Cards on the Table Read Free

you, M. Poirot. It was you who really solved the A.B.C. crimes.”
    â€œMadamoiselle, you cover me with confusion.”
    Miss Meredith drew her brows together.
    â€œMr. Shaitana,” she began and then stopped. “Mr. Shaitana—”
    Poirot said quietly:
    â€œOne 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:
    â€œWhat a queer man he is!”
    â€œDr. Roberts?”
    â€œNo, Mr. Shaitana.”
    She shivered a little and said:
    â€œThere’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 .”
    â€œSuch as foxhunting, eh?”
    Miss Meredith threw him a reproachful glance.
    â€œI meant—oh! something Oriental! ”
    â€œHe has perhaps the tortuous mind,” admitted Poirot.
    â€œTorturer’s?”
    â€œNo, no tortuous, I said.”
    â€œI don’t think I like him frightfully,” confided Miss Meredith, her voice dropping.
    â€œYou will like his dinner, though,” Poirot assured her. “He has a marvellous cook.”
    She looked at him doubtfully and then laughed.
    â€œWhy,” she exclaimed, “I believe you are quite human.”
    â€œBut certainly I am human!”
    â€œYou see,” said Miss Meredith, “all these celebrities are rather intimidating.”
    â€œMademoiselle, you should not be intimidated—you should be thrilled! You should have all ready your autograph book and your fountain pen.”
    â€œWell, 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.
    â€œAlas!” 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.
    â€œDinner 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 glass. In the dimness, at the head of the table, Mr. Shaitana looked more than ever diabolical.
    He apologized gracefully for the uneven number of the sexes.
    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.
    â€œYou’re not going to be allowed to monopolize the only pretty girl all the evening. You French fellows, you don’t waste your time, do you?”
    â€œI happen to be Belgian,” murmured Poirot.
    â€œSame 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 judgements were sound and her criticisms apt. Theydrifted 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.
    â€œWell, there’s curare .”
    â€œMy dear man, vieux jeu! That’s been done hundreds of times. I mean something new! ”
    Major Despard said drily:
    â€œPrimitive tribes are rather old-fashioned. They stick to the good old stuff their grandfathers and great-grandfathers used before them.”
    â€œVery tiresome of them,” said Mrs. Oliver. “I should have thought they were always experimenting with pounding up herbs and things.