The bitter-almonds odour was very strong round Marcus’s mouth. He had been dead only a very short time; his hands were still clenched in a final spasm round the arm of the chair. He wore a dinner-jacket whose shirtfront bulged up out of the waistcoat, and behind the handkerchief in his breast-pocket there stuck out the edge of a folded piece of paper.
If he had taken poison, Elliot could find no container or receptacle from which he had taken it. The table, with its neat desk-blotter and pen-tray, was brushed clean. There were only two other objects on the table. One was a lead-pencil, flattish rather than round or hexagonal, and dark blue in colour; it lay not in the pen-tray, but on the blotter. The other object on the desk was a two-pound box of cheap chocolates. It was unopened; the glazed cardboard was ornamented with a flowered design like blue wall-paper, and bore the words Henry’s Peppermint Creams in gilt letters on the lid.
“Hullo!” bellowed a voice from the other room.
The carpets were thick, and they heard no footsteps. Also, it was so dark beyond the core of light that they could see little even when someone fumbled at the folding doors and pulled them open. But Dr. Joseph Chesney hurried into the room, and stopped short.
“Oh,” said Doctor Joe. He was breathing hard. “It’s you, Major. And Bostwick. Thank God.”
The major greeted him curtly.
“We were wondering where you’d got to,” he said. “This is Inspector Elliot, who has come down from Scotland Yard to give us a hand. Suppose you tell him what happened here.”
Doctor Joe looked at Elliot with searching curiosity. The air was disturbed at his passing, as by a wind; he brought an atmosphere of brandy to mingle with the bitter-almonds. His short ginger beard and moustache were puffed out by the pursing of his lips and the breaths he drew. Seen here at home, rather than in Italy, he seemed less aggressive and perhaps even less burly in spite of his heavy tweed suit. He had scrubby ginger hair and scrubby red eyebrows over fiercely genial eyes, with moving wrinkles under them as though the whole lower part of his face were on a hinge. But the fat face was not genial now.
“I don’t know what happened,” he retorted rather querulously. “I wasn’t here. And I can’t be everywhere at once. I’ve just been upstairs attending to another patient.
“Another patient? Who?”
“Wilbur Emmet.”
“Wilbur Emmet!” said the Major. “He’s not——?”
“Oh, no, he’s not dead. Got a nasty crack on the back of the head, though. Concussion,” explained Doctor Joe, clasping his hands and rubbing them together with a washing motion. “Look here, what about going into the other room? It’s not that I mind being here with that,” he pointed to his brother, “but those Photoflood lamps don’t last for ever. If you keep that thing burning you’ll burn it out, and then you ruddy well will be in the dark when you do the what’s it,” he washed his hands again, “search for the clues and so on. Eh?”
At a nod from the Chief Constable, Elliot wound a handkerchief over his fingers and switched off the light. Joseph Chesney stamped rather quickly into the other room. In the Music Room he faced them with what Elliot realized was the aggressiveness of nervousness.
Major Crow half closed the double-doors.
“Now, then,” he said briskly. “If they don’t mind your using the phone, Superintendent, you might ring up the doctor and ask him——”
“What do you want a doctor for? I’m a doctor. I can tell you he’s dead.”
“It’s a matter of form, Chesney. You know that.”
“If you’ve got anything to say against me professionally——”
“Nonsense, my lad. Now, Inspector.”
Doctor Joe turned to Elliot “So you’re from Scotland Yard, eh?” he demanded, and then seemed to reflect. “Stop a bit! How did you get down here so quickly?” He reflected again. “You couldn’t have.”
“I came down about another matter, doctor. Poisoning the children.”
“Oh,” said Doctor Joe, and changed colour. “Well, you’ve got a job on your hands.”
“I appreciate that,” admitted Elliot. “Now, doctor, if you could just give me an idea of what happened here tonight——”
“Tomfoolery is what happened here,” roared the other instantly. “Tomfoolery. Marcus wanted to give’em a show. And, by thunder, he did!”
“A show?”
“I can’t tell you what they did,” Doctor Joe pointed out, “because I wasn’t here. But I can tell you what they were going to do, because they were arguing about it all through dinner. It was the old argument, only it never took such concrete shape before. Marcus said that ninety-nine people out of a. hundred, as witnesses, are just plain impossible. He said they can’t tell you what goes on under their eyes; and if there’s a fire, a street-accident, a riot, or anything like that, the police get such wildly conflicting testimony that it’s worthless as evidence.” He peered at Elliot with sudden curiosity. “Is that true, by the way?”
“Very often, yes. But what about it?”
“Well, all of ’em disagreed with Marcus; each on different grounds, but all of ’em said you couldn’t fool them. I said so myself,” Doctor Joe told him defensively. “I still think it’s so, in my case. But finally Marcus said he would just like to put it to a little test. He offered to try out on them a psychological test that had been used at some university or other. He said he’d put on a little show for ’em. At the end of it they were to answer a list of questions about what they’d seen. And he wanted to bet that sixty per cent of the answers would be wrong.”
Doctor Joe appealed to Major Crow.
“You know Marcus. I’ve always said he was like What’s-his-name—you know, that writer we had to read at school—the one who would walk twenty miles to get the right description of a flower that didn’t matter a curse anyway. And, the minute Marcus got an idea, he had to go and do it smack-bang right off the reel. So they played this little game. Right in the middle of it—well, somebody came in and killed Marcus. If I’ve understood ’em properly, every one of ’em saw the murderer and followed every move he made. And yet they can’t agree on anything that happened.”
Doctor Joe stopped. His voice had acquired a kind of thunderous hoarseness; his face was fiery; and by the expression of his eyes Elliot was afraid for a moment that he was going to break down and weep. The sight would have been grotesque if he had not seemed so absolutely sincere.
Major Crow intervened.
“But couldn’t they give a description of the murderer?”
“No. The fellow was all bundled up like the Invisible Man.”
“Like the what?”
“You know. Long coat, collar turned up; muffler wrapped round his head and face; dark glasses; hat pulled down. Pretty ugly sight, they said, but they thought it was a part of the show. God, it’s frightful! This—this goblin walks in——”
“But——”
“Excuse me, sir,” interposed Inspector Elliot. He wanted to get the facts in their proper order, for he had a dim feeling that this case was going to be a sizzler. He turned to the doctor. “You say ‘they’ saw this. Who was it?”
“Professor Ingram, and Marjorie, and young George What’s-his-name.”
“Anyone else?”
“No, not that I know of. Marcus wanted me to sit in. But, as I keep telling you, I had a round of calls to make. Marcus said he wasn’t going to start the show until late anyway, and he would wait for me if I promised to be back before midnight. Of course I couldn’t promise anything like that. I said I would make it if I could, but if I wasn’t back by a quarter to twelve to go on without me.”
After sniffing once or twice, Doctor Joe had himself under control. He sat down. He raised his big hands and forearms, like the claws of a bear, and let them fall on his knees.
“What time did the show begin?” Elliot went on.
“On the stroke of twelve, they tell me. That’s the only ruddy point where they all agree.”
“About the ac
tual murder, doctor: you can’t tell us anything from personal knowledge?”
“No! At twelve o’clock I was just getting away from a case on the other side of town. Difficult case: confinement. I thought I’d drive over here and see whether I might be in time for the party. But I wasn’t. I got there about ten minutes past twelve, in time to find the poor old boy too far gone for me or anyone else to do anything about it.” Here some new reflection seemed to strike him, and brighten in his mind. He lifted a red-rimmed eye.
“And I’ll tell you something else,” he went on, in a voice of honey. “There’s just one good thing that’s come of this business. And will I cram it down their throats? Will I?
“Look here, Inspector. You say you’ve come down here to look into that poisoning business at Mrs. Terry’s shop, so you probably know what I’m going to tell you, but I’m going to tell you anyhow. For over three months, nearer four, people have been going about saying my niece is a murderess. That’s what they’ve said: they’ve said she poisons people to watch ’em squirm. They haven’t said it to me. You bet they haven’t! But they’ve said it; and will I cram it down their throats now? Because one thing is proved: whoever killed my brother, it wasn’t Marjorie. And whoever the poisoner is, it can’t be Marjorie. And even if Marcus had to snuff out to prove that, it’s worth it. D’ye hear me? It’s worth it.”
He jumped, rather guiltily, and lowered his fist. A door across the room, evidently leading to a passage, had opened; and Marjorie Wills came in.
The Music Room had a crystal chandelier, all of whose electric candles were lighted. Marjorie’s eyes blinked a little as she opened the door. She moved over quickly, soundless on the carpet in her small black slippers, and put her hand on Doctor Joe’s shoulder.
“Please come upstairs,” she urged. “I don’t like the way Wilbur is breathing.”
Then she looked up, startled, and saw the others. First the grey eyes were blank; then, as they saw Elliot, they seemed to catch at something, and narrowed. It was like a fierce concentration, which was there and gone as she straightened up.
She said:
“Aren’t you—that is, haven’t we met before?”
Chapter IV
THE BLACK SPECTACLES
Whereupon Elliot made another slip. He spoke, for a certain reason of his own, with such barking sharpness that the Chief Constable stared at him.
“I think not, Miss Wills,” he said. “Will you sit down, please?”
She was looking at him in that same puzzled way; how vividly his own memory returned he did not mention. Never had he met a person of whose presence he was so intensely aware, like a physical touch. He seemed to know what she would do, how her head would turn, how she would raise her hand to her forehead.
“You’re hysterical, Marjorie,” said Doctor Joe, patting her hand. “This fellow’s an Inspector from Scotland Yard. He——”
“Scotland Yard,” said the girl. “As bad as that, is it?”
And she began to laugh.
She checked herself immediately, but even such humour as it was had not reached her eyes. Elliot had forgotten no detail: the glossy dark-brown hair, parted and drawn behind her ears to small curls at the nape of the neck; the broad forehead, arched brows, and meditative grey eyes; the mouth that seemed to be always in repose. He saw now that she was not beautiful, but he hardly noticed this.
“I’m sorry,” she said, rousing herself again from the puzzled look she was directing at him. “I’m afraid I didn’t hear you. What did you say?”
“Will you sit down, please, Miss Wills? If you feel up to it, we should like to hear what you can tell us about your uncle’s death.”
She gave a quick glance at the folding doors to the dark room beyond. After looking at the floor for a moment, and clenching her hands once or twice, she threw back her head with at least surface calm. But such humour and intelligence as he ascribed to her may not be proof against four months’ whispering attack of tongues.
“That bulb can’t have burned out, can it?” she said, and rubbed her forehead vigorously with the back of her hand. “Have you come down to arrest me?”
“No.”
“Then—well, what do you want to ask me?”
“Just tell me about it in your own way, Miss Wills. Dr. Chesney, if you would like to go to your patient——?”
Elliot’s sober-minded, quiet Scots courtesy was having its effect. She looked at him speculatively, and her breathing became less rapid. Taking the chair he set out for her, she sat down and crossed her knees. She was wearing a plain black dinner-dress, without rings or ornaments: not even an engagement-ring.
“Inspector, must we stay here? In this room, I mean?”
“Yes.”
“My uncle had a theory,” she said. “Whenever he had a theory, he had to test it. And this is the result.” She told him about the theory.
“I understand, Miss Wills, that this all began with an argument at the dinner-table?”
“Yes.”
“Who started the argument? Introduced the subject, I mean?”
“Uncle Marcus,” answered the girl, as though surprised.
“And you disagreed with him?”
“Yes.”
“Why, Miss Wills? On what grounds?”
“Oh, does it matter?” cried Marjorie, opening her eyes a little and making a gesture of impatience. But she saw the tenacity of Elliot’s jaw; and, puzzled and excited, she went on. “Why? Just for something to do, I suppose. It’s been rather beastly since we’ve been back home, even with George here. Especially with George here, George is my fiancé: I—I met him on a trip we took abroad. And then Uncle Marcus was so sure of himself. Besides, I’ve always really believed what I told him.”
“‘About what?”
“All men are unobservant,” said Marjorie quietly. “That’s why you make such bad witnesses. You don’t pay attention. You’re too wrapped up all the time in your own concerns, looking inwards, always concentrated on your business or your troubles. So you don’t observe. Shall I prove it? You’re always joking about a woman knowing what another woman is wearing, down to the last detail of a belt or a bracelet. Well, do you think a woman doesn’t notice what a man is wearing as well? And can’t describe it? It isn’t a question of watching other women; it’s a question of plain observation. But do you ever notice what other people are wearing? Another man, for instance? No. Provided his suit or his tie isn’t offensive, you pay no more attention. Do you ever notice details? His shoes; or his hands?”
She paused, glancing over her shoulder at the double-doors.
“I’m telling you this because I swore to Uncle Marcus that no intelligent woman would ever be much mistaken about what she saw. I told him that if he gave his demonstration I shouldn’t be. And I’m not mistaken.”
Marjorie bent forward with fierce earnestness.
“You see,” she went on, “someone came in——”
“Just a moment, Miss Wills. Who else disagreed with this proposition of your uncle’s?”
“Uncle Joe did, just on general principles. And Professor Ingram disagreed very strongly. You see, he’s a professor of psychology. He said that the proposition in general was sound, but that he couldn’t possibly make mistakes. He said he was a trained observer, and knew all the traps. He offered to bet Uncle Marcus fifty pounds on it.”
She glanced over towards Doctor Joe’s chair, but Doctor Joe had gone: a remarkable feat to be done unobserved. Superintendent Bostwick had come back into the room, and Major Crow was leaning forward with his folded arms on top of the grand piano.”
“What about your—fiancé?”
“George? Oh, he disagreed too. But he insisted on being allowed to film the whole thing with a little ciné-camera, so that there couldn’t be any dispute afterwards.”
Elliot sat up.
“You mean you’ve got a film of what happened here?”
“Yes, of course. That’s the reason for the Photoflood lamp.”
“I see,” said Elliot, with a deep breath of relief. “Now who were to be the witnesses to this demonstration?”
“Just Professor Ingram, and George, and myself. Uncle Joe had some calls to make.”
“But what about this other man who seems to have got knocked over the head somehow? This Mr. Emmet? Wasn’t he there?”
“No, no. He was to have been Uncle Marcus’s assistant, don’t you see? He was to have been the other actor in the show.
“Here was how it happened, though we didn’t know this until afterwards,” she explained. “After dinner Uncle Marcus and Wilbur Emmet got together and decided on the performance they were to put on for our benefit, like people arranging charades. The stage was to be Uncle Marcus’s office—there—and we were to sit here and watch it. Wilbur was to come in dressed up in some outlandish collection of clothes, the more outlandish the better, so that we should have to describe them afterwards. He and Uncle Marcus were to go through some rigmarole, which we should also have to describe without errors. Uncle Marcus had a list of questions prepared for us. Well, at close on midnight Uncle Marcus called us all in here, and gave us our instructions——”
Elliot interposed.
“Just a moment, please. You say at ‘close on midnight.’ Wasn’t that rather late to begin?”
A tinge of what he felt was angry uncertainty came into her face.
“Yes, it was. Professor Ingram was rather annoyed about it, because he wanted to go home. You see, dinner was over by a quarter past nine. George and I sat in the library and played endless games of Rummy, wondering what was up. But Uncle Marcus insisted.”
“Did he give any explanation?”
“He said he was waiting to see whether Uncle Joe got home, so that Uncle Joe could join in. But, when Uncle Joe wasn’t back by a quarter to twelve, he decided to get on with it.”
“One other thing, Miss Wills. You didn’t know at this time that Mr. Emmet was to be in this—that is, that he was to help your uncle as an actor in the performance?”
The Problem of the Green Capsule Page 4