The Adventure of the Christmas Pudding - Agatha Christie [77]
‘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 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 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.
‘No,’ he said. ‘There’s nothing to see there. I’ve told you all there is to tell.’
‘But I should like to see for myself –’
‘There’s no need,’ Farley snapped. ‘You’ve given me your opinion. That’s the end.’
Poirot shrugged his shoulders. ‘As you