It could not have been more apparent that Jennie was not interested in his name or his presence. A tear had escaped from the corner of her eye and was making its way down her cheek.

“Mademoiselle Jennie,” Poirot said, hoping that by using her Christian name he might have more luck in getting her attention. “I used to be a policeman. I am retired now, but before I retired, in my work I encountered many people in states of agitation similar to the one that you are in now. I do not mean those who were unhappy, though they are abundant in every country. No, I am talking about people who believed themselves to be in danger.”

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 Flyaway Hair had also withdrawn to the same place.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 behavior 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.