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