Poirot smiled good-humoredly.

"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, Monsieur Poirot!"

"You have then a private ' Black Museum '?"

"Bah!" Mr. Shaitana snapped disdainful fingers. "The cup used by the Brighton murderer, the jimmy of a celebrated burglar – absurd childishness! I should never burden myself with rubbish like that. I collect only the best objects of their kind."

"And what do you consider the best objects, artistically speaking, in crime?" inquired Poirot.

Mr. Shaitana leaned forward and laid two fingers on Poirot's shoulder. He hissed his words dramatically.

"The human beings who commit them, Monsieur Poirot."

Poirot's eyebrows rose a trifle.

"Aha, I have startled you," said Mr. Shaitana. "My dear, dear man, you and I look on these things as from poles apart! For you crime is a matter of routine – a murder, an investigation, a due, and ultimately, for you are undoubtedly an able fellow, a conviction. Such banalities would not interest me! I am not interested in poor specimens of any kind. And the caught murderer is necessarily one of the failures. He is second rate. No, I look on the matter from the artistic point of view. I collect only the best!"

"The best being -" asked Poirot.

"My dear fellow – the ones who have got away with it! The successes! The criminals who lead an agreeable life which no breath of suspicion has ever touched. Admit that is an amusing hobby."