Hercule Poirot: The Complete Short Stories by Agatha Christie
“And so, Mademoiselle?”
“I’d heard people talking about you. I thought if I could only get you here perhaps it would stop anything happening. I thought that being a—a foreigner—if I rang up and pretended to be in danger and—and made it sound mysterious—”
“You thought the melodrama, it would attract me? That is what puzzled me. The message itself—definitely it was what you call ‘bogus’—it did not ring true. But the fear in the voice—that was real. Then I came—and you denied very categorically having sent me a message.”
“I had to. Besides, I didn’t want you to know it was me.”
“Ah, but I was fairly sure of that! Not at first. But I soon realized that the only two people who could know about the yellow irises on the table were you or Mr. Barton Russell.”
Pauline nodded.
“I heard him ordering them to be put on the table,” she explained. “That, and his ordering a table for six when I knew only five were coming, made me suspect—” She stopped, biting her lip.
“What did you suspect, Mademoiselle?”
She said slowly:
“I was afraid—of something happening—to Mr. Carter.”
Stephen Carter cleared his throat. Unhurriedly but quite decisively he rose from the table.
“Er—h’m—I have to—er—thank you, Mr. Poirot. I owe you a great deal. You’ll excuse me, I’m sure, if I leave you. Tonight’s happenings have been—rather upsetting.”
Looking after his retreating figure, Pauline said violently:
“I hate him. I’ve always thought it was—because of him that Iris killed herself. Or perhaps—Barton killed her. Oh, it’s all so hateful. . . .”
Poirot said gently:
“Forget, Mademoiselle . . . forget . . . Let the past go . . . Think only of the present. . . .”
Pauline murmured, “Yes—you’re right. . . .”
Poirot turned to Lola Valdez.
“Señora, as the evening advances I become more brave. If you would dance with me now—”
“Oh, yes, indeed. You are—you are ze cat’s whiskers, M. Poirot. I inseest on dancing with you.”
“You are too kind, Señora.”
Tony and Pauline were left. They leant towards each other across the table.
“Darling Pauline.”
“Oh, Tony, I’ve been such a nasty spiteful spitfiring little cat to you all day. Can you ever forgive me?”
“Angel! This is Our Tune again. Let’s dance.”
They danced off, smiling at each other and humming softly:
There’s nothing like Love for making you miserable
There’s nothing like Love for making you blue
Depressed
Possessed
Sentimental
Temperamental
There’s nothing like Love
For getting you down.
There’s nothing like Love for driving you crazy
There’s nothing like Love for making you mad
Abusive
Allusive
Suicidal
Homicidal
There’s nothing like Love
There’s nothing like Love. . . .
Thirty-seven
THE DREAM
“The Dream” was first published in the USA in the Saturday Evening Post, October 23, 1937, then in The Strand, February 1938.
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 wristwatch 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
“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,” admitted 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.
He repeated again unemotionally, “You wished to consult me, Mr. Farley?”
Abruptly the millionaire’s manner changed.
He leaned forward. His voice dropped to a croak.
“Yes. Yes . . . I want to hear what you’ve got to say—what you think . . . Go to the top! That’s my way! The best doctor—the best detective—it’s between the two of them.”
“As yet, Monsieur, I do not understand.”
“Naturally,” snapped Farley. “I haven’t begun to tell you.”
He leaned forward once more and shot out an abrupt question.
“What do you know, M. Poirot, about dreams?”
The little man’s eyebrows rose. Whatever he had expected, it was not this.
“For that, M. Farley, I should recommend Napoleon’s Book of Dreams—or the latest practising psychologist from Harley Street.”
Benedict Farley said soberly, “I’ve tried both. . . .”
There was a pause, then the millionaire spoke, at first almost in a whisper, then with a voice growing higher and higher.
“It’s the same dream—night after night. And I’m afraid, I tell you—I’m afraid . . . It’s always the same. I’m sitting in my room next door to this. Sitting at my desk, writing. There’s a clock there and I glance at it and see the time—exactly twenty-eight minutes past three. Always the same time, you understand.
“And when I see the time, M. Poirot, I know I’ve got to do it. I don’t want to do it—I loathe doing it—but I’ve got to. . . .”
His voice had risen shrilly.
Unperturbed, Poirot said, “And what is it that you have to do?”
“At twenty-eight minutes past three,” Benedict Farley said hoarsely, “I open the second 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—”
“Yes?”
Benedict Farley said in a whisper:
“Then I shoot myself . . .”
There was silence.
Then Poirot said, “That is your dream?”
“Yes.”
“The same every night?”
“Yes.”
“What happens after you shoot yourself?”
“I wake up.”
Poirot nodded his head slowly and thoughtfully. “As a matter of interest, do you keep a revolver in that particular drawer?”
“Yes.”
“Why?”
“I have always done so. It is as well to be prepared.”
“Prepared for what?”
Farley said irritably, “A man in my position has to be on his guard. All rich men have enemies.”
Poirot did not pursue the subject. He remained silent for a moment or two, then he said:
“Why exactly did you send for me?”
“I will tell you. First of all I consulted a doctor—three doctors to be exact.”
“Yes?”
“The first told me it was all a question of diet. He was an elderly man. The second was a young man of the modern school. He assured me that it all hinged on a certain event that took place in infancy at that particular time of day—three twenty-eight. I am so determined, he says, not to remember the event, that I symbolize it by destroying myself. That is his explanation.”
“And the third doctor?” asked Poirot.
Benedict Farley’s voice rose in shrill anger.
“He’s a young man too. He has a preposterous theory! He asserts that I, myself, am tired of life, that my life is so unbearable to me that I deliberately want to end it! But since to acknowledge that fact would be to acknowledge that essentially I am a failure, I refuse in my waking moments to face the truth. But when I am asleep, all inhibitions are removed, and I proceed to do that which I really wish to do. I put an end to myself.”
“His view is that you really wish, unknown to yourself, to commit suicide?” said Poirot.
Benedict Farley cried shrilly:
“And that’s impossible—impossible! I’m perfectly happy! I’ve got everything I want—everything money can buy! It’s fantastic—unbelievable even to suggest a thing like that!”
Poirot looked at him with interest. Perhaps something in the shaking hands, the trembling shrillness of the voice, warned him that the denial was too vehement, that its very insistence was in itself suspect. He contented himself with saying:
“And where do I come in, Monsieur?”
Benedict Farley calmed down suddenly. He tapped with an emphatic finger on the table beside him.
“There’s another possibility. And if it’s right, you’re the man to know about it! You’re famous, you’ve had hundreds of cases—fantastic, improbable cases! You’d know if anyone does.”
“Know what?”
Farley’s voice dropped to a whisper.
“Supposing someone wants to kill me . . . Could they do it this way? Could they make me dream that dream night after night?”
“Hypnotism, you
“Yes.”
Hercule Poirot considered the question.
“It would be possible, I suppose,” he said at last. “It is more a question for a doctor.”
“You don’t know of such a case in your experience?”
“Not precisely on those lines, no.”
“You see what I’m driving at? I’m made to dream the same dream, night after night, night after night—and then—one day the suggestion is too much for me—and I act upon it. I do what I’ve dreamed of so often—kill myself!”
Slowly Hercule Poirot shook his head.
“You don’t think that is possible?” asked Farley.
“Possible?” Poirot shook his head. “That is not a word I care to meddle with.”
“But you think it improbable?”
“Most improbable.”
Benedict Farley murmured. “The doctor said so too . . .” Then his voice rising shrilly again, he cried out, “But why do I have this dream? Why? Why?”
Hercule Poirot shook his head. Benedict Farley said abruptly, “You’re sure you’ve never come across anything like this in your experience?”
“Never.”
“That’s what I wanted to know.”
Delicately, Poirot cleared his throat.
“You permit,” he said, “a question?”
“What is it? What is it? Say what you like.”
“Who is it you suspect of wanting to kill you?”
Farley snapped out, “Nobody. Nobody 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.