The Regatta Mystery and Other Stories

Poirot passed behind the latter to where a dark stain on the carpet showed just before the win-dow. He remembered the millionaire saying, "At twenty-eight minutes past three I open the second

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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 I shoot my-self."

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 win-dows in it.

Stillingfleet 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."

Stillingfleet looked at him curiously. "You mean--psychologically?"

Poirot had moved to the desk. Idly, or so it seemed, he picked up a pair of what are usually called lazytongs. 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 waste-paper basket.

"When you've finished playing with those things..." said Stillingfleet irritably.

Hercule Poirot murmured, "An ingenious in-vention,'' 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

166 Agatha Christie

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 like to see Miss Farley. Do you think you could ask her to come here for a minute or two?"

"If you like."

Stillingfleet glanced at him curiously, then left the room. In another minute or two the door opened and Joanna Farley came in.

"You do not mind, mademoiselle, if I ask you a few questions?"

She returned his glance coolly. "Please ask anything you choose."

"Did you know that your father kept a revolver in his desk?"

"No."

"Where were you and your mother--that is to say your stepmother--that is right?"

"Yes, Louise is my father's second wife. She is only eight years older than I am. You were about to say--?"

"Where were you and she on Thursday of last

week? That is to say, on Thursday night."

She reflected for a minute or two.

"Thursday? Let me see. Oh, yes, we had gone to the theater. To see Little Dog Laughed."

"Your father did not suggest accompanying you?"

"He never went out to theaters."

"What did he usually do in the evenings?"

"He sat in here and read."

"He was not a very sociable man?"

THE DREAM 167

The girl looked at him directly. "My father," she said, "had a singularly unpleasant personality. No one who lived in close association with him could possibly be fond of him."

"That, mademoiselle, is a very candid state-ment."

"I am saving you time, M. Poirot. I realize quite well what you are getting at. My stepmother married my father for his money. I live here because I have no money to live elsewhere. There is a man I wish to marry--a poor man; my father saw to it that he lost his job. He wanted me, you see, to marry well--an easy matter since I was to be his heiress!"

"Your father's fortune passes to you?"

"Yes. That is, he left Louise, my stepmother, a quarter of a million free of tax, and there are other legacies, but the residue goes to me." She smiled suddenly. "So you see, M. Poirot, I had every reason to desire my father's death!"

"I see, mademoiselle, that you have inherited your father's intelligence."

She said thoughtfully, "Father was clever .... One felt that with him--that he had force--driving power--but it had all turned sour--bitter -there was no humanity left .... "

Hercule Poirot said softly, "Grand Dieu, but what an imbecile I am .... "

Joanna Farley turned towards the door. "Is there anything more?"

"Two little questions. These tongs here," he picked up the lazytongs, "were they always on the table?"

*;'L "Yes. Father used them for picking up things.

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Agatha Christie

He didn't like stooping."

"One other question. Was your father's eye-sight good?"

She stared at him.

"Oh, no--he couldn't see at all--I mean he couldn't see without his glasses. His sight had

always been bad from a boy."

"But with his glasses?"

"Oh, he could see all right then, of course." "He could read newspapers and fine print?"

"Oh, yes."

"That is all, mademoiselle."

She went out of the room

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.