The Adventure of the Christmas Pudding

Poirot murmured, ‘I was stupid. It was there, all the time, under my nose. And because it was so near I could not see it.’

He leaned out of the window once more. Down below, in the narrow way between the house and the factory, he saw a small dark object.

Hercule Poirot nodded, satisfied, and went downstairs again.

The others were still in the library. Poirot addressed himself to the secretary:

‘I want you, Mr Cornworthy, to recount to me in detail the exact circumstances of Mr Farley's summons to me. When, for instance, did Mr Farley dictate that letter?’

‘On Wednesday afternoon — at five-thirty, as far as I can remember.’

‘Were there any special directions about posting it?’

‘He told me to post it myself.’

‘And you did so?’

‘Yes.’

‘Did he give any special instructions to the butler about admitting me?’

‘Yes. He told me to tell Holmes (Holmes is the butler) that a gentleman would be calling at 9.30. He was to ask the gentleman's name. He was also to ask to see the letter.’

‘Rather peculiar precautions to take, don't you think?’

Cornworthy shrugged his shoulders.

‘Mr Farley,’ he said carefully, ‘was rather a peculiar man.’

‘Any other instructions?’

‘Yes. He told me to take the evening off.’

‘Did you do so?’

‘Yes, immediately after dinner I went to the cinema.’

‘When did you return?’

‘I let myself in about a quarter past eleven.’

‘Did you see Mr Farley again that evening?’

‘No.’

‘And he did not mention the matter the next morning?’

‘No.’

Poirot paused a moment, then resumed, ‘When I arrived I was not shown into Mr Farley's own room.’

‘No. He told me that I was to tell Holmes to show you into my room.’

‘Why was that? Do you know?’

Cornworthy shook his head. ‘I never questioned any of Mr Farley's orders,’ he said dryly. ‘He would have resented it if I had.’

‘Did he usually receive visitors in his own room?’

‘Usually, but not always. Sometimes he saw them in my room.’

‘Was there any reason for that?’

Hugo Cornworthy considered.

‘No — I hardly think so — I've never really thought about it.’

Turning to Mrs Farley, Poirot asked:

‘You permit that I ring for your butler?’

‘Certainly, M. Poirot.’

Very correct, very urbane, Holmes answered the bell.

‘You rang, madam?’

Mrs Farley indicated Poirot with a gesture. Holmes turned politely. ‘Yes, sir?’

‘What were your instructions, Holmes, on the Thursday night when I came here?’

Holmes cleared his throat, then said:

‘After dinner Mr Cornworthy told me that Mr Farley expected a Mr Hercule Poirot at 9.30. I was to ascertain the gentleman's name, and I was to verify the information by glancing at a letter. Then I was to show him up to Mr Cornworthy's room.’

‘Were you also told to knock on the door?’

An expression of distaste crossed the butler's countenance.

‘That was one of Mr Farley's orders. I was always to knock when introducing visitors — business visitors, that is,’ he added.

‘Ah, that puzzled me! Were you given any other instructions concerning me?’

‘No, sir. When Mr Cornworthy had told me what I have just repeated to you he went out.’

‘What time was that?’

‘Ten minutes to nine, sir.’

‘Did you see Mr Farley after that?’

‘Yes, sir, I took him up a glass of hot water as usual at nine o'clock.’

‘Was he then in his own room or in Mr Cornworthy's?’

‘He was in his own room, sir.’

‘You noticed nothing unusual about that room?’

‘Unusual? No, sir.’

‘Where were Mrs Farley and Miss Farley?’

‘They had gone to the theatre, sir.’

‘Thank you, Holmes, that will do.’

Holmes bowed and left the room. Poirot turned to the millionaire's widow.

‘One more question, Mrs Farley. Had your husband good sight?’

‘No. Not without his glasses.’

‘He was very shortsighted?’

‘Oh, yes, he was quite helpless without his spectacles.’

‘He had several pairs of glasses?’

‘Yes.’

‘Ah,’ said Poirot. He leaned back. ‘I think that that concludes the case…’

There was silence in the room. They were all looking at the little man who sat there complacently stroking his moustache. On the inspector's face was perplexity, Dr Stillingfleet was frowning, Cornworthy merely stared uncomprehendingly, Mrs Farley gazed in blank astonishment, Joanna Farley looked eager.

Mrs Farley broke the silence.

‘I don't understand, M. Poirot.’ Her voice was fretful. ‘The dream —’

‘Yes,’ said Poirot. ‘That dream was very important.’

Mrs Farley shivered. She said:

‘I've never believed in anything supernatural before — but now — to dream it night after night beforehand —’

‘It's extraordinary,’ said Stillingfleet. ‘Extraordinary! If we hadn't got your word for it, Poirot, and if you hadn't had it straight from the horse's mouth —’ he coughed in embarrassment, and readopting his professional manner, ‘I beg your pardon, Mrs Farley. If Mr Farley himself had not told that story —’

‘Exactly,’ said Poirot. His eyes, which had been half-closed, opened suddenly. They were very green. ‘If Benedict Farley hadn't told me —’

He paused a minute, looking round at a circle of blank faces.