The Monogram Murders (2 page)

Without taking off her hat or coat, she sat down in

a chair that faced away from the door to the street, but

no sooner had she done so than she turned again and

looked over her shoulder. Having the opportunity to

examine her face in more detail, Poirot guessed that

she was around forty years of age. Her large blue

eyes were wide and unblinking. They looked, Poirot

reflected, as if there was a shocking sight before them

—“Face to face with the devil,” as Flyaway Hair had

remarked. Yet as far as Poirot could see, there was no

such sight for Jennie to behold, only the square room

with its tables, chairs, wooden hat and coat stand in

the corner, and its crooked shelves bearing the weight

of many teapots of different colors, patterns and sizes.

Those shelves, they were enough to make a person

shudder! Poirot saw no reason why a warped shelf

could not easily be replaced with a straight one, in the

same way that he could not comprehend why anybody

would place a fork on a square table and not ensure

that it lay parallel to the straight line of the table’s

edge. However, not everyone had the ideas of

Hercule Poirot; he had long ago accepted this—both

the advantages and the disadvantages it brought him.

Twisted in her seat, the woman—Jennie—stared

wildly at the door, as if expecting somebody to burst

through it at any moment. She was trembling, perhaps

partly from the cold.

No—Poirot changed his mind—not at all from the

cold. It was warm once again in the coffee house.

And, since Jennie was intent upon watching the door

and yet had sat with her back to it and as far as

possible from it, there was only one sensible

conclusion to draw.

Picking up his coffee cup, Poirot left his table and

made his way over to where she sat. She wore no

wedding ring on her finger, he noticed. “Will you

permit me to join you for a short while,

mademoiselle?” He would have liked to arrange her

cutlery, napkin and water glass as he had his own, but

he restrained himself.

“Pardon? Yes, I suppose so.” Her tone revealed

how little she cared. She was concerned only with the

coffee house door. She was still watching it avidly,

still twisted in her chair.

“I am pleased to introduce myself to you
.
My name

is . . . ah . . .” Poirot broke off. If he told her his name,

Flyaway Hair and the other waitress would hear it,

and he would no longer be their anonymous “foreign

gent,” the retired policeman from the Continent. The

name Hercule Poirot had a powerful effect upon some

people. Over the past few weeks, since he had

entered into a most enjoyable state of hibernation,

Poirot had experienced for the first time in an age the

relief of being nobody in particular.

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
.

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?”

“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.”

“The likes of Jennie can’t be helped,” Flyaway

Hair said. “All right, I’ll answer your questions, but

I’ll ask you one first: where was it you were a

policeman?”

Poirot did not point out that she had already asked

him three questions. This was the fourth.

She peered at him through narrowed eyes.

“Somewhere they speak French—but not France, was

it?” she said. “I’ve seen what you do with your face

when the other girls say ‘the French chap.’ ”

Poirot smiled. Perhaps it would do no harm for her

to know his name. “I am Hercule Poirot,

mademoiselle. From Belgium. I am delighted to make

your acquaintance.” He extended his hand.

She shook it. “Fee Spring. Euphemia really, but

everyone calls me Fee. If they used my whole name,

they’d never get round to the rest of what they wanted

to say to me, would they? Not that I’d be any the

worse off for that.”

“Do you know the whole name of Mademoiselle

Jennie?”

Fee nodded in the direction of Poirot’s table,

where steam still rose from his heaped plate. “Eat