The Problem of the Green Capsule by John Dickson Carr Page A

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