The Adventure of the Christmas Pudding

‘And that's impossible — impossible! I'm perfectly happy! I've got everything I want — everything 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 finger on the table beside him.

‘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.

‘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 persisted.

‘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 definitely 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 in a bill for a consultation fee.’

‘I shall not fail to do so,’ said the detective dryly. He walked towards the door.

‘Stop a minute.’ The millionaire called him back. ‘That letter — I want it.’

‘The letter from your secretary?’

‘Yes.’

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 scrutinized 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 is your 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.