The Problem of the Green Capsule

by John Dickson Carr

  “Oh, no! We didn’t see Wilbur at all, after dinner. All we knew was that Uncle Marcus was shut up in these two rooms, making his preparations.”

  “Go on, please.”

  “Well, Uncle Marcus called us in here,” she continued. “and gave us our instructions. The curtains were drawn on the windows,”—she pointed—“and those folding doors were closed so that we couldn’t see into the office. He stood in here and gave us a little lecture.”

  “Could you possibly remember exactly what he said?”

  She nodded.

  “I think so. He said, ‘First, you are to sit in absolute darkness during the performance.’ George objected, and asked how he could be expected to take a ciné-film of the thing. Uncle Marcus explained that he had borrowed my Photoflood bulb, one I had bought for him that morning, and rigged it up in the office so that its light would shine directly on the theatre of observations. We would have every excuse for concentrating on it.”

  Here Elliot felt a wave of uncertainty in his direction, as palpably as though the girl wore perfume.

  “And yet I thought that there was a trick in it somehow,” she added.

  “Why?”

  “It was the way Uncle Marcus looked,” she cried. “You can’t live with a person for as long as I have—And then it was what he said. He said. ‘Second, you are not to speak or interfere no matter what you see. Is that clear?’ Finally, just before he went into the other room, he said, ‘Be careful. There may be traps.’ With that he went into the office, and closed the folding doors. I turned out the lights, and in a few seconds the performance began.

  “It began when Uncle Marcus opened the folding doors to their full width. I felt excited and nervous; I don’t know why.

  “He was alone. I could see nearly all the office. After he opened the doors, he walked back slowly and sat down behind that table in the middle, facing us. The Photoflood bulb was in a lamp with a bronze-metal shade, placed at the front of the table and a little to the right, so that it lit up everything without obscuring our view of Uncle Marcus. There was a dead white glare on the wall behind him, and a big shadow of him. You could see the white face of the clock on the mantelpiece behind him, with the pendulum shining and switching back and forth. The time was midnight.

  “Uncle Marcus sat there facing us. On the table there was a chocolate-box; also a pencil and a pen. He picked up first the pencil, then the pen, and pretended to write with each. Then he looked round. One of the French windows in the office opened, and in from the lawn stepped that horrible-looking thing in the top-hat and the sunglasses.”

  Marjorie paused, only half succeeding in clearing her throat.

  But she went on:

  “It was about six feet tall, not even counting the top-hat with the curly brim. It wore a long dirty raincoat that had the collar turned up. There was something brown twisted around its face, and it had black glasses on. It was wearing shiny gloves, and carrying a kind of black satchel. We didn’t know who it was, of course; but I didn’t like the look of it even then. It looked more like an insect than human. Tall and thin, you know, with the big black glasses on. George, who was taking the film, said out aloud, “Shh! The Invisible Man!’—and it turned round and looked at us.

  “It put down this doctor’s satchel on the table, and stood with its back to us, and moved to the other side of the table. Uncle Marcus said something to it. But it never spoke once: Uncle Marcus did all the talking. There wasn’t any other noise except the clock ticking on the mantelpiece, and George’s ciné-camera rattling away. I think what Uncle Marcus said was, ‘You have done now what you did before; what else will you do?’ This time (as I say) it was on the right hand side of the table. Working very fast, it took a little cardboard box out of the pocket of its raincoat, and shook out of that a fat green capsule like the castor-oil capsules we used to have to take when we were children. It leaned over as quick as that, and tipped back Uncle Marcus’s head, and forced the capsule down his throat.”

  Marjorie Wills stopped.

  Her voice was shaking; she lifted her hand to her own throat, clearing it once or twice. She had such difficulty in keeping her eyes off those (now dark) double-doors that she finally pulled her chair round to face them. Elliot followed her.

  “Yes?” he prompted.

  “I couldn’t help it,” she said. “I gave a jump or a cry or something of the kind. I shouldn’t have done it, because Uncle Marcus had warned us not to be surprised at anything we saw. Besides, there didn’t seem to be anything wrong; Uncle Marcus swallowed the capsule, though he didn’t seem to like doing it—he glared up once at the swathed face.

  “As soon as this was done, the thing in the top-hat gathered up the satchel, made a kind of ducking motion and went out by the French window. Uncle Marcus sat at the table for a few seconds more, swallowing a bit, and pushed that chocolate box to another position. Then without any warning he flopped forward on his face.

  “No, no!” cried Marjorie, as there was a stir through the group. “That was only pretence: that was only a part of the show: it signified the end of the performance. For immediately after that Uncle Marcus got up smiling, and came over and closed the double-doors on us. That was the fall of the curtain.

  “We put the lights on in this room. Professor Ingram knocked on the double-doors, and asked Uncle Marcus to come out and take a curtain-call. Uncle Marcus pulled the doors open. He looked—glittering, you know, pleased with himself; but rather annoyed with something all the same. He had a folded paper stuck into the breast-pocket of his jacket, and he tapped it He said, “Now, my friends, get pencils and paper, and prepare to answer some questions.’ Professor Ingram said, ‘By the way, who was your hideous-looking colleague?’ Uncle Marcus said, ‘Oh, that was only Wilbur; he helped me plan the whole thing.’ And then he shouted out, ‘All right, Wilbur. You can come in now.!

  “But there wasn’t any answer.

  “Uncle Marcus shouted again; and there still wasn’t any answer.

  “Finally he got annoyed and went to the window. One of the windows in this room—you see?—had been left open, because it was such a warm night. The lights were on in both rooms now, and we could see out into that strip of grass between the house and the trees. All of this goblin’s trappings were lying there on the ground, top-hat and sunglasses and bag with that doctor’s name painted on it; but we couldn’t see Wilbur at first.

  “We found him in the shadow at the other side of a tree. He was lying on his face, unconscious. Blood had come out of his mouth and nose into the grass, and the back of his skull felt soft The poker he had been hit with was lying near him. He had been unconscious for quite some time.”

  She explained, her face screwing up in spite of herself: “You see, the man in the top-hat and sun-glasses hadn’t been Wilbur at all.”

  Chapter V

  LOCUM TENENS

  “Hadn’t been Wilbur at all?” Elliot repeated.

  He knew quite well what she meant. That curious figure in the ancient top-hat was beginning to move and stir in his imagination.

  “I haven’t finished, you see,” Marjorie told him, quietly but wretchedly. “I haven’t told you what happened to Uncle Marcus.

  “It was just after we found Wilbur lying there. How long the symptoms had been coming on I don’t know. But they were lifting Wilbur up, and I looked round, and I saw there was something wrong with Uncle Marcus.

  “Honestly, I felt physically sick. I know this has seemed all intuitions and inspirations of mine; but I can’t help it. I knew what it was at that minute. He was leaning against the side of a tree, half doubled up, and trying to get his breath. The light from the house was shining through the leaves behind him. I couldn’t see him very well, but the light was on the side of his face, and the skin looked roughish and lead-coloured. I said, ‘Uncle Marcus, what’s wrong? Is anything wrong?’ And I must have screamed it. He only shook his head violently, and made a gesture as though he were trying to push me away. Then he
began to stamp on the ground with one foot; you could hear him breathe in a kind of whine and moan together. I ran to him, and so did Professor Ingram. But he struck Professor Ingram’s hand away, and——”

  She could not go on. She slapped her own hands against her face, covering the eyes, and slapped again.

  Major Crow came forward from the piano.

  “Steady,” he said gruffly.

  Superintendent Bostwick said nothing; he had folded his arms, and was looking at her curiously.

  “He began to run,” said Marjorie wildly. “That’s what I’ll always remember: he began to run. Back and forth, up and down, but only a few steps each way, because he couldn’t stand the pain. George and the professor tried to grab him and hold him down, but he broke away and ran through the window into his office. He collapsed by the desk. We lifted him up into the chair, but never spoke once. I went out to phone for Uncle Joe. I knew where to find him; Mrs. Emsworth is expecting a baby. Uncle Joe walked in on us while I was still ringing up, but it was too late. You could smell that bitter-almonds stuff all over the room by this time. I still thought there might be some hope. But George said, “Come away; the old boy’s a goner; I know what that is.’ And it was.”

  “Bad luck,” growled Major Crow. It was inadequate, but it was sincere.

  Superintendent Bostwick said nothing.

  “Miss Wills,” said Elliot, “I don’t want to press you too much at this time——”

  “I’m all right. I really am.”

  “But you think your uncle was given poison in that green capsule?”

  “Of course. He couldn’t say anything, because the poison had acted on his respiratory nerves; but he tried to point to his throat.”

  “He didn’t swallow anything else at the time?”

  “No.”

  “Can you give me a description of this capsule?”

  “Well, as I say, it looked like the caster-oil ones we used to take when we were children. They’re about the size of a grape, and made of thick gelatine. You think they’ll never go down your throat, but they do: easily. Lots of people hereabouts still use them.” Checking herself, she looked at him very quickly, and colour came into her face.

  Elliot ignored this.

  “Then this is the position. You think that just before the performance someone knocked out Mr. Emmet——”

  “I do.”

  “Someone wrapped himself in those outlandish clothes so that even Mr. Marcus Chesney wouldn’t recognise him. Then someone played Mr. Emmet’s part in the show. But in place of a harmless capsule, which Mr. Chesney was supposed to swallow as a part of the show, this person substituted a poisoned capsule?”

  “Oh, I don’t know! Yes, I think so.”

  “Thank you, Miss Wills. I won’t bother you any more for the moment.” Elliot got up. “Where are Professor Ingram and Mr. Harding: do you know?”

  “Upstairs with Wilbur—they were.”

  “Just ask them if they will come down here, will you? Oh, one other thing!”

  She had risen, though she fidgeted, and seemed in no hurry to go. She looked at him inquiringly.

  “I shall want you, before long, to make a very detailed statement of everything you saw during the performance,” Elliot went on. “But there’s one thing we might settle now. You described a part of the man’s costume, raincoat, and so on. But what about his trousers and shoes?”

  Her expression grew fixed. “His——?”

  “Yes. You said a while ago,” said Elliot, feeling a faint roaring in his ears, “that you always noticed shoes. What about this man’s shoes and trousers?”

  “That light,” answered Marjorie, after a slight pause, “was placed on the desk to shine straight across; so that things near the floor were pretty dark. But I think I can tell you. Yes, I’m sure of it.” The startled glitter in her eyes became even more fixed. “He was wearing ordinary dress trousers—black, with a darker stripe down the side—and patent-leather evening shoes.”

  “Were all the men here to-night wearing dinner-jackets, Miss Wills?”

  “Yes. That is, all except Uncle Joe. He had calls to make; and he says the psychological effect is bad if a doctor goes to see a patient in evening clothes. He says it makes the patient think the doctor’s mind isn’t on business. But you don’t think——”

  Elliot smiled, though he felt it turn into a mask of hypocrisy.

  “How many people hereabouts are accustomed to dress for dinner?”

  “Nobody that I know if,” said Marjorie. She was evidently growing even more flurried. “We don’t ourselves, ordinarily. But to-night Uncle Marcus asked us to, for some reason.”

  “For the first time?”

  “Well, for the first time since we’ve had a lot of guests, anyway. But Professor Ingram hardly counts as a guest, and neither does George.”

  “Thank you, Miss Wills. Unless Major Crow or the Superintendent have some questions——?”

  Both the others shook their heads, though Bostwick looked highly sinister. Marjorie remained looking speculatively at Elliot for a moment; then she went out and closed the door with great softness, but he thought he saw her shudder. There was a silence in the bright room.

  “H’m,” said Major Crow.

  “You know,” he added, and a sharp little eye fixed on Elliot, “I don’t like that girl’s testimony.”

  “No more do I,” said Bostwick, and unfolded his arms with deliberation.

  “On the surface it’s a clear case,” growled Major Crow, speaking down his nose. “Somebody overheard and saw Chesney and Wilbur Emmet making their preparations, and knew what the show was to be. He knocked out Emmet, played his part, and substituted a poisoned capsule for the harmless one. The gelatine would take a minute or two to dissolve. So Chesney wouldn’t notice anything wrong when he took the capsule. That is, he wouldn’t shout out immediately that he’d been poisoned, or try to stop the murderer. The murderer could fade away, leaving the disguise outside. When the gelatine melted, the poison would kill in a couple of minutes. All very clear. Yes. Apparently. But——”

  “Ah!” grunted Bostwick, as the Chief Constable pounced on the word. “Why hit Mr. Emmet out? Eh, sir?”

  Elliot was suddenly conscious of a far greater shrewdness than he had expected emanating from the bulk in the corner. Bostwick was his superior officer, of course, but still he had not expected it. The Superintendent had been rocking back and forth, bumping his posterior at measured intervals against the wall; and now he looked at Elliot with such a broad and fishy expression that it was as though a searchlight had been turned on.

  “That’s exactly it, Inspector,” agreed Major Crow. “As Bostwick says, why hit Mr. Emmet out? Why not let Emmet give Chesney the poisoned capsule in the ordinary course of the show? If the murderer knows what they’re going to do, all he needs to do is change over the capsules. Why run the risk of knocking out Emmet, dressing up in the clothes and possibly being spotted straightaway, and walking in here exposed to everybody’s eyes?—why let himself in for all those terrific risks when all he had to do was substitute one capsule for another, and let somebody else do the dirty work?”

  “I think,” Elliot said thoughtfully, “that that’s the whole point of the crime.”

  “The whole point of the crime?”

  “Yes, sir. In the performance as it was rehearsed, Mr. Chesney never intended to swallow any capsule at all.”

  “H’m,” said Major Crow, after a pause.

  “He was only going to pretend to swallow it. You see. This whole performance was to be a series of traps for the observation. You’ve probably had similar tricks played on you in a course in psychology at college——”

  “Not me,” said Major Crow.

  “Not me,” grunted Superintendent Bostwick.

  All Elliot’s stubborness rose up fiercely in him; not only at this, but at the slight air of hostility which had come into the room. He wondered if he sounded as though he was swanking. Then he decided, w
ith the tips of his ears tingling, that he did not give a curse.

  “The instructor,” he went on, “takes a bottle of some liquid, puts his tongue to it, makes a wry face, and comments on the bitter taste of the stuff. Then he passes the bottle to you. All it contains is coloured water. But, if you’re not careful, you’ll swear the stuff is bitter just from having it impressed on you. Or else it really is bitter, and he only pretends to taste it—telling you to do as he did. Unless you note carefully what he did, you’ll take a swig of it.

  “That’s what happened here, very probably. Mr. Chesney warned them to look out for traps. You remember, Miss Wills said he looked surprised and annoyed when the capsule was shoved into his mouth. It’s likely that his instructions to Emmet were to pretend to give him the pill, and he would pretend to swallow it. But the real murderer pushed it down his throat, that’s all. To avoid breaking up the show, Mr. Chesney didn’t make any audible protest.” Elliot shook his head. “And I’ll be very much surprised if in that list of questions he prepared we don’t find some such question as—‘How long did it take me to swallow the capsule?’ or the like.”

  Major Crow was impressed.

  “By Jove, that’s reasonable enough!” he admitted, with a gleam of relief. Then exasperation and bewilderment flooded out everything else. “But look here, Inspector—even so—to do that—my God, are we dealing with a lunatic?”

  “Looks like it, sir.”

  “Let’s face it,” said Major Crow. “A lunatic, or whatever fancy name we want to call it, from this house.”

  “Ah,” murmured Bostwick. “Go on!”

  The Chief Constable spoke mildly. “To begin with, how would an outsider know they were going to arrange an observation test here to-night? They didn’t know it themselves until dinner; and it’s unlikely that an outsider would have been hanging about these windows so conveniently afterwards to overhear what Chesney and Emmet were arranging. It’s even more unlikely that an outsider in dress trousers and evening shoes would be hanging about on the one particular night when they were going to dress for dinner. I admit none of this is conclusive; it’s only suggestive. But—you see the difficulty?”