“Poppycock! You’re hoping to bump into Jennie, or hear news of her,” I said. “Poirot, I do think you’re on a desperate goose chase with this Jennie business. You know it too, or else you would admit you’re going to Pleasant’s in the hope of finding her.”

“Maybe so. But if there is a goose killer at large, what else is one to do? Bring Mr. Henry Negus to Pleasant’s. I will talk to him there.”

“What? He’s coming all the way from Devon. He’s not going to want to arrive and then leave at once for—”

“But does he want the dead goose?” Poirot demanded. “Ask him that!”

I resolved to ask Henry Negus no such thing, for fear he might turn on his heel and go straight back whence he came, having decided that Scotland Yard had been taken over by madmen.

7. Two Keys

Two Keys

POIROT ARRIVED AT THE coffee house to find it very busy and smelling of a mixture of smoke and something sweet like pancake syrup. “I need a table, but they are all taken,” he complained to Fee Spring, who had only just arrived herself and was standing by the wooden coat stand with her coat draped over her arm. When she pulled off her hat, her flyaway hair crackled and hung in the air for a few seconds before succumbing to gravity. The effect was rather comical, thought Poirot.

“Your need’s in trouble, then, isn’t it?” she said cheerfully. “I can’t shoo paying patrons out onto the street, not even for a famous detective.” She lowered her voice to a whisper. “Mr. and Mrs. Ossessil will be on their way before too long. You can sit where they’re sitting.”

“Mr. and Mrs. Ossessil? That is an unusual name.”

Fee laughed at him, then whispered again. “ ‘Oh, Cecil’—that’s what she says all day long, the wife. The husband, poor soul, he can’t get as much as two words out of his mouth without her setting him straight. He says he’d like scrambled eggs and toast? Right away she pipes up, ‘Oh, Cecil, not eggs and toast!’ And don’t think he has to speak to set her off! He sits down at the first table he comes to and she says, ‘Oh, Cecil, not this table!’ ’Course, he ought to say he wants what he don’t want, and don’t want what he wants. That’s what I’d do. I keep waiting for him to tumble to it but he’s a useless old lump, truth be told. Brain like a moldy cabbage. I expect that’s what started her Oh-Cecil-ing.”

“If he does not leave soon, I shall say ‘Oh, Cecil’ to him myself,” said Poirot, whose legs were already aching from a combination of standing and the thwarted desire to be seated.