At last, he had made an impression. Jennie fixed her wide, frightened eyes on him. ‘A … a policeman?’
‘Oui. I retired many years ago, but—’
‘So in London you can’t do anything? You can’t … I mean, you have no power here? To arrest criminals, or anything like that?’
‘That is correct.’ Poirot smiled at her. ‘In London, I am an elderly gentleman, enjoying his retirement.’
She had not looked at the door in nearly ten seconds.
‘Am I right, mademoiselle? Do you believe yourself to be in danger? Do you look over your shoulder because you suspect that the person you are afraid of has followed you here and will walk through the door at any moment?’
‘Oh, I’m in danger, all right!’ She seemed to want to say more. ‘Are you sure you’re no longer any sort of policeman at all?’
‘No sort whatsoever,’ Poirot assured her. Not wishing her to believe he was entirely without influence, he added, ‘I have a friend who is a detective with Scotland Yard if you need the help of the police. He is very young—not much more than thirty—but he will go far in the police, I think. He would be happy to speak to you, I am sure. For my own part, I can offer …’ Poirot stopped as the round-faced waitress approached with a cup of tea.
Having delivered it to Jennie, she retreated to the kitchen. Flyaway Hair had also withdrawn to the same place. Knowing how she liked to expound upon the behaviour of her regular patrons, Poirot guessed that she was presently trying to stir up a lively discussion about the Foreign Gent and his unexpected visit to Jennie’s table. Poirot did not usually speak for any longer than necessary with any of the other customers at Pleasant’s. Apart from when he dined here with his friend Edward Catchpool—the Scotland Yard detective with whom he temporarily shared a lodging house—he confined himself to his own company, in the spirit of l’hibernation.
The gossiping of the coffee house waitresses did not concern Poirot; he was grateful for their convenient absence. He hoped it would make Jennie more likely to speak frankly to him. ‘I would be happy to offer you my counsel, mademoiselle,’ he said.
‘You’re very kind, but no one can help me.’ Jennie wiped her eyes. ‘I’d like to be helped—I’d like it more than anything! But it’s too late. I am already dead, you see, or I shall be soon. I can’t hide for ever.’
Already dead … Her words had brought a new chill into the room.
‘So, you see, there is no help to be had,’ she went on, ‘and even if there were, I should not deserve it. But … I do feel a little better with you sitting at my table.’ She had wrapped her arms around herself, either for comfort or in a vain attempt to stop her body from shaking. She hadn’t drunk a drop of her tea. ‘Please stay. Nothing will happen while I’m talking to you. That’s some consolation, at least.’
‘Mademoiselle, this is most concerning. You are alive now, and we must do what is necessary to keep you alive. Please tell me—’
‘No!’ Her eyes widened and she shrank back in her chair. ‘No, you mustn’t! Nothing must be done to stop this. It can’t be stopped, it’s impossible. Inevitable. Once I am dead, justice will be done, finally.’ She looked over her shoulder towards the door again.
Poirot frowned. Jennie perhaps felt a little better since he’d sat down at her table, but he felt decidedly worse. ‘Do I understand you correctly? Are you suggesting that somebody is pursuing you who wishes to murder you?’
Jennie fixed her tearful blue eyes on him. ‘Does it count as murder if I give in and let it happen? I’m so tired of running, of hiding, of being so dreadfully afraid. I want it to be over with if it’s going to happen, and it is, because it must. It’s the only way to make things right. It’s what I deserve.’
‘This cannot be so,’ said Poirot. ‘Without knowing the particulars of your predicament, I disagree with you. Murder can never be right. My friend, the policeman—you must allow him to help you.’
‘No! You mustn’t speak a word about this to him, or to anybody. Promise me that you won’t!’
Hercule Poirot was not in the habit of making promises he could not keep.
‘What could you possibly have done that calls for the punishment of murder? Have you murdered somebody yourself?’
‘There would be no difference if I had! Murder isn’t the only thing that’s unforgivable, you know. I don’t expect you’ve ever done anything truly unforgivable, have you?’
‘Whereas you have? And you believe you must pay with your own life? Non. This is not right. If I could persuade you to accompany me to my lodging house— it is very near. My friend from Scotland Yard, Mr Catchpool—’
‘No!’ Jennie leaped up out of her chair.
‘Please sit, mademoiselle.’
‘No. Oh, I’ve said too much! How stupid I am! I only told you because you look so kind, and I thought you couldn’t do anything. If you hadn’t said you were retired and from another country, I’d never have said a word! Promise me this: if I’m found dead, you’ll tell your friend the policeman not to look for my killer.’ She pressed her eyes shut and clasped her hands together. ‘Oh, please let no one open their mouths! This crime must never be solved. Promise me you’ll tell your policeman friend that, and make him agree? If you care about justice, please do as I ask.’
She made a dash for the door. Poirot stood up to follow, then, noticing the distance she’d covered in the time it took him to extract himself from his chair, sat down again with a heavy sigh. It was futile. Jennie was gone, out into the night. He would never catch her.
The door to the kitchen opened and Flyaway Hair appeared with Poirot’s dinner. The smell offended his stomach; he had lost every last scrap of his appetite.
‘Where’s Jennie?’ Flyaway Hair asked him, as if he were somehow responsible for her having vanished. He did, in fact, feel responsible. If he had moved faster, if he had chosen his words more carefully …
‘This is the limit!’ Flyaway Hair slammed Poirot’s meal down on the table and marched back to the kitchen door. Pushing it open she yelled, ‘That Jennie’s upped and gone without paying!’
‘But what is it that she must pay for?’ Hercule Poirot muttered to himself.
One minute later, after a brief unsuccessful attempt to take an interest in his beef chop with vermicelli soufflé, Poirot knocked at the door of Pleasant’s kitchen. Flyaway Hair opened it narrowly, so that nothing was visible beyond her slender form in the doorway.
‘Something wrong with your dinner, sir?’
‘Allow me to pay for the tea that Mademoiselle Jennie has abandoned,’ Poirot offered. ‘In return, if you would be kind enough to answer one or two questions?’
‘D’you know Jennie, then? I’ve not seen you and her together before.’
‘Non. I do not know her. That is why I ask you.’
‘Why’d you go and sit with her, then?’
‘She was afraid, and in great distress. I found it troubling to see. I hoped I might be able to offer some assistance.’
‘The likes of Jennie can’t be helped,’ Flyaway Hair said. ‘All right, I’ll answer your questions, but I’ll ask you one first: where was it you were a policeman?’
Poirot did not point out that she had already asked him three questions. This was the fourth.
She