The Paradise Mystery by J. S. Fletcher (simple e reader TXT) 📗

no one to leave him a legacy. She never heard of his receipt of this money from any source. But—there's the fact! What explains it? My theory—that the rumour that Collishaw, with a pint too much ale in him, had hinted that he could say something about Braden's death if he chose, had reached Braden's assailant; that he had made it his business to see Collishaw and had paid him that fifty pounds as hush-money—and, later, had decided to rid himself of Collishaw altogether, as he undoubtedly did, by poison.”

Once more Bryce paused—and once more the two listeners showed their attention by complete silence.

“Now we come to the question—how was Collishaw poisoned?” continued Bryce. “For poisoned he was, without doubt. Here we go back to theory and supposition once more. I haven't the least doubt that the hydrocyanic acid which caused his death was taken by him in a pill—a pill that was in that box which they found on him, Mitchington, and showed me. But that particular pill, though precisely similar in appearance, could not be made up of the same ingredients which were in the other pills. It was probably a thickly coated pill which contained the poison;—in solution of course. The coating would melt almost as soon as the man had swallowed it—and death would result instantaneously. Collishaw, you may say, was condemned to death when he put that box of pills in his waistcoat pocket. It was mere chance, mere luck, as to when the exact moment of death came to him. There had been six pills in that box—there were five left. So Collishaw picked out the poisoned pill—first! It might have been delayed till the sixth dose, you see—but he was doomed.”

Mitchington showed a desire to speak, and Bryce paused.

“What about what Ransford said before the Coroner?” asked Mitchington. “He demanded certain information about the post-mortem, you know, which, he said, ought to have shown that there was nothing poisonous in those pills.”

“Pooh!” exclaimed Bryce contemptuously. “Mere bluff! Of such a pill as that I've described there'd be no trace but the sugar coating—and the poison. I tell you, I haven't the least doubt that that was how the poison was administered. It was easy. And—who is there that would know how easily it could be administered but—a medical man?”

Mitchington and Jettison exchanged glances. Then Jettison leaned nearer to Bryce.

“So your theory is that Ransford got rid of both Braden and Collishaw—murdered both of them, in fact?” he suggested. “Do I understand that's what it really comes to—in plain words?”

“Not quite,” replied Bryce. “I don't say that Ransford meant to kill Braden—my notion is that they met, had an altercation, probably a struggle, and that Braden lost his life in it. But as regards Collishaw—”

“Don't forget!” interrupted Mitchington. “Varner swore that he saw Braden flung through that doorway! Flung out! He saw a hand.”

“For everything that Varner could prove to the contrary,” answered Bryce, “the hand might have been stretched out to pull Braden back. No—I think there may have been accident in that affair. But, as regards Collishaw—murder, without doubt—deliberate!”

He lighted another cigarette, with the air of a man who had spoken his mind, and Mitchington, realizing that he had said all he had to say, got up from his seat.

“Well—it's all very interesting and very clever, doctor,” he said, glancing at Jettison. “And we shall keep it all in mind. Of course, you've talked all this over with Harker? I should like to know what he has to say. Now that you've told us who he is, I suppose we can talk to him?”

“You'll have to wait a few days, then,” said Bryce. “He's gone to town—by the last train tonight—on this business. I've sent him. I had some information today about Ransford's whereabouts during the time of disappearance, and I've commissioned Harker to examine into it. When I hear what he's found out, I'll let you know.”

“You're taking some trouble,” remarked Mitchington.

“I've told you the reason,” answered Bryce.

Mitchington hesitated a little; then, with a motion of his head towards the door, beckoned Jettison to follow him.

“All right,” he said. “There's plenty for us to see into, I'm thinking!”

Bryce laughed and pointed to a shelf of books near the fireplace.

“Do you know what Napoleon Bonaparte once gave as sound advice to police?” he asked. “No! Then I'll tell you. 'The art of the police,' he said, 'is not to see that which it is useless for it to see.' Good counsel, Mitchington!”

The two men went away through the midnight streets, and kept silence until they were near the door of Jettison's hotel. Then Mitchington spoke.

“Well!” he said. “We've had a couple of tales, anyhow! What do you think of things, now?”

Jettison threw back his head with a dry laugh.

“Never been better puzzled in all my time!” he said. “Never! But—if that young doctor's playing a game—then, by the Lord Harry, inspector, it's a damned deep 'un! And my advice is—watch the lot!”