He was tall and thin; his face was long and melancholy; his eyebrows were heavily accented and jet black; he wore a mustache with stiff waxed ends and a tiny black imperial.
His clothes were works of art - of exquisite cut - but with a suggestion of the bizarre.
Every healthy Englishman who saw him longed earnestly and fervently to kick him!
They said, with a singular lack of originality,
"There's that damned Shaitana!"
Their wives, daughters, sisters, aunts, mothers, and even grandmothers said, varying the idiom according to their generation, words to this effect -
"I know, my dear.
Of course he is too terrible. But so rich!
And such marvelous parties!
And he's always got something amusing and spiteful to tell you about people."
Whether Mr. Shaitana was an Argentine or a Portuguese or a Greek, or some other nationality, nobody knew.
But three facts were quite certain.
He existed richly and beautifully in a super flat in Park Lane.
He gave wonderful parties - large parties, small parties, macabre parties, respectable parties, and definitely "queer" parties.
He was a man of whom nearly everybody was a little afraid.
Why this last was so can hardly be stated in definite words. There was a feeling, perhaps, that he knew a little too much about everybody.
And there was a feeling, too, that his sense of humor was a curious one.
People nearly always felt that it would be better not to risk offending Mr, Shaitana.
It was his humor this afternoon to bait that ridiculous looking little man, Hercule Poirot.
"So even a policeman needs recreation?" he said. "You study the arts in your old age, Monsieur Poirot."
Poirot smiled good-humoredly.
"I see," he said, "that you yourself have lent three snuff-boxes to the exhibition."
Mr. Shaitana waved a deprecating hand.
"One picks up trifles here and there.
You must come to my flat one day.
I have some interesting pieces.
I do not confine myself to any particular period or class of object."
"Your tastes are catholic," said Poirot, smiling.
"As you say."
Suddenly Mr. Shaitana's eyes danced, the corners of his lips curled up, his eyebrows assumed a fantastic tilt.
"I could even show you objects in your own line, Monsieur Poirot!"
"You have then a private 'Black Museum'?"
"Bah!" Mr. Shaitana snapped disdainful fingers. "The cup used by the Brighton murderer, the jimmy of a celebrated burglar - absurd childishness!
I should never burden myself with rubbish like that.
I collect only the best objects of their kind."
"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, Monsieur 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 due, 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!