“You——”
“How was he lying?”
The abruptness of the question startled the doctor. He was silent, then growled, “On his face.”
“Where he is now—or have you pulled him clear?”
“I moved his head and shoulders.”
“D’you move any of the books?”
“As they were all over him, I did. Does that reveal ignorance of police procedure?”
Ellis took no notice of the belligerent glare and out-thrust chin.
“Books on top of him, eh?”
“Everywhere.”
“That muffler. Was it round his neck, or loose, as it is now?”
“Damn it all, sir!” roared the doctor. “How do I know? My concern is with my patient. I’ve better things to do than worry about mufflers and buttons.”
Ellis shook his head.
“Sorry, doctor. But I refuse to believe it.”
“You refuse to believe what?”
“I refuse to believe that you, a trained professional observer, would not notice, even unconsciously, an important detail of that kind.”
The doctor got up, dusting his hands together. He stood well over six feet.
“Exactly what do you imply by that, sir?”
“I imply nothing. I’m simply telling you that you most certainly must have noticed whether Mr. Baildon had his muffler knotted round his neck, as he had yesterday afternoon, or whether it was loose, as it is now. If it was knotted, you must have undone it. Come, doctor. There’s no use in our quarrelling. If I’ve offended you, I’m exceedingly sorry. I’m a bit uncouth sometimes, I know. My friend Gilkison here is always telling me of it. You see, I have my job to do, just as you have yours. I think of it first, and of my manners afterwards.”
The doctor’s face did not relax during this speech. He regarded Ellis grimly, and, at the end, he grunted and glanced down at the dead man.
“It wasn’t knotted,” he said gruffly. “It had one end slung loosely across. I pulled it away to examine the patient.”
Ellis smiled.
“Thank you, doctor. I knew you’d remember. Thank God for professionals. The trained mind never lets us down. Does it, Gilk?”
The doctor looked at Gilkison.
“You a policeman too?”
“No. A bookseller.”
“A bookseller?” The eyes narrowed again. “Baildon wasn’t selling.”
“I am only too well aware of that. He sent for me to value certain books. I had performed that service for him on more than one occasion.”
“Sent for you, did he?”
The doctor seemed surprised. He looked down again at Matt Baildon. Ellis stepped across the disordered pile of books, and kneeled down beside the dead man.
Matt was an unpleasant sight. His mouth was open, and the interior of it looked dry and discoloured. The eyes started from the sockets, half open, dull, already devoid of moisture. The beak of the nose was accentuated in death, and the face fast taking on a waxen fixity. The fingers of his hands were clenched beneath the thick woollen mittens.
Ellis peered close, lifted a corner of the moustache, and began to whistle through his teeth. The doctor watched him satirically.
“Satisfied?”
Ellis turned on him a gaze half meditative, half aggressive.
“Looks to me as if he’d been suffocated.”
The doctor gave an angry bark of laughter.
“Well he may—with his face in the rug and a couple of hundredweight of books on top of him.”
“Face in the rug, was it? D’you mind showing me exactly how he was lying?”
The doctor put his hands on his hips. It was almost exactly the gesture of a fishwife about to let loose a flood of vituperation.
“Look here, Mr. Policeman—I don’t know your name——”
“Detective Inspector McKay, of Scotland Yard. This is Mr. Paul Gilkison, of Vigo Street. You are——?”
“My name’s Carter.”
“Mr. Baildon’s physician?”
“Why else d’you think I’m here?”
“You might have been called in, as the nearest doctor.”
“There isn’t another in the place,” growled Dr. Carter.
“Even if there were, I am sure Mr. Baildon would have consulted you. But you were in the point of saying something to me. Please go on.”
The doctor glared. He cleared his throat.
“I was about to ask you what you think you’re playing at? This is——”
“I don’t think I’m playing at all. I wish I were. I came here for a holiday.”
“Inspector McKay is a book collector,” Gilkison interposed. “I brought him in to see Mr. Baildon’s collection.”
“Indeed.” The doctor continued to glare at Ellis. “Well—except that you’ll be disappointed in that aim—you can resume your holiday. There is no occasion for your services here.”
“You think, then, doctor, that this is a straightforward case of accident?”
The doctor snorted.
“Of course it is. What else could it be?”
“Mr. Baildon appeared to have a good deal of life in him yesterday afternoon. I should have thought it would take more than this showerbath to extinguish him.”
“You’re a layman,” the doctor said with contempt. “I daresay you know no better.”
“I await instruction.”
For a couple of seconds it looked as if he were not going to get it. The doctor scowled, and looked at the back of one of his large hands before replying. They were hairy as an ape’s.
“I repeat, I can’t see what concern it is of yours,” he said. “I may tell you, however, the deceased had a coronary thrombosis. I have been treating him for it for a considerable time. I’d kept him in bed for the past three weeks, and only let him downstairs yesterday for the first time. In his condition, a shock like this—why, man, it would knock out you or me.”
Ellis nodded.
“Who was with him at the time?”
“No one.”
“How did it happen?”
Dr. Carter shrugged.
“This—this structure was exceedingly precarious. A touch would have brought it down. He might have bumped into it with his chair. Anything.”
“Was the chair exactly where it is now? Or did you have to move it?”
“Try to move it,” Carter exclaimed.
They looked at the chair. The books had fallen in a mass between it and the shelves. Stepping gingerly across, Ellis put his hand on it. It gave a bare inch in one direction; otherwise it was immovable. Books lay on the seat.
“H’m,” Ellis said. “He was sitting with his back to the bookshelf. The books fell towards him, hit him on the head and shoulders, and knocked him out of the chair face downwards: and he died of shock, or suffocation, or both. That your theory?”
“I am not bothering to form a theory.”
“But—forgive me—you must. You have to sign the death certificate.”
“That is not a point on which you are qualified to advise me.”
“Technically, no. But——”
“His condition was such that I should not have been surprised to learn that he had died at any moment.”
“There will have to be an inquest, doctor. The jury may——”
The doctor cut him short with a roar.
“What the hell d’you think you’re doing, sir, coming down here and thrusting yourself in where nobody wants you! Just because you haven’t enough to do in London, you come down here and try to work up a murder out of a case of pure accident, to get yourself notoriety and drag an unfortunate family into the glare of public attention and suspicion. Go back to London, I tell you, there’s nothing for you here!”
He broke off, foaming. There was a hush. The violence of his voice seemed to reverberate among the shelves.
“Tut, tut.” Ellis looked at him benignly. “Think a minute, doctor. When you’re on holiday, and you hear of an accident in the next street, do you rush to be first on the scene? Do you? Nor do I.”