Cards on the Table (Hercule Poirot 15)

Poirot had by now taken in and appreciated the particular essence of his host’s humorous intentions.

“Our other guests are late,” said Mr. Shaitana. “My fault, perhaps. I believe I told them 8:15.”

But at that moment the door opened and the butler announced:

“Dr. Roberts.”

The man who came in did so with a kind of parody of a brisk bedside manner. He was a cheerful, highly-coloured individual of middle age. Small twinkling eyes, a touch of baldness, a tendency to embonpoint and a general air of well-scrubbed and disinfected medical practitioner. His manner was cheerful and confident. You felt that his diagnosis would be correct and his treatments agreeable and practical—“a little champagne in convalescence perhaps.” A man of the worl

d!

“Not late, I hope?” said Dr. Roberts genially.

He shook hands with his host and was introduced to the others. He seemed particularly gratified at meeting Battle.

“Why, you’re one of the big noises at Scotland Yard, aren’t you? This is interesting! Too bad to make you talk shop but I warn you I shall have a try at it. Always been interested in crime. Bad thing for a doctor, perhaps. Mustn’t say so to my nervous patients—ha ha!”

Again the door opened.

“Mrs. Lorrimer.”

Mrs. Lorrimer was a well-dressed woman of sixty. She had finely cut features, beautifully arranged grey hair, and a clear, incisive voice.

“I hope I’m not late,” she said, advancing to her host.

She turned from him to greet Dr. Roberts, with whom she was acquainted.

The butler announced:

“Major Despard.”

Major Despard was a tall, lean, handsome man, his face slightly marred by a scar on the temple. Introductions completed, he gravitated naturally to the side of Colonel Race—and the two men were soon talking sport and comparing their experiences on safari.

For the last time the door opened and the butler announced:

“Miss Meredith.”

A girl in the early twenties entered. She was of medium height and pretty. Brown curls clustered in her neck, her grey eyes were large and wide apart. Her face was powdered but not made-up. Her voice was slow and rather shy.

She said:

“Oh dear, am I the last?”

Mr. Shaitana descended on her with sherry and an ornate and complimentary reply. His introductions were formal and almost ceremonious.

Miss Meredith was left sipping her sherry by Poirot’s side.

“Our friend is very punctilious,” said Poirot with a smile.

The girl agreed.

“I know. People rather dispense with introductions nowadays. They just say ‘I expect you know everybody’ and leave it at that.”

“Whether you do or you don’t?”

“Whether you do or don’t. Sometimes it makes it awkward—but I think this is more awe-inspiring.”

She hesitated and then said: