I am sorry to have failed you, but I can assure you that I did my best.
Your affectionate nephew,
George Lorrimer
The letter itself was dated 3rd November. Poirot glanced at the envelope’s postmark – 4.30 p.m. 3 Nov.
He murmured:
‘It is beautifully in order, is it not?’
V
Kingston Hill was his next objective. After a little trouble, with the exercise of good-humoured pertinacity, he obtained an interview with Amelia Hill, cook-housekeeper to the late Anthony Gascoigne.
Mrs Hill was inclined to be stiff and suspicious at first, but the charming geniality of this strange-looking foreigner would have had its effect on a stone. Mrs Amelia Hill began to unbend.
She found herself, as had so many other women before her, pouring out her troubles to a really sympathetic listener.
For fourteen years she had had charge of Mr Gascoigne’s household – not an easy job! No, indeed! Many a woman would have quailed under the burdens she had had to bear! Eccentric the poor gentleman was and no denying it. Remarkably close with his money – a kind of mania with him it was – and he as rich a gentleman as might be! But Mrs Hill had served him faithfully, and put up with his ways, and naturally she’d expected at any rate a remembrance. But no – nothing at all! Just an old will that left all his money to his wife and if she predeceased him then everything to his brother, Henry. A will made years ago. It didn’t seem fair!
Gradually Hercule Poirot detached her from her main theme of unsatisfied cupidity. It was indeed a heartless injustice! Mrs Hill could not be blamed for feeling hurt and surprised. It was well known that Mr Gascoigne was tight-fisted about money. It had even been said that the dead man had refused his only brother assistance. Mrs Hill probably knew all about that.
‘Was it that that Dr Lorrimer came to see him about?’ asked Mrs Hill. ‘I knew it was something about his brother, but I thought it was just that his brother wanted to be reconciled. They’d quarrelled years ago.’
‘I understand,’ said Poirot, ‘that Mr Gascoigne refused absolutely?’
‘That’s right enough,’ said Mrs Hill with a nod. ‘“Henry?” he says, rather weak like. “What’s this about Henry? Haven’t seen him for years and don’t want to. Quarrelsome fellow, Henry.” Just that.’
The conversation then reverted to Mrs Hill’s own special grievances, and the unfeeling attitude of the late Mr Gascoigne’s solicitor.
With some difficulty Hercule Poirot took his leave without breaking off the conversation too abruptly.
And so, just after the dinner hour, he came to Elmcrest, Dorset Road, Wimbledon, the residence of Dr George Lorrimer.
The doctor was in. Hercule Poirot was shown into the surgery and there presently Dr George Lorrimer came to him, obviously just risen from the dinner table.
‘I’m not a patient, Doctor,’ said Hercule Poirot. ‘And my coming here is, perhaps, somewhat of an impertinence – but I’m an old man and I believe in plain and direct dealing. I do not care for lawyers and their long-winded roundabout methods.’
He had certainly aroused Lorrimer’s interest. The doctor was a clean-shaven man of middle height. His hair was brown but his eyelashes were almost white which gave his eyes a pale, boiled appearance. His manner was brisk and not without humour.
‘Lawyers?’ he said, raising his eyebrows. ‘Hate the fellows! You rouse my curiosity, my dear sir. Pray sit down.’
Poirot did so and then produced one of his professional cards which he handed to the doctor.
George Lorrimer’s white eyelashes blinked.
Poirot leaned forward confidentially. ‘A good many of my clients are women,’ he said.
‘Naturally,’ said Dr George Lorrimer, with a slight twinkle.
‘As you say, naturally,’ agreed Poirot. ‘Women distrust the official police. They prefer private investigations. They do not want to have their troubles made public. An elderly woman came to consult me a few days ago. She was unhappy about a husband she’d quarrelled with many years before. This husband of hers was your uncle, the late Mr Gascoigne.’ George Lorrimer’s face went purple.
‘My uncle? Nonsense! His wife died many years ago.’
‘Not your uncle, Mr Anthony Gascoigne. Your uncle, Mr Henry Gascoigne.’
‘Uncle Henry? But he wasn’t married!’
‘Oh yes, he was,’ said Hercule Poirot, lying unblushingly. ‘Not a doubt of it. The lady even brought along her marriage certificate.’
‘It’s a lie!’ cried George Lorrimer. His face was now as purple as a plum. ‘I don’t believe it. You’re an impudent liar.’
‘It is too bad, is it not?’ said Poirot. ‘You have committed murder for nothing.’
‘Murder?’ Lorrimer’s voice quavered. His pale eyes bulged with terror.
‘By the way,’ said Poirot, ‘I see you have been eating blackberry tart again. An unwise habit. Blackberries are said to be full of vitamins, but they may be deadly in other ways. On this occasion I rather fancy they have helped to put a rope round a man’s neck – your neck, Dr Lorrimer.’
VI
‘You see, mon ami, where you went wrong was over your fundamental assumption.’ Hercule Poirot, beaming placidly across the table at his friend, waved an expository hand. ‘A man under severe mental stress doesn’t choose that time to do something that he’s never done before. His reflexes just follow the track of least resistance. A man who is upset about something might conceivably come down to dinner dressed in his pyjamas – but they will be his own pyjamas – not somebody else’s.
‘A man who dislikes thick soup, suet pudding and blackberries suddenly orders all three one evening. You say, because he is thinking of something else. But I say that a man who has got something on his mind will order automatically the dish he has ordered most often before.
‘Eh bien, then, what other explanation could there be? I simply could not think of a reasonable explanation. And I was worried! The incident was all wrong. It did not fit! I have an orderly mind and I like things to fit. Mr Gascoigne’s dinner order worried me.
‘Then you told me that the man had disappeared. He had missed a Tuesday and a Thursday the first time for years. I liked that even less. A queer hypothesis sprang up in my mind. If I were right about it the man was dead. I made inquiries. The man was dead. And he was very neatly and tidily dead. In other words the bad fish was covered up with the sauce!
‘He had been seen in the King’s Road at seven o’clock. He had had dinner here at seven-thirty – two hours before he died. It all fitted in – the evidence of the stomach contents, the evidence of the letter. Much too much sauce! You couldn’t see the fish at all!
‘Devoted nephew wrote the letter, devoted nephew had beautiful alibi for time of death. Death very simple – a fall down the stairs. Simple accident? Simple murder? Everyone says the former.
‘Devoted nephew only surviving relative. Devoted nephew will inherit – but is there anything to inherit? Uncle notoriously poor.
‘But there is a brother. And brother in his time had married a rich wife. And brother lives in a big rich house on Kingston Hill, so it would seem that rich wife must have left him all her money. You see the sequence – rich wife leaves money to Anthony, Anthony leaves money to Henry, Henry’s money goes to George – a complete chain.’
‘All very pretty in theory,’ said Bonnington. ‘But what did you do?’
‘Once you know – you can usually get hold of what you want. Henry had died two hours after a meal – that is all the inquest really bothered about. But supposing the meal was not dinner, but lunch. Put yourself in George’s place. George wants money – badly. Anthony Gascoigne is dying – but his death is no good to George. His money goes to Henry, and Henry Gascoigne may live for years. So Henry must die too – and the sooner the better – but his death must take place after Anthony’s, and at the same time George must have an alibi. Henry’s habit of dining regularly at a restaurant on two e
venings of the week suggests an alibi to George. Being a cautious fellow, he tries his plan out first. He impersonates his uncle on Monday evening at the restaurant in question. It goes without a hitch. Everyone there accepts him as his uncle. He is satisfied. He has only to wait till Uncle Anthony shows definite signs of pegging out. The time comes. He writes a letter to his uncle on the afternoon of the second November but dates it the third. He comes up to town on the afternoon of the third, calls on his uncle, and carries his scheme into action. A sharp shove and down the stairs goes Uncle Henry. George hunts about for the letter he has written, and shoves it in the pocket of his uncle’s dressing-gown. At seven-thirty he is at the Gallant Endeavour, beard, bushy eyebrows all complete. Undoubtedly Mr Henry Gascoigne is alive at seven-thirty. Then a rapid metamorphosis in a lavatory and back full speed in his car to Wimbledon and an evening of bridge. The perfect alibi.’
Mr Bonnington looked at him.
‘But the postmark on the letter?’
‘Oh, that was very simple. The postmark was smudgy. Why? It had been altered with lamp black from second November to third November. You would not notice it unless you were looking for it. And finally there were the blackbirds.’
‘Blackbirds?’
‘Four-and-twenty blackbirds baked in a pie! Or blackberries if you prefer to be literal! George, you comprehend, was after all not quite a good enough actor. Do you remember the fellow who blacked himself all over to play Othello? That is the kind of actor you have got to be in crime. George looked like his uncle and walked like his uncle and spoke like his uncle and had his uncles’ beard and eyebrows, but he forgot to eat like his uncle. He ordered the dishes that he himself liked. Blackberries discolour the teeth – the corpse’s teeth were not discoloured, and yet Henry Gascoigne ate blackberries at the Gallant Endeavour that night. But there were no blackberries in the stomach. I asked this morning. And George had been fool enough to keep the beard and the rest of the make-up. Oh! plenty of evidence once you look for it. I called on George and rattled him. That finished it! He had been eating blackberries again, by the way. A greedy fellow – cared a lot about his food. Eh bien, greed will hang him all right unless I am very much mistaken.’
A waitress brought them two portions of blackberry and apple tart.
‘Take it away,’ said Mr Bonnington. ‘One can’t be too careful. Bring me a small helping of sago pudding.’
The Dream
I
Hercule Poirot gave the house a steady appraising glance. His eyes wandered a moment to its surroundings, the shops, the big factory building on the right, the blocks of cheap mansion flats opposite.
Then once more his eyes returned to Northway House, relic of an earlier age – an age of space and leisure, when green fields had surrounded its well-bred arrogance. Now it was an anachronism, submerged and forgotten in the hectic sea of modern London, and not one man in fifty could have told you where it stood.
Furthermore, very few people could have told you to whom it belonged, though its owner’s name would have been recognized as one of the world’s richest men. But money can quench publicity as well as flaunt it. Benedict Farley, that eccentric millionaire, chose not to advertise his choice of residence. He himself was rarely seen, seldom making a public appearance. From time to time, he appeared at board meetings, his lean figure, beaked nose, and rasping voice easily dominating the assembled directors. Apart from that, he was just a well-known figure of legend. There were his strange meannesses, his incredible generosities, as well as more personal details – his famous patchwork dressing-gown, now reputed to be twenty-eight years old, his invariable diet of cabbage soup and caviare, his hatred of cats. All these things the public knew.
Hercule Poirot knew them also. It was all he did know of the man he was about to visit. The letter which was in his coat pocket told him little more.
After surveying this melancholy landmark of a past age for a minute or two in silence, he walked up the steps to the front door and pressed the bell, glancing as he did so at the neat wrist-watch which had at last replaced an old favourite – the large turnip-faced watch of earlier days. Yes, it was exactly nine-thirty. As ever, Hercule Poirot was exact to the minute.
The door opened after just the right interval. A perfect specimen of the genus butler stood outlined against the lighted hall.
‘Mr Benedict Farley?’ asked Hercule Poirot.
The impersonal glance surveyed him from head to foot, inoffensively but effectively.
En gros et en détail, thought Hercule Poirot to himself with appreciation.
‘You have an appointment, sir?’ asked the suave voice.
‘Yes.’
‘Your name, sir?’
‘Monsieur Hercule Poirot.’
The butler bowed and drew back. Hercule Poirot entered the house. The butler closed the door behind him.
But there was yet one more formality before the deft hands took hat and stick from the visitor.
‘You will excuse me, sir. I was to ask for a letter.’ With deliberation Poirot took from his pocket the folded letter and handed it to the butler. The latter gave it a mere glance, then returned it with a bow. Hercule Poirot returned it to his pocket. Its contents were simple.
Northway House, W.8
M. Hercule Poirot
Dear Sir,
Mr Benedict Farley would like to have the benefit of your advice. If convenient to yourself he would be glad if you would call upon him at the above address at 9.30 tomorrow (Thursday) evening.
Yours truly,
Hugo Cornworthy
(Secretary)
P.S. Please bring this letter with you.
Deftly the butler relieved Poirot of hat, stick and overcoat. He said:
‘Will you please come up to Mr Cornworthy’s room?’
He led the way up the broad staircase. Poirot followed him, looking with appreciation at such objets d’art as were of an opulent and florid nature! His taste in art was always somewhat bourgeois.
On the first floor the butler knocked on a door.
Hercule Poirot’s eyebrows rose very slightly. It was the first jarring note. For the best butlers do not knock at doors – and yet indubitably this was a first-class butler!
It was, so to speak, the first intimation of contact with the eccentricity of a millionaire.
A voice from within called out something. The butler threw open the door. He announced (and again Poirot sensed the deliberate departure from orthodoxy):
‘The gentleman you are expecting, sir.’
Poirot passed into the room. It was a fair-sized room, very plainly furnished in a workmanlike fashion. Filing cabinets, books of reference, a couple of easy-chairs, and a large and imposing desk covered with neatly docketed papers. The corners of the room were dim, for the only light came from a big green-shaded reading lamp which stood on a small table by the arm of one of the easy-chairs. It was placed so as to cast its full light on anyone approaching from the door. Hercule Poirot blinked a little, realizing that the lamp bulb was at least 150 watts. In the arm-chair sat a thin figure in a patchwork dressing-gown – Benedict Farley. His head was stuck forward in a characteristic attitude, his beaked nose projecting like that of a bird. A crest of white hair like that of a cockatoo rose above his forehead. His eyes glittered behind thick lenses as he peered suspiciously at his visitor.
‘Hey,’ he said at last – and his voice was shrill and harsh, with a rasping note in it. ‘So you’re Hercule Poirot, hey?’
‘At your service,’ said Poirot politely and bowed, one hand on the back of the chair.
‘Sit down – sit down,’ said the old man testily.
Hercule Poirot sat down – in the full glare of the lamp. From behind it the old man seemed to be studying him attentively.
‘How do I know you’re Hercule Poirot – hey?’ he demanded fretfully. ‘Tell me that – hey?’
Once more Poirot drew the letter from his pocket and handed it to Farley.
‘Yes,’ ad
mitted the millionaire grudgingly. ‘That’s it. That’s what I got Cornworthy to write.’ He folded it up and tossed it back. ‘So you’re the fellow, are you?’
With a little wave of his hand Poirot said:
‘I assure you there is no deception!’
Benedict Farley chuckled suddenly.
‘That’s what the conjurer says before he takes the goldfish out of the hat! Saying that is part of the trick, you know!’
Poirot did not reply. Farley said suddenly:
‘Think I’m a suspicious old man, hey? So I am. Don’t trust anybody! That’s my motto. Can’t trust anybody when you’re rich. No, no, it doesn’t do.’
‘You wished,’ Poirot hinted gently, ‘to consult me?’
The old man nodded.
‘Go to the expert and don’t count the cost. You’ll notice, M. Poirot, I haven’t asked you your fee. I’m not going to! Send me in the bill later – I shan’t cut up rough over it. Damned fools at the dairy thought they could charge me two and nine for eggs when two and seven’s the market price – lot of swindlers! I won’t be swindled. But the man at the top’s different. He’s worth the money. I’m at the top myself – I know.’
Hercule Poirot made no reply. He listened attentively, his head poised a little on one side.
Behind his impassive exterior he was conscious of a feeling of disappointment. He could not exactly put his finger on it. So far Benedict Farley had run true to type – that is, he had conformed to the popular idea of himself; and yet – Poirot was disappointed.
‘The man,’ he said disgustedly to himself, ‘is a mountebank – nothing but a mountebank!’
He had known other millionaires, eccentric men too, but in nearly every case he had been conscious of a certain force, an inner energy that had commanded his respect. If they had worn a patchwork dressing-gown, it would have been because they liked wearing such a dressing-gown. But the dressing-gown of Benedict Farley, or so it seemed to Poirot, was essentially a stage property. And the man himself was essentially stagy. Every word he spoke was uttered, so Poirot felt assured, sheerly for effect.