shook his head slowly and thoughtfully.
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 Battle was supposed to be Scotland Yard’s best representative. He always looked stolid and rather stupid.
‘I know M. Poirot,’ said Superintendent Battle.
And 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
