Cards on the Table - Agatha Christie [2]
‘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