Chapter 12 Chapter 12 At the Pharmacy Again

Elliott sometimes thought that when you've had too much whiskey the night before, you shouldn't be talking to Dr. Phil in the morning.His mind is moving so fast, it's flying out the window before you can catch it.You hear whoosh; and then, before you understand what's going on, a theory is built that sounds perfectly plausible at the time but doesn't recall afterwards. "Go ahead, sir!" Elliot urged, "I've heard you do this before, but—" "No, listen to me," said the Doctor solemnly, "you must remember that I started out as headmaster of a primary school. Every minute of every day children try to tell me strange stories; Rhetoric that rivals. So I have an advantage over the police from the start, I have more experience with liars. I think you accept Emmett's innocence too easily. Of course it's Miss Wells to you The effect. Don't be angry; the effect may be unconscious. But what's going on there? You say, 'Everyone in that room has an alibi.' That's not true. If you will, Please explain how Emmett has an alibi."

"Hmph." Elliot snorted. "Actually, no one saw Emmett. You found him lying unconscious under a tree with the poker nearby. Someone immediately said, 'He's obviously been lying here for a while.' But what medical evidence do you have that Prove how long he was there? It’s not like an autopsy report puts the time of death, he may have been lying there for ten seconds, he may have been lying there for two or three minutes. Prosecutors may call this a double trap, a sham.” Elliott mused: "Well, sir, I've thought about that. In theory, the man in the top hat is Emmett. He's playing himself, except he gave Mr. Chesney a poisoned pill. capsule. Later he arranged to have himself hit on the head — self-mutilation to prove innocence is nothing new, to show that he couldn’t possibly be Dr. Nemo.”

"That's right. And then?" "He did it easier than the others," Elliott admitted, "no juggling. No props on or off. He just played his part. He just replaced the harmless capsules with cyanate capsules. He knew all the details, He's the only one who knows all the details. He—" The more Elliott thinks, the more he thinks Emmett is the murderer." The problem is, sir, I don't know Emmett yet. I've never spoken to him. Who is Emmett? What is his occupation? No one suspects Emmett so far. What does he gain by killing Mr. Chesney?" Dr. Phil asked, "What would he gain by spreading strychnine among a group of children?"

"So pure madness?" "I don't know. But you might think a little more about motives. As for Emmett—" Dr. Phil frowned, and stubbed out his cigar, "I remember meeting him at the same party I met Chesney. Tall, dark-haired, red-nosed guy with the voice and manner of Hamlet's father's ghost, stalking along while singing and splashing ice water on his knees. The theme is literally 'poor old Wilbur'. As for his appearance—how about those top hats, raincoats, etc.? Are they the size that Emmett can only wear?" Elliott took out his notebook: "The top hat is a size seven, and it belongs to Marcus Chesney. Emmett's raincoat is a men's size; raincoats are not graded in the same detail as suits. I have them in the right pocket of the raincoat." I found neatly folded rubber gloves, cheap department store sixpence gloves—”

"Anything else?" Dr. Phil asked. "And everybody's height and weight. Postrek got it for me. Emmett's six feet tall, weighs a hundred and sixty-two pounds, and wears a size seven hat. Dr. Joe Chesney is five-foot-eleven 1/2 inch tall, weighed 182 pounds, and wore a hat size 7. George Harding was 5 feet 9 inches tall, weighed 154 pounds, and wore a hat size 6 and 7/8. Professor Ingram is five feet eight inches tall and weighs one hundred and seventy pounds, and wears a hat size seven and a quarter. Marjorie Wells is five feet two inches tall and weighs one hundred and six pounds. She Clearly not a suspect," Elliott said with satisfaction, "the others could have worn the hat without looking weird, and everyone but Emmett had a convincing alibi. We can't say much at the moment; but For now, it looks like Emmett is the killer. I don't understand what his motives are?"

Dr. Fell looked at him curiously—a look he would never forget afterwards. Dr. announced: "Our psychologist friends will say that he is a person who suffers from the desire for power and has no ambition. I admit that many poisoners suffer from the desire for power, such as Zhenjiatou, Chivajigo, Lyden, Kerim Well, the list is long. I've also heard that Emmett suffers from hopeless love for Miss Wells. Oh, anything is possible in the dark corners, I assure you, but it's also possible—" At this point he glared sternly at his companion, "Emmett is playing the role of the scapegoat."

"Scapegoat?" "Yes. There's another explanation for the spring-clip bag and the murder in the chocolate shop." Dr. Fell mused. Here's the case, which makes me think there's a moral to that story." ——Suspicion quickly struck Elliott: "Sir, what do you mean..." "Huh?" Dr. Fell roused from his contemplation, "No, no, no! God, no! Maybe I didn't make it clear." He made a flustered gesture; he seemed eager to change the subject, "Well, let's Take your theory. What are we going to do next? What is our next course of action?"

"We're going to see the film," Elliott told him, "if you'd like to come. Major Crowe told me there's a pharmacist in Sodbury Cross who's good at developing film. Major Crowe is three o'clock this morning." Knocked at fifteen to wake him up and made him promise to have the film ready by noon today. The pharmacist has a personal projector in his pharmacy; Major Crowe says he's trustworthy. We'll meet there at one for the film. God! Elliott snapped, shaking his fist. "This might solve our problems. Impossible to lie, true story in black and white. Everything we want to know! I tell you, it would be great to have a film. If it comes out What's wrong? What if the film doesn't get developed? What if—"

—He didn't know that in the next hour, he would encounter the greatest shock of his life. As Dr. Phil got dressed, as they drove up to Sodbury Cross under a clear sky, as they parked on the gray street outside Mr. Stevenson's Pharmacy in Hobart, Elliott imagined the possibilities. , except for the correct one.Dr. Fell, in a pleated cape and wide-brimmed hat, boomed comfortingly from the backseat.Elliott's main fear was that the pharmacist had messed up the flush; when they arrived he was almost convinced that was the case. Mr. Stevenson's Pharmacy in Hobart, in the middle of Gloomy High Street, has the air of a studio.Its window displays yellow film cassettes stacked like a pyramid; a camera peers out of the clutter, behind which are posters displaying blown-up photographs.From here you can see the windows of Mrs. Terry's shop, the garage, the petrol station, a long line of grocery stores, a few taverns, and the Queen Victoria Jubilee fountain in the middle of the road.The atmosphere is desolate, despite the passing cars and people looking out through shop windows.Elliott knew he was being watched, from here to "The Blue Lion."

As they entered the pharmacy, the bell above the store door rang with a sharp bang.Hobart Stevenson's shop was dark and smelled of chemicals that reminded Elliot of another place.But it was a small pharmacy, like a space surrounded by bottles and jars, including diplomas on the walls and weights on the scales by the counter.Hobart Stevenson, a plump, pursed-lipped young man in a clean white jacket, came out slowly from behind the counter to greet them. "Inspector Elliott?" He obviously felt the importance of this meeting, his eyes drifted to the door, thinking about whether to close the door to prevent guests from entering.Every lock of his hair seemed to tremble; Eliot studied him and decided he could be trusted.

"This is Dr. Gideon Fell," Elliott said. "Sorry for waking you up last night." "You're welcome, you're welcome, I don't mind," said Stevenson, obviously not. "Okay, is the film ready to be developed?" "It's all ready for you." "It's—is it okay? I mean, how does it rinse?" "Not bad, not bad." Stevenson replied happily after thinking about it.It is not bad for an amateur photographer to have such an answer.He rubbed his hands together, as if to comfort someone, "It's a little underexposed, just a little bit." He tilted his head to one side, thinking again. "But not bad, not bad, not bad." He couldn't contain his excitement. "I hope you don't mind, Inspector. I ran the film through the projector once to make sure it was all right. As soon as the major got here, I'll just show it to you. If you don't mind, I'd say you'll get something. Clue, I guess you call it a clue." The hairs on Elliott's neck fluttered, but he spoke calmly, "Oh, what's so special?" "Clue," Stevenson repeated respectfully.He looked around. "For example, the second item Mr. Chesney picked up from the table—" "How about it?" "As I said, I hope you don't mind. I had to go through it and put a magnifying glass on the screen so I could be reassured. The answer was so simple it made me want to laugh, and I still want to laugh." "Really? What's that?" "You'd never guess it," Stevenson told him solemnly. "That is--" "Hush!" Dr. Fell roared. This thunderous hiss mingled with the ringing of the doorbell, which opened to reveal Professor Gilbert Ingram. Professor Ingram didn't show surprise, on the contrary, he showed a satisfied expression.He was wearing a square hat and a dark tweed suit, and he looked a bit bulky.But Elliott pays less attention to his straight eyes, or his polite gesture of greeting, and more to the atmosphere he brings.As he stood by the door, it seemed as though all eyes at Sodbury Cross were pouring into the porch.Outside, the sky was darkened by the oncoming rain. Professor Ingram closed the door. "Good morning, Inspector. Is this Dr. Fell?"—Dr. Fell returned with a snarl of sincerity. Professor Ingram smiled: "Look, sir; but I'm not sure we met at a dinner party six months ago. Anyway, I've heard Chesney talk about you. I think he wrote a few days ago Send you a letter?" "yes." "Very good." Professor Ingram seemed to be doing business.He turned to Elliott, "Inspector, I don't think anyone can blame me if I overslept this morning. I came over from my little bungalow." He gasped humorously, "I overheard you last night It is planned to see a film at Stevenson's today. I will watch it with you, you don't object?" The atmosphere changed subtly again.Elliott froze: "Sorry, sir. I don't think it's possible." Confusion appeared on the professor's sincere face: "What's wrong, inspector—" "Sorry, sir. None of us have seen it ourselves. You may get a chance to do so in the future." — There was a silence. "Inspector, don't you think this is a little unfair?" Professor Ingram's voice changed, "After all, you regard me as a professional witness, and I try my best to help you, and you have to admit that I try my best to assist; I am naturally eager to know whether I have opinions correct." "Sorry, sir." Elliott moved to the counter.He hit the scales and the weights rattled.Glancing to the left, he saw his own reflection in the dirty mirror on the wall; it occurred to him, by coincidence, that most pharmacies must have mirrors of this kind, so that when the pharmacist was in the back consulting room, he could tell if a customer came in. shop.But most of the time he looked at Professor Ingram - he watched from under his fedora hat, and chuckled under his breath. "Well, never mind," said the professor, regaining his cheerful air, "I'll curb my curiosity, though you've stabbed my vanity." He paused to think, "Yes, it's vanity. But if you Nevermind, I'd like to buy a few things and I'll be off when I'm done. Mr. Stevenson! A packet of regular razor blades, a box of Strymo lozenges, the little box, yes, there. Oh, and there!" He moved along the counter and said more seriously: "I must go to Bellegar House. There will be funeral arrangements after the inquest, and I know that Vickers will come from Bath this afternoon or evening to read the will. Besides, I think To know if Wilbur Emmett has regained consciousness." "I said..." Dr. Fell spoke in such a casual tone that they all jumped.As if he was reaching out to speak to someone on the street, "Do you have an idea?" he asked with interest. "Ah!" Professor Ingram bent down and pointed to something on the lower shelf of the display case, and then he stood up. "Even if I had one, sir, this is not the right time and the right place, is it?" "but--" "There's a 'but'! Sir, you're a smart man, and I think I can count on you."—Elliott was suddenly completely ignored, as if he were a figure on a lady's soap billboard—"I Told the Inspector several times that they didn't do it right, that they didn't take important factors into account. I mean motive." He blushed, as if from concentration, "I'm not going to discuss it now. I'll just mention a little bit. Have you ever heard of the most powerful motive for murder in criminal psychology, the so-called lust for power?" "Oh my God!" said Dr. Phil. "Sorry?" "No, I'm sorry," Dr. Phil said earnestly and apologetically, "I just didn't expect the word to jump into my eardrums so quickly." "You deny it? Tell me: You think the poisoning in Mrs. Terry's shop was done by different people than the poisoning last night?" Dr. Phil frowned: "No. On the contrary, I'm almost sure it was done by the same person." "Very well. So where is the other possible connection? Can the two cases have the same motive?" The cash register beeped sharply.Professor Ingram took the package and looked at it with a slight turn, as if it inspired a new idea: "All I can say is: both cases have the same motive. The murderer gets nothing for killing poor Frank Dale, he kills Marcus S Chesney won't get much either. I mean material things. We know Marjorie and Joe Chesney are going to inherit a lot of money. But the murderer—"He opened his eyes now," Nothing. Well, I shouldn't be standing here talking and getting in your way. Good morning, Dr. Phil. Good morning, Mr. Stevenson. Good morning." He left the door open.Vans rumbled down the street, there was a slight sound of glass, and the smell of clammy air and clammy trees wafted in, stirring up the smell of chemicals.Dr. Phil hummed "My Blonde Is Nearby" softly.Elliott knew it was a signal, and he hesitated— The Doctor raised his cane and pointed to the door. "I assure you I'm not paranoid," he said, "but does the gentleman have an alibi?" "The iron alibi. That's the problem. The alibi does not contain the possibility that someone, by juggling trains or cars, could jump from one place to another; the alibi contains the possibility that someone else I saw, someone else confirmed the identity. This alibi has a clock proof that the time cannot be tampered with. As for—” Elliot stopped talking, and suddenly realized that he was speaking in front of an outsider, Hobart Stevenson.He could have sworn he saw a gleam of delight in Stevenson's face as he spoke.The pharmacist was trying to regain his dignity, to suppress a great mystery. Elliott snapped: "Mr. Stevenson, a minute ago you told us—" "Inspector, frankly, I'd rather you see for yourselves. If you believe it!" "Alas!" said Dr. Phil. The doctor had wandered into the consulting room behind the counter, and Stevenson, apparently attracted by the large visitor, followed him.Dr. Phil looked around with interest. "How's your poison going?" asked the doctor as if he had just undergone a surgical drainage operation. "In general, sir." "Is there cyanic acid or potassium cyanide?" For the first time Stevenson looked a little nervous.He brushed his hair back with both hands, cleared his throat, and looked businesslike: "No cyanic acid, no. A part or two of potassium cyanide, but as I told Mr. Postrike this morning—" "Is it selling well?" "I haven't sold potassium cyanide in eighteen months. Uh—it's okay to tell you?" He looked suspiciously at Elliott, who had also entered the dark, narrow corridor, "as I That being said, I answered the Inspector General's question this morning. If you think the people at Bellegar House ever bought potassium cyanide from anyone to use on their fruit trees - well, that's unlikely. The temperature in the greenhouse stays the same all year round. Spraying a room with potassium cyanide between fifty and eighty degrees Fahrenheit is suicidal." Elliott hadn't thought about it. "I can show you my poison register if you want to see it," Stevenson added. "No, no. To tell you the truth," Dr. Phil said, "I'm more interested in photography. It's like a photo studio." He looked around. "Tell me, you sell light bulbs for photography, right?" "Photo light bulbs? Of course." "Well, tell me," said Dr. Phil, "suppose I plugged in the light bulb for my camera and kept it lit, how long would it last?" Stevenson winked at him. "But you shouldn't do that," he pointed out shrewdly, "you just keep it—" "Yes, yes, I know. But suppose I'm a weirdo. Suppose the camera bulb is plugged in and kept burning, how long does it last?" Stevenson thought: "More than an hour." "are you sure?" "Yes, sir, quite sure. The photographic bulb lasts a long time." "Well, then, did someone from Bellegar House buy you a light bulb for a camera yesterday morning?" Stevenson looked irritated: "Yesterday morning? Let me think."—he didn't really need to think, Elliott thought—"Yes, Miss Wells came to buy. She was at ten o'clock in the morning Come around and buy one. But, if you don't mind, I hope you don't quote me. I don't want to talk about the people at Bellegar House." "Does Miss Wells often buy light bulbs for photographs?" "Not often, just occasionally." "For herself?" "No, no, no, for Mr. Chesney. They sometimes take indoor pictures in the conservatory. You know, peaches, samples, commercials, and whatnot. He asked her yesterday to buy light bulbs for the pictures." Dr. Phil winked at Elliott: "Inspector, you quoted her saying that last night's photo bulb was a new one she bought for herself." He turned to Stevenson, "Miss Wells doesn't dabble in photography?" "No, no, no. She never came here to buy anything for photography." Elliot raised his head as if remembering something.At this moment, he saw Marjorie Wells looking at himself in the mirror. They didn't hear the doorbell ring.The door was still ajar, rattling and creaking.They heard no footsteps.When Elliot found himself staring at the girl's face in the mirror not five feet away, it was Stevenson's crisp, soft voice that they heard. It was as if an image ran out of a mirror.Her lips are partly parted, and she wears the same soft gray hat.One gloved hand was half-raised as if to point.Elliot saw understanding in her eyes. — she understands. Marjorie Wells puts a finger in her mouth like a child. Just then there was the sound of breaking glass at the front door, rattling with falling debris—someone was throwing stones at her from the street.