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‘And why is that not possible? It is quite true.’

‘Do you mean your hair is turning from grey to black instead of from black to grey?’

‘Precisely.’

‘But surely that’s a scientific impossibility!’

‘Not at all.’

‘But that’s very extraordinary. It seems against nature.’

‘As usual, Hastings, you have the beautiful and unsuspicious mind. Years do not change that in you! You perceive a fact and mention the solution of it in the same breath without noticing that you are doing so!’

I stared at him, puzzled.

Without a word he walked into his bedroom and returned with a bottle in his hand which he handed to me.

I took it, for the moment uncomprehending.

It bore the words:

Revivit.—To bring back the natural tone of the hair. Revivit is not a dye. In five shades, Ash, Chestnut, Titian, Brown, Black.

‘Poirot,’ I cried. ‘You have dyed your hair!’

‘Ah, the comprehension comes to you!’

‘So that’s why your hair looks so much blacker than it did last time I was back.’

‘Exactly.’

‘Dear me,’ I said, recovering from the shock. ‘I suppose next time I come home I shall find you wearing false moustaches—or are you doing so now?’

Poirot winced. His moustaches had always been his sensitive point. He was inordinately proud of them. My words touched him on the raw.

‘No, no, indeed, mon ami. That day, I pray the good God, is still far off. The false moustache! Quelle horreur!‘

He tugged at them vigorously to assure me of their genuine character.

‘Well, they are very luxuriant still,’ I said.

‘N’est ce pas? Never, in the whole of London, have I seen a pair of moustaches to equal mine.’

A good job too, I thought privately. But I would not for the world have hurt Poirot’s feelings by saying so.

Instead I asked if he still practised his profession on occasion.

‘I know,’ I said, ‘that you actually retired years ago—’

‘C’est vrai. To grow the vegetable marrows! And immediately a murder occurs—and I send the vegetable marrows to promenade themselves to the devil. And since then—I know very well what you will say—I am like the prima donna who makes positively the farewell performance! That farewell performance, it repeats itself an indefinite number of times!’

I laughed.

‘In truth, it has been very like that. Each time I say: this is the end. But no, something else arises! And I will admit it, my friend, the retirement I care for it not at all. If the little grey cells are not exercised, they grow the rust.’

‘I see,’ I said. ‘You exercise them in moderation.’ ‘Precisely. I pick and choose. For Hercule Poirot nowadays only the cream of crime.’

‘Has there been much cream about?’

‘Pas mal. Not long ago I had a narrow escape.’

‘Of failure?’

‘No, no.’ Poirot looked shocked. ‘But I—I, Hercule Poirot, was nearly exterminated.’

I whistled.

‘An enterprising murderer!’

‘Not so much enterprising as careless,’ said Poirot. ‘Precisely that—careless. But let us not talk of it. You know, Hastings, in many ways I regard you as my mascot.’

‘Indeed?’ I said. ‘In what ways?’

Poirot did not answer my question directly. He went on: