writing distinctly insane letters to her intended vic-tim.
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
145
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.
THE DREAM
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 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
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.
150
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 say
s, 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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