The bell over the shop door gave a sharp
ping
as they went in. Hobart Stevenson’s shop was gloomy, full of that dim chemical smell which brought back sharply to Elliot the memory of another place. But it was a tidy little box, a kind of bottle walled in by bottles, from the brisk diploma framed on the wall to the weights of a weighing-chair beside the counter. Hobart Stevenson—a plump, lip-pursing young man in a neat white jacket—wormed out from behind the counter to meet them.
“Inspector Elliot?” he said. He was obviously so weighed down by the importance of the occasion that his eye strayed to the door, and considered locking it against customers. Every strand of his flat hair seemed to quiver with it; Elliot studied him, and decided that he could be trusted.
“This is Dr. Gideon Fell,” said Elliot. “Sorry we had to get you out of bed last night.”
“Not at all, not at all, I didn’t mind,” said Stevenson, who clearly didn’t.
“
Well? Have you got that film?
”
“All ready for you.”
“But is it—all right? I mean, how did it come out?”
“Not bad; not at all bad,” answered Stevenson, speaking cheerfully after considering this. From an amateur photographer, it was a handsome concession. He rubbed his hands together, as one who soothes. “A little underexposed; a little.” He cocked his head on one side, considering again. “But not bad. Not at all bad. No.” Then he could not quite control his excitement. “I hope you don’t mind, Inspector. I ran the print through once on my projector, just to make sure it was all right. I’m ready for you as soon as the Major gets here. If you don’t mind my saying so, you’ve certainly got some remarkable things there. Clues, I suppose you’d call them.”
It is a sober fact that the hair stirred on the back of Elliot’s neck. But he spoke casually.
“Oh? What in particular?”
“Clues,” repeated Stevenson, with immense respect He looked round. “For instance, that second article Mr. Chesney picked up from the table, and pretended to write with—”
“Yes?”
“As I say, I hope you don’t mind. I had to go over and take a magnifying-glass to the screen before I was dead certain. And then it was so simple that I started to laugh; and I haven’t quite stopped yet.”
“Yes? What was it?”
“You’d never guess in the world,” Stevenson assured him, but without laughing. “It was a——”
“S-HH!” roared Dr. Fell.
This thunderous hiss merged into the
ping
of the bell over the door, as the door opened and Professor Gilbert Ingram walked in.
Professor Ingram did not appear surprised. On the contrary, he showed an expression of great satisfaction. He wore a cap and dark-coloured suit of tweed plus-fours, which did not flatter his somewhat portly figure. But Elliot noticed less his straight glance, or his courteous gesture of greeting, than the atmosphere which entered with him. As he stood in the open door it was as though all the fierce watching of Sodbury Cross, all the attention concentrated on this shop, blew in through the doorway like a draught. Outside it was growing darker with approaching rain.
Professor Ingram closed the door.
“Good morning, Inspector,” he said. “And this, I think, will be Dr. Fell?” (Dr. Fell acknowledged the greeting with a cordial roar, and Professor Ingram smiled.) “I have heard a great deal about you, sir; though I am not sure whether we met or did not meet at a dinner or some such thing six months ago. Anyhow, I’ve heard Chesney speak of you. He wrote you a letter only a few days ago, I think?”
“He did.”
“However.” Professor Ingram became businesslike. He turned to Elliot. “If I overslept this morning, Inspector, I don’t suppose anybody will blame me. I’ve just come pelting in from my cottage.” He puffed humorously, indicating that he was out of breath. “It seems to me I overheard you last night making plans for the—er—pre-view of a certain film here at Stevenson’s—(morning, Mr. Stevenson!). I don’t suppose there will be any great objection if I join you at the pre-view?”
Again the atmosphere subtly changed. Elliot was stolid.
“Sorry, sir. I’m afraid that’s impossible.”
The other’s cordial air grew puzzled. “But surely, Inspector——?”
“Sorry, sir. We haven’t seen it yet ourselves. You’ll probably have an opportunity to see it all in good time.”
There was a pause.
“Don’t you think, Inspector, that’s being just a little unfair?” asked Professor Ingram, with a very slight change in his voice. “After all, you came to me as an expert witness: I helped you to the best of my ability, which you will be the first to admit was a good lead; and I am naturally anxious to see whether I was right.”
“Sorry, sir.”
Elliot moved back to the counter. He bumped against the weighing-machine, whose weights ratted. Glancing to the left, he caught his own reflection in a gloomy mirror on the wall; and he would have fought out against these coincidences if he had not suddenly realised that most chemists must have such mirrors, to see whether a customer had come into the shop when the chemist himself was behind the dispensary. But most of all he studied Professor Ingram—who peered out from under the tweed cap, and chuckled.
“Well, it’s of no consequence,” said the professor, bouncing and bustling and quizzical again. “I shall have to restrain my natural curiosity, that’s all, though you’ve punctured my vanity confoundedly.” He stopped to consider. “Yes, that’s it: vanity. However, if you don’t mind, I really do want to buy several things; and after that I promise to clear out. Mr. Stevenson! A packet of the usual razor-blades. And a box of Strymo throat-tablets; the small size; yes, over there. Oh, and you might give me——”
He moved along the counter, and went on speaking more seriously:
“I must get along to Bellegarde. There will be funeral arrangements after the post-mortem, and I understand Vickers is coming over from Bath this afternoon or this evening to read the will. Also, I’ve been wondering whether Wilbur Emmet will be conscious yet.”
“I say,” observed Dr. Fell.
Dr. Fell spoke with such casualness that they all jumped a little. It was as though he had put out his hand to speak to somebody in the street.
“Have you got a theory?” he inquired with ghoulish interest.
“Ah!” said Professor Ingram. He had been bending down to point to some article in a lower show-case, but he straightened up. “If I had, sir, this would hardly be the place or time to indicate it: would it?”
“Still——”
“Still, as you say! Now, sir, you are an intelligent man; I think I can depend on you.” (Elliot was suddenly as completely ignored as though he were the life-size cardboard figure of the young lady advertising soap at his elbow.) “I told the Inspector last night, I several times told them all, that they would not approach this affair in the right direction; that they would NOT take into consideration the only factors that are of any importance. I mean, of course, motive.” His face grew red, as though by concentration. “I needn’t discuss it now. But I need only say this.
You
have heard of a motive for murder, one of the most powerful known to criminal psychology, which may roughly be called the lust for power?”
“Oh, my hat,” said Dr. Fell.
“I beg your pardon?”
“No; I beg yours,” said Dr. Fell, earnestly and rather guiltily. “It was only that I hardly expected it-to tumble on my neck quite so soon.”
“You deny it? Tell me: do you believe the poisoning at Mrs. Terry’s and the poisoning last night were done by different persons?”
Dr. Fell scowled. “No. On the contrary, I’m almost certain they were done by the same person.”
“Good. Then where is there another possible link? Where is there another possible motive?”
The cash-register rang sharply. Professor Ingram, receiving a parcel into his hands, turned round a little and eyed it as though it had started a new thought. “I can only repeat: it’s the only motive that applies to both crimes. The murderer gained nothing out of killing poor Frankie Dale and nearly killing the Anderson children. Nor did he gain anything out of killing Marcus Chesney. I mean in a material way. Both Marjorie and Joe Chesney, as we all know, will inherit very large sums. But the murderer” —here he opened his eyes—“gained nothing. Well, I mustn’t stand here talking and keep you away from your proper work. Good morning, Dr. Fell. Good morning, Mr. Stevenson. Good morning.”
He did not completely close the door when he went out. There was a faint tingling of glass as a lorry thundered by in the High Street: a scent of cool wet air and cool wet trees blew in, stirring chemical odours. Dr. Fell was whistling “Auprès de Ma Blonde” under his breath. Elliot, who knew the signs, hesitated.
Then the doctor lifted his crutch-handled stick and pointed towards the door.
“I assure you I am not unduly suspicious,” he said. “But that gentleman
has
got an alibi?”
“A cast-iron one. That’s the trouble. The alibis here don’t consist in the possibility that somebody, by fooling about with train-connections or motor-cars, might have made a sleight-of-hand jump from one place to the other. The alibis, except in one case, consist of people being actually seen and identified by other people. In the one other case, the alibi is proved by a clock that can’t be tampered with. As for any question of——”
Elliot checked himself, suddenly realising that he was talking before an outsider in the person of Hobart Stevenson. He could also have sworn that at some point in his previous remarks there had been a flicker of honest delight in Stevenson’s face. The chemist, professionally solemn again, was trying to cork down a huge secret.
So Elliot spoke sharply. “You were telling us a minute ago, Mr. Stevenson——”
“Honestly, Inspector, I’d rather you saw it for yourself. If you believe——”
“Hoy!—” said Dr. Fell.
The doctor had lumbered and poked round to the dispensary behind the counter. Stevenson, evidently fascinated by this enormous visitor, followed him. Dr. Fell peered round with interest.
“How are you off for poisons here?” he asked, like a man inquiring after the drainage.
“The usual lot, sir.”
“Got any prussic acid or potassium cyanide?”
For the first time Stevenson seemed a trifle nervous. He smoothed back his hair with both hands, cleared his throat, and prepared to be businesslike.
“No prussic acid, no. I’ve got one or two preparations of potassium cyanide; but, as I was telling Mr. Bostwick this morning——”
“Do a brisk trade in ’em?”
“I haven’t sold any of them for eighteen months. Er—I suppose it’s all right to tell you?” He looked doubtfully at Elliot, who had joined them in the narrow and dusky aisle between the bottles. “As I say, I was answering the Superintendent’s questions this morning. And if you’re thinking (I said, just among ourselves) if you’re thinking anybody up at Bellegarde ever bought KCN anywhere, from anybody, to use on the fruit trees—well, I said, it would hardly do. With the temperature in those greenhouses kept between fifty and eighty degrees Fahrenheit all the year round, it would be plain suicide to take a KCN spray inside the door.”
This was an aspect of the matter which had not struck Elliot.
“I can show you my register, if you like,” Stevenson added.
“No, no. To tell you the truth,” said Dr. Fell, “I’m rather more interested in photography. This seems to be a house of photography.” He blinked round. “Tell me: you sell Photoflood lamps, don’t you?”
“Photoflood lamps? Certainly.”
“Now, tell me,” argued Dr. Fell. “Suppose I shoved one of those bulbs into a socket, and turned it on, and kept it burning steadily. How long would it go on before it burned out?”
Stevenson blinked at him.
“But you aren’t supoosed to do that,” he pointed out with an air of shrewdness. “You only keep it on while——”
“Yes, yes, I know. But suppose I’m an eccentric. Suppose I shove the blighter into a socket and keep it there. How long will it last?”
The chemist considered this.
“I should say well over an hour, anyhow.”
“You’re sure of that, now?”
“Yes, sir, quite sure. Those things are the best value for the money I know.”
“Hm’f. So. Did anybody from Bellegarde buy a Photoflood bulb from you yesterday morning?”
Stevenson looked fussed. “Yesterday morning? Let me think.” (He did not really need to think, Elliot decided.) “Yes; Miss Wills did. She came in about ten o’clock in the morning and bought one. But, if you don’t mind, I hope you’re not going to quote everything I say.
I
don’t want to say anything about anybody up at Bellegarde.”
“Did Miss Wills frequently buy them?”
“Not frequently, but sometimes.”
“For herself?”
“No, no, no. For Mr. Chesney. They sometimes took indoor photographs at the greenhouses. The peaches, you see; specimens, and advertising, and things like that. He told her to get the bulb yesterday.”
Dr. Fell blinked round at Elliot. “You quoted her as saying, Inspector, that the bulb last night was a new bulb she had bought herself.” He turned to Stevenson again. “Miss Wills doesn’t dabble in photography herself, then?”
“No, no, no. She never bought anything here—for photographic purposes.”
Andrew Elliot looked up, stung by memory. And for the second time, as at the return of a wheel, he saw Marjorie Wills looking at him in a mirror.
They had heard no
ping
from the bell over the door. The door still stood ajar, moving and creaking a little. They had heard no tap of footsteps. What they did hear, as Elliot looked up and found himself staring full into the girl’s face in a mirror not five feet away, was the chemist’s clear, soft, e-nun-ci-ating voice.
It was as though that reflection had slid out from behind the scenes of nowhere. Her lips were partly open, and she was wearing the same soft grey hat. One gloved hand was half raised, as though to point. Looking straight into her eyes in the dim mirror, Elliot saw recognition come into them as clearly as though a new face was taking shape.
She knew.
Marjorie Wills put one finger to her mouth, like a child.
And it was at this moment that there was a bursting crash of glass from the front door, the rattle of falling fragments and a last slow tinkle in silence, as someone flung a stone at her from the street.