The Dream: A Hercule Poirot Short Story

It was, so to speak, the first intimation of contact with the eccentricity of a millionaire.

A voice from within called out something. The butler threw open the door. He announced (and again Poirot sensed the deliberate departure from orthodoxy):

‘The gentleman you are expecting, sir.’

Poirot passed into the room. It was a fair-sized room, very plainly furnished in a workmanlike fashion. Filing cabinets, books of reference, a couple of easy-chairs, and a large and imposing desk covered with neatly docketed papers. The corners of the room were dim, for the only light came from a big green-shaded reading lamp which stood on a small table by the arm of one of the easy-chairs. It was placed so as to cast its full light on anyone approaching from the door. Hercule Poirot blinked a little, realizing that the lamp bulb was at least 150 watts. In the arm-chair sat a thin figure in a patchwork dressing-gown – Benedict Farley. His head was stuck forward in a characteristic attitude, his beaked nose projecting like that of a bird. A crest of white hair like that of a cockatoo rose above his forehead. His eyes glittered behind thick lenses as he peered suspiciously at his visitor.

‘Hey,’ he said at last – and his voice was shrill and harsh, with a rasping note in it. ‘So you’re Hercule Poirot, hey?’

‘At your service,’ said Poirot politely and bowed, one hand on the back of the chair.

‘Sit down – sit down,’ said the old man testily.

Hercule Poirot sat down – in the full glare of the lamp. From behind it the old man seemed to be studying him attentively.

‘How do I know you’re Hercule Poirot – hey?’ he demanded fretfully. ‘Tell me that – hey?’

Once more Poirot drew the letter from his pocket and handed it to Farley.

‘Yes,’ 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 ?’