled³⁰, butchering business—yes, I agree with you. But murdercan 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 supremely³¹ well is a justification³²! You want, veryunimaginatively, to take every murderer, handcuff him, shut him up, and eventually break his neckfor him in the early hours of the morning. In my opinion a really successful murderer should begranted a pension out of the public funds and asked out to dinner!”

Poirot shrugged³³ his shoulders.

“I am not as insensitive to art in crime as you think. I can admire the perfect murder—I can alsoadmire a tiger—that splendid tawny-striped beast. But I will admire him from outside his cage. Iwill not go inside. That is to say, not unless it is my duty to do so. For you see, Mr. Shaitana, thetiger 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 enchanted³⁴.”

“How brave!”

“You do not quite understand me, Mr. Shaitana. My words were in the nature of a warning. Youasked me just now to admit that your idea of a collection of murderers was amusing. I said I couldthink of another word other than amusing. That word was dangerous. I fancy, Mr. Shaitana, thatyour 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,” mused³⁵ 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.

 

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