Inspector Whyland glanced at him quickly. “No, it doesn’t exactly follow,” he agreed. “But we’ll return to that later. I want to show you something else first. Look here.”
This time he produced from his pocket a paper packet, which he proceeded to unroll. From it he withdrew two sinister-looking blades, each stained a dull brown.
“These are the knives with which Tovey and Pargent were killed,” he said. “Don’t touch them, but tell me if you can tell one from the other.”
Mr. Ludgrove adjusted his spectacles, and bent over the knives. They were exactly similar, thin, with an extremely sharp point, about half an inch wide and eight inches long. Neither of them showed any sign of having ever possessed a handle.
“No, I can see no difference between them,” agreed Mr. Ludgrove. “I admit that they strengthen the supposition that Mr. Tovey and Mr. Pargent died by the same hand. But, admitting that this was the case, it only bears out my theory that the murders were the actions of a maniac. If they were not, if both men were killed with some definite motive, you have to discover some connection between them. Yet they moved in entirely distinct orbits, and, I should imagine, had nothing whatever in common.”
Inspector Whyland shook his head with a tolerant smile. “Theory’s all very well in its way, Mr. Ludgrove,” he said, as he replaced the knives in his pocket. “I can’t waste my time establishing connections. There’s evidence enough here to convince a jury that the same man killed all three of them. And I don’t fancy it’ll be very long before I lay hands upon him.”
“I sincerely hope your expectations will be realized, Inspector,” replied the herbalist, in a tone of faint irony which was lost upon Whyland. “I suppose it is indiscreet to ask whether you have any suspicions? I confess that for my part I am entirely at a loss. What about young Snyder, for instance?”
“Master Wal Snyder is out of this,” returned the Inspector shortly. “He was pinched a week ago for picking pockets in a tube lift, and is safely under lock and key. But I don’t mind telling you in confidence, Mr. Ludgrove, that I know the murderer lives somewhere in this district.”
Mr. Ludgrove lifted his eyebrows in real or assumed astonishment. “Indeed?” he exclaimed. “That is indeed a great step forward. Pray, how did you come to that conclusion?”
If the Inspector perceived the irony in his tone, he paid no heed to it. “Well, it’s pretty obvious,” he replied. “All three men were murdered in Praed Street, to begin with. Then, there’s another thing. The envelope in which the counter was sent to Pargent bore the postmark of this district, London, W.2. You can’t get away from it, everything points to the murderer living somewhere about here.”
Again Inspector Whyland paused. Then suddenly he rose and stood over the herbalist where he sat in his chair. “There’s another thing, Mr. Ludgrove,” he said, almost menacingly. “You said just now that it didn’t follow that because Pargent received a counter he was killed by the same man that murdered the other two. Do you see where that leads you? If the third counter was sent by a different hand, it can only have been sent by one of the very few who knew of the receipt of the first two. And all of them live in this district, you will remember.”
Mr. Ludgrove gazed up at him in mock alarm. “They do, indeed,” he replied. “It makes my blood run cold to think that I am one of them. Really, I am quite relieved to think that I have an alibi in the case of this last murder, at least.”
Inspector Whyland laughed shortly. “Oh, for that matter, I’m as much under suspicion as you,” he said. “But, you see, there are some people we know who couldn’t produce an alibi for the time when any of the murders were committed.”
And with that he turned abruptly on his heel and strode out of the room.
VII
The Black Sailor
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
