“Whereas you have? And you believe you must pay with your own life? Non. This is not right. If I could persuade you to accompany me to my lodging house—it is very near. My friend from Scotland Yard, Mr. Catchpool—”

“No!” Jennie leaped up out of her chair.

“Please sit, mademoiselle.”

“No. Oh, I’ve said too much! How stupid I am! I only told you because you look so kind, and I thought you couldn’t do anything. If you hadn’t said you were retired and from another country, I’d never have said a word! Promise me this: if I’m found dead, you’ll tell your friend the policeman not to look for my killer.” She pressed her eyes shut and clasped her hands together. “Oh, please let no one open their mouths! This crime must never be solved. Promise me you’ll tell your policeman friend that, and make him agree? If you care about justice, please do as I ask.”

She made a dash for the door. Poirot stood up to follow, then, noticing the distance she’d covered in the time it took him to extract himself from his chair, sat down again with a heavy sigh. It was futile. Jennie was gone, out into the night. He would never catch her.

The door to the kitchen opened and Flyaway Hair appeared with Poirot’s dinner. The smell offended his stomach; he had lost every last scrap of his appetite.

“Where’s Jennie?” Flyaway Hair asked him, as if he were somehow responsible for her having vanished. He did, in fact, feel responsible. If he had moved faster, if he had chosen his words more carefully . . .

“This is the limit!” Flyaway Hair slammed Poirot’s meal down on the table and marched back to the kitchen door. Pushing it open she yelled, “That Jennie’s upped and gone without paying!”

“But what is it that she must pay for?” Hercule Poirot muttered to himself.

ONE MINUTE LATER, AFTER a brief unsuccessful attempt to take an interest in his beef chop with vermicelli soufflé, Poirot knocked at the door of Pleasant’s kitchen. Flyaway Hair opened it narrowly, so that nothing was visible beyond her slender form in the doorway.

“Something wrong with your dinner, sir?”

“Allow me to pay for the tea that Mademoiselle Jennie has abandoned,” Poirot offered. “In return, if you would be kind enough to answer one or two questions?”

“D’you know Jennie, then? I’ve not seen you and her together before.”

“Non. I do not know her. That is why I ask you.”

“Why’d you go and sit with her, then?”

“She was afraid, and in great distress. I found it troubling to see. I hoped I might be able to offer some assistance.”