Hercule Poirot's Casebook (hercule poirot)

by Agatha Christie

  'No. He told me that I was to tell Holmes to show you into my room.'

  'Why was that? Do you know?'

  Comworthy shook his head. 'I never questioned any of Mr Farley's orders,' he said dryly. 'He would have resented it if I had.'

  'Did he usually receive visitors in his own room?'

  'Usually, but not always. Sometimes he saw them in my room.'

  'Was there any reason for that?'

  Hugo Comworthy considered.

  'No - I hardly think so - I've never really thought about it.'

  Turning to Mrs Farley, Poirot asked:

  'You permit that I ring for your butler?'

  'Certainly, M. Poirot.'

  Very correct, very urbane, Holmes answered the bell.

  'You rang, madam?'

  Mrs Farley indicated Poirot with a gesture. Holmes mined politely. 'Yes, sir?'

  'What were your instructions, Holmes, on the Thursday night when I came here?'

  Holmes cleared his throat, then said:

  'After dinner Mr Comworthy told me that Mr Farley expected a Mr Hercul Poirot at nine-thirty. I was to ascertain the gentleman's name, and I was to verify the information by glancing at a letter. Then I was to show him up to Mr Cornworthy's room.'

  'Were you also told to knock on the door?'

  An expression of distaste crossed the butler's countenance.

  'That was one of Mr Farley's orders. I was always to knock when introducing visitors - business visitors, that is,' he added.

  'Ah, that puled me! Were you given any other instructions concerning me?'

  'No, sir. When Mr Cornworthy had told me what I have just repeated to you he went out.'

  'What time was that?'

  'Ten minutes to nine, sir.'

  'Did you see Mr Farley after that?'

  'Yes, sir, I took him up a glass of hot water as usual at nine o'clock.'

  'Was he then in his own room or in Mr Comworthy's?'

  'He was in his own room, sir.'

  'You noticed nothing unusual about that room?'

  'Unusual? No, sir.'

  'Where were Mrs Farley and Miss Farley?'

  'They had gone to the theatre, sir.'

  'Thank you, Holmes, that will do.'

  Holmes bowed and left the room. Poirot turned to the millionaire's widow.

  'One more question, Mrs Farley. Had your husband good sight?'

  'No. Not without his glasses.'

  'He was very shortsighted?'

  'Oh, yes, he was quite helpless without his spectacles.'

  'He had several pairs of glasses?'

  'Yes.'

  'Ah,' said Poirot. He leaned back. 'I think that that concludes the case .... '

  There was silence in. the room. They were all looking at th little man who sat there complacently stroking his moustache. On the inspector's face was perplexity, Dr Stillingfleet was frowning, Cornworthy merely stared uncomprehendingly, Mr Farley gazed in blank astonishment, Joanna Farley look eager.

  Mrs Farley broke the silence.

  'I don't understand, M. Poirot.' Her voice was fretful. 'The dream '

  'Yes,' said Poirot. 'That dream was very important.'

  Mrs Farley shivered. She said:

  'I've never believed in anything supernatural before - but now - to dream it night after night beforehand-'

  'It's extraordinary,' said Stillingfleet. 'Extraordinary! If we hadn't got your word for it, Poirot, and if you hadn't had it straight from the horse's mouth -' he coughed in embarrassment, and readopting his professional manner, 'I beg your pardon, Mrs Farley. If Mr Farley himself had not told that story-'

  'Exactly,' said Poirot. His eyes, which had been half-closed, opened suddenly. They were very green. 'If Benedict Farley hadn't told me-'

  He paused a minute, looking round at a circle of blank faces.

  'There are certain things, you comprehend, that happened that evening which I was quite at a loss to explain. First, why make such a point of my bringing that letter with me?'

  'Identification,' suggested Cornworthy.

  'No, no, my dear young man. Really that idea is too ridiculous. There must be some much more valid reason. For not only did Mr Farley require to see that letter produced, but he definitely demanded that I should leave it behind me. And moreover even then he did not destroy it! It was found among his papers this afternoon. Why did he keep it?'

  Joanna Fafiey's voice broke in. 'He wanted, in case anything happened to him, that the facts of his strange dream should be made known.'

  Poirot nodded approvingly.

  'You are astute, Mademoiselle. That must be - that can only be - the point of the keeping of the letter. When Mr Farley was dead, the story of that strange dream was to be told! That dream was very important. That dream, Mademoiselle, was vital!

  'I will come now,' he went on, 'to the second point. After hearing his story I ask Mr Farley to show me the desk and the revolver. He seems about to get up to do so, then suddenly refuses. Why did he refuse?'

  This time no one advanced an answer.

  'I will put that question differently. What was there in that next room that Mr Farley did not want me to see?'

  There was still silence.

  'Yes,' said Poirot, 'it is difficult, that. And yet there was some reason - some urgent reason why Mr Farley received me in his secretary's room and refused point blank to take me into his own room. There was something in that room he could not afford to have me see.

  'And now I come to the third inexplicable thing that happened on that evening. Mr Farley, just as I was leaving, requested me to hand him the letter I had received. By inadvertence I handed him a communication from my laundress. He glanced at it and laid it down beside him. Just before I left the room I discovered my error- and rectified it.

  After that I left the house and - I admit it- I was completely at sea! The whole affair and especially that last inddent seemed to me quite inexplicable.'

  He looked round from one to the other.

  'You do not see?'

  Stillingfieet said, 'I don't really see how your laundress comes into it, Poirot .'

  'My laundress,' said Poirot, 'was very important. That miserable woman who ruins my collars, was, for the first time in her life, useful to somebody. Surely you see - it is so obvious.

  Mr Farley glanced at that communication - one glance would have told him that it was the wrong letter - and yet he knew nothing. Why? Because he could not see it properly!'

  Inspector Barnett said sharply, 'Didn't he have his glasses on?'

  Hercule Poirot smiled. 'Yes,' he said. 'He had his glasses on. That is what makes it so very interesting.'

  He leaned forward.

  'Mr Farley's dream was very important. He dreamed, you see, that he committed suicide. And a little later on, he did commit suicide. That is to say he was alone in a room and was found there with a revolver by him, and no one entered or left the room at the time that he was shot. What does that mean? It means, does it not, that it must be suicide!'

  'Yes,' said Stillingfleet.

  Hercule Poirot shook his head.

  'On the contrary,' he said. 'It was murder. An unusual and very cleverly planned murder.'

  Again he leaned forward, tapping the table, his eyes green and shining.

  'Why did Mr Farley not allow me to go into his own room that evening? What was there in there that I must not be allowed to see? I think, my friends, that there was - Benedict Farley himselfI'

  He smiled at the blank faces.

  'Yes, yes, it is not nonsense what I say. Why could the Mr Farley to whom I had been talking not realize the difference between two totally dissimilar letters? Because, mes amis, he was a man of normal sight wearing a pair of very powerful glasses. Those glasses would render a man of normal eyesight practically blind. Isn't that so, Doctor?'

  'Stillingfieet murmured, 'That's so - of course.'

  'Why did I feel that in talking to Mr Farley I was talking to a mountebank, to an actor playi
ng a part! Consider the setting.

  The dim room, the green-shaded light turned blindingly away from the figure in the chair. What did I see - the famous patchwork dressing-gown, the beaked nose (faked with that useful substance, nose putty) the white crest of hair, the powerful lenses concealing the eyes. What evidence is there that Mr Farley ever had a dream? Only the story I was told and the evidence of Mrs Farley. What evidence is there that Benedict Farley kept a revolver in his desk? Again only the story told me and the word of Mrs Farley. Two people carried this fraud through - Mrs Farley and Hugo Cornworthy. Cornworthy wrote the letter to me, gave instructions to the butler, went out ostensibly to the cinema, but let himself in again immediately with a key, went to his room, made himself up, and played the part of Benedict Farley.

  'And so we come to this afternoon. The opportunity for which Mr Cornworthy has been waiting arrives. There are two witnesses on the landing to swear that no one goes in or out of Benedict Farley's room. Cornworthy waits until a particularly heavy batch of traffic is about to pass. Then he leans out of his window, and with the lazy-tongs which he has purloined from the desk next door he holds an object against the window of that room. Benedict Farley comes to the window. Cornworthy snatches back the tongs and as Farley leans out, and the lorries are passing outside, Cornworthy shoots him with the revolver that he has ready. There is a blank wall opposite, remember. There can be no witness of the crime. Cornworthy waits for over half-an hour, then gathers up some papers, conceals the lazy-tongs and the revolver between them and goes out on to the landing and into the next room. He replaces the tongs on the desk, lays down the revolver after pressing the dead man's fingers on it, and hurries out with the news of Mr Farley's "suicide."

  'He arranges that the letter to me shall be found and that I shall arrive with my story - the story I heard from Mr Farley's own lips - of his extraordinary "dream" - the strange compulsion he felt to kill himself. A few credulous people will discuss the hypnotism theory - but the main result will be to confirm without a doubt that the actual hand that held the revolver was Benedict Farley's own.'

  Hercule Poirot's eyes went to the widow's face - he noted with satisfaction the dismay - the ashy pallor - the blind fear ....

  'And in due course,' he finished gently, 'the happy ending would have been achieved. A quarter of a million and two hearts that beat as one .... '

  John Stillingfleet, MD, and Hercule Poirot walked along the side of Northway House. On their right was the towering wall of the factory. Above them, on their left, were the windows of Benedict Farley's and Hugo Cornworthy's rooms. Hercule Poirot stopped and picked up a small object-a black stuffed cat.

  'Voila,' he said. 'That is what Cornworthy held in the lazy-tongs against Farley's window. You remember, he hated cats? Naturally he rushed to the window.'

  'Why on earth didn't Cornworthy come out and pick it up after he'd dropped it?'

  'How could he? To do so would have been definitely suspicious. After all, if this object were found what would anyone think - that some child had wandered round here and dropped it.'

  'Yes,' said Stillingfleet with a sigh. 'That's probably what the ordinary person would have thought. But not good old Hercule! D'you know, old horse, up to the very last minute I thought you were leading up to some subtle theory of highfalutin' psychological "suggested" murder? I bet those two thought so too! Nasty bit of goods, the Farley. Goodness, how she cracked! Cornworthy might have got away with it if she hadn't had hysterics and tried to spoil your beauty by going for you with her nails. I only got her off you just in time.'

  He paused a minute arid then said:

  'I rather like the girl. Grit, you know, and brains. I suppose I'd be thought to be a fortune hunter if I had a shot at her . . . ?'

  'You are too late, my friend. There is already someone sur le tapis. Her father's death has opened the way to happiness.'

  'Take it all round, she had a pretty good motive for bumping off the unpleasant parent.'

  'Motive and opportunity are not enough,' said Poirot. 'There must also be the criminal temperament!'

  'I wonder if you'll ever commit a crime, Poirot?' said Stillingfieet. 'I bet you could get away with it all right. As a matter of fact, it would be too easy for you - I mean the thing would be off as definitely too unsporting.'

  'That,' said Poirot, 'is a typical English idea.'

  FOUR AND TWENTY BLACKBIRDS

  Hercule Poirot was dining with his friend, Henry Bonnington at the Gallant Endeavour in the King's Road, Chelsea.

  Mr Bonnington was fond of the Gallant Endeavour. He liked the leisurely atmosphere, he liked the food which was 'plain' and 'English' and 'not a lot of made up messes.' He liked to tell people who dined with him there just exactly where Augustus John had been wont to sit and draw the attention to the famous artists' names in the visitors' book Mr Bonnington was himself the least artistic of men - but he took a certain pride in the artistic activities of others.

  Molly, the sympathetic waitress, greeted Mr Bonnington as an old friend. She prided herself on remembering he customers' likes and dislikes in the way of food.

  'Good evening, sir,' she said, as the two men took their seats at a corner table. 'You're in luck today - turkey stuffed with chestnuts - that's your favourite, isn't it? And ever such a nice Stilton we've got! Will you have soup first or fish?'

  Mr Bonnington deliberated the point. He said to Poirot warningly as the latter studied the menu:

  'None of your French kickshaws now. Good well-cooked English food.'

  'My friend,' Hercule Poirot waved his hand, 'I ask no better! I put myself in your hands unreservedly.'

  'Ah - hruup - er - hm,' replied Mr Bonnington and gave careful attention to the matter.

  These weighty matters, and the question of wine, settled, Mr Bonnington leaned back with a sigh and unfolded his napkin as Molly sped away.

  'Good girl, that,' he said approvingly. 'Was quite a beauty once - artists used to paint her. She knows about food, too and that's a great deal more important. Women are very unsound on food as a rule. There's many a woman if she goes out with a fellow she fancies - won't even notice what she eats. She'll just order the first thing she sees.'

  Hercule Poirot shook his head. 'C'est terrible.'

  'They aren't like that, thank God!' said Mr Bonnington complacently.

  'Never?' There was a twinkle in Hercule Poirot's eye.

  'Well, perhaps when they're very young,' conceded Mr Bonnington. 'Young puppies! Young fellows nowadays are all the same - no guts - no stamina. I've no use for the young-and they,' he added with strict impartiality, 'have no use for me. Perhaps they're right! But to hear some of these young fellows talk you'd think no man had a right to be alive after sixty! From the way they go on, you'd wonder more of them didn't help their elderly relations out of the world.'

  'It is possible,' said Hercule Poirot, 'that they do.'

  'Nice mind you've got, Poirot, I must say. All this police work saps your ideals.'

  Hercule Poirot smiled.

  'Tout de meme,' he said. 'It would be interesting to make a table of accidental deaths over the age of sixty. I assure you it would raise some curious speculations in your mind.'

  'The trouble with you is that you've started going to look for crime - instead of waiting for crime to come to you.'

  'I apologize,' said Poirot. 'I talk what you call "the shop." Tell me, my friend, of your own affairs. How does the world go with you?'

  'Mess!' said Mr Bonnington. 'That's what's the matter with the world nowadays. Too much mess. And too much fine language. The fine language helps to conceal the mess. Like a highly-flavoured sauce concealing the fact that the fish underneath it is none of the best! Give me an honest fillet of sole and no messy sauce over it.'

  It was given him at that moment by Molly and he grunted approval.

  'You know just what I like, my girl,' he said.

  'Well, you come here pretty regular, don't you, sir? I ought to know what you like
.'

  Hercule Poirot said:

  'Do people then always like the same things? Do not they like a change sometimes?'

  'Not gentlemen, sir. Ladies like variety - gentlemen always like the same thing.'

  'What did I tell you?' grunted Bonnington. 'Women are fundamentally unsound where food is concerned?

  He looked round the restaurant.

  'The world's a funny place. See that odd-looking old fellow with a beard in the corner? Molly'll tell you he's always here Tuesdays and Thursday nights. He has come here for close on ten years now - he's a kind of landmark in the place. Yet nobody here knows his name or where he lives or what his business is. It's odd when you come to think of it.'

  When the waitress brought the portions of turkey he said:

  'I see you've still got Old Father Time over there?'

  'That's right, sir. Tuesdays and Thursdays, his days are. Not but what he came in here on a Monday last week! It quite upset me! I felt I'd got my dates wrong and that it must be Tuesday without my knowing it! But he came in the next night as well - so the Monday was just a kind of extra, so to speak.'

  'An interesting deviation from habit,' murmured Poirot. 'I wonder what the reason was?'

  'Well, sir, if you ask me, I think he'd had some kind of upset or worry.'

  'Why did you think that? His manner?'

  'No, sir - not his manner exactly. He was very quiet as he always is. Never says much except good evening when he comes and goes. No, it was his order.'

  'His order?'

  'I dare say you gentlemen will laugh at me,' Molly flushed up, 'but when a gentleman has been here for ten years, you get to know his likes and dislikes. He never could bear suet pudding or blackberries and I've never known him take thick soup - but on that Monday night he ordered thick tomato soup, beefsteak and kidney pudding and blackberry tart!

  Seemed as though he just didn't notice what he ordered!'

  'Do you know,' said Hercule Poirot, 'I find that extraordinarily interesting.'

  Molly looked gratified and departed.

  'Well, Poirot,' said Henry Bonnington with a chuckle. 'Let's have a few deductions from you. All in your best manner.'