Chapter VII.The Black SailorThat afternoon Inspector Whyland wrote in his report: “I had a long interview with Ludgrove. He is a shrewd fellow, and not easy to get anything out of. I am pretty sure that he has no definite knowledge on this matter, but he admits himself that some of his customers are not above petty crime, and it seems to me that he is the most likely man to hear any underground rumours that may be flying about.“I managed to convey to him a pretty broad hint that I suspected one of his friends. I did this with a double motive. On the one hand, if he thinks that Copperdock or one of the others had anything to do with it, he will probably pass the hint on, and somebody may try to make a bolt for it, which would give them away. On the other hand, if he is convinced of their innocence, he will be all the more anxious to pass on to me any information he may get and which may tend to clear them. It is just a chance, but it may lead to something useful.”The inspector’s strategy was indeed that of forlorn hope. Rack his brains as he would, interrogate as he might everyone who could possibly throw light upon the murder of Richard Pargent, he found himself up against a stone wall. Nobody could swear to having seen and recognized the victim from the time he entered the train at West Laverhurst until he had been seen to stagger and fall on the refuge in Praed Street. The ticket collector at Reading was almost positive about him, but, as he explained, he saw so many passengers in the course of his day’s work that he could not be sure of any particular one, unless there was something very remarkable about him or her. All he knew for sure was that if this was the gentleman, he was alone in the carriage when the train left Reading.Nobody at Paddington had noticed him among the streams flowing from the arrival platforms, and it was impossible to establish whether or not he had left the station alone. The taxi-driver who had seen him fall had not seen the blow struck, could not even say whether anyone else had been standing on the refuge with him or not. It was a nasty, skiddy evening, and dark at that. He had enough to do to watch the traffic without worrying about people on refuges. It wasn’t until he had seen the poor man stagger into the road almost under his front wheels that he had even noticed him. And then his attention was fully occupied in pulling up and trying to avoid collisions.Finally, neither of the Miss Pargents could throw the faintest glimmer of light upon the affair. Their brother was not the type of man to have secrets from his family. Both sisters appeared to know the inner history of every moment of his life since infancy, and insisted upon dispensing the knowledge at great length. As to his having an enemy in the world, the thing was absurd. He was a very retiring man, who lived only for his work, and had never sought adventure beyond the narrow bounds of the family circle. Inspector Whyland came away from his last interview with the sisters—for Miss Margaret had been prevailed upon to come up to London—convinced that it would have been impossible for the dead man to have embarked upon any clandestine enterprise without the knowledge of one or other of them.He was equally unsuccessful in finding any link between Richard Pargent and any of the inhabitants of Praed Street. Their names were utterly unfamiliar to either of the sisters, and Mr. Pargent’s only connection with Praed Street appeared to be that he occasionally passed along it in a bus. Inspector Whyland was convinced that the same hand that had struck down Mr. Tovey, had killed Richard Pargent, and probably Mr. Colburn, though the receipt of the counter was the only link in the latter case. But what could be the motive for the murder of these three men, so entirely disconnected from one another? And, if one adopted the theory of a homicidal maniac, the difficulty was scarcely diminished. Homicidal maniacs either kill indiscriminately, or, as in the classic case of Jack the Ripper, they attack a certain class or type. Yet the receipt of the numbered counters implied some process of definite selection. Upon what possible grounds could such a selection be based?The inquest helped the authorities not at all. Nothing beyond what Inspector Whyland already knew was elicited, and the only fresh sensation which it provided was the disclosure of the fact that each of the three victims had received a numbered counter. Whyland’s forecast of the results of this were proved to have been only slightly exaggerated. Most of the newspapers of the day following the inquest appeared with leading articles discussing the wisdom of official secrecy upon such a matter. A large number of practical jokers despatched counters bearing the number IV to their friends, many of whom arrived hot-foot at Scotland Yard demanding instant police protection. The fatal counter became for the moment a national symbol. The Opposition newspapers contained cartoons depicting the Prime Minister opening an envelope labelled “Public Opinion,” and containing a numbered counter. An enterprising Insurance Company issued a poster upon which appeared an enormous representation of the counter, and under it the words, “You need not fear this if you are insured with the Gigantic.” To find one in one’s Christmas pudding was an omen of bad luck for the ensuing year. Then, having played its part as a nine days’ wonder, the vogue of the numbered counter ceased as suddenly as it had begun.Meanwhile, the police had been by no means idle. To Inspector Whyland it had always seemed that the focus of the whole business had lain in Mr. Copperdock’s shop. Mr. Copperdock had been an intimate friend of Mr. Tovey’s; Ted Copperdock was on familiar terms with Dick Colburn. It had been through Mr. Copperdock that he had first learned of the receipt of the numbered counters; the pipe which had been responsible for Mr. Colburn’s death been bought at Mr. Copperdock’s shop. Inspector Whyland began to regard the three victims as represented by the extremities of the letter Y, which, although they are not connected to one another, are each connected to a central point. But Mr. Copperdock was the central point, this graphic representation was incomplete until the connection between Richard Pargent and Mr. Copperdock could be established. And, try as he would, Inspector Whyland could find absolutely no link between the two.Nevertheless, Whyland determined to make a very thorough investigation into Mr. Copperdock’s habits and associates. He was rewarded by the discovery of two very interesting facts. A representative of Scotland Yard, announcing himself as an agent of the Planet Typewriter Company, the manufacturers of the machine owned by Mr. Copperdock, and used by his son for writing business letters, called at the tobacconist’s shop, ostensibly for the purpose of inspecting the machine. He succeeded in carrying away with him a specimen of its work, which was submitted to experts. They reported that, although there were no perceptible peculiarities in any of the letters which would enable them to identify this specimen with the address on the envelope sent to Richard Pargent, there was, on the other hand no discrepancy between the two types, and that therefore the envelope might well have been typed on Mr. Copperdock’s machine.This, though disappointingly inconclusive, was to Whyland’s ideas a point to be remembered should any corroborative evidence come to light. Among the circle in whose actions he found himself interested, the Copperdocks were the only people who possessed a typewriter at all. As a matter of fact, Mr. Copperdock had only purchased it quite recently, at the instance of Ted, who while stoutly maintaining that no respectable tradesman could be without one, had been suspected by his shrewd father of less disinterested motives. Certainly it had seemed only natural that, the machine once purchased, the expert Ivy should come in of an evening and show Ted how to work it; but Mr. Copperdock had a way of winking at his son behind her back which made that ingenuous youth blush most embarrassingly.The second curious fact was discovered by Inspector Whyland almost by accident. In his study of Mr. Copperdock and his associates, he had taken to frequenting the saloon bar of the Cambridge Arms, carefully choosing such times as Mr. Copperdock was busy in the shop. There was nothing in any way suspicious about the Cambridge Arms; it lay in one of the streets which run southwards from Praed Street, and was consequently almost hidden in a backwater. Its remarkably cosy little saloon bar was patronized chiefly by the neighbouring small tradesmen, and its habitués were all well-known to the proprietor, with whom Whyland soon became on confidential terms.A couple of days after the inquest on Richard Pargent, Whyland turned into the Cambridge Arms just as its doors were opened, at five o’clock. The proprietor met him with a smile, and, having executed his order, leant over the bar and entered into conversation.“I never thought, when I opened up last Saturday, that that poor fellow was being murdered at that very minute,” he began. “Just about five o’clock, wasn’t it, sir?”Whyland nodded. “The clock was striking five as they picked him up,” he replied.“I remember the evening well,” continued the proprietor. “Though it wasn’t until nigh upon seven that I heard anything about it. I says to my wife it was that wet and foggy that even our regulars wouldn’t be in till later. But there you are, you never can tell. I hadn’t opened this bar, not more than five minutes, when in comes one of my best customers, Sam Copperdock, the tobacconist. You may have met him here, sir?”Whyland nodded non-committally, and the landlord proceeded.“I was a bit surprised to see him, sir, because Sam doesn’t usually come along until eight, unless it happens to be Thursday, when he closes early. ‘Hullo, Sam, you’re on time to-night,’ I says, jocular like. ‘Oh, I’ve only come in for a drink,’ he says; ‘The bottle’s empty at home, and I couldn’t scrounge one from old Ludgrove opposite, he’s away.’ He has a double, and goes back to his shop. The bar was pretty nigh empty till about seven, when a fellow comes in and tells me about the murder.”Inspector Whyland deftly turned the conversation. He knew that if he questioned the man his suspicions would be aroused, and this he was anxious to avoid. Without any appearance of haste he finished his drink and left the premises. Once round the corner, he walked swiftly to the spot where Richard Pargent had been murdered, counting his paces as he went.Could Mr. Copperdock have committed the murder? It was quite possible. If he had left his shop a few minutes before five, he would have had plenty of time to reach the exit from Paddington station, plunge the knife into his victim, and be at the Cambridge Arms at five minutes past. But, if he were the criminal, a thousand puzzling questions presented themselves. How did he know that his victim would be arriving at Paddington at 4.55 that evening? Above all, why should Mr. Copperdock, the tobacconist, have any grudge against Mr. Pargent, the minor poet? And then again, Whyland was convinced that the murderer of Richard Pargent had been the murderer of James Tovey. But, at the moment when Tovey had been killed, Mr. Copperdock was in his sitting-room with his son and the murdered man’s daughter. The riddle appeared to be insoluble.Whyland turned abruptly, boarded a bus, and took a ticket to Oxford Circus. Here he dismounted, and turned into the first picture-house which presented itself. He had discovered long ago that this was the surest way of securing freedom from interruption. Here for a couple of hours he sat motionless, neither seeing the pictures nor attentive to the strenuous efforts of the orchestra. And as he sat, a new theory slowly unfolded itself in his brain.Samuel Copperdock, whom he had studied so carefully, did not appear to him to be a deliberate criminal. He was not of the type which harbours revenge, and he did not seem either clever or painstaking enough to work out the details of a premeditated murder. Although, if it were true that he had formed a design to marry Mrs. Tovey, the murder of Mr. Tovey might be said to be advantageous to him, it was inconceivable that he had had any hand in it. He could not have struck the blow himself, and, since he was not a rich man, it was difficult to see what inducement he could offer to a hired assassin. In all human probability, Mr. Copperdock was innocent of the murder of James Tovey.But, on the other hand, this murder, followed so closely by the mysterious death of his other acquaintance, Colburn, had made a great impression upon him. He had thought and talked of little else, and, as it happened, he had known every detail. He had seen the knife with which James Tovey had been killed; he, in common with very few others, had known of the receipt of the marked counters. Suppose that the crimes had had such a powerful effect upon his imagination that he had felt an irresistible impulse to imitate them? Such things were known, were in fact a commonplace of the criminal psychologists.Upon this assumption, the rest was easy. Mr. Copperdock had learnt by some accident that this man Richard Pargent would arrive at Paddington at 4.55 on Saturday, and had selected him as a likely victim. His imitative faculty fully developed, he had sent him the numbered counter, and had purchased a knife similar to the one which he had already seen. Then, just before the train was due, he had left his shop, met his victim, committed the crime, had a drink to steady his nerves, and then come home.The theory was plausible, but Inspector Whyland knew well enough that so far he had not a fragment of real evidence with which to support it. But, unless he were to adopt the suggestion of Mr. Ludgrove, that some homicidal maniac was responsible, Whyland could see no alternative. The lack of motive was so extraordinarily puzzling. The murders had been utterly purposeless, and the only possible theory could be one which took full account of this fact. And then again, how account for the despatch of the numbered counters? If the murders had been inspired by irresponsible impulse, what had been their object?Still deep in thought, Inspector Whyland left the picture-house and walked slowly back to the police station through the less frequented streets. It was a little past eight on a typical December evening, with a light wet mist which magnified the outlines of the passers-by and covered the pavements with a shining dampness. But the weather never had much effect upon Whyland, and, beyond a passing reflection that on such an evening murder in the streets of London was not, after all, an enterprise presenting any great difficulties to a determined man, he paid no great attention to it.He reached the police station without adventure, ordered a modest supper, and sat down to deal with the mass of reports which awaited him. He was thus engaged when a sergeant entered the room, with the message that a man giving the name of Copperdock wished to speak to him on the telephone. He rose, walked to the instrument, and picked up the receiver. “Inspector Whyland speaking,” he said coldly.“Is that you, Inspector?” came an excited voice, which Whyland recognized at once. “Can you come and see me at once? I’ve something very important to tell you.”Whyland hesitated for a moment. Whatever it was that Mr. Copperdock had to say to him, a visit to his house could afford him an excellent opportunity for keeping his eyes open for some clue in support of his theory. “Yes, I’ll come along straight away,” he replied. With a word to the sergeant, he left the station and walked rapidly to Praed Street.It was about a quarter to ten when he arrived and rang the bell outside Mr. Copperdock’s shop. The tobacconist was obviously awaiting him, and the door was opened immediately. With a brief word of greeting, Mr. Copperdock led the way upstairs to the sitting-room. Then, shutting the door carefully behind him, he turned dramatically, “I’ve seen that there black sailor!” he exclaimed in a hoarse whisper.Inspector Whyland looked at him sharply. When the reward had originally been offered, he had been overwhelmed by a flood of people who had claimed to have seen the “black sailor,” but of late this elusive figure had ceased to occupy the popular imagination. Was this a vindication of his theory, showing that Mr. Copperdock’s brain was completely under the influence of the crime?“You have seen the black sailor? Sit down and tell me all about it, Mr. Copperdock,” he replied gravely.But Mr. Copperdock was far too excited to sit down. “I see him plain as I see you now,” he exclaimed. “Just after I left the Cambridge Arms——”But Inspector Whyland put out his hand and forced him gently into the nearest chair. “Now, look here, Mr. Copperdock, if your information is to be of any use to me, you must tell it to me in the proper order. Begin by telling me how you spent the evening.”“Soon as I shut up shop at eight o’clock, I goes off to the Cambridge, same as I always does,” replied the tobacconist protestingly. “Ted went out too, he’s taking Ivy to the pictures, and they won’t be back for an hour or so yet. I has a couple there, sitting in front of the fire, and it wasn’t until nigh on closing time that I left. There wasn’t anybody there as was coming home my way, so I starts off home alone. And I hadn’t gone more than a hundred yards when I runs slap into the black sailor!”“What do you mean when you say you ran into him?” interrupted Whyland.“Just what I says. I saw someone come round the corner, and before I could move we ran into one another. He was a great big fellow, and I could see him perfectly plain, we was right under the lamp. He bent down and looked straight at me, and you could have knocked me down with a feather. It was the black sailor, all right. He was muffled up in a great heavy coat, but I could see his beard, and his woollen cap, and a great red scar down the right side of his face. He glared at me as though he were going to hit me, and I hollered out, being sure he was going to do me in. Then all at once he turns his back and walks off at a tremendous pace. After a bit I follows him, hoping to meet a copper. But he suddenly turns in to the Edgware Road, and by the time I gets there I’d lost him.”“H’m,” said Inspector Whyland. “That must have been nearly an hour ago now.” He paused for a moment, then, realizing that in Mr. Copperdock’s present excited state it would be impossible to get anything coherent out of him, he rose and took his leave.“Well, good night, Mr. Copperdock,” he said abruptly. “It’s a pity you didn’t catch your man. I’d better get back to the station and warn my people to look out for him.”As he left the shop, he noticed that Mr. Ludgrove’s door stood open, and as he crossed the road, the herbalist himself appeared in the entrance. “Good evening, Inspector,” he said politely.Obeying a sudden impulse, Whyland stopped and returned the greeting. “Good evening, Mr. Ludgrove,” he replied. “May I come in for a moment?”“By all means, come along,” replied the herbalist, leading the way into his sanctum. “I do not drink much myself, but perhaps you will take some refreshment yourself?”He busied himself with a bottle and a glass, while the Inspector drew up a chair to the blazing fire. Then, when his host had seated himself, Whyland glanced at him with a slight smile playing about his lips.“Our friend Mr. Copperdock has seen the black sailor,” he remarked.“Seen the black sailor!” exclaimed the herbalist incredulously. “When and where—if I may ask?”“Listen, and I’ll tell you all about it,” replied Whyland. “About an hour ago outside the Cambridge Arms.”Mr. Ludgrove laughed softly at something in the tone of the Inspector’s voice, then suddenly became serious.“I do not think that I should place too great importance upon this incident,” he said. “Mr. Copperdock is a most excellent person, and I have the greatest respect for him. But I have often suspected that his visits to the Cambridge Arms have—shall I say, a pernicious effect upon the accuracy of his observations.”“He seemed a bit excited, certainly,” replied Whyland. “But he was quite positive that he had seen the man.”Mr. Ludgrove shook his head. “Now, this is strictly between ourselves, Inspector,” he said. “I make an invariable practice of taking a walk every evening, as soon as my clients give me the opportunity. This evening I went out soon after eight, and walked in the direction of Hyde Park. As it happened, I was returning past the Cambridge Arms, when I saw a figure which was unmistakably that of Mr. Copperdock leave the entrance of that house. I hastened my steps to overtake him, when suddenly he stopped, shouted, and after a moment or two, set off in the direction of Edgware Road. I could not imagine what was the matter, since but for us two the road was deserted as far as one could see for the mist. I was within twenty or thirty yards of him, and I certainly saw no black sailor.”It was Inspector Whyland’s turn to smile significantly. “It does not altogether surprise me to learn that Mr. Copperdock suffers from hallucinations,” he said.
That afternoon Inspector Whyland wrote in his report: “I had a long interview with Ludgrove. He is a shrewd fellow, and not easy to get anything out of. I am pretty sure that he has no definite knowledge on this matter, but he admits himself that some of his customers are not above petty crime, and it seems to me that he is the most likely man to hear any underground rumours that may be flying about.
“I managed to convey to him a pretty broad hint that I suspected one of his friends. I did this with a double motive. On the one hand, if he thinks that Copperdock or one of the others had anything to do with it, he will probably pass the hint on, and somebody may try to make a bolt for it, which would give them away. On the other hand, if he is convinced of their innocence, he will be all the more anxious to pass on to me any information he may get and which may tend to clear them. It is just a chance, but it may lead to something useful.”
The inspector’s strategy was indeed that of forlorn hope. Rack his brains as he would, interrogate as he might everyone who could possibly throw light upon the murder of Richard Pargent, he found himself up against a stone wall. Nobody could swear to having seen and recognized the victim from the time he entered the train at West Laverhurst until he had been seen to stagger and fall on the refuge in Praed Street. The ticket collector at Reading was almost positive about him, but, as he explained, he saw so many passengers in the course of his day’s work that he could not be sure of any particular one, unless there was something very remarkable about him or her. All he knew for sure was that if this was the gentleman, he was alone in the carriage when the train left Reading.
Nobody at Paddington had noticed him among the streams flowing from the arrival platforms, and it was impossible to establish whether or not he had left the station alone. The taxi-driver who had seen him fall had not seen the blow struck, could not even say whether anyone else had been standing on the refuge with him or not. It was a nasty, skiddy evening, and dark at that. He had enough to do to watch the traffic without worrying about people on refuges. It wasn’t until he had seen the poor man stagger into the road almost under his front wheels that he had even noticed him. And then his attention was fully occupied in pulling up and trying to avoid collisions.
Finally, neither of the Miss Pargents could throw the faintest glimmer of light upon the affair. Their brother was not the type of man to have secrets from his family. Both sisters appeared to know the inner history of every moment of his life since infancy, and insisted upon dispensing the knowledge at great length. As to his having an enemy in the world, the thing was absurd. He was a very retiring man, who lived only for his work, and had never sought adventure beyond the narrow bounds of the family circle. Inspector Whyland came away from his last interview with the sisters—for Miss Margaret had been prevailed upon to come up to London—convinced that it would have been impossible for the dead man to have embarked upon any clandestine enterprise without the knowledge of one or other of them.
He was equally unsuccessful in finding any link between Richard Pargent and any of the inhabitants of Praed Street. Their names were utterly unfamiliar to either of the sisters, and Mr. Pargent’s only connection with Praed Street appeared to be that he occasionally passed along it in a bus. Inspector Whyland was convinced that the same hand that had struck down Mr. Tovey, had killed Richard Pargent, and probably Mr. Colburn, though the receipt of the counter was the only link in the latter case. But what could be the motive for the murder of these three men, so entirely disconnected from one another? And, if one adopted the theory of a homicidal maniac, the difficulty was scarcely diminished. Homicidal maniacs either kill indiscriminately, or, as in the classic case of Jack the Ripper, they attack a certain class or type. Yet the receipt of the numbered counters implied some process of definite selection. Upon what possible grounds could such a selection be based?
The inquest helped the authorities not at all. Nothing beyond what Inspector Whyland already knew was elicited, and the only fresh sensation which it provided was the disclosure of the fact that each of the three victims had received a numbered counter. Whyland’s forecast of the results of this were proved to have been only slightly exaggerated. Most of the newspapers of the day following the inquest appeared with leading articles discussing the wisdom of official secrecy upon such a matter. A large number of practical jokers despatched counters bearing the number IV to their friends, many of whom arrived hot-foot at Scotland Yard demanding instant police protection. The fatal counter became for the moment a national symbol. The Opposition newspapers contained cartoons depicting the Prime Minister opening an envelope labelled “Public Opinion,” and containing a numbered counter. An enterprising Insurance Company issued a poster upon which appeared an enormous representation of the counter, and under it the words, “You need not fear this if you are insured with the Gigantic.” To find one in one’s Christmas pudding was an omen of bad luck for the ensuing year. Then, having played its part as a nine days’ wonder, the vogue of the numbered counter ceased as suddenly as it had begun.
Meanwhile, the police had been by no means idle. To Inspector Whyland it had always seemed that the focus of the whole business had lain in Mr. Copperdock’s shop. Mr. Copperdock had been an intimate friend of Mr. Tovey’s; Ted Copperdock was on familiar terms with Dick Colburn. It had been through Mr. Copperdock that he had first learned of the receipt of the numbered counters; the pipe which had been responsible for Mr. Colburn’s death been bought at Mr. Copperdock’s shop. Inspector Whyland began to regard the three victims as represented by the extremities of the letter Y, which, although they are not connected to one another, are each connected to a central point. But Mr. Copperdock was the central point, this graphic representation was incomplete until the connection between Richard Pargent and Mr. Copperdock could be established. And, try as he would, Inspector Whyland could find absolutely no link between the two.
Nevertheless, Whyland determined to make a very thorough investigation into Mr. Copperdock’s habits and associates. He was rewarded by the discovery of two very interesting facts. A representative of Scotland Yard, announcing himself as an agent of the Planet Typewriter Company, the manufacturers of the machine owned by Mr. Copperdock, and used by his son for writing business letters, called at the tobacconist’s shop, ostensibly for the purpose of inspecting the machine. He succeeded in carrying away with him a specimen of its work, which was submitted to experts. They reported that, although there were no perceptible peculiarities in any of the letters which would enable them to identify this specimen with the address on the envelope sent to Richard Pargent, there was, on the other hand no discrepancy between the two types, and that therefore the envelope might well have been typed on Mr. Copperdock’s machine.
This, though disappointingly inconclusive, was to Whyland’s ideas a point to be remembered should any corroborative evidence come to light. Among the circle in whose actions he found himself interested, the Copperdocks were the only people who possessed a typewriter at all. As a matter of fact, Mr. Copperdock had only purchased it quite recently, at the instance of Ted, who while stoutly maintaining that no respectable tradesman could be without one, had been suspected by his shrewd father of less disinterested motives. Certainly it had seemed only natural that, the machine once purchased, the expert Ivy should come in of an evening and show Ted how to work it; but Mr. Copperdock had a way of winking at his son behind her back which made that ingenuous youth blush most embarrassingly.
The second curious fact was discovered by Inspector Whyland almost by accident. In his study of Mr. Copperdock and his associates, he had taken to frequenting the saloon bar of the Cambridge Arms, carefully choosing such times as Mr. Copperdock was busy in the shop. There was nothing in any way suspicious about the Cambridge Arms; it lay in one of the streets which run southwards from Praed Street, and was consequently almost hidden in a backwater. Its remarkably cosy little saloon bar was patronized chiefly by the neighbouring small tradesmen, and its habitués were all well-known to the proprietor, with whom Whyland soon became on confidential terms.
A couple of days after the inquest on Richard Pargent, Whyland turned into the Cambridge Arms just as its doors were opened, at five o’clock. The proprietor met him with a smile, and, having executed his order, leant over the bar and entered into conversation.
“I never thought, when I opened up last Saturday, that that poor fellow was being murdered at that very minute,” he began. “Just about five o’clock, wasn’t it, sir?”
Whyland nodded. “The clock was striking five as they picked him up,” he replied.
“I remember the evening well,” continued the proprietor. “Though it wasn’t until nigh upon seven that I heard anything about it. I says to my wife it was that wet and foggy that even our regulars wouldn’t be in till later. But there you are, you never can tell. I hadn’t opened this bar, not more than five minutes, when in comes one of my best customers, Sam Copperdock, the tobacconist. You may have met him here, sir?”
Whyland nodded non-committally, and the landlord proceeded.
“I was a bit surprised to see him, sir, because Sam doesn’t usually come along until eight, unless it happens to be Thursday, when he closes early. ‘Hullo, Sam, you’re on time to-night,’ I says, jocular like. ‘Oh, I’ve only come in for a drink,’ he says; ‘The bottle’s empty at home, and I couldn’t scrounge one from old Ludgrove opposite, he’s away.’ He has a double, and goes back to his shop. The bar was pretty nigh empty till about seven, when a fellow comes in and tells me about the murder.”
Inspector Whyland deftly turned the conversation. He knew that if he questioned the man his suspicions would be aroused, and this he was anxious to avoid. Without any appearance of haste he finished his drink and left the premises. Once round the corner, he walked swiftly to the spot where Richard Pargent had been murdered, counting his paces as he went.
Could Mr. Copperdock have committed the murder? It was quite possible. If he had left his shop a few minutes before five, he would have had plenty of time to reach the exit from Paddington station, plunge the knife into his victim, and be at the Cambridge Arms at five minutes past. But, if he were the criminal, a thousand puzzling questions presented themselves. How did he know that his victim would be arriving at Paddington at 4.55 that evening? Above all, why should Mr. Copperdock, the tobacconist, have any grudge against Mr. Pargent, the minor poet? And then again, Whyland was convinced that the murderer of Richard Pargent had been the murderer of James Tovey. But, at the moment when Tovey had been killed, Mr. Copperdock was in his sitting-room with his son and the murdered man’s daughter. The riddle appeared to be insoluble.
Whyland turned abruptly, boarded a bus, and took a ticket to Oxford Circus. Here he dismounted, and turned into the first picture-house which presented itself. He had discovered long ago that this was the surest way of securing freedom from interruption. Here for a couple of hours he sat motionless, neither seeing the pictures nor attentive to the strenuous efforts of the orchestra. And as he sat, a new theory slowly unfolded itself in his brain.
Samuel Copperdock, whom he had studied so carefully, did not appear to him to be a deliberate criminal. He was not of the type which harbours revenge, and he did not seem either clever or painstaking enough to work out the details of a premeditated murder. Although, if it were true that he had formed a design to marry Mrs. Tovey, the murder of Mr. Tovey might be said to be advantageous to him, it was inconceivable that he had had any hand in it. He could not have struck the blow himself, and, since he was not a rich man, it was difficult to see what inducement he could offer to a hired assassin. In all human probability, Mr. Copperdock was innocent of the murder of James Tovey.
But, on the other hand, this murder, followed so closely by the mysterious death of his other acquaintance, Colburn, had made a great impression upon him. He had thought and talked of little else, and, as it happened, he had known every detail. He had seen the knife with which James Tovey had been killed; he, in common with very few others, had known of the receipt of the marked counters. Suppose that the crimes had had such a powerful effect upon his imagination that he had felt an irresistible impulse to imitate them? Such things were known, were in fact a commonplace of the criminal psychologists.
Upon this assumption, the rest was easy. Mr. Copperdock had learnt by some accident that this man Richard Pargent would arrive at Paddington at 4.55 on Saturday, and had selected him as a likely victim. His imitative faculty fully developed, he had sent him the numbered counter, and had purchased a knife similar to the one which he had already seen. Then, just before the train was due, he had left his shop, met his victim, committed the crime, had a drink to steady his nerves, and then come home.
The theory was plausible, but Inspector Whyland knew well enough that so far he had not a fragment of real evidence with which to support it. But, unless he were to adopt the suggestion of Mr. Ludgrove, that some homicidal maniac was responsible, Whyland could see no alternative. The lack of motive was so extraordinarily puzzling. The murders had been utterly purposeless, and the only possible theory could be one which took full account of this fact. And then again, how account for the despatch of the numbered counters? If the murders had been inspired by irresponsible impulse, what had been their object?
Still deep in thought, Inspector Whyland left the picture-house and walked slowly back to the police station through the less frequented streets. It was a little past eight on a typical December evening, with a light wet mist which magnified the outlines of the passers-by and covered the pavements with a shining dampness. But the weather never had much effect upon Whyland, and, beyond a passing reflection that on such an evening murder in the streets of London was not, after all, an enterprise presenting any great difficulties to a determined man, he paid no great attention to it.
He reached the police station without adventure, ordered a modest supper, and sat down to deal with the mass of reports which awaited him. He was thus engaged when a sergeant entered the room, with the message that a man giving the name of Copperdock wished to speak to him on the telephone. He rose, walked to the instrument, and picked up the receiver. “Inspector Whyland speaking,” he said coldly.
“Is that you, Inspector?” came an excited voice, which Whyland recognized at once. “Can you come and see me at once? I’ve something very important to tell you.”
Whyland hesitated for a moment. Whatever it was that Mr. Copperdock had to say to him, a visit to his house could afford him an excellent opportunity for keeping his eyes open for some clue in support of his theory. “Yes, I’ll come along straight away,” he replied. With a word to the sergeant, he left the station and walked rapidly to Praed Street.
It was about a quarter to ten when he arrived and rang the bell outside Mr. Copperdock’s shop. The tobacconist was obviously awaiting him, and the door was opened immediately. With a brief word of greeting, Mr. Copperdock led the way upstairs to the sitting-room. Then, shutting the door carefully behind him, he turned dramatically, “I’ve seen that there black sailor!” he exclaimed in a hoarse whisper.
Inspector Whyland looked at him sharply. When the reward had originally been offered, he had been overwhelmed by a flood of people who had claimed to have seen the “black sailor,” but of late this elusive figure had ceased to occupy the popular imagination. Was this a vindication of his theory, showing that Mr. Copperdock’s brain was completely under the influence of the crime?
“You have seen the black sailor? Sit down and tell me all about it, Mr. Copperdock,” he replied gravely.
But Mr. Copperdock was far too excited to sit down. “I see him plain as I see you now,” he exclaimed. “Just after I left the Cambridge Arms——”
But Inspector Whyland put out his hand and forced him gently into the nearest chair. “Now, look here, Mr. Copperdock, if your information is to be of any use to me, you must tell it to me in the proper order. Begin by telling me how you spent the evening.”
“Soon as I shut up shop at eight o’clock, I goes off to the Cambridge, same as I always does,” replied the tobacconist protestingly. “Ted went out too, he’s taking Ivy to the pictures, and they won’t be back for an hour or so yet. I has a couple there, sitting in front of the fire, and it wasn’t until nigh on closing time that I left. There wasn’t anybody there as was coming home my way, so I starts off home alone. And I hadn’t gone more than a hundred yards when I runs slap into the black sailor!”
“What do you mean when you say you ran into him?” interrupted Whyland.
“Just what I says. I saw someone come round the corner, and before I could move we ran into one another. He was a great big fellow, and I could see him perfectly plain, we was right under the lamp. He bent down and looked straight at me, and you could have knocked me down with a feather. It was the black sailor, all right. He was muffled up in a great heavy coat, but I could see his beard, and his woollen cap, and a great red scar down the right side of his face. He glared at me as though he were going to hit me, and I hollered out, being sure he was going to do me in. Then all at once he turns his back and walks off at a tremendous pace. After a bit I follows him, hoping to meet a copper. But he suddenly turns in to the Edgware Road, and by the time I gets there I’d lost him.”
“H’m,” said Inspector Whyland. “That must have been nearly an hour ago now.” He paused for a moment, then, realizing that in Mr. Copperdock’s present excited state it would be impossible to get anything coherent out of him, he rose and took his leave.
“Well, good night, Mr. Copperdock,” he said abruptly. “It’s a pity you didn’t catch your man. I’d better get back to the station and warn my people to look out for him.”
As he left the shop, he noticed that Mr. Ludgrove’s door stood open, and as he crossed the road, the herbalist himself appeared in the entrance. “Good evening, Inspector,” he said politely.
Obeying a sudden impulse, Whyland stopped and returned the greeting. “Good evening, Mr. Ludgrove,” he replied. “May I come in for a moment?”
“By all means, come along,” replied the herbalist, leading the way into his sanctum. “I do not drink much myself, but perhaps you will take some refreshment yourself?”
He busied himself with a bottle and a glass, while the Inspector drew up a chair to the blazing fire. Then, when his host had seated himself, Whyland glanced at him with a slight smile playing about his lips.
“Our friend Mr. Copperdock has seen the black sailor,” he remarked.
“Seen the black sailor!” exclaimed the herbalist incredulously. “When and where—if I may ask?”
“Listen, and I’ll tell you all about it,” replied Whyland. “About an hour ago outside the Cambridge Arms.”
Mr. Ludgrove laughed softly at something in the tone of the Inspector’s voice, then suddenly became serious.
“I do not think that I should place too great importance upon this incident,” he said. “Mr. Copperdock is a most excellent person, and I have the greatest respect for him. But I have often suspected that his visits to the Cambridge Arms have—shall I say, a pernicious effect upon the accuracy of his observations.”
“He seemed a bit excited, certainly,” replied Whyland. “But he was quite positive that he had seen the man.”
Mr. Ludgrove shook his head. “Now, this is strictly between ourselves, Inspector,” he said. “I make an invariable practice of taking a walk every evening, as soon as my clients give me the opportunity. This evening I went out soon after eight, and walked in the direction of Hyde Park. As it happened, I was returning past the Cambridge Arms, when I saw a figure which was unmistakably that of Mr. Copperdock leave the entrance of that house. I hastened my steps to overtake him, when suddenly he stopped, shouted, and after a moment or two, set off in the direction of Edgware Road. I could not imagine what was the matter, since but for us two the road was deserted as far as one could see for the mist. I was within twenty or thirty yards of him, and I certainly saw no black sailor.”
It was Inspector Whyland’s turn to smile significantly. “It does not altogether surprise me to learn that Mr. Copperdock suffers from hallucinations,” he said.