Free The Problem of the Green Capsule by John Dickson Carr

roll-top desk there, and turned off the Photoflood bulb on the table. By contrast the ordinary light seemed feeble, but it still showed Marcus Chesney huddled in his last chair.
    “So? two days before he was murdered—according to Superintendent Bostwick—Marcus Chesney had been asking the police questions about the exact size of the chocolate-box at Mrs. Terry’s shop. A box of cheap chocolates lay on the table now, and had figured in the “show.” But how?
    Elliot returned to the Music Room, where Major Crow was attacking the same problem.
    “But how,” inquired the Chief Constable, “could he illustrate how somebody had poisoned the chocolates at Mrs. Terry’s by having the bogey-man—whoever it was—shove a green capsule into his mouth?
    Professor Ingram lifted his shoulders slightly. His eyes remained strained when he glanced into the other room.
    “I can hardly tell you that,” he pointed out. “But, if you want my guess, Chesney meant this green-capsule incident to be only a side-line; a part of the show; perhaps not even a necessary part of it. My guess is that the real incident we were to watch was something to do with a box of chocolates in there on the table.”
    “I think,” said the Chief Constable, after a pause, “that I shall keep out of this. You carry on, Inspector.”
    Elliot indicated one of the brocaded arm-chairs, and Professor Ingram sat down gingerly.
    “Now, sir. Did Mr. Chesney tell you that the purpose of this performance was really to show how chocolates could be poisoned without anybody noticing it?”
    “No. But he hinted at it.”
    “When?”
    “Shortly before the performance began. I taxed him with it. ‘Taxed him with it!’ There’s a phrase for you: it sounds like farce comedy.” Professor Ingram shuddered a little, and then his guileless look became shrewd. “Look here, Inspector. I knew at dinner there was something queer about Chesney’s sudden and headlong desire to give us a show. The subject seemed to be introduced casually, and to work up by an argument among us to his final challenge. But he meant to introduce that challenge all along. He meant it before ever we sat down at the dinner table. I could see that; and young Emmet was grinning like a wolf whenever he thought nobody saw him.”
    “Well, sir?”
    “Well! That is why I objected to his postponing the show until so late, and taking nearly three mortal hours after dinner before he was willing to get down to business. I will interfere with no man’s vanities, which I hold are sacred things: but that seemed to be carrying it too far. I said frankly, ‘What’s the game? Because there is one.’ He said to me privately, ‘Watch with care, and you may see how Mrs. Terry’s chocolates were poisoned, but I’m betting you won’t.’ ”
    “He had a theory?”
    “Evidently.”
    “A theory which he was going to prove in front of all of you?”
    “Evidently.”
    “And,” asked Elliot casually, “he suspected who the poisoner was?”
    Professor Ingram glanced up briefly. There was a thick shade of worry in his eyes; if the term had been applicable to so genial a face, you might almost have said that he looked haunted.
    “That was the impression I gathered,” he admitted.
    “But didn’t he tell you—give you any hint——?”
    “No. Otherwise it would have spoiled the show.”
    “And you think the poisoner killed him because he knew?”
    “It. seems probable, yes.” Professor Ingram stirred in his chair. “Tell me, Inspector. Are you an intelligent man? A man of some understanding?” He smiled curtly. “One moment, please. Let me explain why I ask that. With all due deference to our good friend Bostwick, I hardly think that this affair so far has been handled in a way that will do any credit to him.”
    Major Crow’s expression became bleak and stiff.
    “The Superintendent,” he said slowly, “has been trying to do his duty——”
    “Oh, stop that balderdash,” said Professor