by Otto Penzler
“The curator at the Indian Museum this morning told me that there was only one other expert in this country who has the rep that Ziegler has. He’s a man who works for Belmont. That was why Ziegler didn’t dare sell any of his forgeries to Belmont. That was the one place he might get caught out.”
“Um,” Woody said, thinking it over. “I’ll take it. I guess that explains the works.”
“Not quite,” Horseshoe added. “Where was Keeler hiding out at Ziegler’s place when they dumped you in the safe, Don?”
“In the desk. One of the lower drawers is a deep one—as large as the filing cabinet. He’d taken out the partitions. Collins was the only one of the gang who really knew who the Invisible Man was. And he worked the floating gun with the thread the same way I repeated it later for Inspector Church.”
Horseshoe said, “Concealed mikes around the room made his voice seem to come from different places just before that Invisible Machine exhibition just now, I suppose. Threads on the chair and another to float the cigarette. But what about the smoke that came from nothing? You don’t manage that with threads—or mirrors or trapdoors.”
“He had two atomizers built into the top desk drawer,” Don said. “They pointed upward at a converging angle. One held hydrochloric acid, the other ammonia. They operated by a connection into the next room and when the invisible fumes shot upward and met in midair they formed smoke—sal ammoniac. That’s one way any high school chemistry student knows.”
The taxi stopped before the Music Hall. Don Diavolo, Karl, and the Horseshoe Kid got out. Woody Haines told the driver, “The New York Press building, my boy, and don’t stop for red lights!”
Upstairs, Col. Ernest Kaselmeyer was still boiling. “If that blankety blank, blank-blank magician isn’t here in just two blank minutes, he’s through. I’ll see that every blank booking office in town—”
The Colonel’s arms suddenly shot skyward. Don Diavolo, still disguised as Scarface Mike, was standing in the doorway, a gun in his hand. “Don Diavolo’s a pal of mine, buddy. Yuh got dat? I don’t wanna hear no more cracks like dem youse was just makin’. Unnerstan’?”
The Colonel eyed the gun nervously, gulped and nodded. Pat, Mickey, and Chan blinked.
“Good,” Don said in his own voice. “Try to remember it.” He tossed the gun aside and went toward Pat and Mickey. “We got the Invisible Man,” he said. “It wasn’t Glenn. He’s in the hospital. Church winged him, but he’ll be all right. I’m getting a lawyer for him and we’ll spring him if he promises to keep out of trouble. He can put up a good defense on the grounds that Keeler framed him for a murder and forced him to follow through. You two can go see him after this show. Now get on stage—in your places.”
Don blinked as he got two kisses, one on each cheek. Then he grinned and ran for his dressing table. “Karl,” he called as he wiped away Scarface Mike’s greasepaint, “go down and take a look at the skip on that center stage lift. It jammed a bit last night. Horseshoe, get Kaselmeyer out of here! He’s blocking the doorway and I’m going to be using it. He loves blackjack. Take him away and give him a game. Deal him aces when he needs them. I’ll foot your losses. Chan, get those rabbits down in the wings ready to go on!”
Not much more than five minutes later, Don Diavolo, the Scarlet Wizard, took his entrance bow on the great stage and began producing rabbits from his red top hat.
At the same moment, Inspector Church and half a dozen detectives entered his dressing room upstairs. “All right boys,” he ordered. “Tear this place apart! Keeler was the Invisible Man behind Collins. Belmont was behind him and I still think Diavolo was the master mind! He hypnotized Belmont and Collins so they won’t talk! I’m going to get the goods on him sooner or later! He can’t fool me!”
1 Mickey Collins was Pat’s twin sister, a young lady who looked so much like her that it was a standing joke as to whether or not the twins themselves knew for sure which was which. Mickey, because Don would rather not have it known that he employed a pair of twins, wore a black wig over her own blond hair in public.
2 Chinese needle-worker: Narcotic addict.
3 This method of discovering a safe combination was used by James S. Sargent, inventor of the present-day time locks, in picking the locks manufactured by his lock making competitors. See the New York Times for Oct. 14, 1869 for an account of the challenge match in which Sargent collected the twelve hundred dollars offered by Linus Yale to anyone who could pick his double dial bank lock.
4 An anagram for Don Diavolo.
5 This glass was what is known as a one-way window. On its other side it appeared to be a mirror set above the fireplace.
6 A French conjurer, Henri Robbin, in his book L’Histoire des Spectres Vivants et Impalpables claims to have exhibited this very famous illustration as easly as 1847. Prof. John Henry Pepper, however, patented the idea in 1863 and exhibited it at the London Polytechnic Institute in 1879 with great success. Harry Kellar subsequently brought it to the United States under the name The Blue Room. This last version, in which a man standing within a coffin changes visibly to a skeleton and back again, is still seen in carnivals and at fairs. See Henry Ridgely Evans: History of Conjuring and Magic and Ottokar Fischer’s Illustrated Magic.
7 While writing the present account of the case of The Invisible Man I visited the Museum of Indian Art to see the statue of Siva. The curator pointed out to me an extremely odd thing which the newspaper accounts and all the other writers who have dwelt upon the case seem to have failed to note. The dancing figure of Siva the Destroyer, as I described it in the foregoing text, stands upon the symbolical prostrate figure of a dwarf. One would think that Larry Keeler must have been mad if he purposely chose to center everyone’s attention on this statue so that his twisted sense of humor could enjoy yet another quiet laugh. And yet was he? The fact remains that no one, during the case, noticed this strangely prophetic figure that had another symbolism beyond the Brahmanical one the original sculptor intended.—Stuart Towne.
8 One ironic note which needs mention is that Larry Keeler, jealous of Don Diavolo to the point of trying to frame him for Ziegler’s murder by having Collins appear there in red evening clothes and mask, nevertheless was forced to ask Don’s help. When Collins and St. Louis Louie tried to hold up Ziegler, the latter quickly locked the safe on which he had just changed the combination. Louie, who wasn’t overly bright about such things, shot him. And Keeler himself, although a magician, couldn’t pick the lock because, familiar as he was with locks and escape feats in theory, his physique had prevented his actual practice of that type of magic. Thus, Perry had to be sent to Don Diavolo, in an attempt to get him to open the safe.
THE DREAM
THE MOST POPULAR WRITER of detective fiction who ever lived (her sales in all languages are reported to have surpassed four billion copies), Agatha Mary Clarissa Miller Christie’s (1890–1976) remarkably proficient first book, The Mysterious Affair at Styles (1920), is generally given credit as the landmark volume that initiated what has been called the Golden Age of mystery fiction. This era, bracketed by the two world wars, saw the rise of the fair-play puzzle story and the series detective, whether an official member of the police department (such as Freeman Wills Croft’s Inspector French), a private detective (like Christie’s Hercule Poirot, who made his debut in her first novel and stars in “The Dream”), or an amateur sleuth (like Anthony Berkeley’s Roger Sheringham, Dorothy L. Sayers’s Lord Peter Wimsey, and E. C. Bentley’s Philip Trent). But it was Christie who towered above the others, outselling, out-producing, and outliving the rest. Perhaps surprisingly, the manuscript of her first novel had been rejected by several publishing houses, and John Lane, the eventual publisher, held it for more than a year before deciding to offer only one hundred twenty-five dollars for it. Encouraged by the sale, Christie went on to write more than a hundred books and plays. The shy and reclusive author wrote the longest continuously running play of all time, The Mousetrap (since it opened in 1952, there have b
een more than twenty-five thousand performances—with no closing in sight), as well as one of the best, Witness for the Prosecution (less successful but infinitely superior, it opened in 1953, winning the Edgar, and was adapted for the brilliant motion picture starring Charles Laughton, Tyrone Power, and Marlene Dietrich).
“The Dream” was first published in The Regatta Mystery and Other Stories (New York, Dodd, Mead, 1939). It was first published in England in The Adventure of the Christmas Pudding and a Selection of Entrees (London, Collins, 1960). It was adapted as a 1989 episode of the London Weekend Television series Agatha Christie’s Poirot, starring David Suchet.
AGATHA CHRISTIE
HERCULE POIROT gave the house a steady appraising glance. His eyes wandered a moment to its surroundings, the shops, the big factory building on the right, the blocks of cheap mansion flats opposite.
Then once more his eyes returned to Northway House, relic of an earlier age—an age of space and leisure, when green fields had surrounded its well-bred arrogance. Now it was an anachronism, submerged and forgotten in the hectic sea of modern London, and not one man in fifty could have told you where it stood.
Furthermore, very few people could have told you to whom it belonged, though its owner’s name would have been recognized as one of the world’s richest men. But money can quench publicity as well as flaunt it. Benedict Farley, that eccentric millionaire, chose not to advertise his choice of residence. He himself was rarely seen, seldom making a public appearance. From time to time, he appeared at board meetings, his lean figure, beaked nose, and rasping voice easily dominating the assembled directors. Apart from that, he was just a well-known figure of legend. There were his strange meannesses, his incredible generosities, as well as more personal details—his famous patchwork dressing-gown, now reputed to be twenty-eight years old, his invariable diet of cabbage soup and caviare, his hatred of cats. All these things the public knew.
Hercule Poirot knew them also. It was all he did know of the man he was about to visit. The letter which was in his coat pocket told him little more.
After surveying this melancholy landmark of a past age for a minute or two in silence, he walked up the steps to the front door and pressed the bell, glancing as he did so at the neat wrist-watch which had at last replaced an old favourite—the large turnip-faced watch of earlier days. Yes, it was exactly nine-thirty. As ever, Hercule Poirot was exact to the minute.
The door opened after just the right interval. A perfect specimen of the genus butler stood outlined against the lighted hall.
“Mr. Benedict Farley?” asked Hercule Poirot.
The impersonal glance surveyed him from head to foot, inoffensively but effectively.
En gros et en détail, thought Hercule Poirot to himself with appreciation.
“You have an appointment, sir?” asked the suave voice.
“Yes.”
“Your name, sir?”
“Monsieur Hercule Poirot.”
The butler bowed and drew back. Hercule Poirot entered the house. The butler closed the door behind him.
But there was yet one more formality before the deft hands took hat and stick from the visitor.
“You will excuse me, sir. I was to ask for a letter.”
With deliberation Poirot took from his pocket the folded letter and handed it to the butler. The latter gave it a mere glance, then returned it with a bow. Hercule Poirot returned it to his pocket. Its contents were simple.
Northway House, W.8.
M. Hercule Poirot.
Dear Sir,
Mr. Benedict Farley would like to have the benefit of your advice. If convenient to yourself he would be glad if you would call upon him at the above address at 9:30 to-morrow (Thursday) evening.
Yours truly,
Hugo Cornworthy
(Secretary)
P.S. Please bring this letter with you.
Deftly the butler relieved Poirot of hat, stick and overcoat. He said:
“Will you please come up to Mr. Cornworthy’s room?”
He led the way up the broad staircase. Poirot followed him, looking with appreciation at such objets d’art as were of an opulent and florid nature! His taste in art was always somewhat bourgeois.
On the first floor the butler knocked on a door.
Hercule Poirot’s eyebrows rose very slightly. It was the first jarring note. For the best butlers do not knock at doors—and yet indubitably this was a first-class butler!
It was, so to speak, the first intimation of contact with the eccentricity of a millionaire.
A voice from within called out something. The butler threw open the door. He announced (and again Poirot sensed the deliberate departure from orthodoxy):
“The gentleman you are expecting, sir.”
Poirot passed into the room. It was a fair-sized room, very plainly furnished in a workmanlike fashion. Filing cabinets, books of reference, a couple of easy chairs, and a large and imposing desk covered with neatly docketed papers. The corners of the room were dim, for the only light came from a big green-shaded reading lamp which stood on a small table by the arm of one of the easy chairs. It was placed so as to cast its full light on anyone approaching from the door. Hercule Poirot blinked a little, realising that the lamp bulb was at least 150 watts. In the arm-chair sat a thin figure in a patchwork dressing-gown—Benedict Farley. His head was stuck forward in a characteristic attitude, his beaked nose projecting like that of a bird. A crest of white hair like that of a cockatoo rose above his forehead. His eyes glittered behind thick lenses as he peered suspiciously at his visitor.
“Hey,” he said at last—and his voice was shrill and harsh, with a rasping note in it. “So you’re Hercule Poirot, hey?”
“At your service,” said Poirot politely and bowed, one hand on the back of the chair.
“Sit down—sit down,” said the old man testily.
Hercule Poirot sat down—in the full glare of the lamp. From behind it the old man seemed to be studying him attentively.
“How do I know you’re Hercule Poirot—hey?” he demanded fretfully. “Tell me that—hey?”
Once more Poirot drew the letter from his pocket and handed it to Farley.
“Yes,” admitted the millionaire grudgingly. “That’s it. That’s what I got Cornworthy to write.” He folded it up and tossed it back. “So you’re the fellow, are you?”
With a little wave of his hand Poirot said:
“I assure you there is no deception!”
Benedict Farley chuckled suddenly.
“That’s what the conjurer says before he takes the goldfish out of the hat! Saying that is part of the trick, you know!”
Poirot did not reply. Farley said suddenly:
“Think I’m a suspicious old man, hey? So I am. Don’t trust anybody! That’s my motto. Can’t trust anybody when you’re rich. No, no, it doesn’t do.”
“You wished,” Poirot hinted gently, “to consult me?”
The old man nodded.
“That’s right. Always buy the best. That’s my motto. Go to the expert and don’t count the cost. You’ll notice, M. Poirot, I haven’t asked you your fee. I’m not going to! Send me in the bill later—I shan’t cut up rough over it. Damned fools at the dairy thought they could charge me two and nine for eggs when two and seven’s the market price—lot of swindlers! I won’t be swindled. But the man at the top’s different. He’s worth the money. I’m at the top myself—I know.”
Hercule Poirot made no reply. He listened attentively, his head poised a little on one side.
Behind his impassive exterior he was conscious of a feeling of disappointment. He could not exactly put his finger on it. So far Benedict Farley had run true to type—that is, he had conformed to the popular idea of himself; and yet—Poirot was disappointed.
“The man,” he said disgustedly to himself, “is a mountebank—nothing but a mountebank!”
He had known other millionaires, eccentric men too, but in nearly every case he had been consc
ious of a certain force, an inner energy that had commanded his respect. If they had worn a patchwork dressing-gown, it would have been because they liked wearing such a dressing-gown. But the dressing-gown of Benedict Farley, or so it seemed to Poirot, was essentially a stage property. And the man himself was essentially stagy. Every word he spoke was uttered, so Poirot felt assured, sheerly for effect.
He repeated again unemotionally, “You wished to consult me, Mr. Farley?”
Abruptly the millionaire’s manner changed.
He leaned forward. His voice dropped to a croak.
“Yes. Yes … I want to hear what you’ve got to say—what you think.… Go to the top! That’s my way! The best doctor—the best detective—it’s between the two of them.”
“As yet, Monsieur, I do not understand.”
“Naturally,” snapped Farley. “I haven’t begun to tell you.”
He leaned forward once more and shot out an abrupt question.
“What do you know, M. Poirot, about dreams?”
The little man’s eyebrows rose. Whatever he had expected, it was not this.
“For that, M. Farley, I should recommend Napoleon’s Book of Dreams—or the latest practising psychologist from Harley Street.”
Benedict Farley said soberly, “I’ve tried both.…”
There was a pause, then the millionaire spoke, at first almost in a whisper, then with a voice growing higher and higher.
“It’s the same dream—night after night. And I’m afraid, I tell you—I’m afraid.… It’s always the same. I’m sitting in my room next door to this. Sitting at my desk, writing. There’s a clock there and I glance at it and see the time—exactly twenty-eight minutes past three. Always the same time, you understand.
“And when I see the time, M. Poirot, I know I’ve got to do it. I don’t want to do it—I loathe doing it—but I’ve got to.…”
His voice had risen shrilly.
Unperturbed, Poirot said, “And what is it that you have to do?”