Hercule Poirot's Casebook

essentially stagy. 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.

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 ex-pected,

it was not this.

'For that, M. Farley, I should recommend Napoleon's

Book of Dreams - or the latest practising psychologist from

Harley Street.'

Benedict Farley said soberly, 'I've tried both .... '

There was a pause, 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

147

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 do it. I

don't want to do it- I loathe doing it- but I've got to '

His

voice had risen shrilly.

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 revolver that I keep there, load it and walk

over

to the window. And then- and then-'

'Yes?'

Benedict

Farley said in a whisper:

'

Then I 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 thoughtfully. '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 prepared.'

'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:

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.'