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

Mephistophelian.
    “No, my lad, he’s not conscious; not in the way you mean. And you can’t see him to-night, or to-morrow, or maybe for weeks or months or years. Got that? And send Marjorie up here. These maids are no good. One of ’em drops things, and the other’s hiding in bed. Oh, for God’s sake——!”
    The head was withdrawn.
    Very slowly Elliot gathered up Dr. Nemo’s properties. The distant ringing had ceased. A chilly wind was beginning to stir at the turn of the night; it moved in the tattered leaves; it brought up from the earth the rich scent and decay of autumn; and then, as at the insistence of the breeze or the opening of a door, it brought another and sweeter odour. It was like the faint scent which seemed to pervade the house itself. Then Elliot remembered, somewhere close, half an acre of greenhouses in the darkness. It was the scent of the peach tree, the almond tree, whose fruit ripens between July and November, the almond tree of bitter almonds, haunting Bellegarde.
    He carried Dr. Nemo’s properties into the office as the office door (to the hall) opened, and Superintendent Bostwick brought in two newcomers whom he introduced as Dr. West and Sergeant Matthews. Major Crow followed them. Matthews was given the routine instructions as to fingerprints and photographs, and Dr. West bent over Marcus Chesney’s body.
    Major Crow looked at Elliot.
    “Well, Inspector?” he asked. “Why did you decide to dash off all of a sudden? And what did you find?”
    “I’ve found how the chocolate-boxes were exchanged, sir,” said Elliot, and explained.
    The other was impressed. “Neat,” he conceded. “Devilish neat. But even so—look here, where did Chesney get a trick bag like that?”
    “You can buy them at some of the magical supply houses in London.”
    “You mean he sent away specially for it?”
    “Looks like it, sir.”
    Major Crow went over and inspected the bag. “Which would mean,” he reflected, “that he’s had this performance in mind for some little time. You know, Inspector”—he seemed to resist an impulse to give the bag a hearty kick—“the more and more we go on, the more and more important this confounded show becomes; and the less and less it seems to help us. Where are we? What have we got? Wait! Are there any more questions in Chesney’s list?”
    “Yes, sir. Three more.”
    “Then go in there and get on with it,” said the Chief Constable, giving a bitter glance towards the closed double-doors. “But before you go, I want to ask you whether you’ve noticed something that’s struck me particularly in all this flummery.”
    “Yes?”
    Major Crow took up his stance. He extended a bony wrist and forefinger as though he were uttering a denunciation. “There’s some jiggery-pokery about that clock,” he declared.
    They looked at it Dr. West had turned on the blazing white light so as to look at the body, and again the derisive white face of the clock, with its brass trimmings and marble frame, stared back at them from the mantelpiece. The time was twenty minutes to two.
    “Hullo! I’ve got to get home,” observed Major Crow suddenly. “But anyway—look at it. Suppose Chesney altered that clock? He could have done it before the show. Then, when the show was over (you remember?) he closed those double-doors on them, and didn’t go into the Music Room until Ingram rapped on the doors andtold him to come out for a curtain-call. During that time he could have altered the clock back to the right time, couldn’t he?”
    Elliot was doubtful.
    “I suppose he could, sir. If he wanted to.”
    “Of course he could. Nothing easier.” Major Crow went to the mantelpiece, edging in behind the dead man’s chair. He turned the clock round, bumping it a little, until its back was towards them. “You see those two gadgets? One is the key you wind the clock by. The other is the head of the little pin you twist round to alter the position of the hands—hullo!”
    He