Mr. Shaitana laughed. "I see. And the murderer?"

"Might murder," said Poirot gravely.

"My dear fellow – what an alarmist you are! Then you will not come to meet my collection of – tigers?"

"On the contrary, I shall be enchanted."

"How brave!"

"You do not quite understand me, Mr. Shaitana. My words were in the nature of a warning. You asked me just now to admit that your idea of a collection of murderers was amusing. I said I could think of another word other than amusing. That word was dangerous. I fancy, Mr. Shaitana, that your hobby might be a dangerous one!"

Mr. Shaitana laughed, a very Mephistophelean laugh. He said, "I may expect you then, on the eighteenth?"

Poirot gave a little bow. "You may expect me on the eighteenth. Mille remerciments."

"I shall arrange a little party," replied Shaitana. "Do not forget. Eight o'clock."

He moved away. Poirot stood a minute or two looking after him.

He shook his head slowly and thoughtfully.

Chapter 2

DINNER AT MR. SHAITANA'S

The door of Mr. Shaitana's flat opened noiselessly. A gray-haired butler drew it back to let Poirot enter. He closed it equally noiselessly and deftly relieved the guest of his overcoat and hat.

He murmured in a low expressionless voice, "What name shall I say?"

"Monsieur Hercule Poirot."

There was a little hum of talk that eddied out into the hall as the butler opened a door and announced, "Monsieur Hercule Poirot."

Sherry glass in hand, Shaitana came forward to meet him. He was as usual immaculately dressed. The Mephistophelean suggestion was heightened tonight, the eyebrows seemed accentuated in their mocking twist.