Two

DINNER AT MR. SHAITANA’S

The door of Mr. Shaitana’s flat opened noiselessly. A grey-haired butler drew it back to let Poirotenter. He closed it equally noiselessly and deftly¹ 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 eddied² out into the hall as the butler opened a door andannounced:

“M. Hercule Poirot.”

Sherry glass in hand, Shaitana came forward to meet him. He was, as usual, immaculatelydressed. The Mephistophelian suggestion was heightened tonight, the eyebrows³ seemedaccentuated 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 andother sensational⁴ stories. She wrote chatty (if not particularly grammatical) articles on TheTendency of the Criminal; Famous Crimes Passionnels; Murder for Love v. Murder for Gain. Shewas also a hotheaded feminist⁵, and when any murder of importance was occupying space in thePress there was sure to be an interview with Mrs. Oliver, and it was mentioned that Mrs. Oliverhad said, “Now if a woman were the head of Scotland Yard!” She was an earnest believer inwoman’s intuition.

For the rest she was an agreeable woman of middle age, handsome in a rather untidy fashionwith fine eyes, substantial shoulders and a large quantity of rebellious⁶ grey hair with which shewas continually experimenting. One day her appearance would be highly intellectual—a browwith the hair scraped back from it and coiled in a large bun in the neck—on another Mrs. Oliverwould suddenly appear with Madonna loops, or large masses of slightly untidy curls. On thisparticular evening Mrs. Oliver was trying out a fringe.

She greeted Poirot, whom she had met before at a literary dinner, in an agreeable bass⁷ voice.

“And Superintendent⁸ Battle you doubtless know,” said Mr. Shaitana.

A big, square, wooden- faced man moved forward. Not only did an onlooker⁹ feel thatSuperintendent Battle was carved out of wood—he also managed to convey the impression thatthe wood in question was the timber out of a battleship.

Superintendent Battle was supposed to be Scotland Yard’s best representative. He alwayslooked stolid¹⁰ and rather stupid.

“I know M. Poirot,” said Superintendent Battle.

And his wooden face creased¹¹ into a smile and then returned to its former unexpressiveness.

“Colonel Race,” went on Mr. Shaitana.

Poirot had not previously¹² 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 brewing¹³. Secret Service is a melodramatic term, but it describedpretty accurately¹⁴ 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 humorousintentions.

“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 parody¹⁵ of a brisk bedside manner. He was acheerful, highly-coloured individual of middle age. Small twinkling eyes, a touch of baldness, atendency to embonpoint and a general air of well-scrubbed and disinfected medical practitioner¹⁶.

His manner was cheerful and confident. You felt that his diagnosis¹⁷ would be correct and histreatments agreeable and practical—“a little champagne¹⁸ in convalescence¹⁹ perhaps.” A man of theworld!

“Not late, I hope?” said Dr. Roberts genially²⁰.

He shook hands with his host and was introduced to the others. He seemed particularly gratifiedat meeting Battle.

“Why, you’re one of the big noises at Scotland Yard, aren’t you? This is interesting! Too bad tomake you talk shop but I warn you I shall have a try at it. Always been interested in crime. Badthing 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, beautifullyarranged grey hair, and a clear, incisive²¹ 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 marred²² by a scar on the temple.

Introductions completed, he gravitated naturally to the side of Colonel Race—and the two menwere soon talking sport and comparing their experiences on safari²³.

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 clusteredin her neck, her grey eyes were large and wide apart. Her face was powdered but not made-up. Hervoice was slow and rather shy.

She said:

“Oh dear, am I the last?”

Mr. Shaitana descended²⁴ on her with sherry and an ornate and complimentary²⁵ reply. Hisintroductions were formal and almost ceremonious.

Miss Meredith was left sipping²⁶ her sherry by Poirot’s side.

“Our friend is very punctilious,” said Poirot with a smile.

The girl agreed.

“I know. People rather dispense²⁷ with introductions nowadays. They just say ‘I expect you knoweverybody’ 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 butwas 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 disputeourselves. He is already egging on Mrs. Oliver and Dr. Roberts. They are now discussinguntraceable poisons.”

Miss Meredith gave a little gasp²⁸ 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 wouldstrike 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 tortuous²⁹ mind,” admitted Poirot.

“Torturer’s?”

“No, no tortuous, I said.”

“I don’t think I like him frightfully,” confided³⁰ 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 celebrities³¹ are rather intimidating³².”

“Mademoiselle, you should not be intimidated—you should be thrilled! You should have allready 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 alwaysmen who read detective stories.”

Hercule Poirot sighed affectedly³³.

“Alas!” he murmured. “What would I not give at this minute to be even the most minor³⁴ of filmstars!”

The butler threw the door open.

“Dinner is served,” he murmured.

Poirot’s prognostication was amply justified³⁵. The dinner was delicious and its servingperfection. Subdued³⁶ light, polished wood, the blue gleam of Irish glass. In the dimness, at the headof the table, Mr. Shaitana looked more than ever diabolical³⁷.

He apologized gracefully³⁸ for the uneven³⁹ number of the sexes.

Mrs. Lorrimer was on his right hand, Mrs. Oliver on his left. Miss Meredith was betweenSuperintendent Battle and Major Despard. Poirot was between Mrs. Lorrimer and Dr. Roberts.

The latter murmured facetiously⁴⁰ to him.

“You’re not going to be allowed to monopolize⁴¹ the only pretty girl all the evening. You Frenchfellows, you don’t waste your time, do you?”

“I happen to be Belgian,” murmured Poirot.

“Same thing where the ladies are concerned, I expect, my boy,” said the doctor cheerfully.

Then, dropping the facetiousness⁴², and adopting a professional tone, he began to talk to ColonelRace on his other side about the latest developments in the treatment of sleeping sickness.

Mrs. Lorrimer turned to Poirot and began to talk of the latest plays. Her judgements were soundand her criticisms apt. They drifted on to books and then to world politics. He found her a well-informed and thoroughly⁴³ intelligent woman.

On the opposite side of the table Mrs. Oliver was asking Major Despard if he knew of anyunheard-of-out-of-the-way poisons.

“Well, there’s curare.”

“My dear man, vieux jeu! That’s been done hundreds of times. I mean something new!”

Major Despard said drily:

“Primitive tribes are rather old-fashioned. They stick to the good old stuff their grandfathers andgreat-grandfathers used before them.”

“Very tiresome⁴⁴ of them,” said Mrs. Oliver. “I should have thought they were alwaysexperimenting with pounding up herbs and things. Such a chance for explorers, I always think.

They could come home and kill off all their rich old uncles with some new drug that no one’s everheard of.”

“You should go to civilization, not to the wilds for that,” said Despard. “In the modernlaboratory, for instance. Cultures of innocent-looking germs that will produce bona fide diseases.”

“That wouldn’t do for my public,” said Mrs. Oliver. “Besides one is so apt to get the nameswrong—staphylococcus and streptococcus and all those things—so difficult for my secretary andanyway rather dull, don’t you think so? What do you think, Superintendent Battle?”

“In real life people don’t bother about being too subtle, Mrs. Oliver,” said the superintendent.

“They usually stick to arsenic⁴⁵ because it’s nice and handy to get hold of.”

“Nonsense,” said Mrs. Oliver. “That’s simply because there are lots of crimes you people atScotland Yard never find out. Now if you had a woman there—”

“As a matter of fact we have—”

“Yes, those dreadful policewomen in funny hats who bother people in parks! I mean a womanat the head of things. Women know about crime.”

“They’re usually very successful criminals,” said Superintendent Battle. “Keep their heads well.

It’s amazing how they’ll brazen⁴⁶ things out.”

Mr. Shaitana laughed gently.

“Poison is a woman’s weapon,” he said. “There must be many secret women poisoners—neverfound out.”

“Of course there are,” said Mrs. Oliver happily, helping⁴⁷ herself lavishly⁴⁸ to a mousse of foiegras.

“A doctor, too, has opportunities,” went on Mr. Shaitana thoughtfully.

“I protest,” cried Dr. Roberts. “When we poison our patients it’s entirely⁴⁹ by accident.” Helaughed heartily⁵⁰.

“But if I were to commit a crime,” went on Mr. Shaitana.

He stopped, and something in that pause compelled attention.

All faces were turned to him.

“I should make it very simple, I think. There’s always an accident—a shooting accident, forinstance—or the domestic kind of accident.”

Then he shrugged⁵¹ his shoulders and picked up his wineglass.

“But who am I to pronounce—with so many experts present….”

He drank. The candlelight threw a red shade from the wine onto his face with its waxedmoustache, its little imperial, its fantastic eyebrows….

There was a momentary⁵² silence.

Mrs. Oliver said:

“Is it twenty-to or twenty past? An angel passing … My feet aren’t crossed—it must be a blackangel!”

 

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