"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 Mephistophelean effect. He was tall and thin; his face was long and melancholy; his eyebrows were heavily accented and jet black; he wore a mustache 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 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 marvelous 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, 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 humor was a curious one.

People nearly always felt that it would be better not to risk offending Mr, Shaitana.

It was his humor 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, Monsieur Poirot."