glancing as he did so at theneat wrist-watch which

had at last replaced an earlier favoritemthe large turnip-faced watch of earlier days. Yes, it was ex-actly nine-thirty. As ever, Hercule Poirot was ex-act to the minute.




The door opened after just the right interval. A perfect specimen of the genus butler stood out-lined against the lighted hall.




"Mr. Benedict Farley?" asked Hercule Poirot.




The impersonal glance surveyed him from head to foot, inoffensively but effectively.




"Eh gros et en dtail," thought Hercule Poirot to himself with appreciation.




"You have an appointment, sir?" asked the suave voice.






THE DREAM 147

"Yes."





"Your name, sir?"





"M. Hercule Poirot."




The butler bowed and drew back. Hercule Poi-rot 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 your-self 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?" 148



Agatha Christie




He led the way up the broad staircase. Poirot followed him, looking with appreciation at such oh jets 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 armchair 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






THE DREAM 149






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," 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 conjuror 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 con-suit me7"




The old man nodded.






150 tgatha Christie






"That's right. Always buy the best. That's my motto. 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--/ 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 at-tentively, his head poised a little on one side.




Behind his impassive exterior he was conscious of a feeling of disappointment. He could not ex-actly 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 com-manded his respect. If they had worn a patchwork dressing-gown, it would have been because they liked wearing such a dressing-gown. But the dress-ing-gown of Benedict Farley, or so it seemed to Poirot, was essentially a stage property. And the man himself was essentially stagey. 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.






THE DREAM 151




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, Monsieur Farley, I should recommend Napoleon's Book of Dreams--or the latest practicing psychologist from Harley Street." Benedict Farley said soberly, "I've tried go th .... ' ' There was a paus.e, 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 cio it. I don't want to do it--I loathe doing it--but I've got to "




His voice had risen shrilly.






152 Agatha



Christie

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 re-volver that I keep there, load it and walk over to the window. And then--and then--" "Yes?"




Benedict Farley said in a whisper: "Then l 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 thought-fully. "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 pre-pared.

' '

"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 doc

tor-three doctors to be exact." "Yes?"




"The first told me it was all a question of diet. !ili




THE DREAM 153






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 in-fancy at that particular time of day--three twenty-eight. I am so determined, he says, not to remem-ber that 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 deliber-ately

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 per-fectly happy! I've got everything I wantmeverything 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.






154 Agatha Christie




"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 mean?" "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






THE DREAM 155






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 t all."




"But the idea presented itself to your hind?" Poirot persisted.




"I wanted to know--if it was a possibility.,, "Speaking from my own experience, 1 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 dramathe

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 myselfm"




"There's no need," Farley snapped. "You've given me your opinion. That's the end."






156 Agatha Christie






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 mat-ter. 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 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--"






THE DREAM 157






"What's all this? What's all this?"




"The letter that I handed you just now--an apology from my laundress concerning the treat-ment of my collars." Poirot was smiling, apolo-getic.



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 re-minded 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 pave-ment

waiting for a lull in the traffic before cross-ing



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.






158 Agatha Christie




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 cross-roads--eh?" Poirot merely repeated that he would set forth immediately. "Don't want to spill the beans over the telc-phone? Quite right. So long."

A quarter of an hour later Poirot was sitting in the library, a low long room at the back of North I THE DREAM 159




· way 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 sol-dierly-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 somewhat colorless young man, 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." That young man shook his head. "He didn't consult me. From M. Poirot's story,






160 Agatha Christie






I gather he went to Harley Street."




"I would like your advice on that point, doc-tor,'' 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 count that what he passed on to you wasn't exactly what had been said to him. It was a layman's in-terpretation.''




"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 lan-guage.''




"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 tho, ught it might possibly have something to do with some business irregu-larity.''






THE DREAM 161






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 businesses in prospect--"




He looked at Hugo Cornworthy who said, "Consolidated Coachlines."




"In connection with that," continued Inspector Barnett, "Mr. Farley had agreed to give an inter-view 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 of the room, and from there spoke to the two members of the Press. He said:




"'I am 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. Stod-dart, assured Mr. Farley that they would await his convenience. He went back into his room, shut the






162 Agatha Christie






door--and was never seen ali,e again!" "Continue," said Poirot.




"At a little after four o'clock," went on the in-spector, "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. Stillingfieet. 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.

Stillingfieet 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-






THE DREAM 163




that is, at twenty-eight minutes past three." "Exactly," said Stillingfleet. "Any finger-marks 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 conmitted 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 Poirotis concerned--im-mediately the suspicion of murder arises!" "Precisely," said the inspector dryly. "How' ever, 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.O" 164 Agatha Christie






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--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 him-self?"




"No--at least--sometimes he was very queer .... "




Joanna Farley's voice broke in clear and scorn-ful. "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 oc-curred?''




"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 win-dow. He remembered the millionaire saying, "At twenty-eight minutes past three I open the second






THE DREAM 165

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.












168



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.




The others were still in the library. Poirot ad-dressed himself to the secretary:




"I want you, Mr. Cornworthy, to recount to me in detail the exact circumstances of Mr. Farley's summons to me. When, for instance, did Mr. Farley dictate that letter?"

"On Wednesday afternoon--at five-thirty, as far as I can remember."




"Were there any special directions about post-ing it?"




"He told me to post it myself." "And you did so?" "Yes."






THE DREAM 169






"Did he give any special instructions to the butler about admitting me?"




"Yes. He told me to tell Holmes (Holmes is the butler) that a gentleman would be calling at 9:30. He was to ask the gentleman's name. He was also to ask to see the letter."




''Rather peculiar precautions to take, don't you think?"

Cornworthy shrugged his shoulders.




"Mr. Farley," he said carefully, "was rather a peculiar man."




"Any other instructions?"




"Yes. He told me to take the evening off." "Did you do so?"




"Yes, immediately after dinner I went to the cinema. ' '




"When did you return?"




"I let myself in about a quarter past eleven." "Did you see Mr. Farley again that evening?" "No."




"And he did not mention the matter the next




morning?"





"No."

Poirot paused a moment, then resumed, "When I arrived I was not shown into Mr. Farley's own room."




"No. He told me that I was to tell Holmes to show you into my room."




"Why was that? Do you know?"




Cornworthy shook his head. "I never ques-tioned any of Mr. Farley's orders," he said dryly. "He would have resented it if I had."




"Did he usually receive visitors in his own room?"






170 Agatha Christie




"Usually, but not always. Sometimes he saw them in my room." "Was there any reason for that?" Hugo Cornworthy considered. "No--I hardly think so--I've never really

thought about it."

Turning to Mrs. Farley, Poirot asked: "You permit that I ring for your butler?" "Certainly, M. Poirot." Very correct, very urbane, Holmes answered the bell. "You rang, madam?" Mrs. Farley indicated Poirot with a gesture. Holmes turned politely. "Yes, sir?" "What were your instructions, Holmes, on the Thursday night when I came here?" Holmes cleared his throat, then said: "After dinner Mr. Cornworthy told me that Mr. Farley expected a Mr. Hercule Poirot at 9:30. I was to.ascertain the gentleman's name, and I was to verify the information by glancing at a letter. Then I was to show him up to Mr. Cornworthy's room." "Were you also told to knock on the door?" An expression of distaste crossed the butler's countenance. "That was one of Mr. Farley's orders. I was always to knock when introducing visitors--business visitors, that is," he added. "Ah, that puzzled me! Were you given any



other instructions concerning me?"

"No, sir. When Mr. Cornworthy had told me what I have just repeated to you he went out." "What time was that?"






THE DREAM 171




"Ten minutes to nine, sir." "Did you see Mr. Farley after that?" "Yes, sir, I took him up a glass of hot water as usual at nine o'clock." "Was he then in his own room or in Mr. Corn-worthy's?" "He was in his own room, sir." "You noticed nothing unusual about that room?" "Unusual? No, sir." "Where were Mrs. Farley and Miss Farley?" "They had gone to the theater, sir." "Thank you, Holmes, that will do." Holmes bowed and left the room. Poirot turned to the millionaire's widow. "One more question, Mrs. Farley. Had your husband good sight?" "No. Not without his glasses."

"He was very shortsighted?"

"Oh, yes, he was quite helpless without his spectacles." "He had several pairs of glasses?" "Yes." "Ah," said Poirot. He leaned back. "I think that that concludes the case .... " There was silence in the room. They were all looking at the little man who sat there complacently stroking his mustache. On the inspector's face was perplexity, Dr. Stillingfleet was frowning, Cornworthy merely stared uncomprehendingly, Mrs. Farley gazed in blank astonishment, Joanna Farley looked eager. Mrs. Farley broke the silence. don't understand, M. Poirot." Her voice






174 Agatha Christie






"You do not see?"




Stillingfleet said, "I don't really see how your



laundress comes into it, Poirot."

"My laundress," said Poirot, "was very impor-tant. That miserable woman who ruins my collars, was, for the first time in her life, useful to some-body. Surely you see--it is so obvious. Mr. Farley glanced at that communication--one glance would have told him that it was the wrong letter--and yet he knew nothing. Why? Because he could not see it properly,t"




Inspector Barnett said sharply, "Didn't he have his glasses on?"




Hercule Poirot smiled. "Yes," he said. "He had his glasses on. That is what makes it so very interesting."






· Heleaned forward.




"Mr. Farley's dream was very important. He dreamed, you see, that he committed suicide. And a little later on, he did commit suicide. That is to say he was alone in a room and was found there

with a revolver by him, and no one entered or left

the room at the time that he was shot. What does that mean? It means, does it not, that it must be suicide!" ,




"Yes," said Stillingfleet.




Hercule Poirot shook his head.




"On the contrary," he said. "It was murder. An unusual and a very cleverly planned murder."




Again he leaned forward, tapping the table, his eyes green and shining.




"Why did Mr. Farley not allow me to go into his own room that evening? What was there in there that I must not be allowed to see? I think,






THE DREAM 175




my friends, that there was--Benedict Farley himself!" He smiled at the blank faces.



"Yes, yes, it is not nonsense what I say. Why

could the Mr. Farley to whom I had been talking not realize the difference between two totally dissimilar letters? Because, roes amis, he was a man of normal sight wearing a pair of very powerful glasses. Thoseglasses would render a man of normal eyesight practically blind. Isn't that so, doctor?'' Stillingfleet murmured, "That's somof course." "Why did I feel that in talking to Mr. Farley I was talking to a mountebank, to an actor playing a part? Because he was playing a part! Consider the setting. The dim room, the green shaded light turned blindingly away from the figure in the chair. What did I seemthe famous patchwork dressing-gown, the beaked nose (faked with that useful substance, nose putty), the white crest of hair, the powerful lenses concealing the eyes. What evidence is there that Mr. Farley ever had a dream? Only the story I was told and the evidence of Mrs. Farley. What evidence is there that Benedict Farley kept a revolver in his desk? Again only the story told me and the word of Mrs. Farley. Two people carried this fraud throughJMrs. Farley and Hugo Cornworthy. Cornworthy wrote the letter to me, gave instructions to the butler, went out ostensibly to the cinema, but let himself in again immediately with a key, went to his room,

made himself up, and played the part of Benedict

Farley. I "And so we come to this afternoon. The oppor






176 Agatha Christie






tunity for which Mr. Cornworthy has been waiting arrives. There are two witnesses on the landing to swear that no one goes in or out of Benedict Farley's room. Cornworthy waits until a Particu-larly heavy batch of traffic is about to pass. Then he leans out of his window, and with the lazytongs which he has purloined from the desk next door he holds an. object against the window of that room. Benedict Farley comes to the window. Corn-worthy snatches back the tongs and as Farley leans out, and the lorries are passing outside, Corn-worthy shoots him with the revolver that he has ready. There is a blank wall opposite, remember. There can be no witness of the crime. Cornworthy waits for OVer half an hour, then gathers up some papers, conceals the lazytongs and the revolver



between thea and goes out on to the landing and

into the next room. He replaces the tongs on the desk, lays down the revolver after pressing the dead man's fingers on it, and hurries out with the news of Mr. Farley's 'suicide.'




"He arranges that the letter to me shall be found and that I shall arrive with my story--the story I hearl .from Mr. Farley's own lips--of his extraordinary 'dream'--the strange compulsion he felt to kill himself! A few credulous people will discuss the hypnotism theory--but the main result will be to confirm without a doubt that the actual hand that held the revolver was Benedict Farley's own."




Hercule Poirot's eyes went to the widow's face --the dismay--the ashy pallor--the blind fear.




"And in due course," he finished gently, "the happy ending would have been achieved. A






THE DREAM 177

quarter of a million and two hearts that beat as one .... "




John Stillingfleet, M.D., and Hercule Poirot walked along the side of Northway House. On their right was the towering wall of the factory. Above them, on their left, were the windows of Benedict Farley's and Hugo Cornworthy's rooms. Hercule Poirot stopped and picked up a small ob-ject--a black stuffed cat.




"Voild," he said. "That is what Cornworthy held in the lazytongs against Farley's window. You remember, he hated cats? Naturally he rushed to the window."




"Why on earth didn't Cornworthy come out and pick it up after he'd dropped it?"




"How could he? To do so would have been definitely suspicious. After all, if this object where found what would anyone think--that some child had wandered round here and dropped it."





"Yes," said Stillingfleet with a sigh. "That's

probably what the ordinary person would have thought. But not good old Hercule! D'you know, old horse, up to the very last minute I thought you were leading up to some subtle theory of highfalu-tin psychological 'suggested' murder? I bet those two thought so too! Nasty bit of goods, the Far-ley. Goodness, how she cracked! Cornworthy might have got away with it if she hadn't had hysterics and tried to spoil your beauty by going for you with her nails. I only got her off you just in 'time."




He paused a minute and then said:




"I rather like the girl. Grit, you know, and brains. I suppose I'd be thought to be a fortune






178 Agatha Christie






hunter if I had a shot at her... ?"




"You are too late, my friend. There is already

someone sur le tapis. Her father's death has

opened the way to happiness."




"Take it all round, she had a pretty good motive for bumping off the unpleasant parent."




"Motive and opportunity are not enough," said Poirot. "There must also be the criminal tempera-ment!''




"I wonder if you'll ever commit a crime, Poirot?" said Stillingfleet. "I bet you could get away with it all right. As a matter of fact, it would be too easy for you--I mean the thing would be off as definitely too unsporting."




"That," said Poirot, "is a typically English idea."






Glass Darkly






I've no explanation of this story. I've no theories about the why and wherefore of it. It's just a thing--that happened.



All the same, I sometimes wonder how things

would have gone if I'd noticed at the time just that one essential detail that I never appreciated until so many years afterwards. If I had noticed it--well, I suppose the course of three lives would have been entirely altered. Somehow--that's a very frightening thought. For the beginning of it all, I've got to go back to the summer of 1914--just before the war--when I went down to Badgeworthy with Neil Carslake. Neil was, I suppose, about my best friend. I'd known his brother Alan too, but not so well. Sylvia, their sister, I'd never met. She was two years younger than Alan and three years younger than Neil. Twice, while we were at school to181







184 Agatha Christie




the other door from the passage and asked me what the hell I was trying to do. He must have thought me slightly barmy as I turned on him and demanded whether there was a door behind the wardrobe. He said, yes, there was

a door, it led into the next room. I asked him we

was occupying the room and he said some people called Oldham--a Major Oldham and his wife. I asked him then if Mrs. Oldham had very fair hair and when he replied dryly that she was dark I began to realize that I was probably making a fool of myself. I pulled myself together, made some lame explanation and we went downstairs together. I told myself that I must have had some kind of hallucination--and felt generally rather ashamed and a bit of an ass. And then--and then--Nell said, "My sister Sylvia," and I was looking into the lovely face of the girl I had just seen being suffocated to death ·.. and I was introduced to her fiance, a tall, dark man with a scar down the left side of his face. Wellwthat's that. I'd like you to think and say what you'd have done in my place. Here was the girl--the identical girl--and here was the man I'd seen throttling her--and they were to be married in about a month's time .... Had I--or had I not--had a prophetic vision of the future? Would Sylvia and her husband come down here to stay sometime in the future, and be given that room (the best spare room) and would



that scene I'd witnessed take place in grim reality?

What was I to do about it? Could I do anything? Would anyone--Neil--or the girl herself--would they believe me?






IN A GLASS DARKLY 18 I turned the whole business over and over in m}




mind the week I was down there. To speak or not




to speak? And almost at once another complica

tion set in. You see, I fell in love with Sylvia Carslake the first moment I saw her I wanted her more than anything on earth And in a way




that tied my hands. And yet, if I didn't say anything, Sylvia would marry Charles Crawley and Crawley would kill her .... And so,

the day before I left, I blurted it all out to her.

I said I expected she'd think me touched in the intellect or something but I swore solemnly that I'd seen the thing just as I told it to her and that I felt if she was determined to marry Crawley, I ought to tell her my strange experience. She listened very quietly. There was something in her eyes I didn't understand. She wasn't angry at all. When I'd finished, she just thanked me gravely. I kept repeating like an idiot, "I did see it. I really did see it," and she said, "I'm sure you did if you say so. I believe you." Well, the upshot was that I went off not knowing whether I'd done right or been a fool, and a week later Sylvia broke off her engagement to Charles Crawley. After that the war happened, and there wash'! much leisure for thinking of anything else. Once or twice when I was on leave, I came acr. oss Sylvia, but as far as possible I avoided her. I loved her and wanted her just as badly as ever, but I felt, somehow, that it wouldn't be playing the game.



It was owing to me that she'd broken off her

engagement to Crawley, and 1 kept sayin8






186 Agatha Christie






to myself that I could only justify the action I had taken by making my attitude a purely disinterested




one.




Then, in 1916, Nell was killed and it fell to me to tell Sylvia about his last moments. We couldn't remain on a formal footing after that. Sylvia had adored Nell and he had been my best friend. She was sweet--adorably sweet in her grief. I just managed to hold my tongue and went out again praying that a bullet might end the whole miser-able business. Life without Sylvia wasn't worth living.




But there was no bullet with my name on it. One nearly got me below the right ear and one was deflected by a cigarette case in my pocket, but I

came through unscathed. Charles Crawley was

killed in action at the beginning of 1918.




Somehow--that made a difference. I came home in the autumn of 1918 just before the Armis-tice and I went straight to Sylvia and told her that I loved her. I hadn't much hope that she'd care for me straight away, and you could have knocked me down with a feather when she asked me why I hadn't told her sooner. I stammered out some-thing about Crawley and she said, "But why did you think I broke it off with him?" And then she told me that she'd fallen in love with me just as I'd done with her--from the very first minute.




I said I thought she'd broken off her engage-ment because of the story I told her and she laughed scornfully and said that if you loved a man you wouldn't be as cowardly as that, and we went over that old vision of mine again and agreed that it was queer, but nothing more.




Well, there's nothing much to tell for some time






IN A GLASS DARKLY 187






after that. Sylvia and I were married and we were happy. But I realized, as soon as she was really mine, that I wasn't cut out for the best kind of husband. I loved Sylvia devotedly, but I was jeal-ous, absurdly jealous of anyone she so much as smiled at. It amused her at first. I think she even rather liked it. It proved, at least, how devoted I






was.




As for me, I realized quite fully and unmistak-ably that I was not only making a fool of myself, but that I was endangering all the peace and hap-piness of our life together. I knew, I say, but I couldn't change. Every time Sylvia got a letter she didn't show to me I wondered who it was from. If she laughed and talked with any man, I found my-self getting sulky and watchful.




At first, as I say, Sylvia laughed at me. She thought it a huge joke. Then she didn't think the

joke so funny. Finally she didn't think it a joke at

all-




And slowly, she began to draw away from me. Not in any physical sense, but she withdrew her secret mind from me. I no longer knew what her thoughts were. She was kind--but sadly, as though from a long distance.




Little by little I realized that she no longer loved me. Her love had died and it was I who had killed it ....




The next step was inevitable. I found myself waiting for it--dreading it ....




Then Derek Wainwright came into our lives. He had everything that I hadn't. He had brains and a witty tongue. He was good-looking, too, and--I'm forced to admit it--a thoroughly good chap. As soon as I saw him I said to myself, "This is just






188 Agatha Christie

the man for Sylvia .... " She fought against it. I know she struggled...




but I gave her no help. I couldn't. I was en trenched in my gloomy, sullen reserve. I was suf fering like hell--and I couldn't stretch out a finger




to save myself. I didn't help her. I made things




worse. I let loose at her one day--a string of sav age, unwarranted abuse. I was nearly mad with




jealousy and misery. The things I said were cruel




and untrue and I knew while I was saying them




how cruel and how untrue they were. And yet I




took a savage pleasure in saying them ....




I remember how Sylvia flushed and shrank ....




I drove her to the edge of endurance.

I remember she said, "This can't go on " When

I came home that night the house was empty--empty.

There was a note--quite in the traditional fashion. In it she said that she was leaving me--for good. She was going down to Badgeworthy for a day or two. After that she was going to the one person who loved her and needed her. I was to take tha as final. I suppose that up to then I hadn't really believed my own suspicions. This confirmation in black and white of my worst fears sent me raving mad. I went down to Badgeworthy after her as fast as the car would take me. She had just changed her frock for dinner, I remember, when I burst into the room. I can see her face--startled--beautiful--afraid. I said, "No one but me shall ever have you. No one." And I caught her throat in my hands and gripped it and bent her backwards. IN A GLASS DARKLY



189






And stddenly I saw our reflection in the mirror. Sylvia choking amd myself strangling her, and the scar on rny cheek: where the bullet grazed it under the right ear.




No--I didn't kill her. That sudden revelation paralyzed me and I loosened my grasp and let her slip onto the floo ....




And then I broke down--and she comforted me .... Yes, she comforted me.




I told her everything and she told me that by the phrase "the one person who loved and needed her" she had meant her brother Alan .... We saw into eacla other's hearts that night, and I don't think, from that moment, that we ever drifted away from each other again ....




It's a sobering thought to go through life with --that, but for the grace of God and a mirror, one might be a murderer ....




One thing did die that night--the devil of jeal-ousy that had possessed me s°long ....




But I wonder sometimes--suppose I hadn't made that initial mistake--the scar on the left cheek--when really it was the right--reversed by the mirror .... Should I have been so sure the man was Charles Crawley? Would I have warned




Sylvia? Would she be married to me--or to him?




Or are the past and the future all one?




I'm a simple fellow--and I can't pretend to understand these things--but I saw what I saw--and because of what I saw, Sylvia and I are to-gether-in the old-fashioned words--till death do us part. And perhaps beyond ....






"Colonel Clapperton!" said General Forbes.




He said it with an effect midway between a



snort and a sniff.

Miss Ellie Henderson leaned forward, a strand of her soft gray hair blowing across her face. Her eyes, dark and snapping, gleamed with a wicked pleasure.




"Such a soldierly-looking man!" she said with malicious intent, and smoothed back the lock of hair to await the result.




"Soldierly!" exploded General Forbes. He tugged at his military mustache and his face became bright red.




"In the Guards, wasn't he?" murmured Miss Henderson, completing her work.




"Guards? Guards? Pack of nonsense. Fellow was on the music hall stage! Fact! Joined up and was out in France counting tins of plum and






193 194 Agatha Christie




apple. Huns dropped a stray bomb and he went home with a flesh wound in the arm. Somehow or other got into Lady Carrington's hospital." "So that's how they met." "Fact! Fellow played the wounded hero. Lady Carrington had no sense and oceans of money. Old Carrington had been in munitions. She'd been a widow only six months. This fellow snaps her up in no time. She wangled him a job at the War Office. Colonel Clapperton! Pah!" he snorted. "And before the war he was on the music hall stage," mused Miss Henderson, trying to reconcile the distinguished gray-haired Colonel Clap-perton with a red-nosed comedian singing mirth-provoking songs. "Fact!" said General Forbes. "Heard it from old Bassington-ffrench. And he heard it from old Badger Cotterill who'd got it from Snooks Parker" Miss Henderson nodded brightly. "That does seem to settle it!" she said. A fleeting smile showed for a minute on the face of a small man sitting near them. Miss Henderson noticed the smile. She was observant. It had



shown appreciation of the irony underlying her

last remark--irony which the General never for a moment suspected. The General himself did not notice the smiles. He glanced at his watch, rose and remarked: "Exercise. Got to keep oneself fit on a boat," and passed out through the open door onto the deck. Miss Henderson glanced at the man who had smiled. It was a well-bred glance indicating that she was ready to enter into conversation with a fellow traveler.






PROBLEI AT SEA 195




energetic--yes, said the little man. ii. "He is ·




"He goes round the deck forty-eight times exactly," said Miss Henclerson. "What an old gossip! And they say we are the scandal-loving sex. ' '

"What an impoliteness!', "Frenchmen are always polite," said Miss

Henderson--there was the nuance of a question in



her voice.



The little man responded promptly. "Belgian,

Mademoiselle." "Oh I Belgian."

"Hercule Poirot. At YOUr service."

The name aroused sonic memory. Surely she

had heard it before--? "Are you enjoying this

trip, M. Poirot?"

"Frankly, no. It was an imbecility to allow

myself to be persuaded to come. I detest ia mcr. Never does it remain tranquil--no, not for a little

minute."

"Well, you admit it's quite calm now."

M. Poirot admitted this grudgingly. ",'i ce moment, yes. That is why I revive. I once more interest myself in what passea around mewyour very adept handling Of the General Forbes, for instance." "You meanw" Miss Hetdei-son paused. Hercule Poirot bowed. "Your methods of extracting the scandalous matter. Admirable!" Miss Henderson laughed in an unashamed manner. "That touch about the Guards.'? I knew that would bring the old boy up spluttering and gasping.'' She leaned forward Confidentially. "I admit I like scandal--the more ill-natured, the better!" Poirot looked thoughtfully at her--her slim 196



Agatha Christie






well-preserved figure, her keen dark eyes, her gray hair; a woman of forty-five who was content to look her age.




Ellie said abruptly: "I have it! Aren't you the great detective?"




Poirot bowed. "You are too amiable, Ma-demoiselle." But he made no disclaimer.




"How thrilling," said Miss Henderson. "Are you 'hot on the trail' as they say in books? Have we a criminal secretly in our midst? Or am I being indiscreet?"




"Not at all. Not at all. It pains me to disappoint your expectations, but I am simply here, like everyone else, to amuse myself."




He said it in such a gloomy voice that Miss Henderson laughed.




"Oh! Well, you will be able to get ashore to-morrow at Alexandria. You have been to Egypt before?"




"Never, Mademoiselle."




Miss Henderson rose somewhat abruptly.




"I think I shall join the General on his constitu-tional,'' she announced.




Poirot sprang politely to his feet.




She gave him a little nod and passed out onto the deck.




A faint puzzled look showed for a moment in Poirot's eyes then, a little smile creasing his lips, he rose, put his head through the door and glanced down the deck. Miss Henderson was leaning against the rail talking to a tall, soldierly-looking man.





Poirot's smile deepened. He drew himself back

into the smoking-room with the same exaggerated care with which a tortoise withdraws itself into it,






PROBLEM AT SEA 197




shell. For the moment he had the smoking-room to himself, though he rightly conjectured that that would not last long. It did not. Mrs. Clapperton, her carefully waved platinum head protected with a net, her massaged and dieted form dressed in a smart sports suit, came through the door from the bar with the purposeful air of a woman who has always been able to pay top price for anything she needed. She said: "John--? Oh! Good-morning, M. Poirot--have you seen John?" "He's on the starboard deck, Madame. Shall




She arrested him with a gesture. "I'll sit here a minute." She sat down in a regal fashion in the chair opposite him. From the distance she had looked a possible twenty-eight. Now, in spite of her exquisitely made-up face, her delicately



plucked eyebrows, she looked not her actual forty-nine



years, but a possible fifty-five. Her eyes were



a hard pale blue with tiny pupils.



"I was sorry not to have seen you at dinner last



night," she said. "It was just a shade choppy, of



course--"



"Prcisment," said Poirot with feeling.



"Luckily, I am an excellent sailor," said Mrs.



Clapperton. "I say luckily, because, with my weak



heart, seasickness would probably be the death of



me."



"You have the weak heart, Madame?"



"Yes, I have to be most careful. I must not overtire myself! All the specialists say so!" Mrs.



Clapperton had embarked on the--to her--ever-fascinating



topic of her health. "John, poor dar






198



Agatha Christie






ling, wears himself out trying to prevent me from doing too much. I live so intensely, if you know





what I mean, M. Poirot?"

"Yes, yes."




"He always says to me: 'Try to be more of a vegetable, Adeline.' But I can't. Life was meant to be lived, I feel. As a matter of fact I wore myself out as a girl in the war. My hospital--you've heard of my hospital? Of course I had nurses and matrons and all that--but I actually, ran it." She sighed.




"Your vitality is marvelous, dear lady," said Poirot, with the slightly mechanical air of one responding to his cue.




Mrs. Clapperton gave a girlish laugh. 'Everyone tells me how young,I am! It's ab-surd. I never try to pretend I'm a day less than forty-three," she continued with slightly menda-cious candor, "but a lot of people find it hard to believe. 'You're so alive, Adeline,' they say to me. But really, M. Poirot, what would one be if one wasn't alive?"




"Dead," said Poirot.

Mrs. Clapperton frowned. The reply was not to her liking. The man, she decided, was trying to be funny. She got up and said coldly: "I must find John."




As she stepped through the door she dropped her handbag. It opened and the contents flew far and wide. Poirot rushed gallantly to the rescue. It was some few minutes before the lipsticks, vanity boxes, cigarette case and lighter and other odds and ends were collected. Mrs. Clapperton thanked him politely, then she swept down the deck and said, "John--"






PROBLEM AT SEA 199






Colonel Clapperton was still deep in conversa-on with Miss Henderson. He swung round and




quickly to meet his wife. He bent over her





y. Her deck chair--was it in the right

Wouldn't it be better--? His manner was




rteous--full of gentle consideration. Clearly an adored wife spoilt by an adoring husband.




Miss Ellie Henderson looked out at the horizon as though something about it rather disgusted her.




Standing in the smoking-room door, Poirot looked on.




A hoarse quavering voice behind him said:




"I'd take a hatchet to that woman if I were her husband." The old gentleman known disrespect-fully among the Younger Set on board as the Grandfather of All the Tea Planters, had just shuffled in. "'Boy!" he called. "Get me a whisky peg."




Poirot stooped to retrieve a torn scrap of




an overlooked item from the contents of Mrs. Clapperton's bag. Part of a prescription, noted, containing digitalin. He put it in his pocket, meaning to restore it to Mrs. Clapperton later.




"Yes," went on the aged passenger. Poisonous woman. I remember a woman like that in Poona. In '87 that was."




"Did anyone take a hatchet to her?" inquired Poirot.




The old gentleman shook his head sadly. "Worried her husband into his grave within the year. Clapperton ought'to assert himself. Gives his wife her head too much."




"She holds the purse strings," said Poirot gravely.






200 Agatha Christie




"Ha ha!" chuckled the old gentleman. "You've



put the matter in a nutshell. Holds the purse

strings. Ha ha!" Two girls burst into the smoking-room. One had a round face with freckles and dark hair streaming out in a windswept confusion, the other had freckles and curly chestnut hair. "A rescue--a rescue!" cried Kitty Mooney. "Pam and I are going to rescue Colonel Clapper-ton." "From his wife," gasped Pamela Cregan. "We think he's a pet .... " "And she's just awful--she won't let him do anything," the two girls exclaimed. "And if he isn't with her, he's usually grabbed by the Henderson woman .... " "Who's quite nice. But terribly old .... " They ran out, gasping in between giggles: "A rescue--a rescue..."




That the rescue of Colonel Clapperton was no isolated sally, but a fixed project was made clear that same evening when the eighteen-year-old Pam Cregan came up to Hercule Poirot, and murmured: "Watch us, M. Poirot. He's going to be cut out from under her nose and taken to walk in the moonlight on the boat deck." It was just at that moment that Colonel Clap-perton was saying: "I grant you the price of a Rolls Royce. But it's practically good for a lifetime.

Now my car--"

"My car, I think, John." Mrs. Clapperton's

voice was shrill and penetrating. He showed no annoyance at her ungracious PROBLEM AT SEA 201




ness. Either he was used to it by this time, or

else-

"Or else?" thought Poirot and let himself

'. speculate.

"Certainly, my dear, your car," Clapperton

bowed to his wife and finished what he had been

saying, perfectly unruffled.

"You ce qu'on appeile !e pukka sahib," thought Poirot. "But the General Forbes says that

Clapperton is no gentleman at all. I wonder now."

There was a suggestion of bridge. Mrs. Clapper-ton,

General Forbes and a hawk-eyed couple sat

down to it. Miss Henderson had excused herself

and gone out on deck.

"What about your husband?" asked General

Forbes, hesitating.

"John won't play," said Mrs. Clapperton.

"Most tiresome of him."

The four bridge players began shuffling the



cards.

Pam and Kitty advanced on Colonel Clapper-ton. Each one took an arm. "You're coming with us!" said Pam. "To the boat deck. There's a moon." "Don't be foolish, John," said Mrs. Clapper-ton. "You'll catch a chill." "Not with us, he won't," said Kitty. "We're hot stuff!" He went with them, laughing. Poirot noticed that Mrs. Clapperton said No Bid to her initial bid of Two Clubs. He strolled out onto the promenade deck. Miss Henderson was standing by the rail. She looked round expectantly as he came to stand beside her






202 Agatha Christie






and he saw the drop in her expression.




They chatted for a while. Then presently as he fell silent she asked: "What are you thinking about?"

Poirot replied: "I am wondering about my knowledge of English. Mrs. Clapperton said: 'John won't play bridge.' Is not 'can't play' the usual term?"




"She takes it as a personal insult that he doesn't, I suppose," said lllie drily. "The man was a fool ever to have married her."




In the darkness Poirot smiled. "You don't think it's just possible that the marriage may be a




success?" he asked diffidently.




"With a woman like that?"




Poirot shrugged his shoulders. "Many odious women have devoted husbands. An enigma of Nature. You will admit that nothing she says or does appears to gall him."




Miss Henderson was considering her reply when Mrs. Clapperton's voice floated out through the smoking-room window.

"No--I don't think I will play another rubber. So stuffy. I think I'll go up and get some air on the boat deck."




"Good-night," said Miss Henderson. "I'm going to bed." She disappeared abruptly.




Poirot strolled forward to the lounge--deserted save for Colonel Clapperton and the two girls. He was doing card tricks for them, and noting the dexterity of his shuffling and handling of the cards, Poirot remembered the General's story of a career on the music hall stage.




"I see you enjoy the cards even though you do






PROBLEM AT SEA 203




not play bridge,'' he remarked. "I've my reasons for not playing bridge," said Clapperton, his charming smile breaking out. "I'll show you. We'll play one hand." He dealt the cards rapidly. "Pick up your

hands. Well, what about it?" He laughed at the

bewildered expression on Kitty's face. He laid down his hand and the others followed suit. Kitty held the entire club suit, M. Poirot the hearts, Pam the diamonds and Colonel Clapperton the spades. "You see?" he said. "A man who can deal his partner and his adversaries any hand he pleases had better stand aloof from a friendly game! If the luck goes too much his way, ill-natured things might be said." "Oh!" gasped Kitty. "How could you do that? · It all looked perfectly ordinary." "The quickness of the hand deceives the eye," said Poirot sententiously--and caught the sudden change in the C6lonel's expression. It was as though he realized that he had been off his guard for a moment or two. Poirot smiled. The conjuror had shown himself through the mask of the pukka sahib.




The ship reached Alexandria at dawn the fol,. morning. As Poirot came up from breakfast he found the girls all ready to go on shore. They were talk-to Colonel Clapperton.

"We ought to get off now," urged Kitty. "The passport people will be going off the ship presently. You'll come with us, won't you? You






204 Agatha Christie






wouldn't let us go ashore all by ourselves? Awful things might happen to us."




"I certainly don't think you ought to go by yourselves," said Clapperton, smiling. "But I'm not sure my wife feels up to it."




"That's too bad," said Pam. "But she can have a nice long rest."




Colonel Clapperton looked a little irresolute. Evidently the desire to play truant was strong upon him. He noticed Poirot.




"Hullo, M. Poirotmyou going ashore?" "No, I think not," M. Poirot replied.

"I'llmI'll--just have a word with Adeline," decided Colonel Clapperton.




"We'll come with you," said Pam. She flashed a wink at Poirot. "Perhaps we can persuade her to come too," she added gravely.




Colonel Clapperton seemed to welcome this suggestion. He looked decidedly relieved.




"Come along then, the pair of you," he said lightly. They all three went along the passage of B deck together.




Poirot, whose cabin was just opposite the Clap-pertons, followed them out of curiosity.




Colonel Clapperton rapped a little nervously at the cabin door.




"Adeline, my dear, are you up?"




The sleepy voice of Mrs. Clapperton from within replied: "Oh, bother--what is it?"

"It's John. What about going ashore?" "Certainly not." The voice was shrill and de-cisive. "I've had a very bad night. I shall stay in bed most of the day."




Para nipped in quickly, "Oh, Mrs. Clapperton,






PROBLEM AT SEA 205






I'm so sorry. We did so want you to come with us. Are you sure you're not up to it?"




"I'm quite certain." Mrs. Clapperton's voice sounded even shriller.




The Colonel was turning the door-handle with-out result.




"What is it, John? The door's locked. I don't want to be disturbed by the stewards."




"Sorry, my dear, sorry. Just wanted my Baedeker."




"Well, you can't have it," snapped Mrs. Clap-perton. "I'm not going to get out of bed. Do go away, John, and let me have a little peace."




"Certainly, certainly, my dear." The Colonel backed away from the door. Pam and Kitty closed in on him.




"Let's start at once. Thank goodness your hat's on your head. Oh! gracious--your passport isn't in the cabin, is it?"




"As a matter of fact it's in my pocket--" began the Colonel.




Kitty squeezed his arm. "Glory be!" she ex-claimed. "Now, come on."




Leaning over the rail, Poirot watched the three of them leave the ship. He heard a faint intake of breath beside him and turned his head to see Miss HenderSon. Her eyes were fastened on the three retreating figures.

i"So they've gone ashore," she said flatly.





.r. Yes. Are you going?




She had a shade hat, he noticed, and a smart bag and shoes. There was a shore-going appear-ance about her. Nevertheless, after the most in-finitesimal of pauses, she shook her head.






206 Agatha Chtie




No, she sd. I thnki,




havre alot of letters to write.', stay on board. I




S heturnd and left him.




P'uffing after his mornin t




rounds of the deck, Geneur of forty-eight I e "A,- ,, I IF bes p a . nae exclaimed or took her

retreating figure9 of the Col0 s his eyes noted the




"Sthat's the gme Where'sh1 and the two girls. M " Pirot explained that Mrs. . adam. ing quiet day i bed. lerton was have "on't you blieve it" T one knowing eye. "She'll be Old warrior closed




the oor devil's (ound to be or tiffinand if ther'll be ructionS." bsent without leave, Bt the General's prognt fulfille. Mrs Clerton diftions were not q0t a

and by the time the Colenel ppear at lunch damgs returned to the ship ¥ad his attendant Bad otshown heself, t four o'clock, she Poirot was in his cabin and he




slightly guilty knock on his cay ard the husband's





gnoc repeaed the cabin don door. Heard the Beard the Colonel'S call to a st% tred, and finally




"Look here, I can't get an ard. gey?" 'SWer. Have you a




Poirot rose quickly from his




jato the passage, hunk and came out




The news went like wildfir With horrified incredulity peolI round the ship. glappert0n had been found dee. heard that Mrs. ;ative dagger drive through he,? in her bunk--a :;tuber beads was found on the fl heart. A string of Rumor succeeded rumor. Alit)?r of her cabin. tead sellers who






PROBLE .M AT SEA 207




had been allowed on baard that day were being

rounded up and questi0.ned! A large sum in cash

had disappeared from a drawer in the cabin! The notes had been traced! 71hey had not been traced! Jewelry worth a fortUne had been taken! No jewelry had been taken at all! A steward had been arrested and had confesMed to the murder! "What is the truth of it all?" demanded Miss Ellie Henderson, wayla.3,ing Poirot. Her face was pale and troubled. "My dear lady, how %hould I know?" "Of course you kno,,, said Miss Henderson. It was late in the e,'vening. Most people had retired to their cabins, llVliss Henderson led Poirot to a couple of deck chatirs on the sheltered side of the ship. "Now tell me,",, she commanded. Poirot surveyed her thoughtfully' "It's an interesting case," he said. "Is it true that sh% had some very valuable jewelry stolen?" Poirot shook his he:ad. "No. No jewelry was taken. A small amount of loose cash that was in a drawer has disappearedl, though." "I'll never feel safe n a ship again," said Miss Henderson with a shiver. "Any clue as to which of those coffee-colored hr.utes did it?" "No," said Hercule i Poirot. "The whole thing is

rather--strange." "What do you mean ?,, asked Ellie sharply. Poirot spread out his hands. "Eh bien--take the facts. Mrs. Clappe,rton had been dead at least five hours when she Was found. Some money had' disappeared. A string %f beads was on the floor by her bed. The door Was locked and the key was






208 Agatha Christie






missing. The window--windov, not port-hole--gives on the deck and was open."




"Well?" asked the woman impatiently.




"Do you not think it is curious for a murder to be committed under those particular circum-stances? Remember that the postcard sellers, money changers and bead sellers who are allowed on board are all well known to the police."




"The stewards usually lock your cabin, all the same,', Ellie pointed out.

"Yes, to prevent any chance of petty pilfering. But this--was murder."




"What exactly are you thinking of, M. Poirot?" Her Voice sounded a little breathless.




"I am thinking of the locked door."




Miss Henderson considered this. "I don't see anything in that. The man left by the door, locked it and took the key with him so as to avoid having the murder discovered too soon. Quite intelligent of hire, for it wasn't discovered until four o'clock in the afternoon."




"No, no, Mademoiselle, you don't appreciate the POint I'm trying to make. I'm not worried as




to how he got out, but as to how he got in." "The window of course."




"C'est possible. But it would be a very narrow fit--arid there were people passing up and down the deck all the time, remember."

"Then through the door," said Miss Henderson impatiently.




"But you forget, Mademoiselle. Mrs. Clapper-ton had locked the door on the inside. She had done so before Colonel Clapperton left the boat this raorning. He actually tried it--so we know that is so."






PROBLEM AT SEA 209




"Nonsense. It probably stuck--or he didn't turn the handle properly." "But it does not rest on his word. We actually heard Mrs. Clapperton herself say so." "We?" "Miss Mooney, Miss Cregan, Colonel Clapper-. ton and myself." Ellie Henderson tapped a neatly shod foot. She did not speak for a moment or two. Then she said in a slightly irritable tone: "Well--what exactly do you deduce from that? If Mrs. Clappcrton could lock the door she could

unlock it too, I suppose."

"Precisely, precisely." Poirot turned a beaming face upon her. "And you see where that leads us. Mrs. Clapperton unlocked the door and let the murderer in. Now would she be likely to do that for a bead seller?" Ellic objected: "She might not have known who it was. He may have knocked--she got up and opened the door--and he forced his way in and killed her." POirot shook his head. "Au contraire. She was lying peacefully in bed when she was stabbed." Miss Henderson stared at him. "What's your idea?" she asked abruptly. Poirot smiled. "Well, it looks, does it not, as though she knew the person she admitted .... " "You mean," said Miss Henderson and her voice sounded a little harsh, "that the murderer is a passenger on the ship?" Poirot nodded. "It seems indicated." "And the string of beads left on the floor was a blind?" "Precisely."






210 Agatha Christie

"The theft of the money also?" "Exactly." There was a pause, then Miss Henderson said slowly: "I thought Mrs. Clapperton a very unpleasant woman and I don't think anyone on board really liked her--but there wasn't anyone who had any reason to kill her." "Except her husband, perhaps," said Poirot. "You don't really think--" She stopped. "It is the opinion of every person on this ship that Colonel Clapperton would have been quite justified in 'taking a hatchet to her.' That was, I think, the expression used." Ellie Henderson looked at him--waiting. "But I am bound to say," went on Poirot, "that I myself have not noted any signs of exasperation on the good Colonel's part. Also, what is more important, he had an alibi. He was with those two girls all day and did not return to the ship till four o'clock. By then, Mrs. Clapperton had been dead many hours." There Was another minute of silence. Ellie Henderson said softly: "But you still think--a passenger on the ship?" Poirot bowed his head.

Ellie Henderson laughed suddenly--a reckless

defiant laugh. "Your theory may be difficult to prove, M. Poirot. There are a good many passengers on this ship." Poirot bowed to her. "I will use a phrase from one of your detective story writers. 'I have my methods, Watson.'" The




following evening, at dinner, every passen-






PROBLEM AT SEA 211






ger found a typewritten slip by his plate requesting him to be in the main lounge at 8:30. When the company were assembled, the Captain stepped onto the raised platform where the orchestra usually played and addressed them.




"Ladies and Gentlemen, you all know of the tragedy which took place yesterday. I am sure you all wish to co-operate in bringing the perpetrator of that foul crime to justice." He paused and



cleared his throat. "We have on board with us M.

Hercule Poirot who is probably known to you all as a man who has had wide experience in--erin such matters. I hope you will listen carefully to what he has to say."




It was at this minute that Colonel Clapperton who had not been at dinner came in and sat down next to General Forbes. He looked like a man bewildered by sorrow--not at all like a man con-scious of great relief. Either he was a very good actor or else he had been genuinely fond of his disagreeable wife.




"M. Hercule Poirot," said the Captain and stepped down. Poirot took his place. He looked comically self-important as he beamed on his au-dience.




"Messieurs, Mesdames," he began. "It is most kind of you to be so indulgent as to listen to me.

M. !e Capitaine has told you that I have had a cer-tain experience in these matters. I have, it is true, a little idea of my own about how to get to the bot-tom of this particular case." He made a sign and a steward pushed forward and passed up to him a bulky, shapeless object wrapped in a sheet.

"What I am about to do may surprise you a






212



Agatha Christie






little," Poirot warned them. "It may occur to you that I am eccentric, perhaps mad. Nevertheless I assure you that behind my madness there is--as you English say--a method."




His eyes met those of Miss Henderson for just a minute. He began unwrapping the bulky object.




"I have here, Messieurs and Mesdames, an im-portant witness to the truth of who killed Mrs. Clapperton." With a deft hand he whisked away the last enveloping cloth, and the object it con-cealed was revealed--an almost life-sized wooden doll, dressed in a velvet suit and lace collar.




"Now, Arthur," said Poirot and his voice changed subtly--it was no longer foreign--it had



instead a confident English, a slightly Cockney in-flection.

"Can you tell me--I repeatmcan you tell me--anything at all about the death of Mrs. Clap-perton?"




The doll's neck oscillated a little, its wooden lower jaw dropped and wavered and a shrill high-pitched woman's voice spoke:




"What is it, John? The door's locked. I don't want to be disturbed by the stewards .... "




There was a cryman overturned chair--a man stood swaying, his hand to his throat--trying to speak--trying . . . Then suddenly, his figure seemed to crumple up. He pitched headlong.




It was Colonel Clapperton.






Poirot and the ship's doctor rose from their knees by the prostrate figure.




"All over, I'm afraid. Heart," said the doctor briefly.




Poirot nodded. "The shock of having his trick

seen through," he said.






PROBLEM AT SEA



213






He turned to General Forbes. "It was you, General, who gave me a valuable hint with your mention of the music hall stage. I puzzle--I think--and then it comes to me. Supposing that before the war Clapperton was a ventriloquist. In that case, it would be perfectly possible for three people to hear Mrs. Clapperton speak from inside her cabin when she was already dead .... "




Ellie Henderson was beside him. Her eyes were dark and full of pain. "Did you know his heart was weak?" she asked.




"I guessed it .... Mrs. Clapperton talked of her own heart being affected, but she struck me as the type of woman who likes to be thought ill. Then I picked up a torn prescription with a very strong dose of digitalin in it. Digitalin is a heart mdicine



but it couldn't be Mrs. Clapperton's because

digitalin dilates the pupils of the eyes. I had never noticed such a phenomenon with hei'--but when I looked at his eyes I saw the signs at once."




Ellie murmured: "So you thought--it might end--this way?"




"The best way, don't you think, Mademoi-selle?'' he said gently.




He saw the tears rise in her eyes. She said: "You've known. You've kno?n all along. : . . That I cared .... But he didn't do it for me .... It was those girlsmyouthmit made him feel his slavery. He wanted to be free before it was too late .... Yes, I'm sure that's how it was .... When did you guessmthat it was he?"




"His self-control was too perfect," said Poirot simply. "No matter how galling his wife's con-duct, it never seemed to touch him. That meant either that he was so used to it that it no longer






214 Agatha Christie






stung him, or else--eh bien--I decided on the latter alternative .... And I was right ....




"And then there was his insistence on his con-juring ability--the evening before the crime. He pretended to give himself away. But a man like Clapperton doesn't give himself away. There must be a reason. So long as people thought he had been a conjuror they weren't likely to think of his having been a ventriloquist."




"And the voice we heard--Mrs. Clapperton's voice?"




"One of the stewardesses had a voice not unlike hers. I induced her to hide behind the stage and taught her the words to say."




"It was a trick--a cruel trick," cried out Ellie.




"I do not approve of murder," said Hercule Poirot.

"One of the most Imaginative and fertile plot creators of all time!"-Ellery Queen




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