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 extravagant. You know what artists are, too—no morals at all.”

Poirot did not pay much attention to Japp’s sweeping strictures on the artistic temperament. Instead he smiled knowingly.

“My good Japp, is it possible that you throw the mud in my eyes? I know well enough that it is the Chinaman you suspect. But you are so artful. You want me to help you—and yet you drag the red kipper across the trail.”

Japp burst out laughing.

“That’s you all over, Mr. Poirot. Yes, I’d bet on the Chink, I’ll admit it now. It stands to reason that it was he who doctored the curry, and if he’d try once in an evening to get his master out of the way, he’d try twice.”

“I wonder if he would,” said Poirot softly.

“But it’s the motive that beats me. Some heathen revenge or other, I suppose.”

“I wonder,” said Poirot again. “There has been no robbery? Nothing has disappeared? No jewellery, or money, or papers?”

“No—that is, not exactly.”

I pricked up my ears; so did Poirot.

“There’s been no robbery, I mean,” explained Japp. “But the old boy was writing a book of some sort. We only knew about it this morning when there was a letter from the publishers