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
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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 detailsmhis famous patch-work
dressing-gown, now reputed to be twenty-eight
years old, his invariable diet of cabbage soup
and aviare, his hatred of cats. All these things the
public knew.
Hercule Poirot knew them also. t 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 theneat wrist-watch which
had at last replaced an earlier favoritemthe large
turnip-faced watch of earlier days. Yes, it was ex-actly
nine-thirty. As ever, Hercule Poirot was ex-act
to the minute.