Chapter X.At Scotland YardThe experts to whom the curious device found by the electrician in the little cellar had been sent duly made their report. In their opinion, the butt was all that remained of an ingenious poison-bomb. The original machine consisted of a socket made to fit into an ordinary lamp-holder, but the place of the filament had been taken by a piece of fine wire, round which had been wrapped a thread of gun-cotton. Attached to the socket, and in contact with the gun-cotton, had been a sealed celluloid bulb containing pure prussic acid.The action of such a bomb would be perfectly simple. It had only to be placed in a lamp-holder, and the switch turned on. The current would heat the fine wire, and so ignite the strand of gun-cotton. This in turn would set fire to the celluloid bulb, and its contents would be released in the form of vapour. Although some of this vapour would become ignited, enough would be available to permeate the atmosphere of a room far larger than the small cellar. And, of course, the inhalation of the vapour would rapidly produce death.This opinion, the report stated, was purely speculative, since only the socket of the bomb remained for examination. Inspector Whyland, after consultation with his Chief at Scotland Yard, decided that it had better not be made public. The idea, though it was probably correct, was hypothetical, and altogether too vague to be put before a coroner’s jury. It certainly strengthened Whyland’s conviction that Mr. Martin had been murdered, for no man would go to the trouble of constructing an elaborate poison-bomb with which to kill himself when he might just as easily have inhaled the acid outright. When the electrician left the cellar on the Saturday the bomb had not been there. Whyland was convinced that the man was speaking the truth upon this point. The only two alternatives remaining were that somebody had entered the house between the departure of the foreman and the arrival of Mr. Martin, or that Martin had placed the bomb in position himself. The field of speculation opened by these alternatives was so vast and barren of any clue that their exploration must be a matter of considerable time.As a matter of fact, the Assistant Commissioner was by no means convinced that Mr. Martin had been murdered. “We all know what a difficult job you’re up against in trying to trace the murders of these two fellows, Tovey and Pargent,” he said to Whyland in an interview to which he had summoned him, “But don’t you think you’re rather too much inclined to see the hand of the murderer in everything that happens in that district? Now, honestly, assuming that Martin was murdered, have you the slightest clue which could possibly lead to the conviction of the murderer?”“No, sir, I haven’t,” replied Whyland. “But I’ve got my suspicions of this man Copperdock, whom I’ve mentioned to you.”“Suspicions aren’t evidence,” said the Assistant Commissioner shortly. “Bring home the original murders to him by all means and then perhaps you’ll be able to link him up with the death of this man Martin. At present, so far as I can see, you’ll find it difficult to convince a jury that Martin was murdered. That poison-bomb theory is a bit far-fetched, you must admit.”“It is, rather, sir,” agreed Whyland. “Still we’ve got the letter and the numbered counter——”“It’s just that letter that worries me,” interrupted the Chief. “It was through the letter that you discovered that Martin was a receiver of stolen goods—a very smart piece of work, Whyland, upon which I congratulate you. But, until we have rounded them all up, we don’t want the gentlemen with whom Martin dealt to become aware of our knowledge. If the existence of that letter becomes known, they’ll tumble to it at once. I should very much prefer the letter to be kept secret, for the present, at all events.”The Assistant Commissioner paused, and Whyland glanced at him quickly. “I see no reason why it should be mentioned at the inquest, sir,” he said. “Nobody knows of its existence outside of the police.”“Then I should be inclined to say nothing about it,” remarked the Assistant Commissioner. “Nor, I imagine, will it be necessary to bring into prominence the hypothesis of the poison-bomb, or the fact that you have any suspicions of foul play. I am not suggesting that you should wilfully mislead the coroner, mind. But it is usually a mistake to volunteer information when no useful purpose can be served by so doing.”So it happened that the doctor’s evidence at the inquest remain unchallenged. The theory was that Martin, having decided to take his own life, was attracted to his old premises knowing them to be empty. In order to obtain access, he telephoned himself from Aldersgate station to Mr. Briggs, using Mr. Lacey’s name. Having thus secured the key, he bolted the door behind him to prevent any interruption, then went into the cellar and inhaled the vapour of prussic acid. The automatic he had brought with him in the case the poison should prove ineffective. The numbered counter, which he had also brought with him, as the finger-marks upon it showed, merely emphasized the morbid state of mind which had prompted him to the deed.The jury returned a verdict of suicide during temporary insanity, in accordance with this theory, and, to all outward appearances the case of Mr. Martin was disposed of. But Inspector Whyland, although relieved to feel that yet another unsolved crime had not been added to his already mounting debit account, knew well enough at heart that once again his mysterious adversary had scored a point against him. But again, there was this insoluble riddle of motive. It was possible to suggest more than one motive for the murder of Mr. Martin. He might, for instance, have fallen out with one of the jewel thieves with whom he had such intimate relations. Or again, his dealings with women might have been at the bottom of it. But, assuming one of these suppositions to be correct, how was the death of Mr. Martin to be linked with the previous murders? Or were they indeed all the work of separate persons, who imitated one another’s methods with a view to confusing the issue?Inspector Whyland recalled his mind from such unprofitable speculations. He felt that the solution of the whole mystery lay close under his hand, if he could but devise the means to unearth it. Somehow Mr. Copperdock’s name always came up in connection with these murders. He had been Tovey’s most intimate friend. The pipe which had been the cause of Colburn’s death had been bought at his shop. He must have been within a few yards of the scene when Pargent was murdered. And Whyland had no doubt that he would discover some point of contact between Mr. Copperdock and the present case.He was not disappointed. It came out, in the course of a conversation between him and Houlder, the builder. It seemed that Houlder, who was an occasional frequenter of the Cambridge Arms, had mentioned, early in the month, that a new tenant had taken Number 407, and that he had got the job of altering the premises for him. Mr. Copperdock had displayed great interest in this remark, and as a result Houlder had invited him to come and look over the place. Mr. Copperdock had accepted, and he and Houlder had been over every inch of it. This might have been pure curiosity on Mr. Copperdock’s part, but at least the fact was significant. Inspector Whyland stored it in the mental pigeon-hole which already contained the note that Martin and Copperdock had done considerable business together in the past.Thus, putting the case mathematically, Mr. Copperdock was the highest common factor of the terms representing the four dead men. Inspector Whyland had spent much time and care in investigating their histories and their actions, and he could find no other factor common to them all. They had been, so far as he had been able to ascertain, complete strangers to one another, and they could never consciously have met one another. The only characteristics which they had in common were that they had all received counters numbered in the order of their deaths, that they were all males, and that their ages had all been over fifty.Naturally, the mind of Praed Street was not greatly relieved by the verdict on the death of Mr. Martin. Violent death was becoming far too frequent an incident for any of the local community to feel safe. Men wondered when it would be their turn to find the fatal counter, and how they should ward off the death which so swiftly followed. It was not as though one could tell exactly what one had to guard against. The knife had been used twice, certainly, but poison in one form or another had accounted for two of the deaths.The numbered counters were the characteristic feature of the case which appealed most strongly to the popular imagination. Inexplicable murders were common enough, even murders in which no motive or criminal had ever been found. But a series of murders, each prefixed by a definite warning, were an entirely novel sensation. The theory of the counters was publicly discussed from every possible point of view, without any really satisfactory theory being arrived at. Quite a large proportion of the population of London opened their morning papers in expectation of finding news of the delivery of counter number V.The news, when it came, illustrated the hold which the subject had upon men’s minds, and the moral effect which it has produced. Mr. Ludgrove read the story as he consumed his frugal breakfast, and he was not surprised to hear Mr. Copperdock’s voice in the shop a few minutes later.“Come in, Mr. Copperdock,” he called, and the tobacconist, paper in hand, the light of excitement in his eyes, entered through the curtained door.“Have you seen this about this old chap Goodwin?” he enquired, without preliminary.“I have indeed,” replied Mr. Ludgrove gravely. “I imagine that the whole thing was an utterly heartless practical joke. I only hope the police will be able to trace the sender.”“Aye, practical joke, maybe, but it killed him all the same,” said Mr. Copperdock doubtfully. “Fancy an old chap like that, what couldn’t have had more than a year or two to live! The paper says that he couldn’t even walk from one room to another, had to be wheeled in a chair. This daughter of his what was looking after him says here that the doctor had told her that any shock might be fatal. Wonder if she sent it herself, being tired of waiting for his money? Listen, this is what she says: ‘My father’s chief amusement was to read the papers. He took the keenest interest in every item of news, and often discussed them with me. We often talked about the murders which have taken place recently in Praed Street, and my father always maintained that the curious episode of the numbered counters proved that they were not the work of a maniac.’ ”“Yes. It is easy to understand what a shock the receipt of the counter must have been to him,” replied Mr. Ludgrove reflectively. “It would be interesting to know who, besides his daughter, knew of this passion for news on his part. I see by the account in my paper that three letters arrived for him by the morning post, and that his daughter brought them in to him on his breakfast tray. He opened the first one, and a counter numbered V fell out of it.”“Then he fell back on his pillow and never spoke again,” put in Mr. Copperdock excitedly. “The shock killed him right enough, as the doctors had said it would. I wouldn’t like to be in the shoes of the person what sent it him.”Mr. Ludgrove glanced at his friend sharply. “I cannot understand it, except upon the assumption of a practical joke, and a particularly cruel one at that,” he said. “Here was this Mr. Goodwin, a retired manufacturer, who had been living in this house at Highgate for many years past. All his acquaintances knew that his heart was very seriously affected, and that he had only a short time to live. Of course, we know nothing of his past history, but, whatever motive there may have been, to murder a man in his condition would merely be to anticipate the course of nature by a few months. And, in our experience, the receipt of the counter has always been followed by violent death. I say we know nothing about him; I certainly do not. I suppose that you have never heard of him before, have you, Mr. Copperdock?”Mr. Copperdock shook his head. “Never!” he replied emphatically. “Seems to me it’s just like that poet chap, Pargent. Somebody sends him the counter, and his number’s up. Well thank heaven, it didn’t happen in Praed Street, this time.”It was not long after Mr. Copperdock’s departure that Inspector Whyland came in to see the herbalist. He said nothing, but glanced at Mr. Ludgrove enquiringly.“Yes, I’ve seen it in the paper,” said Mr. Ludgrove. “As a matter of fact, I’ve just been discussing it with Mr. Copperdock. He came over here as soon as he read about it.”“Oh, he did, did he?” replied Whyland. “And what do you make of it, may I ask?”Mr. Ludgrove shrugged his shoulders. “I know no more than what the paper contains,” he said. “It looks to me like a practical joke. I shouldn’t wonder if some idiot derives amusement from sending these counters broadcast. I daresay he gets the names of people to send them to from the telephone directory.”“Practical joke? H’m,” said Whyland. “Mind, I’m not denying that a lot of fools do send out these counters to their friends. The Yard has had dozens of cases reported to them. I always said that would happen as soon as people heard about them. But in this case I have seen the envelope in which the counter was sent. It was typed on the same machine as the others, and it was posted in this district, exactly as the others were. Your practical joker has followed his original model pretty closely, don’t you think?”The ardent seekers after sensation redoubled their eagerness for news of the next counter. Although opinion on the whole followed Mr. Ludgrove in attributing the counter sent to Mr. Goodwin to some irresponsible practical joker, the fact that death had undoubtedly followed its receipt caused many to shake their heads knowingly. If Mr. Martin’s death had been due to suicide, and Mr. Goodwin’s to a practical joke, how would the original sender of the counters number his next one? It was not to be supposed that he would claim credit for these spurious imitations of his work. If the next number were to be VI, public opinion was quite prepared to credit him with having compassed the last two deaths. But most people anticipated that it would bear the number IV.The fact that such discussion was possible showed clearly that the theory of the existence of some mysterious assassin had captured the popular imagination. There was really no reason why any murderer should not send a numbered counter to his prospective victim, but people argued, quite correctly, that murders were far more often the result of sudden impulse than of deliberate intention. It was for this reason that the “counter deaths” as they were sometimes called, attracted so much attention. Yet the weeks drew into months, and the cold winds of spring took the place of the misty drizzle of winter, without any news of another numbered counter being received. The arm-chair criminologists gave it as their opinion that the last had been heard of them, that the mysterious criminal had either fulfilled his vengeance or had died unrecognized in some lunatic asylum. The murders in Praed Street were added to the long list of undiscovered crimes, and slowly they began to be forgotten.One evening towards the end of April, Mr. Copperdock was sitting in the herbalist’s back room, enjoying a generous whiskey and soda. He was on his way home from the Cambridge Arms, and, seeing his friend’s door still open, had looked in for a chat. The night was warm, one of those nights which London sometimes experiences in early spring, conveying the promise, so rarely fulfilled, of a fine summer.The liquor which he had consumed made Mr. Copperdock even more communicative than usual. Some reference to his son had led him on to speak of Ivy, and thus, by a simple association of ideas, to the murder of Mr. Tovey.“You know, Ludgrove, that fellow Whyland always suspected me of having to do with that business,” he said. “I don’t believe he’s satisfied yet, between ourselves. At one time he was always hanging about, coming into my place at all hours, and asking all sorts of questions. I used to see chaps lounging about outside, and sometimes they followed me when I went out. It was jolly uncomfortable, I can tell you.”Mr. Ludgrove smiled. “I don’t suppose you were any more under suspicion than the rest of us,” he replied. “Whyland had an idea that somebody in this neighbourhood was responsible, and I don’t know that I don’t agree with him. He came in here, too, and asked questions, for that matter. For all I know he may have suspected me.”But Mr. Copperdock shook his head. “No, Ludgrove, that won’t do,” he said. “There was something about the way he spoke to me that gave him away. He still comes in sometimes, and asks me all sorts of questions about those poor fellows who were killed. Very often they’re the same things as he’s asked before. Trying to catch me out, I suppose. And he’s always asking if I’ve ever seen the black sailor again.”“I suppose you really did see him?” asked Mr. Ludgrove casually.“See him? I saw him as plain as I see you now,” replied Mr. Copperdock, with some indignation. “What would I want to say I’d seen him for if I hadn’t? I wish now I’d never said anything about it. I wouldn’t have, but I thought it would be doing Whyland a good turn.”“Well, it’s all over now,” said Mr. Ludgrove soothingly. “We haven’t had any of these mysterious deaths for nearly three months now. I don’t expect that Inspector Whyland will worry his head about the matter much longer.”“I hope he won’t,” replied Mr. Copperdock truculently. “I’ll give him a piece of mind if he comes round worrying me much more. I’m as respectable a man as any in this street, I’d have him know.”He finished his drink, and rose to go. Mr. Ludgrove saw him off the premises, then settled himself down once more in his chair to read.Five minutes later he heard a heavy step hurrying through the shop, and the form of Mr. Copperdock appeared unceremoniously through the curtain that covered the door of the inner room. Mr. Ludgrove rose to his feet in concern. The tobacconist’s face was deathly pale, and his hands were trembling violently. He staggered across the room, and sank down into the chair he had so lately quitted.He held out one shaking hand open towards the herbalist. “Here, look at this!” he exclaimed in a queer hoarse voice.The herbalist bent over the outstretched hand. In the palm of it lay a white counter, upon which the figure VI had been roughly drawn in red ink.
The experts to whom the curious device found by the electrician in the little cellar had been sent duly made their report. In their opinion, the butt was all that remained of an ingenious poison-bomb. The original machine consisted of a socket made to fit into an ordinary lamp-holder, but the place of the filament had been taken by a piece of fine wire, round which had been wrapped a thread of gun-cotton. Attached to the socket, and in contact with the gun-cotton, had been a sealed celluloid bulb containing pure prussic acid.
The action of such a bomb would be perfectly simple. It had only to be placed in a lamp-holder, and the switch turned on. The current would heat the fine wire, and so ignite the strand of gun-cotton. This in turn would set fire to the celluloid bulb, and its contents would be released in the form of vapour. Although some of this vapour would become ignited, enough would be available to permeate the atmosphere of a room far larger than the small cellar. And, of course, the inhalation of the vapour would rapidly produce death.
This opinion, the report stated, was purely speculative, since only the socket of the bomb remained for examination. Inspector Whyland, after consultation with his Chief at Scotland Yard, decided that it had better not be made public. The idea, though it was probably correct, was hypothetical, and altogether too vague to be put before a coroner’s jury. It certainly strengthened Whyland’s conviction that Mr. Martin had been murdered, for no man would go to the trouble of constructing an elaborate poison-bomb with which to kill himself when he might just as easily have inhaled the acid outright. When the electrician left the cellar on the Saturday the bomb had not been there. Whyland was convinced that the man was speaking the truth upon this point. The only two alternatives remaining were that somebody had entered the house between the departure of the foreman and the arrival of Mr. Martin, or that Martin had placed the bomb in position himself. The field of speculation opened by these alternatives was so vast and barren of any clue that their exploration must be a matter of considerable time.
As a matter of fact, the Assistant Commissioner was by no means convinced that Mr. Martin had been murdered. “We all know what a difficult job you’re up against in trying to trace the murders of these two fellows, Tovey and Pargent,” he said to Whyland in an interview to which he had summoned him, “But don’t you think you’re rather too much inclined to see the hand of the murderer in everything that happens in that district? Now, honestly, assuming that Martin was murdered, have you the slightest clue which could possibly lead to the conviction of the murderer?”
“No, sir, I haven’t,” replied Whyland. “But I’ve got my suspicions of this man Copperdock, whom I’ve mentioned to you.”
“Suspicions aren’t evidence,” said the Assistant Commissioner shortly. “Bring home the original murders to him by all means and then perhaps you’ll be able to link him up with the death of this man Martin. At present, so far as I can see, you’ll find it difficult to convince a jury that Martin was murdered. That poison-bomb theory is a bit far-fetched, you must admit.”
“It is, rather, sir,” agreed Whyland. “Still we’ve got the letter and the numbered counter——”
“It’s just that letter that worries me,” interrupted the Chief. “It was through the letter that you discovered that Martin was a receiver of stolen goods—a very smart piece of work, Whyland, upon which I congratulate you. But, until we have rounded them all up, we don’t want the gentlemen with whom Martin dealt to become aware of our knowledge. If the existence of that letter becomes known, they’ll tumble to it at once. I should very much prefer the letter to be kept secret, for the present, at all events.”
The Assistant Commissioner paused, and Whyland glanced at him quickly. “I see no reason why it should be mentioned at the inquest, sir,” he said. “Nobody knows of its existence outside of the police.”
“Then I should be inclined to say nothing about it,” remarked the Assistant Commissioner. “Nor, I imagine, will it be necessary to bring into prominence the hypothesis of the poison-bomb, or the fact that you have any suspicions of foul play. I am not suggesting that you should wilfully mislead the coroner, mind. But it is usually a mistake to volunteer information when no useful purpose can be served by so doing.”
So it happened that the doctor’s evidence at the inquest remain unchallenged. The theory was that Martin, having decided to take his own life, was attracted to his old premises knowing them to be empty. In order to obtain access, he telephoned himself from Aldersgate station to Mr. Briggs, using Mr. Lacey’s name. Having thus secured the key, he bolted the door behind him to prevent any interruption, then went into the cellar and inhaled the vapour of prussic acid. The automatic he had brought with him in the case the poison should prove ineffective. The numbered counter, which he had also brought with him, as the finger-marks upon it showed, merely emphasized the morbid state of mind which had prompted him to the deed.
The jury returned a verdict of suicide during temporary insanity, in accordance with this theory, and, to all outward appearances the case of Mr. Martin was disposed of. But Inspector Whyland, although relieved to feel that yet another unsolved crime had not been added to his already mounting debit account, knew well enough at heart that once again his mysterious adversary had scored a point against him. But again, there was this insoluble riddle of motive. It was possible to suggest more than one motive for the murder of Mr. Martin. He might, for instance, have fallen out with one of the jewel thieves with whom he had such intimate relations. Or again, his dealings with women might have been at the bottom of it. But, assuming one of these suppositions to be correct, how was the death of Mr. Martin to be linked with the previous murders? Or were they indeed all the work of separate persons, who imitated one another’s methods with a view to confusing the issue?
Inspector Whyland recalled his mind from such unprofitable speculations. He felt that the solution of the whole mystery lay close under his hand, if he could but devise the means to unearth it. Somehow Mr. Copperdock’s name always came up in connection with these murders. He had been Tovey’s most intimate friend. The pipe which had been the cause of Colburn’s death had been bought at his shop. He must have been within a few yards of the scene when Pargent was murdered. And Whyland had no doubt that he would discover some point of contact between Mr. Copperdock and the present case.
He was not disappointed. It came out, in the course of a conversation between him and Houlder, the builder. It seemed that Houlder, who was an occasional frequenter of the Cambridge Arms, had mentioned, early in the month, that a new tenant had taken Number 407, and that he had got the job of altering the premises for him. Mr. Copperdock had displayed great interest in this remark, and as a result Houlder had invited him to come and look over the place. Mr. Copperdock had accepted, and he and Houlder had been over every inch of it. This might have been pure curiosity on Mr. Copperdock’s part, but at least the fact was significant. Inspector Whyland stored it in the mental pigeon-hole which already contained the note that Martin and Copperdock had done considerable business together in the past.
Thus, putting the case mathematically, Mr. Copperdock was the highest common factor of the terms representing the four dead men. Inspector Whyland had spent much time and care in investigating their histories and their actions, and he could find no other factor common to them all. They had been, so far as he had been able to ascertain, complete strangers to one another, and they could never consciously have met one another. The only characteristics which they had in common were that they had all received counters numbered in the order of their deaths, that they were all males, and that their ages had all been over fifty.
Naturally, the mind of Praed Street was not greatly relieved by the verdict on the death of Mr. Martin. Violent death was becoming far too frequent an incident for any of the local community to feel safe. Men wondered when it would be their turn to find the fatal counter, and how they should ward off the death which so swiftly followed. It was not as though one could tell exactly what one had to guard against. The knife had been used twice, certainly, but poison in one form or another had accounted for two of the deaths.
The numbered counters were the characteristic feature of the case which appealed most strongly to the popular imagination. Inexplicable murders were common enough, even murders in which no motive or criminal had ever been found. But a series of murders, each prefixed by a definite warning, were an entirely novel sensation. The theory of the counters was publicly discussed from every possible point of view, without any really satisfactory theory being arrived at. Quite a large proportion of the population of London opened their morning papers in expectation of finding news of the delivery of counter number V.
The news, when it came, illustrated the hold which the subject had upon men’s minds, and the moral effect which it has produced. Mr. Ludgrove read the story as he consumed his frugal breakfast, and he was not surprised to hear Mr. Copperdock’s voice in the shop a few minutes later.
“Come in, Mr. Copperdock,” he called, and the tobacconist, paper in hand, the light of excitement in his eyes, entered through the curtained door.
“Have you seen this about this old chap Goodwin?” he enquired, without preliminary.
“I have indeed,” replied Mr. Ludgrove gravely. “I imagine that the whole thing was an utterly heartless practical joke. I only hope the police will be able to trace the sender.”
“Aye, practical joke, maybe, but it killed him all the same,” said Mr. Copperdock doubtfully. “Fancy an old chap like that, what couldn’t have had more than a year or two to live! The paper says that he couldn’t even walk from one room to another, had to be wheeled in a chair. This daughter of his what was looking after him says here that the doctor had told her that any shock might be fatal. Wonder if she sent it herself, being tired of waiting for his money? Listen, this is what she says: ‘My father’s chief amusement was to read the papers. He took the keenest interest in every item of news, and often discussed them with me. We often talked about the murders which have taken place recently in Praed Street, and my father always maintained that the curious episode of the numbered counters proved that they were not the work of a maniac.’ ”
“Yes. It is easy to understand what a shock the receipt of the counter must have been to him,” replied Mr. Ludgrove reflectively. “It would be interesting to know who, besides his daughter, knew of this passion for news on his part. I see by the account in my paper that three letters arrived for him by the morning post, and that his daughter brought them in to him on his breakfast tray. He opened the first one, and a counter numbered V fell out of it.”
“Then he fell back on his pillow and never spoke again,” put in Mr. Copperdock excitedly. “The shock killed him right enough, as the doctors had said it would. I wouldn’t like to be in the shoes of the person what sent it him.”
Mr. Ludgrove glanced at his friend sharply. “I cannot understand it, except upon the assumption of a practical joke, and a particularly cruel one at that,” he said. “Here was this Mr. Goodwin, a retired manufacturer, who had been living in this house at Highgate for many years past. All his acquaintances knew that his heart was very seriously affected, and that he had only a short time to live. Of course, we know nothing of his past history, but, whatever motive there may have been, to murder a man in his condition would merely be to anticipate the course of nature by a few months. And, in our experience, the receipt of the counter has always been followed by violent death. I say we know nothing about him; I certainly do not. I suppose that you have never heard of him before, have you, Mr. Copperdock?”
Mr. Copperdock shook his head. “Never!” he replied emphatically. “Seems to me it’s just like that poet chap, Pargent. Somebody sends him the counter, and his number’s up. Well thank heaven, it didn’t happen in Praed Street, this time.”
It was not long after Mr. Copperdock’s departure that Inspector Whyland came in to see the herbalist. He said nothing, but glanced at Mr. Ludgrove enquiringly.
“Yes, I’ve seen it in the paper,” said Mr. Ludgrove. “As a matter of fact, I’ve just been discussing it with Mr. Copperdock. He came over here as soon as he read about it.”
“Oh, he did, did he?” replied Whyland. “And what do you make of it, may I ask?”
Mr. Ludgrove shrugged his shoulders. “I know no more than what the paper contains,” he said. “It looks to me like a practical joke. I shouldn’t wonder if some idiot derives amusement from sending these counters broadcast. I daresay he gets the names of people to send them to from the telephone directory.”
“Practical joke? H’m,” said Whyland. “Mind, I’m not denying that a lot of fools do send out these counters to their friends. The Yard has had dozens of cases reported to them. I always said that would happen as soon as people heard about them. But in this case I have seen the envelope in which the counter was sent. It was typed on the same machine as the others, and it was posted in this district, exactly as the others were. Your practical joker has followed his original model pretty closely, don’t you think?”
The ardent seekers after sensation redoubled their eagerness for news of the next counter. Although opinion on the whole followed Mr. Ludgrove in attributing the counter sent to Mr. Goodwin to some irresponsible practical joker, the fact that death had undoubtedly followed its receipt caused many to shake their heads knowingly. If Mr. Martin’s death had been due to suicide, and Mr. Goodwin’s to a practical joke, how would the original sender of the counters number his next one? It was not to be supposed that he would claim credit for these spurious imitations of his work. If the next number were to be VI, public opinion was quite prepared to credit him with having compassed the last two deaths. But most people anticipated that it would bear the number IV.
The fact that such discussion was possible showed clearly that the theory of the existence of some mysterious assassin had captured the popular imagination. There was really no reason why any murderer should not send a numbered counter to his prospective victim, but people argued, quite correctly, that murders were far more often the result of sudden impulse than of deliberate intention. It was for this reason that the “counter deaths” as they were sometimes called, attracted so much attention. Yet the weeks drew into months, and the cold winds of spring took the place of the misty drizzle of winter, without any news of another numbered counter being received. The arm-chair criminologists gave it as their opinion that the last had been heard of them, that the mysterious criminal had either fulfilled his vengeance or had died unrecognized in some lunatic asylum. The murders in Praed Street were added to the long list of undiscovered crimes, and slowly they began to be forgotten.
One evening towards the end of April, Mr. Copperdock was sitting in the herbalist’s back room, enjoying a generous whiskey and soda. He was on his way home from the Cambridge Arms, and, seeing his friend’s door still open, had looked in for a chat. The night was warm, one of those nights which London sometimes experiences in early spring, conveying the promise, so rarely fulfilled, of a fine summer.
The liquor which he had consumed made Mr. Copperdock even more communicative than usual. Some reference to his son had led him on to speak of Ivy, and thus, by a simple association of ideas, to the murder of Mr. Tovey.
“You know, Ludgrove, that fellow Whyland always suspected me of having to do with that business,” he said. “I don’t believe he’s satisfied yet, between ourselves. At one time he was always hanging about, coming into my place at all hours, and asking all sorts of questions. I used to see chaps lounging about outside, and sometimes they followed me when I went out. It was jolly uncomfortable, I can tell you.”
Mr. Ludgrove smiled. “I don’t suppose you were any more under suspicion than the rest of us,” he replied. “Whyland had an idea that somebody in this neighbourhood was responsible, and I don’t know that I don’t agree with him. He came in here, too, and asked questions, for that matter. For all I know he may have suspected me.”
But Mr. Copperdock shook his head. “No, Ludgrove, that won’t do,” he said. “There was something about the way he spoke to me that gave him away. He still comes in sometimes, and asks me all sorts of questions about those poor fellows who were killed. Very often they’re the same things as he’s asked before. Trying to catch me out, I suppose. And he’s always asking if I’ve ever seen the black sailor again.”
“I suppose you really did see him?” asked Mr. Ludgrove casually.
“See him? I saw him as plain as I see you now,” replied Mr. Copperdock, with some indignation. “What would I want to say I’d seen him for if I hadn’t? I wish now I’d never said anything about it. I wouldn’t have, but I thought it would be doing Whyland a good turn.”
“Well, it’s all over now,” said Mr. Ludgrove soothingly. “We haven’t had any of these mysterious deaths for nearly three months now. I don’t expect that Inspector Whyland will worry his head about the matter much longer.”
“I hope he won’t,” replied Mr. Copperdock truculently. “I’ll give him a piece of mind if he comes round worrying me much more. I’m as respectable a man as any in this street, I’d have him know.”
He finished his drink, and rose to go. Mr. Ludgrove saw him off the premises, then settled himself down once more in his chair to read.
Five minutes later he heard a heavy step hurrying through the shop, and the form of Mr. Copperdock appeared unceremoniously through the curtain that covered the door of the inner room. Mr. Ludgrove rose to his feet in concern. The tobacconist’s face was deathly pale, and his hands were trembling violently. He staggered across the room, and sank down into the chair he had so lately quitted.
He held out one shaking hand open towards the herbalist. “Here, look at this!” he exclaimed in a queer hoarse voice.
The herbalist bent over the outstretched hand. In the palm of it lay a white counter, upon which the figure VI had been roughly drawn in red ink.