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Cards on the Table (Hercule Poirot 15) – AllFreeNovel
Read Cards on the Table (Hercule Poirot 15) Online Free. Cards on the Table (Hercule Poirot 15) is a Mystery Novel By Agatha Christie.
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Cards On The Table – PDFCOFFEE.COM
Cards on the Table Agatha Christie 1936 2. Chapter 1 Mr. Shaitana “My dear Monsieur Poirot!” It was a soft purring voice ‐ a voice used deliberately as an …
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Cards on the Table – Agatha Christie – listen online for free
Christie’s Cards on the Table is consered to be one of her very best locked room mysteries. Her character, the Belgian detective, Hercule Poirot is …
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Cards on the Table (SB) free to read online
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CARDS On The Table – Read online for free. I don’t do cards, even at Christmas. I’ve explained this throughout the year to Ervin, …
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Cards On The Table by Agatha Christie, Read by Hugh Fraser
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Read Cards on the Table (Hercule Poirot 15) by Agatha Christie Online Free
Cards on the table (Hercule Poirot 15)
A flamboyant party host is murdered in front of a room full of bridge players…
Mr. Shaitana was famous as a flamboyant party host. Still, he was a man everyone was a little scared of. When he boasted to Poirot that he thought murder was an art form, the detective had some reservations about accepting a party invitation to view Shaitana’s private collection.
What started out as a riveting night of bridge turned into an altogether more dangerous game…
Cards on the Table
Agatha Christie was an English crime writer, short story writer and playwright. Christie’s Cards on the Table is considered one of her best locked room mysteries. Her character, Belgian detective Hercule Poirot, is invited to an unusual dinner party by Mr. Shaitana. Choosing to take on a Mephistophelic appearance, Lord Shaitana is viewed by many who know him as a veritable devil. His favorite pastime is discovering secrets and then hiding those secrets from those who keep them. The dinner he invites Hercule Poirot to is his way of presenting his most unusual collection; Mr. Shaitana collects killers who got away with the crime. Mr. Shaitana considers his hobby amusing. Hercule Poirot considers the hobby very dangerous. On the appointed date, Poirot arrives at Mr Shaitana’s flat at 8pm sharp and is introduced to three other people who have arrived before Poirot. The three characters include none other than Miss Ariadne Oliver, author of detective stories, a woman with a sincere belief in women’s abilities. Her most cherished belief is that a woman should be in charge of Scotland Yard. The other two men are Colonel Race and Superintendent Battle of Scotland Yard. Fifteen minutes later, four more people arrive, Shaitana’s “collection” of killers: Dr. Roberts, young Anne Meredith, Mrs. Lorrimore and Major Despard. Dinner is delicious, but the conversation, as you might expect, turns to murder and ways to achieve it. Just press the play button and enjoy the Free English Online Audiobook Cards on the Table on our website!
Cards on the Table (SB) free to read online
Cards on the table (SB)
Agatha Christie
cards on the table
A Hercule Poirot mystery
contents
cover
title page
foreword
1. Lord Shaitana
2. Dinner at Mr. Shaitana’s
3. A bridge game
4. First Killer?
5. Second Killer?
6. Third Killer?
7. Fourth Killer?
8. Which of them?
9. dr Roberts
10.Dr. Robert’s (continued)
11. Mrs. Lorrimer
12. Anne Meredith
13. Second Visitor
14. Third Party Visitor
15.Major Despard
16. The Evidence of Elsie Batt
17. The Proof of Rhoda Dawes
18. Tea Interlude
19. Counseling
20. Ms. Luxmore’s evidence
21.Major Despard
22. Evidence from Combeacre
23. The proof of a pair of silk stockings
24. Elimination of three murderers?
25. Mrs. Lorrimer speaks
26. The truth
27. The eyewitness
28. Suicide
29. Accident
30. Murder
31. Cards on the table
About the author
Other books by Agatha Christie
Copyright ©
About the publisher
foreword
The idea prevails that a detective story is more like a big race – a line of starters – probably horses and jockeys. “You pay your money and make your choice!” The favorite is commonly thought to be the opposite of a track favorite. In other words, he’s probably a complete misfit! Find the most unlikely person to have committed the crime, and nine times out of ten your task will be complete.
Since I don’t want my loyal readers to throw this book away in disgust, I’d rather warn them beforehand that this is not such a book. There are only four starters, and any of them could have committed the crime given the right circumstances. This violently destroys the element of surprise. Still, I think there should be an equal interest in four people, each of whom has committed murder and is capable of committing more murders. There are four very different types, the motive that drives each of them to commit crime is unique to each person, and each would use a different method. So the deduction has to be purely psychological, but that doesn’t make it any less interesting, because in the end it’s the killer’s psyche that’s of paramount interest.
As an additional argument for this story, may I say that it was one of Hercule Poirot’s favorite cases. However, his friend, Captain Hastings, thought it was very boring when Poirot described it to him! I wonder which of them my readers will agree with.
one
MR. SHAITANA
“My dear Monsieur Poirot!”
It was a gently purring voice – a voice used intentionally as an instrument – nothing impulsive or deliberate.
Hercule Poirot turned.
He bowed.
He shook hands solemnly.
There was something unusual in his eye. One could say that this chance encounter aroused in him an emotion that he had seldom had the opportunity to feel.
“My dear Lord Shaitana,” he said.
They both stopped. They were like duelists en garde.
Around her, a well-dressed, lazy London crowd moved gently. Voices stretched or mumbled.
“Darling – exquisite!”
“Just divine, isn’t it, my dear?”
It was the snuffbox display at Wessex House. Entry a guinea in aid of London hospitals.
“My dear man,” said Mr. Shaitana, “how nice to see you! Currently not hanging or guillotining much? Sluggish season in the criminal world? Or is there supposed to be a robbery here this afternoon – that would be too delicious.”
‘Alas, monsieur,’ said Poirot. “I came here purely privately.”
Mr. Shaitana was momentarily distracted by a lovely young thing with tight poodle curls on one side of her head and three black straw cornucopias on the other.
He said:
“My love – why didn’t you come to my party? It was really a great party! A lot of people have spoken to me! One woman even said, ‘Hello’ and ‘Goodbye’ and ‘Thank you very much’ – but of course she was from a garden city, poor thing!”
While the lovely young thing answered appropriately, Poirot allowed himself to study the hairy ornament on Mr. Shaitana’s upper lip.
A fine mustache – a very fine mustache – perhaps the only mustache in London to rival that of M. Hercule Poirot.
“But it’s not that rich,” he murmured to himself. “No, it is decidedly inferior in every way. Tout de même, it catches the eye.”
The whole person of Mr. Shaitana caught the eye – she was made for it. He consciously attempted a Mephistophelic effect. He was tall and thin, his face long and melancholic, his eyebrows heavily accentuated and jet black, he wore a mustache with stiff waxed ends and a tiny black imperial. His clothes were works of art – exquisitely tailored – but with a touch of the bizarre.
Every sane Englishman who saw him seriously and fervently longed to kick him! They said with a singular lack of originality, “There’s that damn Dago, Shaitana!”
Their wives, daughters, sisters, aunts, mothers and even grandmothers said different idioms depending on their generation: “I know, my dear. Of course he’s too terrible. But so rich! And such great parties! And he always has something amusing and wicked to say about people.”
Whether Mr. Shaitana was Argentine, Portuguese, Greek or some other nationality that the insular Brit rightly despised, no one knew.
But three facts were pretty certain:
He lived rich and beautiful in a super flat on Park Lane.
He threw wonderful parties—big parties, small parties, macabre parties, respectable parties, and definitely queer parties.
He was a man almost everyone was a little scared of.
Why the latter was so can hardly be said in specific words. Maybe he felt like he knew a little too much about everyone. And you also got the sense that his sense of humor was odd.
People almost always felt that it would be better not to offend Mr. Shaitana.
It was his humor that afternoon to bait that ridiculous looking little man, Hercule Poirot.
“So even a cop needs rest?” he said. “You study art in old age, Monsieur Poirot?”
Poirot smiled cheerfully.
“I see,” he said, “you lent the exhibition three snuffboxes yourself.”
Mr. Shaitana made a dismissive gesture.
“You pick up little things here and there. You must come to my apartment one day. I have some interesting pieces. I am not limited to any particular time or class of objects.”
“Your taste is Catholic,” said Poirot, smiling.
“As you say.”
Suddenly, Mr. Shaitana’s eyes danced, the corners of his lips curled, his eyebrows took on a fantastic tilt.
“I could even show you objects of your own lineage, M. Poirot!”
“They then have a private ‘Black Museum’.”
“Bah!” Mr. Shaitana snapped his fingers disdainfully. ‘The cup used by the Brighton murderer, a celebrated burglar’s jam – absurd childishness! I should never burden myself with such garbage. I only collect the best items
ts of their kind.”
‘And what do you think are the best artistic objects in crime?’ asked Poirot.
Mr Shaitana leaned forward and placed two fingers on Poirot’s shoulder. He hissed his words dramatically.
“The people who commit them, Monsieur Poirot.”
Poirot’s eyebrows rose a little.
“Aha, I scared you,” Mr. Shaitana said. “My dear, dear husband, you and I regard these things as separate! For you, crime is routine: a murder, an investigation, a lead, and finally (since you’re undoubtedly a good guy) a conviction. Such banalities would not interest me! I’m not interested in bad specimens of any kind. And the murderer caught is bound to be one of the losers. He’s second rate. No, I see it from an artistic point of view. I only collect the best!”
‘The best thing is -?’ asked Poirot.
“My dear friend – those who got away with it! The Achievements! The criminals who live a comfortable life that no breath of suspicion has ever touched. Admittedly, this is an amusing hobby.”
“It was another word I thought of – not amusing.”
“An idea!” cried Shaitana, ignoring Poirot. “A little dinner! A dinner to get to know my exhibits! Really, that’s a most amusing thought. I can’t imagine why it has never crossed my mind. Yes – yes, I can see it clearly… You have to give me a little time – not next week – let’s say the week after next. You are free? What day should we say?”
“Any day of the week after next would suit me,” said Poirot with a bow.
“Okay – let’s say Friday then. Friday the 18th, that will be. I’ll write it down in my notebook right away. Really, I really like the idea.”
‘I’m not quite sure I like it,’ said Poirot slowly. “I don’t mean that I’m insensitive to the kindness of your invitation – no – not that -”
Shaitana interrupted him.
“But it shakes your bourgeois sensibilities? My dear friend, you must free yourself from the confines of the cop mentality.”
Poirot said slowly:
“It is true that I have a thoroughly bourgeois attitude towards murder.”
“But, my dear, why? A stupid, botched slaughterhouse business – yes, I agree with you. But murder can be an art! A murderer can be an artist.”
“Oh, I admit it.”
“Well then?” asked Mr. Shaitana.
“But he’s still a killer!”
‘Certainly, my dear M. Poirot, there is justification in doing a thing as well as one can! They want, quite unimaginatively, to catch every murderer, handcuff them, silence them and finally break their necks in the early hours of the morning. In my opinion, a really successful killer should receive a public pension and be invited out to dinner!”
Poirot shrugged.
“I’m not as insensitive to art in crime as you think. I can admire the perfect murder – I can also admire a tiger – this magnificent yellowish-striped animal. But I will admire him from outside his cage. I won’t go in. That is, unless it is my duty to do so. As you can see, Shaitana-san, the tiger might leap…”
Mr. Shaitana laughed.
“Aha. And the killer?”
‘Possibly murder,’ said Poirot gravely.
“My dear friend – what an alarmist you are! Then you’re not coming to meet my collection of – tigers?’
“On the contrary, I will be enchanted.”
“How brave!”
“You don’t quite understand me, Mr. Shaitana. My words had the character of a warning. You just asked me to admit that your idea of a killer collection is amusing. I said I could think of another word than amusing. That word was dangerous. I fancy Mr. Shaitana that your hobby might be a dangerous one!”
Mr. Shaitana laughed, a very Mephistophelic laugh.
He said:
“So I can expect you on the 18th?”
Poirot made a little bow.
“You can expect me on the 18th. Mille remerciments.”
“I’ll arrange a little party,” Shaitana mused. “Don’t forget. Eight o’clock.”
He moved away. Poirot stood there a minute or two watching him go.
He shook his head slowly and thoughtfully.
Two
DINNER AT MR. SHAITANAS
The door of Mr. Shaitana’s apartment opened silently. A grey-haired butler drew him back to admit Poirot. He closed it just as noiselessly and deftly took the guest’s coat and hat.
He murmured in a low, expressionless voice:
“What name should I say?”
“M. Hercule Poirot.”
A low hum of conversation filled the hall as the butler opened a door and announced:
“M. Hercule Poirot.”
With a sherry glass in hand, Shaitana came towards him. He was immaculately dressed, as always. The Mephistophelic suggestion was heightened tonight, the eyebrows seeming accentuated in their mocking turn.
“May I introduce you – do you know Mrs. Oliver?”
The showman in him savored the little surprise Poirot unleashed.
Mrs. Ariadne Oliver was well known as one of the leading authors of detective stories and other sensational stories. She wrote garrulous (if not particularly grammatical) articles on The Tendency of the Criminal; Famous Crimes Passionnels; Murder for love versus murder for money. She was also a hot-headed feminist, and if any murder of any importance got a place in the press, there would certainly be an interview with Mrs Oliver, and it was mentioned that Mrs Oliver had said, ‘Well, if a woman was the head from Scotland Yard!” She genuinely believed in woman’s intuition.
Otherwise she was a pleasant, middle-aged woman, good-looking in a rather untidy way, with beautiful eyes, strong shoulders, and a great deal of rebellious gray hair that she was constantly experimenting with. One day her appearance was highly intellectual – a brow with the hair combed back and rolled up in a large bun at the nape – another day Mrs Oliver would suddenly appear with Madonna bows or great masses of slightly unruly curls. On this particular evening, Mrs. Oliver tried out a pony.
She greeted Poirot, whom she had met earlier at a literary dinner, in a pleasant bass voice.
“And no doubt you know Superintendent Battle,” Mr. Shaitana said.
A tall, square, wooden-faced man stepped forward. Not only did a viewer get the feeling that Superintendent Battle was carved out of wood – he also managed to give the impression that the wood in question was the wood of a battleship.
Superintendent Battle was to be Scotland Yard’s best representative. He always looked stubborn and rather stupid.
‘I know M. Poirot,’ said Superintendent Battle.
And his wooden face broke into a smile and then returned to its former expressionlessness.
“Colonel Race,” Mr. Shaitana continued.
Poirot had not met Colonel Race before, but he knew something about him. A dark, handsome, deeply tanned man of fifty that you would normally find in some outpost of the Empire—especially when there was trouble. Intelligence is a melodramatic term, but it pretty much described, to the layman, the nature and scope of Colonel Race’s activities.
Poirot, meanwhile, had understood and appreciated the special essence of his host’s humorous intentions.
“Our other guests are running late,” said Mr. Shaitana. “Maybe my fault. I think I told them 8:15.”
But at that moment the door opened and the butler announced:
“DR Roberts.”
The man who walked in did so with a kind of parody in a brisk bedside manner. He was a happy, colorful, middle-aged man. Small sparkling eyes, a hint of baldness, a tendency to embonpoint, and an overall aura of a well-scrubbed and sanitized doctor. His demeanor was cheerful and confident. They felt his diagnosis would be correct and his treatments comfortable and practical – “maybe a little champagne in convalescence”. A
man of the world!
“Not too late, I hope?” said Dr. Robert’s friendly.
He shook hands with his host and was introduced to the others. He seemed particularly pleased to meet Battle.
‘Why, you’re one of the big troubles at Scotland Yard, aren’t you? That is interesting! Too bad to make you talk shop, but I warn you, I’ll try. Always interested in crime. Bad thing for a doctor, maybe. I’m not allowed to say that to my nervous patients – haha!”
The door opened again.
“Mrs. Lorrimer.”
Mrs. Lorrimer was a well-dressed woman of sixty. She had fine features, beautifully arranged gray hair and a clear, incisive voice.
“I hope I’m not late,” she said, walking towards her host.
She turned away from him to see Dr. Greet Roberts, whom she knew.
The butler announced:
“Major Despard.”
Major Despard was a tall, slender, handsome man whose face was slightly disfigured by a scar on his temple. After introducing himself, he was naturally drawn to Colonel Race’s side – and the two men were soon chatting up sports and comparing their experiences on safari.
The door opened for the last time and the butler announced:
“Miss Meredith.”
A girl in her early twenties entered. She was medium height and pretty. Brown curls lay at the nape of her neck, her gray 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 one?”
Mr. Shaitana descended on her with sherry and an artful and flattering reply. His introductions were formal and almost ceremonial.
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