Part 24 (1/2)
”What is it? What is it? Say what you like.”
”Who is it you suspect of wanting to kill you?”
Farley snapped out, ”n.o.body. n.o.body 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 a.s.sistance 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 k.n.o.b, 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 s.n.a.t.c.hed 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 s.p.a.cious 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, M.D.
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 b.u.mps himself off. Wondered whether you could throw any light on the case. If so, perhaps you'd come round?”
”I will come immediately.”