.”
“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, M. 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 clue, 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.”
“It was another word I was thinking of—not amusing.”
“An idea!” cried Shaitana, paying no attention to Poirot. “A little dinner! A dinner to meet my exhibits! Really, that is a most amusing thought. I cannot think why it has never occurred to me before. Yes—yes, I see it exactly … You must give me a little time—not next week—let us say the week after next. You are free? What day shall we say?”
“Any day of the week after next would suit me,” said Poirot with a bow.
“Good—then let us say Friday. Friday the 18th, that will be. I will write it down at once in my little book. Really, the idea pleases me enormously.”
“I am not quite sure if it pleases me,” said Poirot slowly. “I do not mean that I am insensible to the kindness of your invitation—no—not that—”
Shaitana interrupted him.
“But it shocks your bourgeois sensibilities? My dear fellow, you must free yourself from the limitations of the policeman mentality.”
Poirot said slowly:
“It is true that I have a thoroughly bourgeois attitude to murder.”
“But, my dear, why? A stupid, bungled, butchering business—yes, I agree with you. But murder can be an art! A murderer can be an artist.”
“Oh, I admit it.”
“Well then?” Mr. Shaitana asked.
“But he is still a murderer!”
“Surely, my dear M. Poirot, to do a thing supremely well is a justification! You want, very unimaginatively, to take every murderer, handcuff him, shut him up, and eventually break his neck for him in the early hours of the morning. In my opinion a really successful murderer should be granted a pension out of the public funds and asked out to dinner!”
Poirot shrugged his shoulders.
“I am not as insensitive to art in crime as you think. I can admire the perfect murder—I can also admire a tiger—that splendid tawny-striped beast. But I will admire him from outside his cage. I will not go inside. That is to say, not unless it is my duty to do so. For you see, Mr. Shaitana, the tiger might spring….”
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!”