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One

MR SHAITANA

“My dear M Poirot!”

It was a soft purring voice—a voice used deliberately as an instru impulsive or premeditated about it

Hercule Poirot swung round

He bowed

He shook hands ceremoniously

There was so 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 duellists en garde

Around theuid 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 Aduinea, in aid of the London hospitals

“My dearor 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”

“Alas, Monsieur,” said Poirot “I came here in a purely private capacity”

Mr Shaitana was diverted for a ht poodle curls up one side of her head and three cornucopias in black straw on the other

He said:

“My dear—why didn’t you come to my party? It really was a marvellous party! Quite a lot of people actually spoke to me! One woman even said, ‘How do you do,’ and ‘Good-bye’ and ‘Thank you so much’—but of course she came from a Garden City, poor dear!”

While the Lovely Young Thing ood study of the hirsute adornment on Mr Shaitana’s upper lip

A fine moustache—a very fine moustache—the only moustache in London, perhaps, that could compete with that of M Hercule Poirot

“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”