Hercule Poirot's Casebook

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

unlikely if it had been noticed.'

Poirot nodded thoughtfully. 'What time is it supposed h,

died?' he asked.

S 'ullingfleet said:

'I examined the body as soon as I got here - that is, at thirt3

two minutes past four. Mr Farley had been dead at least

hour.'

Poirot's face was very grave.

'So then, it seems possible that his death could have occurre{

at the time he mentioned to me - that is, at twenty-eig, h

nunutes past three.

'Exactly ,' said Stillingileet.

'Any fmgermarks 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 hi:

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 wer

sitting exactly opposite that door and they swear that no on

entered the room from the time Mr Farley spoke to them, un

Mr Comworthy entered it at a little after four o'clock.'

'So that there is every reason to suppose that Mr Farley.

comnutted stuclde.

Inspector Barnett smiled a little.

'There would have been no doubt at all but for one point.'

'And that?'

'The letter written to you.

Poirot smiled too.

'I see! Where Hercule Poirot is concerned- immediately the

suspicion of murder arises.

15

'Precisely,' said the inspector dryly. 'However, after your

clearing up of the situation-'

Poirot interrupted him. 'One little minute.' He turned to

Mrs Farley. 'Had your husband ever been hypnotized?'

'Never.'

'Had he studied the question of hypnotism? Was he

interested in the subject?'

She shook her head. 'I don't think so.'

Suddenly her self-control seemed to break down. 'That

horrible dream! It's uncanny! That he should have dreamed

that - night after night - and then - it's as though he were hounded to death!'

Poirot remembered Benedict Farley saying-- 'I proceed to

do that which I really wish to do. I put an end to myself.'

He said, 'Had it ever occurred to you that your husband

might be tempted to do away with himself?.'

'No- at least- sometimes he was very queer .... '

Joanna Farley's voice broke in clear and scornful. 'Father

would never have killed himself. He was far too careful of

himself.'

Dr Stillingfleet said, 'It isn't the people who threaten to

commit suicide who usually do it, you know, Miss Farley.

That's why suicides sometimes seem unaccountable.'

Poirot rose to his feet. 'Is it permitted,' he asked, 'that I see

the room where the tragedy occurred?'

'Certainly. Dr Stillingfleet-'

The doctor accompanied Poirot upstairs.

Benedict Farley's room was a much larger one than the

secretary's next door. It was luxuriously furnished with deep

leather-covered arm-chairs, a thick pile carpet, and a superb

outsize writing-desk.

Poirot passed behind the latter to where a dark stain on the

carpet showed just before the window. He remembered the

millionaire saying, 'A t twenty-eight minutes past three I open the

second drawer on the right of my desk, take out the revolver that I

158

keep there, load it, and walk over to the window. And then - and

then I shoot myself.'

He nodded slowly. Then he said:

'The window was open like this?'

'Yes. But nobody could have got in that way.'

Poirot put his head out. There was no sill or parapet and no

pipes near. Not even a cat could have gained access that way.

Opposite rose the blank wall of the factory, a dead wall with no

windows in it.

Sfillingtleet said, 'Funny room for a rich man to choose as his

own sanctum, with that outlook. It's like looking out on to a

prison wall.'

'Yes,' said Poirot. He drew his head in and stared at the

expanse of solid brick. 'I think,' he said, 'that that wall is

important.'

Stillingtleet looked at him curiously. 'You mean - psycho-

logicany?'

Poirot had moved to the desk. Idly, or so it seemed, he

picked up a pair of what are usually called lazy-tongs. He

pressed the handles; the tongs shot out to their full length.

Delicately, Poirot picked up a burnt match stump with them

from beside a chair some feet away and conveyed it carefully to

the wastepaper basket.

'When you've finished playing with those things '

said

Stillingfleet

irritably.

Hercule

Poirot murmured, 'An ingenious invention,' and replaced

the tongs neatly on the writing-table. Then he asked:

'Where

were Mrs Farley and Miss Farley at the time of the death?'

'Mrs

Farley

was resting in her room on the floor above this. Miss Farley

was painting in her studio at the top of the house.'

Hercule Poirot

drummed idly with his fingers on the table for a minute

or two. Then he said:

'I should