The Regatta Mystery and Other Stories

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The Regatta Mystery and Other Stories Page 14

by Agatha Christie


  She had been following her about for some

  time, and she laid her plans very cleverly. The

  false hair and maid's dress she posted in a parcel

  first thing the next morning. When taxed with the

  truth she broke down and confessed at once. The

  poor thing is in Broadmoor now. Completely un-balanced,

  of course, but a very cleverly planned

  crime.

  Mr. Petherick came to me afterwards and

  brought me a very nice letter from Mr. Rhodes--really,

  it made me blush. Then my old friend said

  to me: "Just one thing--why did you think it was

  more likely to be Carruthers than Granby? You'd

  never seen either of them."

  "Well," I said. "It was the g's. You said she

  dropped her g's. Now, that's done a lot by hunting

  MISS MARPLE TELLS A STORY

  141

  people in books, but I don't know many people

  who do it in reality--and certainly no one under

  sixty. You said this woman was forty. Those

  dropped g's sounded to me like a woman who was

  playing a part and overdoing it."

  I shan't tell you what Mr. Petherick said to that

  --but he was very complimentary--and I really

  couldn't help feeling just a teeny weeny bit pleased

  with myself.

  And it's extraordinary how things turn out for

  the best in this world. Mr. Rhodes has married

  again--such a nice, sensible girl--and they've got

  a dear little baby andmwhat do you think?tthey

  asked me to be godmother. Wasn't it nice of

  them?

  Now I do hope you don't think I've been run-ning

  on too long ....

  Hercule Poirot gave the house a steady appraising

  glance. His eyes wandered a moment to its sur-roundings,

  the shops, the big factory building on

  the right, the blocks of cheap mansion flats op-posite.

  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, sub-merged

  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

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  146

  Agatha Christie

  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 detailsmhis famous patch-work

  dressing-gown, now reputed to be twenty-eight

  years old, his invariable diet of cabbage soup

  and aviare, his hatred of cats. All these things the

  public knew.

  Hercule Poirot knew them also. t 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 theneat wrist-watch which

  had at last replaced an earlier favoritemthe large

  turnip-faced watch of earlier days. Yes, it was ex-actly

  nine-thirty. As ever, Hercule Poirot was ex-act

  to the minute.

  The door opened after just the right interval. A

  perfect specimen of the genus butler stood out-lined

  against the lighted hall.

  "Mr. Benedict Farley?" asked Hercule Poirot.

  The impersonal glance surveyed him from head

  to foot, inoffensively but effectively.

  "Eh gros et en dtail," thought Hercule Poirot

  to himself with appreciation.

  "You have an appointment, sir?" asked the

  suave voice.

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  147

  "Yes."

  "Your name, sir?"

  "M. Hercule Poirot."

  The butler bowed and drew back. Hercule Poi-rot

  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 your-self

  he would be glad if you would call upon

  him at the above address at 9:30 tomorrow

  (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?"

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  Agatha Christie

  He led the way up the broad staircase. Poirot

  followed him, looking with appreciation at such oh jets 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, realizing that the lamp bulb

  was at least 150 watts. In the armchair sat a thin

  figure in a patchwork dressing-gown--Benedict

  Farley. His head was stuck forward in a char
acteristic

  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

  THE DREAM

  149

  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 conjuror 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 con-suit

  me7"

  The old man nodded.

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  tgatha Christie

  "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--/

  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 at-tentively,

  his head poised a little on one side.

  Behind his impassive exterior he was conscious

  of a feeling of disappointment. He could not ex-actly

  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 conscious

  of a certain force, an inner energy that had com-manded

  his respect. If they had worn a patchwork

  dressing-gown, it would have been because they

  liked wearing such a dressing-gown. But the dress-ing-gown

  of Benedict Farley, or so it seemed to

  Poirot, was essentially a stage property. And the

  man himself was essentially stagey. 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.

  THE DREAM

  151

  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, Monsieur Farley, I should recommend

  Napoleon's Book of Dreams--or the latest

  practicing psychologist from Harley Street."

  Benedict Farley said soberly, "I've tried go th .... ' '

  There was a paus.e, 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 cio it. I don't want to do it--I loathe

  doing it--but I've got to "

  His

  voice had risen shrilly.

  152

  Agatha

  Christie

  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 re-volver

  that I keep there, load it and walk over to

  the

  window. And then--and then--"

  "Yes?"

  Benedict

  Farley said in a whisper: "Then

  l 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 thought-fully.

  "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 pre-pared.

  ' '

  "Prepared

  for what?"

  Farley

  said irritably, ,,A man in my position has to

  be on his guard. All rich men have enemies."

  Poirot

  did not pursue the subject. He remained

  silent

  for a moment or two, then he said:

  "Why

  exactly did you send for me?"

  "I

  will tell you. First of all I consulted a doc-

  tor-three

  doctors to be exact."

  "Yes?"

  "The

  first told me it was all a question of diet.

  !ili

  THE DREAM

  153

  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 in-fancy

  at that particular time of day--three twenty-eight.

  I am so determined, he says, not to remem-ber

  that 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 deliber-ately

  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 per-fectly

  happy! I've got everything I wantmeverything

  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 finger on the table beside

 

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