him.
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Agatha Christie
"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
THE DREAM
155
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.
"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 t all."
"But the idea presented itself to your hind?"
Poirot persisted.
"I wanted to know--if it was a possibility.,,
"Speaking from my own experience, 1 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
definitely 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 dramathe
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 myselfm"
"There's no need," Farley snapped. "You've
given me your opinion. That's the end."
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Agatha Christie
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 mat-ter.
You can send me in a bill for a consultation
fee."
"I shall not fail to do so," said the detective
dryly. He walked towards the door.
"Stop a minute." The millionaire called him
back. "That letter--I want it."
"The letter from your secretary?"
"Yes."
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 scrutinized 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--"
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157
"What's all this? What's all this?"
"The letter that I handed you just now--an
apology from my laundress concerning the treat-ment
of my collars." Poirot was smiling, apolo-getic.
He dipped into his left-hand pocket. "This
is your 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 spacious 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 armchairs and a table with flowers. It re-minded
him a little of a dentist's waiting-room.
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 fine. I will
walk."
Hercule Poirot paused a moment on the pave-ment
waiting for a lull in the traffic before cross-ing
the busy street.,
A frown creased his forehead.
"No," he said to himself. "I do not understand
at all. Nothing makes sense. Regrettable to have to
admit it, but I, Hercule Poirot, am completely
baffled."
That was what might be termed the first act of
the drama. The second act followed a week later.
It opened with a telephone call from one John
Stillingfleet, M.D.
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Agatha Christie
He said with a remarkable lack of medical
decorum:
"That you, Poirot, old horse? Stillingfleet
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 himself this afternoon."
There was a pause, then Poirot said:
"Yes .... "
"I notice you're not overcome with surprise.
Know something about it, old horse?"
"Why should you think that?"
"Well, it isn't brilliant deduction or telepathy
or any
thing like that. We found a note from Farley
to you making an appointment about a week
ago. ' '
"I see."
"We've got a tame police 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
cross-roads--eh?"
Poirot merely repeated that he would set forth
immediately.
"Don't want to spill the beans over the telc-phone?
Quite right. So long."
A quarter of an hour later Poirot was sitting in the library, a low long room at the back of North
I
THE DREAM
159
· way House on the ground floor. There were five
other persons in the room. Inspector Barnett, Dr.
Stillingfleet, 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 sol-dierly-looking
man. Dr. Stillingfleet, 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 clue 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 somewhat colorless
young man, very correctly dressed. He seemed
intelligent 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 inspector. "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. Stillingfleet."
That young man shook his head.
"He didn't consult me. From M. Poirot's story,
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Agatha Christie
I gather he went to Harley Street."
"I would like your advice on that point, doc-tor,''
said Poirot. "Mr. Farley told me that he
consulted three specialists. What do you think of
the theories they advanced?"
Stillingfleet frowned.
"It's difficult to say. You've got to take into
count that what he passed on to you wasn't exactly
what had been said to him. It was a layman's in-terpretation.''
"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 lan-guage.''
"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 consulted?" he asked.
Mrs. Farley shook her head, and Joanna Farley
remarked:
"None of us had any idea he had consulted
anyone."
"Did he speak to you about his dream?" asked
Poirot.
The girl shook her head.
"And you, Mr. Cornworthy?"
"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 tho, ught it might possibly
have something to do with some business irregu-larity.''
THE DREAM
161
Poirot asked: "And now as to the actual facts
of Mr. Farley's death?"
Inspector Barnett looked interrogatively at Mrs.
Farley and at Dr. Stillingfleet, and then took upon
himself the role of spokesman.
"Mr. Farley was in the habit of working in his
own room on the first floor every afternoon. I
understand that there was a big amalgamation of
businesses in prospect--"
He looked at Hugo Cornworthy who said,
"Consolidated Coachlines."
"In connection with that," continued Inspector
Barnett, "Mr. Farley had agreed to give an inter-view
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 of the room,
and from there spoke to the two members of the
Press. He said:
"'I am sorry, gentlemen, to have to keep you
waiting, but I have some urgent business to attend
to. I will be as quick as I can.'
"The two gentlemen, Mr. Adams and Mr. Stod-dart,
assured Mr. Farley that they would await his
convenience. He went back into his room, shut the
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Agatha Christie
door--and was never seen ali,e again!"
"Continue," said Poirot.
"At a little after four o'clock," went on the in-spector,
"Mr. Cornworthy here came out of his
room which is next door to Mr. Farley's, and was
surprised 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 first 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. Cornworthy hurried out of the room and
directed the butler to ring up Dr. Stillingfieet. By
the latter's advice, Mr. Cornworthy also informed
the police."
"Was the shot heard?" asked Poirot.
"No. The traffic is very noisy here, the landing
window was open. What with lorries and motor
horns it would be most unlikely if it had been
noticed."
Poirot nodded thoughtfully. "What time is
it
supposed he died?" he asked.
Stillingfieet said:
"I examined the body as soon as I got here--that
is, at thirty-two minutes past four. Mr. Farley
had been dead at least an hour."
Poirot's face was very grave.
"So then, it seems possible that his death could
have occurred at the time he mentioned to me--
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163
that is, at twenty-eight minutes past three."
"Exactly," said Stillingfleet.
"Any finger-marks on the revolver?"
"Yes, his own."
"And the revolver itself?"
The inspector took up the tale.
"Was one which he kept in the second right-hand
drawer of his desk, just as he told you. Mrs.
Farley has identified it positively. Moreover, you
understand, there is only one entrance to the
room, the door giving on to the landing. The two
reporters were sitting exactly opposite that door
and they swear that no one entered the room from
the time Mr. Farley spoke to them, until Mr.
Cornworthy entered it at a little after four
o'clock."
"So that there is every reason to suppose that
Mr. Farley conmitted suicide?"
Inspector Barnett smiled a little.
"There would have been no doubt at all but for
one point."
"And that?"
"The letter written to you."
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