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
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