“My dear Mr. Poirot!”
It was a soft, purring voice, which had nothing spontaneous or accidental about it; it was obvious that its owner used it like a well-oiled tool. Hercule Poirot turned around, bowed, and extended his hand with all due formality. There was something unusual in his gaze. One would say that this chance encounter awakened in him a feeling he rarely had the opportunity to experience.
“My dear Mr. Saitana,” he said. Both fell silent. They resembled gladiators on alert. They were surrounded by a well-dressed, languid London crowd. Slow conversations and murmurs reached their ears: “Oh, my love, how beautiful they all are!” “Aren’t they extraordinary?” They were at a snuffbox exhibition at Wessex House. The entrance cost one guinea and the proceeds would go to London hospitals.
“My dear fellow,” said Mr. Saitana, “how glad I am to see you! There haven’t been many executions lately, have there? Is it a holiday season for criminals? Or is there going to be a robbery here today? Oh, that would be a delight!”
“Alas, monsieur,” replied Poirot. “I am here as a private individual.” Mr. Saitana’s attention was momentarily distracted by an ethereal young woman with an elaborate hairstyle.