Cards on the Table

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"My dear Monsieur Poirot!"

It was a soft purring voice – a voice used deliberately as an instrument – nothing impulsive or unpremeditated 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 duelists 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 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 afternoon? That would be too delicious."

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