Hercule Poirot: The Complete Short Stories

  “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 a bill for the consultation fee.”

  “I shall not fail to do so,” said the detective drily. 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.

  He paused for a moment outside on the landing. It was a spacious one. Directly facing him was a big old oak settle with a refectory table in front of it. On the table were magazines. There were also two armchairs and a table with flowers. It reminded him a little of a dentist’s waiting room.

  The butler was in the hall below waiting to let him out.

  “Can I get you a taxi, sir?”

  “No, I thank you. The night is fine. I will walk.”

  Hercule Poirot paused a moment on the pavement waiting for a lull in the traffic before crossing the busy street.

  A frown creased his forehead.

  “No,” he said to himself. “I do not understand at all. Nothing makes sense. Regrettable to have to admit it, but I, Hercule Poirot, am completely baffled.”

  That was what might be termed the first act of the drama. The second act followed a week later. It opened with a telephone call from one John Stillingfleet, MD.

  He said with a remarkable lack of medical decorum:

  “That you, Poirot, old horse? Stillingfleet here.”

  “Yes, my friend. What is it?”

  “I’m speaking from Northway House—Benedict Farley’s.”

  “Ah, yes?” Poirot’s voice quickened with interest. “What of—Mr. Farley?”

  “Farley’s dead. Shot himself this afternoon.”

  There was a pause, then Poirot said:

  “Yes. . . .”

  “I notice you’re not overcome with surprise. Know something about it, old horse?”

  “Why should you think that?”

  “Well, it isn’t brilliant deduction or telepathy or anything like that. We found a note from Farley to you making an appointment about a week ago.”

  “I see.”

  “We’ve got a tame police inspector here—got to be careful, you know, when one of these millionaire blokes bumps himself off. Wondered whether you could throw any light on the case. If so, perhaps you’d come round?”

  “I will come immediately.”

  “Good for you, old boy. Some dirty work at the crossroads—eh?”

  Poirot merely repeated that he would set forth immediately.

  “Don’t want to spill the beans over the telephone? Quite right. So long.”

  A quarter of an hour later Poirot was sitting in the library, a low long room at the back of Northway House on the ground floor. There were five other persons in the room. Inspector Barnett, Dr. Stillingfleet, Mrs. Farley, the widow of the millionaire, Joanna Farley, his only daughter, and Hugo Cornworthy, his private secretary.

  Of these, Inspector Barnett was a discreet soldierly-looking man. Dr. Stillingfleet, whose professional manner was entirely different from his telephonic style, was a tall, long-faced young man of thirty. Mrs. Farley was obviously very much younger than her husband. She was a handsome dark-haired woman. Her mouth was hard and her black eyes gave absolutely no clue to her emotions. She appeared perfectly self-possessed. Joanna Farley had fair hair and a freckled face. The prominence of her nose and chin was clearly inherited from her father. Her eyes were intelligent and shrewd. Hugo Cornworthy was a good-looking young fellow, very correctly dressed. He seemed intelligent and efficient.

  After greetings and introductions, Poirot narrated simply and clearly the circumstances of his visit and the story told him by Benedict Farley. He could not complain of any lack of interest.

  “Most extraordinary story I’ve ever heard!” said the inspector. “A dream, eh? Did you know anything about this, Mrs. Farley?”

  She bowed her head.

  “My husband mentioned it to me. It upset him very much. I—I told him it was indigestion—his diet, you know, was very peculiar—and suggested his calling in Dr. Stillingfleet.”

  The young man shook his head.

  “He didn’t consult me. From M. Poirot’s story, I gather he went to Harley Street.”

  “I would like your advice on that point, Doctor,” said Poirot. “Mr. Farley told me that he consulted three specialists. What do you think of the theories they advanced?”

  Stillingfleet frowned.

  “It’s difficult to say. You’ve got to take into account that what he passed on to you wasn’t exactly what had been said to him. It was a layman’s interpretation.”

  “You mean he had got the phraseology wrong?”

  “Not exactly. I mean they would put a thing to him in professional terms, he’d get the meaning a little distorted, and then recast it in his own language.”

  “So that what he told me was not really what the doctors said.”

  “That’s what it amounts to. He’s just got it all a little wrong, if you know what I mean.”

  Poirot nodded thoughtfully. “Is it known whom he consulted?” he asked.

  Mrs. Farley shook her head, and Joanna Farley remarked:

  “None of us had any idea he had consulted anyone.”

  “Did he speak to you about his dream?” asked Poirot.

  The girl shook her head.

  “And you, Mr. Cornworthy?”

  “No, he said nothing at all. I took down a letter to you at his dictation, but I had no idea why he wished to consult you. I thought it might possibly have something to do with some business irregularity.”

  Poirot asked: “And now as to the actual facts of Mr. Farley’s death?”

  Inspector Barnett looked interrogatively at Mrs. Farley and at Dr. Stillingfleet, and then took upon himself the role of spokesman.

  “Mr. Farley was in the habit of working in his own room on the first floor every afternoon. I understand that there was a big amalgamation of business in prospect—”

  He looked at Hugo Cornworthy who said, “Consolidated Coachlines.”

  “In connection with that,” continued Inspector Barnett, “Mr. Farl
ey had agreed to give an interview to two members of the Press. He very seldom did anything of the kind—only about once in five years, I understand. Accordingly two reporters, one from the Associated Newsgroups, and one from Amalgamated Press-sheets, arrived at a quarter past three by appointment. They waited on the first floor outside Mr. Farley’s door—which was the customary place for people to wait who had an appointment with Mr. Farley. At twenty past three a messenger arrived from the office of Consolidated Coachlines with some urgent papers. He was shown into Mr. Farley’s room where he handed over the documents. Mr. Farley accompanied him to the door, and from there spoke to the two members of the Press. He said:

  “ ‘I’m sorry, gentlemen, to have to keep you waiting, but I have some urgent business to attend to. I will be as quick as I can.’

  “The two gentlemen, Mr. Adams and Mr. Stoddart, assured Mr. Farley that they would await his convenience. He went back into his room, shut the door—and was never seen alive again!”

  “Continue,” said Poirot.

  “At a little after four o’clock,” went on the inspector, “Mr. Cornworthy here came out of his room which is next door to Mr. Farley’s and was surprised to see the two reporters still waiting. He wanted Mr. Farley’s signature to some letters and thought he had also better remind him that these two gentlemen were waiting. He accordingly went into Mr. Farley’s room. To his surprise he could not at first see Mr. Farley and thought the room 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. Cornworthy hurried out of the room and directed the butler to ring up Dr. Stillingfleet. By the latter’s advice, Mr. Cornworthy also informed the police.”

  “Was the shot heard?” asked Poirot.

  “No. The traffic is very noisy here, the landing window was open. What with lorries and motor horns it would be most unlikely if it had been noticed.”

  Poirot nodded thoughtfully. “What time is it supposed he died?” he asked.

  Stillingfleet said:

  “I examined the body as soon as I got here—that is, at thirty-two minutes past four. Mr. Farley had been dead at least an hour.”

  Poirot’s face was very grave.

  “So then, it seems possible that his death could have occurred at the time he mentioned to me—that is, at twenty-eight minutes past three.”

  “Exactly,” said Stillingfleet.

  “Any fingermarks 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 his 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 were sitting exactly opposite that door and they swear that no one entered the room from the time Mr. Farley spoke to them, until Mr. Cornworthy entered it at a little after four o’clock.”

  “So that there is every reason to suppose that Mr. Farley committed suicide.”

  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!”

  “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 armchairs, 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, “At twenty-eight minutes past three I open the second drawer 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 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.

  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 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 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 theatre. To see Little
Dog Laughed.”

  “Your father did not suggest accompanying you?”

  “He never went out to theatres.”

  “What did he usually do in the evenings?”

  “He sat in here and read.”

  “He was not a very sociable man?”

  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 statement.”

  “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 lazy-tongs, “were they always on the table?”

  “Yes. Father used them for picking up things. He didn’t like stooping.”

  “One other question. Was your father’s eyesight 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?”