Cards on the Table. Агата Кристи
href="#litres_trial_promo">CHAPTER 29: Accident
CHAPTER 31: Cards on the Table
There is an idea prevalent that a detective story is rather like a big race—a number of starters—likely 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.
‘My dear M. Poirot!’
It was a soft purring voice—a voice used deliberately as an instrument—nothing 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.
‘Darling—exquisite!’
‘Simply divine, aren’t they, my dear?’
It was the Exhibition of Snuff-Boxes 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 afternoon—that would be too delicious.’
‘Alas, Monsieur,’ said Poirot. ‘I am 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—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, “How do you do,” and “Goodbye” and “Thank you so much”—but 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 moustache—a very fine moustache—the 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 même, it catches the eye.’
The whole of Mr Shaitana’s person caught the eye—it 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 art—of exquisite cut—but with a suggestion of the 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 parties—large 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 snuff-boxes 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 “Black Museum”.’
‘Bah!’ Mr Shaitana