He arrived to find Mr. Ludgrove busily engaged in writing up descriptions of his botanical trophies in a large manuscript book. The herbalist greeted him warmly, and invited him to a seat in the best chair. The two sat for a moment in silence, until the Inspector spoke abruptly.
“Look here, Mr. Ludgrove, what do you know about this man who’s been killed?”
“Richard Pargent?” replied the herbalist quietly. “I know nothing about him personally. I have seen his name mentioned once or twice as a writer of verse, but I doubt if I should have remembered it had it not been recalled to me by what I read in the papers this morning.”
“Do you know anything about this poetry of his?” continued the Inspector.
Mr. Ludgrove smiled. “I am no judge of poetry,” he replied. “But I can hardly imagine that it was bad enough to inspire anyone with a desire to murder him.”
Inspector Whyland shrugged his shoulders impatiently. “That’s just it!” he exclaimed. “There doesn’t seem to have been anything about the man to provide a motive for his murder. Look here, Mr. Ludgrove, you’re not the sort of man to go round spinning yarns to your friends. I’ll make a bargain with you. You get to know all sorts of things that never come to our ears. Tell me your honest opinion about these murders, and I’ll tell you what we’ve found out so far.”
For a moment Mr. Ludgrove made no reply. When at length he spoke it was with a deep note of earnestness in his voice. “I am honoured by your confidence, Inspector. As you have guessed, I have been very much concerned by these murders. I have feared that they would be traced to one or other of my clients, some of whom, I regret to say, have little respect for the law. I know much of the inner history of Praed Street and its neighbourhood, and I regret to say that much of it is almost incredibly sordid. I refer of course to its underworld, and not to its respectable inhabitants, who are greatly in the majority. But of two facts I can assure you. The first is that in all my experience I have never heard of a crime committed by any of the class to which I refer except for some specific purpose, either gain or revenge, and the second is that none of them would resort to murder except perhaps in a sudden access of passion.”
The Inspector nodded. “That’s very much my own experience of regular crooks,” he replied. “But you say you’ve thought a lot about this business. Haven’t you any theory of your own?”
“The only theory I can form is that the murders are the work of some irresponsible maniac,” said Mr. Ludgrove quietly.
“Would an irresponsible maniac have put a piece of poisoned glass on the end of Colburn’s pipe?” countered the Inspector quickly. “No, I am afraid that theory won’t do, Mr. Ludgrove.”
“I think it is the only theory which fits in with the assumption that these three men were all murdered by the same hand,” replied the herbalist.
“Yet I don’t think you can get away from that assumption,” said Inspector Whyland. “I don’t mind telling you something that worries me a bit, since it’s bound to come out at the inquest. One of the first things we found when we searched Pargent’s pockets in the mortuary was this.”
He put his hand in his pocket, then held it out with extended palm toward Mr. Ludgrove.
The herbalist leant forward with an exclamation of surprise. “Ah, a white counter with the figure III drawn on it in red ink!” he exclaimed. “Do you know, Inspector, I wondered if anything of the kind had been found. That is really interesting.”
“Interesting!” grumbled the Inspector. “Aye, the reporters will find it interesting enough, you may bet. We couldn’t keep it dark, even if we wanted to. This fellow Pargent got it by post on Saturday morning. He told his sister, Miss Clara, that it must be a secret token from some admirer of his work. He was so pleased about it that he took it down to Penderworth to show his other sister. It was on his way back from there that he was killed. Oh yes, it’s interesting enough. We shall have to say that Tovey and Colburn got counters like this, and then there’ll be a fearful outcry against us for keeping it dark. ‘Had the police not displayed this criminal reticence, the victim would have understood the purport of the warning and adequate measures could have been taken to protect him.’ Oh yes, I know what’s coming all right.”
Inspector Whyland gazed savagely at the counter for a few seconds, then continued abruptly.
“Fortunately the envelope in which this one came had been kept. The counter was wrapped up in a piece of cheap writing paper, and put in a square envelope of the same quality. The address was typewritten. Our people at the Yard are trying to trace the machine it was done with. I wish them joy of the job. They can tell the make all right; but there must be thousands of them scattered through London.”
“If you don’t mind my suggesting it, it doesn’t follow that because Mr. Pargent received a counter he was murdered by the same hand that killed Mr. Tovey or Mr. Colburn,” said the
