“ ’Scuse me, miss, would you mind shutting the door if you’re coming in?” Flyaway Hair called out to the woman in the brown hat and coat who was gripping the door frame with one hand, still facing the street. “Or even if you’re not coming in. Those of us in here don’t want to freeze.”

The woman stepped inside. She closed the door but did not apologize for having left it open so long. Her jagged breathing could be heard across the room. She seemed not to notice that there were other people present. Poirot greeted her with a quiet “Good evening.” She half turned toward him but made no response. Her eyes were wide with alarm of an uncommon kind—powerful enough to take hold of a stranger, like a physical grip.

Poirot no longer felt calm and contented as he had when he’d arrived. His peaceful mood was shattered.

The woman hurried over to the window and peered out. She will not see whatever she looks for, Poirot thought to himself. Staring into the blackness of night from a well-lit room, it is impossible to see very much at all when the glass reflects only an image of the room you are in. Yet she continued to stare out for some time, seemingly determined to watch the street.

“Oh, it’s you,” said Flyaway Hair a touch impatiently. “What’s the matter? Has something happened?”

The woman in the brown coat and hat turned around. “No, I . . .” The words came out as a sob. Then she managed to get herself under control. “No. May I take the table in the corner?” She pointed to the one farthest from the door to the street.

“You’re welcome to any table except the one where the gentleman’s sitting. They’re all laid.” Having reminded herself of Poirot, Flyaway Hair said to him, “Your dinner’s cooking nicely, sir.” Poirot was delighted to hear it. The food at Pleasant’s was almost as good as the coffee. Indeed, when he considered the two together, Poirot found it hard to believe what he knew to be the case: that everybody who worked in the kitchen here was English. Incroyable.

Flyaway Hair turned back to the distressed woman. “You sure there’s nothing wrong, Jennie? You look as if you’ve come face to face with the devil.”

“I’m all right, thank you. A cup of strong, hot tea is all I need. My usual, please.” Jennie hurried over to a table in the far corner, passing Poirot without looking at him. He turned his chair slightly so that he could observe her. Most assuredly something was the matter with her; it was something she did not wish to discuss with the coffee house waitresses, evidently.