Controlling his excitement with a strong effort, Gresley now acted exactly as he would have done had he not paid a previous visit to the house. He went to Mrs. Toy’s room, woke her up, and told her what had happened and that he was ringing up the doctor. He put through an urgent message to Dr. Warren.
Waiting for the visit, Gresley went over again what he had done, to satisfy himself once more that he had made no mistake. Beside the bed was the medicine glass containing dregs of a strong overdose of sleeping tablets, and bearing the old man’s prints and his alone. The sleeping-tablet bottle also bore his prints and his alone. There was a jug of milk beside the bed which he could have used. The new medicine bottle was there unopened. bearing Gresley’s prints only. There was absolutely no sign of Gresley’s earlier visit. No, he had made no mistake. The circumstances proved conclusively that the old man had committed suicide, and the depression caused by his illness supplied the motive. Though he, Gresley, would benefit by the death, no possible suspicion could fall on him...
Of all his many eases, Superintendent French of New Scotland Yard often said afterwards that he remembered none in which he had reached a conclusion so rapidly as in that of the murder of Gabriel Hynds by Joe Gresley. After hearing Gresley’s story, his first glance round the room told him not only that murder had been committed, but also the identity of the murderer. Gresley had given himself away by an extraordinarily glaring error. Admittedly, a test was necessary to make the evidence technically suitable for court, but that first glance left no doubt whatever in Superintendent French’s mind.
In a way, the case was not his at all, and he only became mixed up in it through a coincidence. He was down in the neighborhood investigating another suspicious death, and had gone late in the evening to ask Dr. Warren a final question. Warren had taken a fancy to his visitor, and when business was done had brought out whiskey and glasses, and the two men had sat chatting over the fire. When Gresley’s call came, Warren suggested that French should accompany him, and after the visit he would run him on to his hotel. But when French had waited in the car for a few minutes Warren came down.
“A case here, Superintendent, the very spit of that one at Hastings we’ve just been discussing. Unfortunately, the man’s dead and I can’t yet tell the cause. Because of the coincidence would you care to come up and have a look round?”
French was not interested, but Warren had been very pleasant and he did not want to snub him. “No business of mine, Doctor,” he said, “but I’d be glad to look round unofficially.”
All this was unknown to Gresley and he therefore had no clue to what followed. After the doctor had cursorily examined the body he disappeared with a muttered excuse and arrived back with a companion, a stoutish man with a kindly expression and very keen blue eyes. “My friend, Mr. French,” he introduced him. “I didn’t like to leave him alone so long in the car.”
In spite of Gresley’s confidence that he was safe, his nerves were badly on edge. Some agitation of manner was admissible — indeed, only to be expected. But he was finding it hard to keep still and his hands tended to twitch. He thought it would help him if he re-told his story. “I saw he was dead the moment I came in, Mr. French,” he explained. “Something in his appearance, you couldn’t be mistaken. I rather blame myself, for if I had returned earlier with his medicine, I might have seen he was ill and got you, Doctor, in time.”
“I doubt if it would have made any difference,” Warren answered. “By his medicine I suppose you mean the refill I made up for him today?”
“Yes, I called at your place after supper; then instead of coming back at once, I spent the evening at the Club. Just got home a couple of minutes before I rang you. But I knew he took the medicine last thing at night, so I thought it would be time enough.”
“Oh, yes,” the doctor agreed. “I don’t think you can blame yourself. But I’m afraid, Gresley, it’s a case for the police. I couldn’t give a certificate without a P.M.”
Gresley had foreseen this. It was all right. The police could only find that it was suicide. “I was afraid of that, Doctor. Of course — whatever you say.”
“Forgive my butting in. Doctor,” French said suddenly, “but as no doubt you won’t wish to leave the body, may I suggest that Mr. Gresley ring up for you?”
Gresley stared. Who was this man, so officious, teaching the doctor his job and taking responsibility on his own shoulders? He expected an explosion from Warren, but the doctor merely said, “Good idea — I quite agree. Perhaps, Gresley, you wouldn’t mind?”
The reply was a curt statement that an officer would be sent at once. Gresley returned to the others. Instantly he was conscious of a change in the manner of both men, particularly in that of the doctor. They hardly glanced at him and only grunted when he repeated the message.
Then ensued a rather embarrassing period. Neither of the visitors seemed to have anything to say and Gresley had more than enough to occupy his mind. He made sporadic remarks, but they failed to provoke a discussion. At last, sounds of a car were heard and two men entered the room. Gresley recognized Inspector Cornwall and Sergeant Lee of the local force.
The interview went as he expected it would. Statement from the doctor that Hynds had died a very short time before — probably within minutes — and that he could not tell the cause without a post mortem. Statement from Gresley as to his movements. Statement from Mrs. Toy as to hers. All seemed innocuous. Then the man French beckoned Inspector Cornwall from the room. On their return a few moments later Cornwall’s face had taken on the same grave expression that Warren’s had borne when Gresley had re-entered after telephoning. With a sudden rush of uneasiness Gresley wondered what it could mean.
He was soon to learn. When they were seated, Cornwall turned to him.
“Just another question or two, if you please, Mr. Gresley. I want to make sure I’ve got your statement correctly. You say you picked up a bottle of medicine at Dr. Warren’s some time shortly after seven this evening?”
“Yes, that’s correct”
“Then you went to the Club, spent the evening there, and arrived here about ten minutes to eleven?”
“Correct.”
“You didn’t call here earlier?”
Gresley’s uneasiness suddenly threatened to overwhelm him. Why should such a question be asked? But he had himself well under control and answered, he hoped, without appreciable delay. “No, I went from the doctor’s to the Club and stayed there till I came here, as I said.”
Cornwall nodded. “Well, that’s clear enough. And you brought the medicine with you from the Club?”
“Yes, I said so.”
“Quite. And that’s the bottle?”
“That’s it.”
The Inspector seemed to accept all this and Gresley grew slightly more reassured. All the same it was disquieting, tor he could not see where the questions were tending. They were only repeats of what he had already answered...
Editors’ note: Superintendent French solved this case almost at a glance. Pause for a moment, and review the facts... What was Gresley s glaring oversight? This is one of Freeman Wills Crofts’s cleverest “inverted” detective stories. So simple, so obvious, and yet...
Then suddenly the end came. Cornwall turned to Warren. “Tell me, Doctor, when that medicine is shaken up, how long might it take to settle again?”
Gresley’s eyes turned to the bottle, then almost started from their sockets. There it stood, solid white at the bottom, clear liquid above. It did not take the doctor’s “About two hours” to show him his ghastly oversight...