The Regatta Mystery and Other Stories (Hercule Poirot 21)

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.