‘It will be Hastings who will have to do that,’ said Poirot, twinkling at me.

‘Ha ha! That would be a joke, that would,’ laughed Japp.

I failed to see why the idea was so extremely amusing, and in any case I thought the joke was in poor taste. Poirot, poor old chap, is getting on. Jokes about his approaching demise can hardly be agreeable to him.

Perhaps my manner showed my feelings, for Japp changed the subject.

‘Have you heard about Monsieur Poirot’s anonymous letter?’

‘I showed it to Hastings the other day,’ said my friend.

‘Of course,’ I exclaimed. ‘It had quite slipped my memory. Let me see, what was the date mentioned?’

‘The 21st,’ said Japp. ‘That’s what I dropped in about. Yesterday was the 21st and just out of curiosity I rang up Andover last night. It was a hoax all right. Nothing doing. One broken shop window—kid throwing stones—and a couple of drunk and disorderlies. So just for once our Belgian friend was barking up the wrong tree.’

‘I am relieved, I must confess,’ acknowledged Poirot.

‘You’d quite got the wind up about it, hadn’t you?’ said Japp affectionately. ‘Bless you, we get dozens of letters like that coming in every day! People with nothing better to do and a bit weak in the top storey sit down and write ’em. They don’t mean any harm! Just a kind of excitement.’

‘I have indeed been foolish to take the matter so seriously,’ said Poirot. ‘It is the nest of the horse that I put my nose into there.’

‘You’re mixing up mares and wasps,’ said Japp.

‘Pardon?’

‘Just a couple of proverbs. Well, I must be off. Got a little business in the next street to see to—receiving stolen jewellery. I thought I’d just drop in on my way and put your mind at rest. Pity to let those grey cells function unnecessarily.’

With which words and a hearty laugh, Japp departed.

‘He does not change much, the good Japp, eh?’ asked Poirot.

‘He looks much older,’ I said. ‘Getting as grey as a badger,’ I added vindictively.

Poirot coughed and said:

‘You know, Hastings, there is a little device—my hairdresser is a man of great ingenuity—one attaches it to the scalp and brushes one’s own hair over it—it is not a wig, you comprehend—but—’

‘Poirot,’ I roared. ‘Once and for all I will have nothing to do with the beastly inventions of your confounded hairdresser. What’s the matter with the top of my head?’

‘Nothing—nothing at all.’

‘It’s not as though I were going bald.’

‘Of course not! Of course not!’

‘The hot summers out there naturally cause the hair to fall out a bit. I shall take back a really good hair tonic.’

‘Précisément.’

‘And, anyway, what business is it of Japp’s? He always was an offensive kind of devil. And no sense of humour. The kind of man who laughs when a chair is pulled away just as a man is about to sit down.’