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 forever.”

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 toward the door again.

Poirot frowned. Perhaps Jennie 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?”