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The Dream

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       The Dream

      ‘The Dream’ was first published in the USA in the Saturday Evening Post, 23 October 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 wrist-watch 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-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

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