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 but was 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."

"Mademoiselle, 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 dispute ourselves. He is already egging on Mrs. Oliver and Dr. Roberts.

They are now discussing untraceable poisons."

Miss Meredith gave a little gasp 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 would strike him as amusing. It might--it might be something cruel." "Such as fox-hunting, eh?"

Miss Meredith threw him a reproachful glance.

"I meant-oh! something Oriental!"

"He has perhaps the tortuous mind," admitted Poirot.

"Torturer's?"

"No, no, tortuous, I said."

"I don't think I like him frightfully," confided Miss Meredith, her voice dropping.

"You will like his dinner, though," Poirot a.s.sured 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 celebrities are rather intimidating." "Mademoiselle, you should not be intimidated--you should be thrilled! You should have all ready 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 always men who read detective stories."

Hercule Poirot sighed affectedly.

"Alasl" he murmured. "What would I not give at this minute to be even the most minor of film stars!"

The butler threw the door open.

"Dinner is served," he murmured.

Poirot's prognostication was amply justified. The dinner was delicious and its serving perfection. Subdued light, polished wood, the blue gleam of Irish gla.s.s. In the dimness, at the head of the table, Mr. Shaitana looked more than ever diabolical.

He apologised gracefully for the uneven number of the s.e.xes.

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

Lorrimer and Dr. Roberts.

The latter murmured facetiously to him.

"You're not going to be allowed to monopolise the only pretty girl all the evening. You French fellows, 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 facetiousness, and adopting a professional tone, he began to talk to Colonel Race 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 judgments were sound and her criticisms apt. They drifted on to books and then to world politics. He found her a well-informed and thoroughly intelligent woman.

On the opposite side of the table Mrs. Oliver was asking Major Despard if he knew of any unheard-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 dryly: "Primitive tribes are rather old-fashioned. They stick to the good old stuff their grandfathers and great-grandfathers used before them."

"Very tiresome of them," said Mrs. Oliver. "I should have thought they were always experimenting 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 ever heard of."

"You should go to civilisation, not to the wilds for that," said Despard. "In the

modern laboratory, for instance. Cultures of innocent-looking germs that will produce bona ride diseases."

"That wouldn't do for mq public," said Mrs. Oliver. "Besides one is so apt to get the names wrong--staphylococcus and streptococcus and all those things---so difficult for my secretary and anyway 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 a.r.s.enic 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 at Scotland Yard never find out. Now if you hada woman there "As a matter of fact we have "

"Yes, those dreadful policewomen in funny hats who bother people in parks. I mean a woman at 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 brazen things out."

Mr. Shaitana laughed gently.

"Poison is a woman's weapon," he said. "There must be many secret women poisoners--never found out."

"Of course there are," said Mrs. Oliver happily, helping herself lavishly to a mousse of foie gras.

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

"I protest," cried Dr. Roberts. "When we poison our patients it's entirely by accident." He laughed heartily.

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

He stopped; something in that pause compelled attention.

All faces were turned to him.

"I should make it very simple, I think. There's always accident--a shooting accident, for instance or the domestic kind of accident."

Then he shrugged his shoulders and picked up his winegla.s.s.

"But who am I to p.r.o.nounce--with so many experts present .... He drank. The candlelight threw a red shade from the wine on to his face with its waxed moustache, its little imperial, its fantastic eyebrows ....

There was a momentary silence.

Mrs. Oliver said: "Is it twenty-to or twenty-past? An angel pa.s.sing My feet aren't crossed it must be a black angel!"

CHAPTER 3

A Game of Bridge

When the company returned to the drawing-room a bridge table had been set out. Coffee was handed round.

"Who plays bridge?" asked Mr. Shaitana. "Mrs. Lorrimer, I know. And Dr. Roberts.

Do you play, Miss Meredith?"

"Yes. I'm not frightfully good, though."

"Excellent. And Major Despart? Good. Supposing you four play here."

"Thank goodness there's to be bridge," said Mrs. Lorrimer in an aside to Poirot. "I'm one of the worst bridge fiends that ever lived. It's growing on me. I simply will not go out to dinner now if there's no bridge afterwards! I just fall asleep. I'm ashamed of myself, but there it is."

They cut for partners. Mrs. Lorrimer was partnered with Anne Meredith against Major Despard and Dr. Roberts.

"Women against men," said Mrs. Lorrimer as she took her seat and began shuffling the cards in an expert manner. "The blue cards, don't you think, partner?

I'm a forcing two."

"Mind you win," said Mrs. Oliver, her feminist feelings rising. "Show the men they can't have it all their own way."

"They haven't got a hope, the poor dears," said Dr. Roberts cheerfully as he started shuffling the other pack. "Your teal, I think, Mrs. Lorrimer."

Major Despard sat down rather slowly. He was looking at Anne Meredith as though he had just made the discovery that she was remarkably pretty.

"Cut, please," said Mrs. Lorrimer impatiently. And with a start of apology he cut the pack she was presenting to him.