Cards on the Table

T
here is an idea prevalent that a detective story is rather like a big raceâa number of startersâlikely horses and jockeys. “You pays your money and you takes your choice!” The favourite is by common consent the opposite of a favourite on the race course. In other words he is likely to be a complete outsider! Spot the least likely person to have committed the crime and in nine times out of ten your task is finished.

Since I do not want my faithful readers to fling away this book in disgust, I prefer to warn them beforehand
that this is not that kind of book
. There are only
four
starters and any one of them,
given the right circumstances,
might have committed the crime. That knocks out forcibly the element of surprise. Nevertheless there should be, I think, an equal interest attached to four persons, each of whom has committed murder and is capable of committing further murders. They are four widely divergent types, the motive that drives each one of them to crime is peculiar to that person, and each one would employ a different method. The deduction must, therefore, be entirely
psychological,
but it is none the less interesting for that, because when all is said and done it is the
mind
of the murderer that is of supreme interest.

I may say, as an additional argument in favour of this story, that it was one of Hercule Poirot's favourite cases. His friend, Captain Hastings, however, when Poirot described it to him, considered it very dull! I wonder with which of them my readers will agree.

One
M
R
. S
HAITANA

“M
y dear M. Poirot!”

It was a soft purring voiceâa voice used deliberately as an instrumentânothing impulsive or premeditated 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 chance encounter awakened 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 eddied mildly. Voices drawled or murmured.

“Darlingâexquisite!”

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

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

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

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

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

He said:

“My
dear
â
why
didn't you come to my party? It really was a marvellous party! Quite a lot of people actually
spoke
to me! One woman even said, âHow do you do,' and âGood-bye' and âThank you so much'âbut 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 of the hirsute adornment on Mr. Shaitana's upper lip.

A fine moustacheâa
very
fine moustacheâthe only moustache in London, perhaps, that could compete with that of M. Hercule Poirot.

“But it is
not
so luxuriant,” he murmured to himself. “No, decidedly it is inferior in every respect.
Tout de mÃªme,
it catches the eye.”

The whole of Mr. Shaitana's person caught the eyeâit was designed to do so. He deliberately attempted a Mephistophelian effect. He was tall and thin, his face was long and melancholy, his eyebrows were heavily accented and jet black, he wore a moustache with stiff waxed ends and a tiny black imperial. His clothes
were works of artâof exquisite cutâbut with a suggestion of bizarre.

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

Their wives, daughters, sisters, aunts, mothers, and even grandmothers said, varying the idiom according 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 to tell you about people.”

Whether Mr. Shaitana was an Argentine, or a Portuguese, or a Greek, or some other nationality rightly despised by the insular Briton, nobody knew.

But three facts were quite certain:

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

He gave wonderful partiesâlarge parties, small parties,
macabre
parties, respectable parties and definitely “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 he knew a little too much about everybody. And there was a feeling, too, that his sense of humour was 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 interesting pieces. 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 eyebrows assumed a fantastic tilt.

“I could even show you objects in your own line, M. Poirot!”

“You have then a private âBlack Museum.'”

“Bah!” Mr. Shaitana snapped disdainful fingers. “The cup used by the Brighton murderer, the jemmy of a celebrated burglarâabsurd childishness! I should never burden myself with rubbish like that. I collect only the best objects of their kind.”

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

Mr. Shaitana leaned forward and laid two fingers on Poirot's shoulder. He hissed his words dramatically.

“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 these things as from poles apart! For you crime is a matter of routine: a murder, an investigation, a clue, and ultimately (for you are undoubtedly an able fellow) a conviction. Such banalities would not interest me! I am not interested in poor specimens of any kind. And the caught murderer is necessarily one
of the failures. He is second-rate. No, I look on the matter from the artistic point of view. I collect only the best!”

“The best beingâ?” asked Poirot.

“My dear fellowâ
the ones who have got away with it!
The successes! The criminals who lead an agreeable life which no breath of suspicion has ever touched. Admit that is an amusing hobby.”

“It was another word I was thinking ofânot amusing.”

“An idea!” cried Shaitana, paying no attention to Poirot. “A little dinner! A dinner to meet my exhibits! Really, that is a most amusing thought. I cannot think why it has never occurred to me before. Yesâyes, I see it exactly â¦ You must give me a little timeânot next weekâlet us say the 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.

“Goodâthen 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 invitationânoânot thatâ”

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 businessâyes, 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 murderâI can also admire a tigerâthat 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 springâ¦.”

Mr. Shaitana laughed.

“I see. And the murderer?”

“Might murder,” said Poirot gravely.

“My dear fellowâwhat an alarmist you are! Then you will not come to meet my collection ofâtigers?”

“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.