“They’ll be gone before your coffee’s ready,” Fee said. “She’s finished her meal, see. She’ll Oh-Cecil him out of here in no time. What you doing here at lunchtime anyway? Wait, I know what you’re up to! Looking for Jennie, aren’t you? I heard you were in first thing this morning too.”

“How did you hear it?” Poirot asked. “You have only just arrived, n’est-ce pas?”

“I’m never far away,” said Fee enigmatically. “No one’s seen hide nor hair of Jennie, but d’you know, Mr. Poirot, I’ve got her stuck in my mind same as she’s stuck in yours.”

“You too are worried?”

“Oh, not about her being in danger. It’s not up to me to save her.”

“Non.”

“Nor’s it up to you.”

“Ah, but Hercule Poirot, he has saved lives. He has saved innocent men from the gallows.”

“A good half of them’s probably guilty,” said Fee cheerfully, as if the idea amused her.

“Non, mademoiselle. Vous êtes misanthrope.”

“If you say so. All’s I know is, if I worried about everyone as comes in here needing to be worried about, I’d not have a moment’s peace. It’s one sorry predicament after another and most of it’s coming from their own heads, not real problems.”

“If something is in a person’s head, then it is real,” Poirot said.

“Not if it’s daft nonsense dreamed up out of nowhere, which it often is,” said Fee. “No, what I meant about Jennie is, I noticed something last night . . . except I can’t think what it might be. I remember thinking, ‘It’s funny Jennie doing that, or saying that . . .’ Only trouble is, I can’t remember what set me off thinking it—what she did, or what she said. I’ve tried and tried till it’s made my head spin! Ah, look, they’re going, Mr. and Mrs. Oh-Cecil. You go and sit yourself down. Coffee?”

“Yes, please. Mademoiselle, will you please continue in your efforts to remember what Jennie did or said? It matters more than I can express.”

“More than straight shelves?” Fee asked with sudden sharpness. “More than cutlery laid out square on the table?”

“Ah. You think these things are the dreamed-up nonsense?” Poirot asked.

Fee’s face reddened. “Sorry if I spoke out of turn,” she said. “It’s only . . . well, you’d be a good deal happier, wouldn’t you, if you stopped fussing about how a fork sits on a tablecloth?”

Poirot gave her the benefit of his best polite smile. “I would be very much happier if you were to remember what it was about Mademoiselle Jennie that has stuck in your mind.” With that, he made a dignified exit from the conversation and sat down at his table.