AgathaChristie-HerculePoirotsCasebook

by Hercule Poirot's Casebook (lit)

  Poirot

  did not pursue the subject. He remained silent for a

  moment or two, then he said:

  148

  'Why exactly did you send for me?'

  'I will tell you. First of all I consulted a doctor - three

  doctors to be exact.'

  'Yes?'

  'The first told me it was all a question of diet. He was an

  elderly man. The second was a young man of the modern

  school. He assured me that it all hinged on a certain event

  that took place in infancy at that particular time of day- three

  twenty-eight. I am so determined, he says, not to remember

  the event, that I symbolize it by destroying myself. That is

  his explanation.'

  'And the third doctor?' asked Poirot.

  Benedict Farley's voice rose in shrill anger.

  'He's a young man too. He has a preposterous theory! He

  asserts that I, myself, am tired of life, that my life is so

  unbearable to me that I deliberately want to end it! But since

  to acknowledge that fact would be to acknowledge that

  essentially I am a failure, I refuse in my waking moments to

  face the truth. But when I am asleep, all inhibitions are

  removed, and I proceed to do that which I really wish to do. I

  put an end to myself.'

  'His view is that you really wish, unknown to yourself, to

  commit suicide?' said Poirot.

  Benedict Farley cried shrilly:

  'And that's impossible - impossible! I'm perfectly happy!

  I've go.t everything I want - eversthing money can buy! It's

  fantastic- unbelievable even to suggest a thing like that!'

  Poirot looked at him with interest. Perhaps something in

  the shaking hands, the trembling shrillness of the voice,

  warned him that the denial was too vehement, that its very

  insistence was in itself suspect. He contented himself with

  saying:

  'And where do I come in, Monsieur?'

  Benedict Farley calmed down suddenly. He tapped with

  an emphatic pounds ger on the table beside him.

  149

  'There's another possibility. And if it's right, you're the

  man to know about it! You're famous, you've had hundreds

  of cases - fantastic, improbable cases! You'd know if anyone

  does.'

  ' Know what ?'

  Farley's voice dropped to a whisper.

  'Supposing someone wants to kill me..-.. Could they do

  it this way? Could they make me dream that dream night

  after night ?'

  'Hypnotism, you mean?'

  'Yes.'

  Hercule Poirot considered the question.

  'It would be possible, I suppose,' he said at last. 'It is more

  a question for a doctor.'

  'You don't know of such a case in your experience?'

  'Not precisely on those lines, no.'

  'You see what I'm driving at? I'm made to dream the same

  dream, night after night, night after night - and then - one

  day the suggestion is too much for me - and I act upon it. I do

  what I've dreamed of so often- kill myself!'

  Slowly Hercule Poirot shook his head.

  'You don't think that is possible?' asked Farley.

  'Possible?' Poirot shook his head. 'That is not a word I care

  to meddle with.'

  'But you think it improbable?'

  'Most improbable.'

  Benedict Farley murmured. 'The doctor said so too .... '

  Then his voice rising shrilly again, he cried out, 'But why do I

  have this dream? Why? Why?'

  Hercule Poirot shook his head. Benedict Farley said

  abruptly, 'You're sure you've never come across anything

  like this in your experience?'

  'Never.'

  'That's what I wanted to know.'

  Delicately, Poirot cleared his throat.

  150

  'You permit,' he said, 'a question?'

  'What is it ? What is it? Say what you like.'

  'Who is it you suspect of wanting to kill you?'

  Farley snapped out, 'Nobody. Nobody at all.'

  'But the idea presented itself to your mind?' Poirot per

  sisted.

  'I wanted to know- if it was a possibility.'

  'Speaking from my own experience, I should say No. Have

  you ever been hypnotized, by the way?'

  'Of course not. D'you think I'd lend myself to such

  tomfoolery?'

  'Then I think one can say that your theory is defmitely

  improbable.'

  'But the dream, you fool, the dream.'

  'The dream is certainly remarkable,' said Poirot

  thoughtfully. He paused and then went on. 'I should like to

  see the scene of this drama - the table, the clock, and the

  revolver.'

  'Of course, I'll take you next door.'

  Wrapping the folds of his dressing-gown round him, the

  old man half-rose from his chair. Then suddenly, as though a

  thought had struck him, he resumed his seat.

  'No,' he said. 'There's nothing to see there. I've told you

  all there is to tell.'

  'But I should like to see for myself-'

  'There's no need,' Farley snapped. 'You've given me your

  opinion. That's the end.'

  Poirot shrugged his shoulders. 'As you please.' He rose to

  his feet. 'I am sorry, Mr Farley, that I have not been able to

  be of assistance to you.'

  Benedict Farley was staring straight ahead of him.

  'Don't want a lot of hanky-pankying around,' he growled

  out. 'I've told you the facts - you can't make anything of

  them. That closes the matter. You can send me a bill for the

  consultation fee.'

  151

  'I shall not fail to do so,' said the detective drily. He walked

  towards the door.

  'Stop a minute.' The millionaire called him back. 'That letter

  - I want it.'

  'The letter from your secretary?'

  eyes.,

  Poirot's eyebrows rose. He put his hand into his pocket,

  drew out a folded sheet, and handed it to the old man. The

  latter scru 'tmized it, then put it down on the table beside him

  with a nod.

  Once more Hercule Poirot walked to the door. He was

  puzzled. His busy mind was going over and over the story he

  had been told. Yet in the midst of his mental preoccupation, a

  nagging sense of something wrong obtruded itself. And that

  something had to do with himself- not with Benedict Farley.

  With his hand on the door knob, his mind cleared. He,

  Hercule Poirot, had been guilty of an error! He turned back

  into the room once more.

  'A thousand pardons! In the interest of your problem I have

  committed a folly! That letter I handed to you- by mischance I

  put my hand into my right-hand pocket instead of the left-'

  'What's all this? What's all this?'

  'The letter that I handed you just now- an apology from my

  laundress concerning the treatment of my collars.' Poirot was

  smiling, apologetic. He dipped into his left-hand pocket. 'This

  isyour letter.'

  Benedict Farley snatched at it - grunted: 'Why the devil

  can't you mind what you're doing?'

  Poirot retrieved his laundress's communication, apologized

  gracefully once more, and left the room.

  He paused for a moment outside on the landing. It was a

  spacio
us one. Directly facing him was a big old oak settle with a

  refectory table in front of it. On the table were magazines.

  There were also two ann-chairs and a table with flowers. It

  reminded him a little of a dentist's waiting-room.

  152

  The butler was in the hall below waiting to let him out.

  'Can I get you a taxi, sir?'

  'No, I thank you. The night is pounds e. I will walk.'

  Hercule Poirot paused a moment on the pavement waiting

  for a lull in the traffic before crossing the busy street.

  A frown creased his forehead.

  'No,' he said to himself. 'I do not understand at all. No .thing

  makes sense. Regrettable to have to admit it, but I, Hercule

  Poirot, am completely baffled.'

  That was what might be termed the fu'st act of the drama.

  The second act followed a week later. It opened with a tele-phone

  call from one John Sfillingfleet, MD.

  He said with a remarkable lack of medical decorum:

  'That you, Poirot, old horse? Sti!lingtleet here.'

  'Yes, my friend. What is it?'

  'I'm speaking from Northway House- Benedict Farley's.'

  'Ah, yes?' Poirot's voice quickened with interest. 'What of-Mr

  Farley?'

  'Farley's dead. Shot himseffthis afternoon.'

  There was a pause, then Poirot said:

  'Yes...'

  'I notice you're not overcome with surprise. Know some-thing

  about it, old horse?'

  'Why should you think that?'

  'Well, it isn't brilliant deduction or telepathy or anything like

  that. We found a note from Farley to you making an

  appointment about a week ago.'

  'I see.'

  'We've got a tame polite inspector here - got to be careful,

  you know, when one of these millionaire blokes bumps himself

  off. Wondered whether you could throw any light on the case.

  If so, perhaps you'd come round?'

  'I will come immediately.'

  'Good for you, old boy. Some dirty work at the crossroads-eh?'

  153

  Poirot merely repeated that he would set forth immediately.

  'Don't want to spill the beans over the telephone? Quite

  right. So long.'

  A quarter of an hour later Poirot was sitting in the library, a

  low long room at the back of Northway House on the ground

  floor. There were five other persons in the room. Inspector

  Barnett, Dr Stillingfieet, Mrs Farley, the widow of the

  millionaire, Joanna Farley, his only daughter, and Hugo

  Cornworthy, his private secretary.

  Of these, Inspector Barnett was a discreet soldierly-looking

  man. Dr Stillingfieet, whose professional manner was entirely

  different from his telephonic style, was a tall, long-faced young

  man of thirty. Mrs Farley was obviously very much younger

  than her husband. She was a handsome dark-haired woman.

  Her mouth was hard and her black eyes gave absolutely no due

  to her emotions. She appeared perfectly self-possessed. Joanna

  Farley had fair hair and a freckled face. The prominence of her

  nose and chin was clearly inherited from her father. Her eyes

  were intelligent and shrewd. Hugo Cornworthy was a good-looking

  young fellow, very correctly dressed. He seemed in-telligent

  and efficient.

  After greetings and introductions, Poirot narrated simply

  and clearly the circumstances of his visit and the story told him

  by Benedict Farley. He could not complain of any lack of

  interest.

  'Most extraordinary story I've ever heard? said the in-spector.

  'A dream, eh? Did you know anything about this, Mrs

  Farley?'

  She bowed her head.

  'My husband mentioned it to me. It upset him very much. I-I

  told him it was indigestion - his diet, you know, was very

  peculiar- and suggested his calling in Dr Stillingfieet.'

  The young man shook his head.

  'He didn't consult me. From M. Poirot's story, I gather he

  went to Harley Street.'

  154

  'I would like your advice on that point, Doctor,' said Poirot.

  'Mr Farley told me that he consulted three specialists. What do

  you think of the theories they advanced?'

  Stillingtleet frowned.

  'It's difficult to say. You've got to take into account that what

  he passed on to you wasn't exactly what had been said to him. It

  was a layman's interpretation.'

  'You mean he had got the phraseology wrong?'

  'Not exactly. I mean they would put a thing to him in

  professional terms, he'd get the meaning a little distorted, and

  then recast it in his own language.'

  'So that what he told me was not really what the doctors said.'

  'That's what it amounts to. He's just got it all a little wrong, if

  you know what I mean.'

  Poirot nodded thoughtfully. 'Is it known whom he con-suited?'

  he asked.

  Mrs Farley shook her head, and Joanna Parley remarked:

  'None of us had any idea he had consulted anyone.'

  'Did he speak toyou about his dream?' asked Poirot.

  The girl shook her head.

  'And you, Mr Comworthy?'

  'No, he said nothing at all. I took down a letter to you at his

  dictation, but I had no idea why he wished to consult you. I

  thought it might possibly have something to do with some

  business irregularity.'

  Poirot asked: 'And now as to the actual facts of Mr Farley's

  death?'

  Inspector Barnett looked interrogativelit at Mrs Farley and at

  Dr Stillingtleet, and then took upon himself the role of

  spokesman.

  'Mr Farley was in the habit of working in his own room on

  the fixst floor every afternoon. I understand that there was a big

  amalgamation of business in prospect '

  He lo6ked at Hugo Comworthy who said, 'Consolidated

  Coachlines.'

  155

  'In connection with that,' continued Inspector Barnett, 'Mr

  Farley had agreed to give an interview to two members of the

  Press. He very seldom did anything of the kind - only about

  · once in five years, I understand. Accordingly two reporters,

  one from the Associated Newsgroups, and one from

  Amalgamated Press-sheets, arrived at a quarter past three by

  appointment. They waited on the first floor outside Mr Farley's

  door- which was the customary place for people to wait who

  had an appointment with Mr Farley. At twenty past three a

  messenger arrived from the office of Consolidated Coachlines

  with some urgent papers. He was shown into Mr Farley's room

  where he handed over the documents. Mr Farley accompanied

  him to the door, and from there spoke to the two members of

  the Press. He said:

  '"I'm sorry, gentlemen, to have to keep you waiting, but I

  have some urgent business to attend to. I will be as quick as I

  'The two gentlemen, Mr Adams and Mr Stoddart, assured Mr

  Farley that they would await his convenience. He went back into

  his room, shut the door- and was never seen alive again!'

  'Continue,' said Poirot.

  'At a little after four o'clock,' went on the inspector, 'Mr

  Comworthy here came out of his room which is next door to Mr

  Farley's and was surpri
sed to see the two reporters still waiting.

  He wanted Mr'Farley's signature to some letters and thought he

  had also better remind him that these two gentlemen were

  waiting. He accordingly went into Mr Farley's room. To his

  surprise he could not at fa'st see Mr Farley and thought the room

  was empty. Then he caught sight of a boot sticking out behind

  the desk (which is placed in front of the window). He went

  quickly across and discovered Mr Farley lying there dead, with a

  revolver beside him.

  'Mr Comworthy hurried out of the room and directed the

  butler to ring up Dr Stillinglleet. By the latter's advice, Mr

  Cornworthy also informed the police.'

  156

  'Was the shot heard?' asked Poirot.

  'No. The traffic is very noisy here, the landing window wa

  open. What with lorries and motor horns it would be mo