Hercule Poirot's Casebook

eyes wandered a moment to its surroundings, the shops, the big

factory building on the right, the blocks of cheap mansion flats

opposite.

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

submerged and forgotten in the hectic sea of modem London

and not one man in fifty could have told you where it stood.

Furthermore, very few people could have told you to whon

it belonged, though its owner's name would have been recog-nized

as one of the world's richest men. But money can quench

publicity as well as flaunt it. Benedict Farley, that eccentric

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 details - his

famous patchwork dressing- gown, now reputed to be twenty-eight

years old, his invariable diet of cabbage soup and caviare,

his hatred of cats. All these things the public knew.

Hercule Poirot knew them also. It 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 the neat

wrist-watch which had at last replaced ap. old favourite - the

large turnip-faced watch of earlier days. Yes, it was exactly

nine-thirty. As ever, Hercule Poirot was exact to the minute..

The dOOr opened after just the right interval. A perfect specimen

of the genus buffer stood outlined against the lighted hall.

'Mr Benedict Farley?' asked Hercule Poirot.

The impersonal glance surveyed him from head to foot,

inoffensively but ffecfively.

En gros et en ddtail, thought Hercule Poirot to himself with

appreciation.

'You have an appointment, sir?' asked the suave voice.

'Yes.'

'Your name, sir?'

'Monsieur Hercule Poirot.'

The buffer bowed and drew back. Hercule Poirot entered the

house. The buffer 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 buffer. 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 . H ercule P oirot

Dear Sir,

Mr Benedict Farley would like to have the benefit of your

advice. If convenient to yourself he would be glad if you would

call upon him at the above address at 9.30 tomorrow (Thursday)

Yours truly,

P.S. Please bring this letter wi&you. 144

Hugo C ornwonhy

(Secretary)

Deftly the butler relieved Poirot of hat, stick and overt

said: l,

'Will you please come up to Mr Comworthy's room?

He led the way up the broad staircase. Poirot followed ing with appreciation at such objets d'art as were of an opt

florid nature! His taste in art was always somewhat

On the first floor the buder knocked on a door.

Hercule Poirot's eyebrows rose very slightly. It was

jarring note. For the best buders do not knock at doo

yet indubitably this was a fu'st-class butler!

It was, so to speak, the fu'st intimation of contact i$

eccentricity of a millionaire.

A voice from within called out something. The bud%

open the door. He announced (and again Poirot se

deliberate departure from orthodoxy):

'The gendeman you are expecting, sir.'

Poirot passed into the room. It was a fair-sized to

plainly furnished in a workmanlike fashion. Filing q

books of reference, a couple of easy-chairs, and a la

imposing desk covered with neatly docketed pape

corners of the room were dim, for the only light came fr

green-shaded reading lamp which stood on a small tabl arm of one of the easy-chairs. It was placed so as to cas

light on anyone approaching from the door. Hercul

blinked a little, realizing .that the lamp bulb was at

watts. In the arm-chair sat a thin figure in a palI

dressing-gown - Benedict Farley. His head was stuck fl

in a characteristic attitude, his beaked nose projecting

of a bird. A crest of white hair like that of a cockatoo to

his forehead. His eyes glittered behind thick lenses as hI

suspiciously at his visitor.

'Hey,' he said at last- and his voice was shrill and har:

a rasping note in it. 'So you're Hercule Poirot, hey?'

'At your service,' said Poirot politely and bowed, e,

on the back of the chair.

wrist-watch which had at last replaced ap. old favourite - the

large turnip-faced watch of earlier days. Yes, it was exactly

nine-thirty. As ever, Hercule Poirot was exact to the minute.

The dOOr opened after just the right interval. A perfect specimen