The Problem of the Green Capsule Read Online Free PDF

consequences. He said he always knew I lacked the power of observation, but now he knew I hadn’t any brains.”
    “It seems rather an idée fixe of his,” explained the Major, “that most people are incapable of describing accurately what they see or hear——”
    “I know,” said Elliot.
    “You know?”
    Elliot did not have time to answer this, for at that moment the telephone rang. Major Crow glanced rather impatiently at the clock, whose noisy ticking filled the room, and whose hands pointed to twenty minutes past twelve. Bostwick lumbered over and picked up the phone, while both Elliot and the Chief Constable were sunk in an obscure but uncomfortable dream. The Major was tired and depressed; Elliot, at the very least was depressed. It was Bostwick’s voice which roused them—perhaps the very slight shrillness with which he repeated, “Sir?” Major Crow swung round suddenly, knocking his chair with a bump against the desk.
    “It’s Doctor Joe,” said the Superintendent heavily. “You’d better talk to him, sir.”
    There was a glitter of sweat on his forehead, though the expression of his eyes told little. He held out the telephone.
    Major Crow took it, and listened quietly for perhaps a minute. In the silence Elliot could hear the telephone jabbering, though he could make out no coherent word. Then the Chief Constable hung up the receiver with some care.
    “That was Joe Chesney,” he repeated, rather superfluously. “Marcus is dead. The doctor believes he was poisoned with cyanide.”
    Again the ticking of the clock filled the room, and Major Crow cleared his throat.
    “It would also appear,” he went on, “that Marcus proved his pet theory with his last breath. If I understand what the doctor said, every single one of them saw him poisoned under their eyes; and yet not one single person can tell what happened.”

Chapter III
BITTER ALMONDS
    Bellegarde was a house about which it could be said that there was no nonsense. Though very large, it was not an ancestral mansion, nor did it pretend to be one. It was solidly built of yellow Dutch bricks, with gable facings in blue, now somewhat begrimed; its gables were set at the end of a long, low frontage with a steep-pitched roof.
    But, at the moment, Inspector Elliot made out details with difficulty. The sky was thick and overcast. Not a light showed at the front of the house. But from the side, the side out of sight round to their left as they entered the drive, poured such a blaze that they had seen it from the main road. Elliot stopped his car in the drive, and Major Crow and Bostwick climbed out of the rear seat.
    “Just a moment, sir,” Elliot said respectfully. “Before we go in, there’s something we had better straighten out. What is my status here? I was sent here over that sweet-shop case, but this—”
    In the dark he felt that Major Crow was regarding him with a grim smile.
    “You do like to have things in order, don’t you?” the Chief Constable inquired. “Well, well, that’s all to the good,” he added hastily. “It’s your case, my lad. You handle it: under Bostwick’s supervision, of course. When I’ve heard what has happened, I’m going home to bed. Now carry on.”
    Instead of knocking at the front door, Elliot made straight for the side of the house and looked round the corner. Bellegarde, he saw, was not deep. This side consisted of three rooms set in a line. Each room had two French windows opening out on a narrowish strip of lawn with a line of chestnut trees running parallel to the line of windows. The first room—towards the front of the house—was dark. It was from the French windows of the other two that the light streamed, particularly the third room. It gave the smooth grass a theatrical green; it illuminated every yellow leaf on the chestnut trees, throwing theatrical shadows under them.
    Elliot glanced into the first of the two lighted rooms. It was empty, both French windows, backed with heavy velvet