Chapter XIII.Enter Dr. PriestleyThat eccentric scientist, Dr. Priestley, sat in his study on the Monday morning following the death of Mr. Copperdock, busily engaged in sorting out a mass of untidy-looking papers. Most of them he tore up and placed in the waste-paper basket by his side; a few he glanced at and put aside. The April sun lit up the room with a pale radiance, lending an air of Spring even to this dignified but rather gloomy house in Westbourne Terrace.Dr. Priestley was thus engaged when the door opened and his secretary, Harold Merefield, came into the room. There was an air of heaviness about both men, the old and the young, as though the Spring had not yet touched them, and Winter held them still in its grip. One might have guessed that some absorbing work had monopolized their energies, leaving them no leisure for anything but the utmost concentration. And one would have guessed right. For the last six months Dr. Priestley had been engaged upon the writing of a book which was to enhance his already brilliant reputation. Its title wasSome Aspects of Modern Thought, and in it Dr. Priestley had, with his usual incontrovertible logic, shattered the majority of the pet theories of orthodox science. It was, as the reviews were to say, a brilliant achievement, all the more entertaining from the vein of biting sarcasm which ran through it.When Dr. Priestley settled down to writing a book, he concentrated his whole attention upon it, to the exclusion of everything else. He allowed nothing whatever to distract his mind, even for a few minutes. He lived entirely in his subject, refusing even to read the newspapers, except certain scientific periodicals which might happen to contain something relevant to the work he had in hand. As he expected his secretary to follow his example, it was hardly to be wondered at that both of them looked jaded and worn out.“I took the manuscript to the Post Office myself, sir,” said Harold Merefield listlessly. “Here is the registration receipt.”“Excellent, my boy, excellent,” replied the Professor, looking up. “So the work is finished at last, eh? I have been destroying such notes as we shall not require again. The rest you can file at your leisure. Dear me, you look as if you needed a change of occupation.”He stared at his secretary through his spectacles, as though he had seen him that morning for the first time for many months. “Yes, I think we both need a change of occupation,” he continued. “I feel that I should welcome some enticing problem, mathematical or human. It is time we stepped from our recent absorption back into the world. Let me see. What is the date?”“April 28th, sir,” replied Harold with a smile. He knew well enough that the Professor would have accepted any other day he chose to mention.“Dear me! Then the world is six months older than when we retired from it. No doubt many interesting problems have arisen in the interval, but I fear that their solutions lie in other hands than ours. By the way, when does our friend Inspector Hanslet return from America?”Harold turned to one of the big presses which lined the walls of the room, and took from it a folder marked “Inspector Hanslet.” He consulted this for a moment, then looked up towards his employer. “At the end of this month, sir. There is no definite date mentioned. I dare say he is in London already.”“Perhaps so,” agreed the Professor. “It does not really matter. My thoughts turned to him naturally, as to one who has in the past supplied us with some very satisfactory problems. Well, we must be patient, my boy. I have no doubt that we shall very soon succeed in finding some congenial work with which to occupy our minds.”He returned to the business of sorting his papers, while Harold sat down at the table reserved for his use, thankful to be able to do absolutely nothing for a few minutes. His idea of a change of occupation was not to plunge at once into some abstruse mathematical investigation which would involve him in the writing up of endless notes. If only Hanslet would come back and divert the Professor’s thoughts into some other channel! But of Hanslet, since he had departed for New York during the previous year to co-operate with the American police in running to earth a gang of international swindlers, nothing had been heard.Inspector Hanslet was rapidly becoming the foremost figure at Scotland Yard. He was a man who, without being brilliant, possessed more than the usual quickness of perception. He could, in his own phrase, see as far through a brick wall as most people, and to this attribute he added an agility of mind remarkable in a man whose training had been of a stereotyped kind. Early in his career he had become acquainted with Dr. Priestley, and the Professor, to whom a problem of any kind was as the breath of his body, had since encouraged him to come to Westbourne Terrace and discuss his difficulties. To many of these the Professor’s logical mind had suggested the solution. Since he refused to allow his name to be mentioned, the credit for his deductions descended upon Hanslet. As a matter of fact, the authorities knew very well how matters stood, and Hanslet was always employed upon those cases which promised to be complicated, since it was an open secret that he could call upon the advice and assistance of Dr. Priestley.It was evident that the sudden reaction of having nothing to do, after his unremitting labours of the past six months, was having an unfavourable effect upon Dr. Priestley’s temper. He roamed about the study, pulling out a file from time to time, and finding fault with Harold because some item did not come immediately to his hand. It was not until it was time to dress for dinner that he desisted from this irritating occupation. And even at dinner he was silent and morose, obviously seeking in vain for some new interest which should occupy his restless thoughts. But hardly had he and Harold finished their coffee, which they always had in the study after dinner, than Mary the parlourmaid opened the door softly. “Inspector Hanslet to see you, sir,” she announced.The Professor turned so abruptly in his chair as seriously to endanger the coffee cup he was holding. “Inspector Hanslet!” he exclaimed. “Why show him in, of course. Good evening, Inspector, it was only this morning that Harold and I were speaking of you. I hope that you enjoyed yourself in America.”“I did indeed, Professor,” replied Hanslet, shaking hands warmly with Dr. Priestley, and nodding cheerily to Harold. “Not that I’m not very glad to be home again; one’s own country’s best, after all. I landed at Southampton last Wednesday.”“And now you have come back to tell us of your experiences,” said the Professor. “I am sure we shall be most interested to hear them. Did you succeed in your object?”“Oh, yes, we rounded them up all right,” replied Hanslet. “My word, Professor, you ought to go over to New York and see the things the fellows do over there. As far as scientific detection goes, they’ve got us beat to a frazzle. You’d appreciate their methods. And they’re a cheery crowd, too. They gave me no end of a good time while I was over there.”“Well, sit down, and tell us all about it,” said the Professor, motioning Hanslet towards a comfortable chair. “You will relieve the tedium I am feeling at having nothing to do.”Hanslet sat down, and, as he did so, looked enquiringly at the Professor. “You say you’ve nothing to do, sir? Well, I’m very glad to hear that. The truth is that I didn’t come here to tell you my experiences. As a matter of fact, I meant to take a month’s leave when I got back, but the Chief asked me to wait a bit and take over a case which has been puzzling the Yard for several months. And I wanted to ask your advice, if you would be good enough to listen.”The Professor rubbed his hands together briskly. “Excellent, excellent!” he exclaimed. “I told you this morning, Harold, that a problem was bound to turn up before long. By all means tell me your difficulties, Inspector. But let me beg of you to keep to facts, and not to digress into conjecture.”Hanslet smiled. The Professor’s passion for facts was well-known to him from past experience. “Well, I expect you know as much about it as I do,” he began. “Ever since Tovey the greengrocer was killed last November, there’s been a lot in the papers——”But the Professor interrupted him. “I should perhaps have explained, Inspector, that since last October I have scarcely opened a newspaper. My whole mind has been concentrated upon a task which is now happily finished. The name of Tovey the greengrocer is, I regret to say, utterly unfamiliar to me. I should be glad if you would treat me as one who has only lately reached this world from the planet Mars, and give me the facts without presuming that I have any previous knowledge of them.”“Very well, Professor,” replied Hanslet. “You must have heard of a series of deaths under peculiar circumstances which have occurred in Praed Street, not half a mile away from here? Why, I read about them in New York! They caused a great sensation.”“I am not concerned with popular sensations,” said the Professor coldly. “I admit that some rumours of such happenings penetrated the isolation with which I have endeavoured to surround myself, but I dismissed them from my mind as likely to introduce a disturbing factor. I repeat that you had better repeat the facts, as briefly as possible.”“Very well, Professor, I will tell you the story exactly as it was told to me at the Yard,” replied Hanslet. “You will be able to see how much is fact and how much conjecture. As I was not on the spot myself, I cannot vouch for the details. Will that do?”The Professor nodded, and turned to Harold. “Make a note of the names and dates mentioned by Inspector Hanslet,” he said. “Now, Inspector, you may proceed.”Hanslet, whose memory for names and facts was rarely at fault, recounted as briefly as he could the course of events from the murder of Mr. Tovey in November, to the finding of Martin’s body in the cellar of Number 407, in January. The Professor interrupted him now and then to ask a question, but in the main he allowed him to tell the story in his own way. When he had finished, and the Professor had expressed himself satisfied, Hanslet continued.“The man who’s been in charge of the case is a fellow called Whyland, keen enough on his job, but a bit lacking in imagination. I had a chat with him yesterday, and he confessed that he was completely at the end of his tether. Up till last Saturday evening, he told me, he was pretty sure that he could lay his hand on the criminal, but that night something happened which entirely upset his calculations.”“What was that?” enquired the Professor, who was listening intently.“Why, for one thing, the man whom he suspected of the murders has been killed,” replied Hanslet. “Not that there was anything amazing in that, for he seems to have been a trifle unbalanced in any case, and his death may possibly have been due to suicide. No, what altogether upset Whyland’s apple-cart was that another man received a counter, some time after the death of the man whom Whyland suspected of delivering them.”“It is remarkable how frequently hypotheses founded upon pure conjecture are upset by one simple fact,” remarked the Professor acidly. “Now, what was the name of this man whom Whyland suspected, and who so inconsiderately spoilt the theory by his premature death?”“Samuel Copperdock,” replied Hanslet, turning to Harold, who wrote the name on his pad.“Copperdock?” repeated the Professor. “An unusual name, and yet I seem to have heard it before in some connection. Copperdock, Copperdock! Let me think——”“You’ve probably seen the name above his shop, Professor,” said Hanslet. “He was a tobacconist in Praed Street. Or you may have seen it some months ago in the paper. He was a witness at the inquest on Tovey, who was the first man murdered.”But the Professor shook his head. “No, if my memory serves me, I heard the name many years ago, in some connection which escapes me for the moment. However, the point would not appear to have any importance. I must apologize for interrupting you, Inspector. You were saying that another man received a counter after this man Copperdock’s death, but I do not think you mentioned his name?”“Ludgrove. Elmer Ludgrove,” said Hanslet. “Rather an interesting personality, from what Whyland tells me. He keeps a herbalist’s shop, and is a bit of a character in his way. He’s a man of some education, between fifty and sixty, a very dignified old boy with a striking white beard, which I expect is a bit of an asset in his trade. He doesn’t say much about himself, but does a lot of good in his own quiet way. All the poorer people in the neighbourhood come to him if they’re in any sort of trouble, and he freely admits he hears a good many secrets. Whyland thought he would be a useful chap to get on the right side of, and often used to drop in to see him. He says he got more than one valuable hint from him. He was also pretty certain that this chap Ludgrove shared his suspicions of Copperdock, but he would never say so outright. You see, Copperdock was a friend of his.”The Professor nodded. “I see,” he said. “And it was this Mr. Ludgrove who received the counter you say?”“Yes, and, what’s more, Whyland was with him when he found it. The poor old boy was terribly shaken for the moment, Whyland says, but after a bit he pretended to treat it as a joke. I’ve seen him since, and he’s pretty plucky about it, knowing as he does that everybody who has received one of these infernal numbered counters has died a sudden death. He says that he is an old man, anyhow, alone in the world and with only a few more years to live in any case, so that his death will be no great blow to anybody.”“A most philosophic attitude,” agreed the Professor. “But to return to Mr. Copperdock, I should like to hear the circumstances under which he met his death.”Hanslet related the events of the previous Saturday night in considerable detail, up to the time when Whyland and Ludgrove entered the latter’s sanctum. “There’s not much more to add,” he continued, “except that the doctor’s suspicions were confirmed as to the poison. The Home Office people examined the fragment of broken needle, and I heard this afternoon that they found traces of a remarkable virulent synthetic alkaloid. You’ll know what that is better than I do, Professor.”“Yes, I know,” replied the Professor grimly. “I have reason to. It was with one of these synthetic alkaloids—there are a number of them—that Farwell tipped the spines of the hedgehog to which I so nearly fell a victim.¹You remember that incident, I dare say?”“I do, indeed,” said Hanslet warmly. “What’s more, the Home Office people say that a dose of the stuff would produce almost immediate paralysis, and death within a few minutes. The incrustation was potassium carbonate all right, almost certainly the result of putting caustic potash on the place. But that only makes the business more puzzling. If Copperdock poisoned himself, how did he have time to apply the caustic potash before he was paralysed? If someone else did it, why should they apply the caustic, and how did they get in and out of the house? Remember, Whyland’s man Waters had the place under observation all the time.”“Then you are inclined to favour the theory of suicide?” asked the Professor.“On the whole, yes,” replied Hanslet. “Oh, by the way, I forgot to tell you that soon after daylight Waters found the syringe, with the other part of the needle still in it, by the side of the road under Copperdock’s window. There had been a heavy shower of rain about half past three, and the syringe was covered with mud and filth. The analysts could not find any traces remaining of the poison, but the end of the needle proved that it was the one that had been used. That points to suicide, a murderer wouldn’t chuck away his weapon like that where anyone could see it.“Besides, if you come to think of it, suicide fits in best with what we know. It is a fact that Copperdock’s mind was to some extent unhinged. He declared that he met the black sailor, when a reliable witness declares that no such person was about. In fact, the only person besides Copperdock who seriously claims to have seen this black sailor is a degenerate youth who is also a convicted pick-pocket. It is highly probable that the counters were numbered, and the envelopes containing them typed in Mr. Copperdock’s office. Whyland assures me that the only link between the victims was Copperdock, not in any definite form, certainly, but still definite enough to make the coincidence remarkable. I am inclined to believe that Copperdock was at the bottom of it all somehow. My difficulty will be to prove it.”“You think, I gather, that this Mr. Copperdock suffered from a peculiar form of homicidal mania, which finally culminated in his taking his own life?” suggested the Professor. “I admit that such cases are not unknown, but the theory involves you in many difficulties. I mention only one of them, the first that occurs to me. Where did he obtain this synthetic alkaloid? These substances are not articles of commerce, they are not, so far as I am aware, used in medicine. They are only produced experimentally in research laboratories. Farwell had a well-equipped laboratory, as you probably remember, which accounts for his use of such a poison. But how could a man in Copperdock’s position procure it?”Hanslet shrugged his shoulders. “I don’t know, Professor,” he replied. “I confess that I turn to the theory of Copperdock as the murderer because it seems to present fewer difficulties than any other. The whole thing seems to me to involve a mass of contradictions, whichever way you look at it. It’s for that very reason I came to see you, Professor. But you must at least admit that madness in some form must be responsible. What rational motive could there be for the murder of half a dozen men entirely unconnected with one another, and whose deaths could be of no possible benefit to the murderer?”“I am prepared to admit nothing until I have further examined the facts,” replied the Professor severely. “Now, Harold, will you read me your notes upon the first murder? Thank you. I should like all details relating to Mr. Tovey, please, Inspector.”It was long past midnight before they reached the end of the catalogue, and the Professor was satisfied that he knew everything which Hanslet could tell him.“You will, of course, let me know if any fresh facts come to light,” he said, as Hanslet rose to take his leave. “Meanwhile, I will consider the matter. If I come to any definite conclusions I will let you know. Good-night, and pray accept my most sincere thanks for presenting me with a most absorbing problem.”¹ SeeThe Ellerby Caseby John Rhode.↩︎
That eccentric scientist, Dr. Priestley, sat in his study on the Monday morning following the death of Mr. Copperdock, busily engaged in sorting out a mass of untidy-looking papers. Most of them he tore up and placed in the waste-paper basket by his side; a few he glanced at and put aside. The April sun lit up the room with a pale radiance, lending an air of Spring even to this dignified but rather gloomy house in Westbourne Terrace.
Dr. Priestley was thus engaged when the door opened and his secretary, Harold Merefield, came into the room. There was an air of heaviness about both men, the old and the young, as though the Spring had not yet touched them, and Winter held them still in its grip. One might have guessed that some absorbing work had monopolized their energies, leaving them no leisure for anything but the utmost concentration. And one would have guessed right. For the last six months Dr. Priestley had been engaged upon the writing of a book which was to enhance his already brilliant reputation. Its title wasSome Aspects of Modern Thought, and in it Dr. Priestley had, with his usual incontrovertible logic, shattered the majority of the pet theories of orthodox science. It was, as the reviews were to say, a brilliant achievement, all the more entertaining from the vein of biting sarcasm which ran through it.
When Dr. Priestley settled down to writing a book, he concentrated his whole attention upon it, to the exclusion of everything else. He allowed nothing whatever to distract his mind, even for a few minutes. He lived entirely in his subject, refusing even to read the newspapers, except certain scientific periodicals which might happen to contain something relevant to the work he had in hand. As he expected his secretary to follow his example, it was hardly to be wondered at that both of them looked jaded and worn out.
“I took the manuscript to the Post Office myself, sir,” said Harold Merefield listlessly. “Here is the registration receipt.”
“Excellent, my boy, excellent,” replied the Professor, looking up. “So the work is finished at last, eh? I have been destroying such notes as we shall not require again. The rest you can file at your leisure. Dear me, you look as if you needed a change of occupation.”
He stared at his secretary through his spectacles, as though he had seen him that morning for the first time for many months. “Yes, I think we both need a change of occupation,” he continued. “I feel that I should welcome some enticing problem, mathematical or human. It is time we stepped from our recent absorption back into the world. Let me see. What is the date?”
“April 28th, sir,” replied Harold with a smile. He knew well enough that the Professor would have accepted any other day he chose to mention.
“Dear me! Then the world is six months older than when we retired from it. No doubt many interesting problems have arisen in the interval, but I fear that their solutions lie in other hands than ours. By the way, when does our friend Inspector Hanslet return from America?”
Harold turned to one of the big presses which lined the walls of the room, and took from it a folder marked “Inspector Hanslet.” He consulted this for a moment, then looked up towards his employer. “At the end of this month, sir. There is no definite date mentioned. I dare say he is in London already.”
“Perhaps so,” agreed the Professor. “It does not really matter. My thoughts turned to him naturally, as to one who has in the past supplied us with some very satisfactory problems. Well, we must be patient, my boy. I have no doubt that we shall very soon succeed in finding some congenial work with which to occupy our minds.”
He returned to the business of sorting his papers, while Harold sat down at the table reserved for his use, thankful to be able to do absolutely nothing for a few minutes. His idea of a change of occupation was not to plunge at once into some abstruse mathematical investigation which would involve him in the writing up of endless notes. If only Hanslet would come back and divert the Professor’s thoughts into some other channel! But of Hanslet, since he had departed for New York during the previous year to co-operate with the American police in running to earth a gang of international swindlers, nothing had been heard.
Inspector Hanslet was rapidly becoming the foremost figure at Scotland Yard. He was a man who, without being brilliant, possessed more than the usual quickness of perception. He could, in his own phrase, see as far through a brick wall as most people, and to this attribute he added an agility of mind remarkable in a man whose training had been of a stereotyped kind. Early in his career he had become acquainted with Dr. Priestley, and the Professor, to whom a problem of any kind was as the breath of his body, had since encouraged him to come to Westbourne Terrace and discuss his difficulties. To many of these the Professor’s logical mind had suggested the solution. Since he refused to allow his name to be mentioned, the credit for his deductions descended upon Hanslet. As a matter of fact, the authorities knew very well how matters stood, and Hanslet was always employed upon those cases which promised to be complicated, since it was an open secret that he could call upon the advice and assistance of Dr. Priestley.
It was evident that the sudden reaction of having nothing to do, after his unremitting labours of the past six months, was having an unfavourable effect upon Dr. Priestley’s temper. He roamed about the study, pulling out a file from time to time, and finding fault with Harold because some item did not come immediately to his hand. It was not until it was time to dress for dinner that he desisted from this irritating occupation. And even at dinner he was silent and morose, obviously seeking in vain for some new interest which should occupy his restless thoughts. But hardly had he and Harold finished their coffee, which they always had in the study after dinner, than Mary the parlourmaid opened the door softly. “Inspector Hanslet to see you, sir,” she announced.
The Professor turned so abruptly in his chair as seriously to endanger the coffee cup he was holding. “Inspector Hanslet!” he exclaimed. “Why show him in, of course. Good evening, Inspector, it was only this morning that Harold and I were speaking of you. I hope that you enjoyed yourself in America.”
“I did indeed, Professor,” replied Hanslet, shaking hands warmly with Dr. Priestley, and nodding cheerily to Harold. “Not that I’m not very glad to be home again; one’s own country’s best, after all. I landed at Southampton last Wednesday.”
“And now you have come back to tell us of your experiences,” said the Professor. “I am sure we shall be most interested to hear them. Did you succeed in your object?”
“Oh, yes, we rounded them up all right,” replied Hanslet. “My word, Professor, you ought to go over to New York and see the things the fellows do over there. As far as scientific detection goes, they’ve got us beat to a frazzle. You’d appreciate their methods. And they’re a cheery crowd, too. They gave me no end of a good time while I was over there.”
“Well, sit down, and tell us all about it,” said the Professor, motioning Hanslet towards a comfortable chair. “You will relieve the tedium I am feeling at having nothing to do.”
Hanslet sat down, and, as he did so, looked enquiringly at the Professor. “You say you’ve nothing to do, sir? Well, I’m very glad to hear that. The truth is that I didn’t come here to tell you my experiences. As a matter of fact, I meant to take a month’s leave when I got back, but the Chief asked me to wait a bit and take over a case which has been puzzling the Yard for several months. And I wanted to ask your advice, if you would be good enough to listen.”
The Professor rubbed his hands together briskly. “Excellent, excellent!” he exclaimed. “I told you this morning, Harold, that a problem was bound to turn up before long. By all means tell me your difficulties, Inspector. But let me beg of you to keep to facts, and not to digress into conjecture.”
Hanslet smiled. The Professor’s passion for facts was well-known to him from past experience. “Well, I expect you know as much about it as I do,” he began. “Ever since Tovey the greengrocer was killed last November, there’s been a lot in the papers——”
But the Professor interrupted him. “I should perhaps have explained, Inspector, that since last October I have scarcely opened a newspaper. My whole mind has been concentrated upon a task which is now happily finished. The name of Tovey the greengrocer is, I regret to say, utterly unfamiliar to me. I should be glad if you would treat me as one who has only lately reached this world from the planet Mars, and give me the facts without presuming that I have any previous knowledge of them.”
“Very well, Professor,” replied Hanslet. “You must have heard of a series of deaths under peculiar circumstances which have occurred in Praed Street, not half a mile away from here? Why, I read about them in New York! They caused a great sensation.”
“I am not concerned with popular sensations,” said the Professor coldly. “I admit that some rumours of such happenings penetrated the isolation with which I have endeavoured to surround myself, but I dismissed them from my mind as likely to introduce a disturbing factor. I repeat that you had better repeat the facts, as briefly as possible.”
“Very well, Professor, I will tell you the story exactly as it was told to me at the Yard,” replied Hanslet. “You will be able to see how much is fact and how much conjecture. As I was not on the spot myself, I cannot vouch for the details. Will that do?”
The Professor nodded, and turned to Harold. “Make a note of the names and dates mentioned by Inspector Hanslet,” he said. “Now, Inspector, you may proceed.”
Hanslet, whose memory for names and facts was rarely at fault, recounted as briefly as he could the course of events from the murder of Mr. Tovey in November, to the finding of Martin’s body in the cellar of Number 407, in January. The Professor interrupted him now and then to ask a question, but in the main he allowed him to tell the story in his own way. When he had finished, and the Professor had expressed himself satisfied, Hanslet continued.
“The man who’s been in charge of the case is a fellow called Whyland, keen enough on his job, but a bit lacking in imagination. I had a chat with him yesterday, and he confessed that he was completely at the end of his tether. Up till last Saturday evening, he told me, he was pretty sure that he could lay his hand on the criminal, but that night something happened which entirely upset his calculations.”
“What was that?” enquired the Professor, who was listening intently.
“Why, for one thing, the man whom he suspected of the murders has been killed,” replied Hanslet. “Not that there was anything amazing in that, for he seems to have been a trifle unbalanced in any case, and his death may possibly have been due to suicide. No, what altogether upset Whyland’s apple-cart was that another man received a counter, some time after the death of the man whom Whyland suspected of delivering them.”
“It is remarkable how frequently hypotheses founded upon pure conjecture are upset by one simple fact,” remarked the Professor acidly. “Now, what was the name of this man whom Whyland suspected, and who so inconsiderately spoilt the theory by his premature death?”
“Samuel Copperdock,” replied Hanslet, turning to Harold, who wrote the name on his pad.
“Copperdock?” repeated the Professor. “An unusual name, and yet I seem to have heard it before in some connection. Copperdock, Copperdock! Let me think——”
“You’ve probably seen the name above his shop, Professor,” said Hanslet. “He was a tobacconist in Praed Street. Or you may have seen it some months ago in the paper. He was a witness at the inquest on Tovey, who was the first man murdered.”
But the Professor shook his head. “No, if my memory serves me, I heard the name many years ago, in some connection which escapes me for the moment. However, the point would not appear to have any importance. I must apologize for interrupting you, Inspector. You were saying that another man received a counter after this man Copperdock’s death, but I do not think you mentioned his name?”
“Ludgrove. Elmer Ludgrove,” said Hanslet. “Rather an interesting personality, from what Whyland tells me. He keeps a herbalist’s shop, and is a bit of a character in his way. He’s a man of some education, between fifty and sixty, a very dignified old boy with a striking white beard, which I expect is a bit of an asset in his trade. He doesn’t say much about himself, but does a lot of good in his own quiet way. All the poorer people in the neighbourhood come to him if they’re in any sort of trouble, and he freely admits he hears a good many secrets. Whyland thought he would be a useful chap to get on the right side of, and often used to drop in to see him. He says he got more than one valuable hint from him. He was also pretty certain that this chap Ludgrove shared his suspicions of Copperdock, but he would never say so outright. You see, Copperdock was a friend of his.”
The Professor nodded. “I see,” he said. “And it was this Mr. Ludgrove who received the counter you say?”
“Yes, and, what’s more, Whyland was with him when he found it. The poor old boy was terribly shaken for the moment, Whyland says, but after a bit he pretended to treat it as a joke. I’ve seen him since, and he’s pretty plucky about it, knowing as he does that everybody who has received one of these infernal numbered counters has died a sudden death. He says that he is an old man, anyhow, alone in the world and with only a few more years to live in any case, so that his death will be no great blow to anybody.”
“A most philosophic attitude,” agreed the Professor. “But to return to Mr. Copperdock, I should like to hear the circumstances under which he met his death.”
Hanslet related the events of the previous Saturday night in considerable detail, up to the time when Whyland and Ludgrove entered the latter’s sanctum. “There’s not much more to add,” he continued, “except that the doctor’s suspicions were confirmed as to the poison. The Home Office people examined the fragment of broken needle, and I heard this afternoon that they found traces of a remarkable virulent synthetic alkaloid. You’ll know what that is better than I do, Professor.”
“Yes, I know,” replied the Professor grimly. “I have reason to. It was with one of these synthetic alkaloids—there are a number of them—that Farwell tipped the spines of the hedgehog to which I so nearly fell a victim.¹You remember that incident, I dare say?”
“I do, indeed,” said Hanslet warmly. “What’s more, the Home Office people say that a dose of the stuff would produce almost immediate paralysis, and death within a few minutes. The incrustation was potassium carbonate all right, almost certainly the result of putting caustic potash on the place. But that only makes the business more puzzling. If Copperdock poisoned himself, how did he have time to apply the caustic potash before he was paralysed? If someone else did it, why should they apply the caustic, and how did they get in and out of the house? Remember, Whyland’s man Waters had the place under observation all the time.”
“Then you are inclined to favour the theory of suicide?” asked the Professor.
“On the whole, yes,” replied Hanslet. “Oh, by the way, I forgot to tell you that soon after daylight Waters found the syringe, with the other part of the needle still in it, by the side of the road under Copperdock’s window. There had been a heavy shower of rain about half past three, and the syringe was covered with mud and filth. The analysts could not find any traces remaining of the poison, but the end of the needle proved that it was the one that had been used. That points to suicide, a murderer wouldn’t chuck away his weapon like that where anyone could see it.
“Besides, if you come to think of it, suicide fits in best with what we know. It is a fact that Copperdock’s mind was to some extent unhinged. He declared that he met the black sailor, when a reliable witness declares that no such person was about. In fact, the only person besides Copperdock who seriously claims to have seen this black sailor is a degenerate youth who is also a convicted pick-pocket. It is highly probable that the counters were numbered, and the envelopes containing them typed in Mr. Copperdock’s office. Whyland assures me that the only link between the victims was Copperdock, not in any definite form, certainly, but still definite enough to make the coincidence remarkable. I am inclined to believe that Copperdock was at the bottom of it all somehow. My difficulty will be to prove it.”
“You think, I gather, that this Mr. Copperdock suffered from a peculiar form of homicidal mania, which finally culminated in his taking his own life?” suggested the Professor. “I admit that such cases are not unknown, but the theory involves you in many difficulties. I mention only one of them, the first that occurs to me. Where did he obtain this synthetic alkaloid? These substances are not articles of commerce, they are not, so far as I am aware, used in medicine. They are only produced experimentally in research laboratories. Farwell had a well-equipped laboratory, as you probably remember, which accounts for his use of such a poison. But how could a man in Copperdock’s position procure it?”
Hanslet shrugged his shoulders. “I don’t know, Professor,” he replied. “I confess that I turn to the theory of Copperdock as the murderer because it seems to present fewer difficulties than any other. The whole thing seems to me to involve a mass of contradictions, whichever way you look at it. It’s for that very reason I came to see you, Professor. But you must at least admit that madness in some form must be responsible. What rational motive could there be for the murder of half a dozen men entirely unconnected with one another, and whose deaths could be of no possible benefit to the murderer?”
“I am prepared to admit nothing until I have further examined the facts,” replied the Professor severely. “Now, Harold, will you read me your notes upon the first murder? Thank you. I should like all details relating to Mr. Tovey, please, Inspector.”
It was long past midnight before they reached the end of the catalogue, and the Professor was satisfied that he knew everything which Hanslet could tell him.
“You will, of course, let me know if any fresh facts come to light,” he said, as Hanslet rose to take his leave. “Meanwhile, I will consider the matter. If I come to any definite conclusions I will let you know. Good-night, and pray accept my most sincere thanks for presenting me with a most absorbing problem.”
¹ SeeThe Ellerby Caseby John Rhode.↩︎