Hercule Poirot's Casebook

'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

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 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.