AgathaChristie-HerculePoirotsCasebook
Page 17
would have sent her poor, innocent fool of a husband to the
scaffold without the least remorse.'
Pamela cried out:
'But he was arrested and taken away by the police last night.'
'Ah,' said Hercule Poirot, 'but after that, me, I had a few
little words with the police. It is true that I did not see Chantry
put the stropanthin in the glass. I, like everyone else, looked up
when the ladies came in. But the moment I realized that
Valentine Chantry had been poisoned, I watched her husband
without taking my eyes offhim. And so, you see, I actually saw
him slip the packet of stropanthin in Douglas Gold's coat
pocket...'
He added with a grim expression on his face:
'I am a good witness. My name is well known. The moment
the police heard my story they realized that it put an entirely
different complexion on the matter.'
'AA then?' demanded Pamela, fascinated.
'Eh b/eh, then they asked Commander Chantry a few
questions. He tried to bluster it out, but he is not really clever,
he soon broke down.'
'So Douglas Gold was set at liberty?'
.
'Yes.'
'And - Marorie Gold?'
Poirot's face grew stero.
'I warned her,' he said. 'Yes, I warned her ... Up on the
Mount of the Prophet... It was the only chance of averting the
crime. I as good as told her that I suspected her. She
understood. But she believed herself too clever... I told her m
leave the island if she valued her life. She chose - to remain...'
142
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 modem London
and not one man in fifty could have told you where it stood.
Furthermore, very few people could have told you to whon
it belonged, though its owner's name would have been recog-nized
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 ap. 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 buffer stood outlined against the lighted hall.
'Mr Benedict Farley?' asked Hercule Poirot.
The impersonal glance surveyed him from head to foot,
inoffensively but ffecfively.
En gros et en ddtail, thought Hercule Poirot to himself with
appreciation.
'You have an appointment, sir?' asked the suave voice.
'Yes.'
'Your name, sir?'
'Monsieur Hercule Poirot.'
The buffer bowed and drew back. Hercule Poirot entered the
house. The buffer 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 buffer. 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 . H ercule P oirot
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 tomorrow (Thursday)
Yours truly,
P.S. Please bring this letter wi&you. 144
Hugo C ornwonhy
(Secretary)
Deftly the butler relieved Poirot of hat, stick and overt
said: l,
'Will you please come up to Mr Comworthy's room?
He led the way up the broad staircase. Poirot followed ing with appreciation at such objets d'art as were of an opt
florid nature! His taste in art was always somewhat
On the first floor the buder knocked on a door.
Hercule Poirot's eyebrows rose very slightly. It was
jarring note. For the best buders do not knock at doo
yet indubitably this was a fu'st-class butler!
It was, so to speak, the fu'st intimation of contact i$
eccentricity of a millionaire.
A voice from within called out something. The bud%
open the door. He announced (and again Poirot se
deliberate departure from orthodoxy):
'The gendeman you are expecting, sir.'
Poirot passed into the room. It was a fair-sized to
plainly furnished in a workmanlike fashion. Filing q
books of reference, a couple of easy-chairs, and a la
imposing desk covered with neatly docketed pape
corners of the room were dim, for the only light came fr
green-shaded reading lamp which stood on a small tabl arm of one of the easy-chairs. It was placed so as to cas
light on anyone approaching from the door. Hercul
blinked a little, realizing .that the lamp bulb was at
watts. In the arm-chair sat a thin figure in a palI
dressing-gown - Benedict Farley. His head was stuck fl
in a characteristic attitude, his beaked nose projecting
of a bird. A crest of white hair like that of a cockatoo to
his forehead. His eyes glittered behind thick lenses as hI
suspiciously at his visitor.
'Hey,' he said at last- and his voice was shrill and har:
a rasping note in it. 'So you're Hercule Poirot, hey?'
'At your service,' said Poirot politely and bowed, e,
on the back of the chair.
wrist-watch which had at last replaced ap. 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 ffectively.
En gros et en ddtail, 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.
Nonhway Home, W.8
M. H ercule P oirot
DearS ir,
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 tomorrow(Thursday)
P.S. Please bring this letter with you. 144
Hugo C omworthy
(Secretary)
Deftly the butler felicced Poirot of hat, stick and overcoat. He
said:
--,,e up to Mr Comworthy's room?'
wm you plea .,, the broad staircase. Poirot followed him, look
He
led the way °..rt such objets d'art as were of an opulent and
ing with appreciO-': i art was always somewhat bourgeois.
florid nature! Hi , butler knocked on a door.
On the first flo.,s eyebrows rose very slightly. It was the first
Hercule Poirotth10est butlers do not knock at doors - and
jarring note. For . was a frrst-class buffer!
yet indubitably tl-2 the fzrst intimation of contact with the
It was, so to s ..lv'.. ' ;re'
eccentricity of a ffioaJlhthicalled out something. The buffer threw
A voice from ,Se afn°unced (and again Poirot sensed the
open the door. c..oca orthodoxy):
deliberate departO': ore expecting, sir'
'The gentlema.o°la' room. It wasa fair-sized room, very
Poirot passed . workmanlike fashion. Filing cabinets,
green-shaded rea °/vchairs. It was placed so as to cast itsy full
arm of one of the .,achin§ from the door. Hercule Poirot
g t on anyone ol;g .that the lamp bulb was at least 150
blinked a little, f-lff sat a thin figure in a patchwork
watts. In the nedict Farley. His head was stuck forward
dressing-gown ·
attittlde, his beaked nose projecting like that
m a characteristic ;wlaite hair like that of a cockatoo rose above
of a bird. A crest °.S,,es littered behind thick lenses as he peered
his forehead. His v:
sus,
picio,usly at hitiaS[°rn,d his voice was shrill an,d, harsh, with
Hey, he said a 'So you re Hercule Poirot, hey?
a rasping note in it' , said Poirot politely and bowed, one hand
'At your serviC¢aTf
on the back of the c ·
145
'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 de-manded
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.
'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 impassi(e 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
146
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 conscious of a certain force,
an inner energy that had commanded his respect. If they had
worn a patchwork dressing-gown, it would have been be-cause
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 ex-pected,
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
147
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?'
'At
twenty-eight minutes past three,' Benedict Farley said hoarsely,
'I open the second drawer down on the right of my desk,
take out the revolver that I keep there, load it and walk
over
to the window. And then- and then-'
'Yes?'
Benedict
Farley said in a whisper:
'
Then I shoot myself '
There
was
silence.
Then Poirot
said, 'That is your dream?'
'Yes.'
'The
same
every night?'
'Yes.'
'What
happens
after you shoot yourself?.'
'I
wake up.'
Poirot
nodded his head slowly and thoughtfully. 'As a matter
of interest, do you keep a revolver in that particular
drawer?'
'Yes.'
'Why?'
'I
have always done so. It is as well to be prepared.'
'Prepared
for what?'
Farley
said irritably, 'A man in my position has to be on his guard.
All rich men have enemies.'