II
The following day, Japp rang up. His voice held a curious note.
He said:
“Poirot, do you want to hear a piece of news? It’s napoo, my lad. Napoo!”
“Pardon?—the line is perhaps not very clear. I did not quite catch—”
“It’s off, my boy. O.F.F. Call it a day! Sit down and twiddle our thumbs!”
There was no mistaking the bitterness now. Poirot was startled.
“What is off?”
“The whole ruddy blinking thing! The hue¹ and cry! The publicity²! The whole bag of tricks!”
“But I still do not understand.”
“Well, listen. Listen carefully, because I can’t mention names very well. You know our inquiry³?
You know we’re combing the country for a performing fish?”
“Yes, yes, perfectly⁴. I comprehend now.”
“Well, that’s been called off. Hushed up—kept mum. Now do you understand?”
“Yes, yes. But why?”
“Orders from the ruddy Foreign Office.”
“Is not that very extraordinary?”
“Well, it does happen now and again.”
“Why should they be so forbearing to Miss—to the performing fish?”
“They’re not. They don’t care tuppence about her. It’s the publicity—if she’s brought to trial
too much might come out about Mrs. A. C. The corpse⁵. That’s the hush-hush side! I can only
suppose that the ruddy husband—Mr. A. C.—Get me?”
“Yes, yes.”
“That he’s somewhere abroad in a ticklish⁶ spot and they don’t want to queer his pitch.”
“Tchah!”
“What did you say?”
“I made, mon ami, an exclamation⁷ of annoyance

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