AgathaChristie-HerculePoirotsCasebook

by Hercule Poirot's Casebook (lit)

  '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 affora to

  2ve me see.

  'And now I come to the third inexplicable thing that

  165

  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. Jtt

  before I left the room I discovered my error- and rectified i:!

  After that I left the house and - I admit it- I was completely at seal 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 laundre.,;:;

  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,t'

  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 wa

  found there with a revolver by him, and no one entered or lei'

  the room at the time that he was shot. What does that mean? 1

  means, does it not, that it must be suicide!'

  'Yes,' said Sfllingfleet.

  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.

  166

  '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, roes amis, he

  was a man of nom.l sight wearing a pair of very powerful

  glasses. Those glasses would render a man of normal eyesight

  practically blind. Isn't that so, Doctor?'

  S tillingfieet 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 playing 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 £amous

  patchwork dressing-gown, the beaked nose (faked with that

  . useful substance, nose putty) the white crest of hair, the

  .i POwerful lenses concealing the eyes. What evidence is there

  ' "i!i 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

  167

  purloined from the desk next door he holds an object against

  the window of that room. Benedict Farley comes to t[.

  window. Cornworthy snatches back the tongs and as Farle,.

  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 pounds gers 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 MrFarley's

  own lips - of his extraordinary "dream" - the strange com-pulsion

  he felt to kill himselE 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 Stillingfieet, 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.

  'Voild,' 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.'

  168

  '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 Sti!lingfleet 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.'

  169

  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 exactl

  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 b'

  took a certain pride in the artistic activities of others.

  Molly, the sympathetic waitress, greeted Mr Bonningto;

  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 stuffe,¢

  with chestnuts - that's your favourite, isn't it? And ever suc}

  a nice Stilton we've got I 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.

  170

  '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 shookhis head. 'C' est terrible.'

  Then 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 rightI 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 mbme,' 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

  tilde language. The fine language helps to conceal the mess.

  Like a highly-flavoured sauce concealing the fact that the fish

  171

  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? [

  ought to know what you like.'

  Hercule Poirot said:

  'Do people then always like the same things? Do not th,:,

  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

  172

  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 fred that ex-traordinarily

  interesting.'

  Molly looked gratified and departed.

  'Well, Poirot,' said Henry Bonnington with a chuckle.

  'Let's have a few deductions from y
ou. All in your best

  manner.'

  'I would prefer to hear yours first.'

  i 'Want me to be Watson, eh? Well, old fellow went to a

  i doctor and the doctor changed his diet.'

  · .'il 'To thick tomato soup, steak and kidney pudding and

  i 'i blackberry tart? I cannot imagine any doctor doing that.'

  'Don't believe it, old boy. Doctors will put you on to

  anything.'

  'That is the only solution that occurs to you?'

  Henry Bonnington said:

  'Well, seriously, I suppose there's only one explanation

  possible. Our unknown friend was in the grip of some

  powerful mental emotion. He was so perturbed by it that he

  literally did not notice what he was ordering or eating.'

  He paused a minute and then said:

  'You'll be telling me next that you know just what was on

  his mind. You'll say perhaps that he was making up his mind

  to commit a murder.'

  He laughed at his own suggestion.

  Hercule Poirot did not laugh.

  173

  He has admitted that at that moment he was seriously

  worried. He claims that he ought then to have had some

  inkling of what was likely to occur.

  His friends assure him that such an idea is quite fantastic.

  It was some three weeks later that Hercule Poirot and

  Bonnington met again - this time their meeting was in the

  Tube.

  They nodded to each other, swaying about, hanging on to

  adjacent straps. Then at Piccadilly Circus there was a general

  exodus and they found seats right at the forward end of the