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.
VIII
At No. 407, Praed Street
Although the unexplained murders which had taken place in Praed Street were soon forgotten by the general public, their shadow hung heavily over the neighbourhood in which they had been committed. The fact that the three deaths had taken place within comparatively few hundred yards of one another could not fail to have its effect upon the local imagination. A very noticeable change came over the usual cheerful and careless life of Praed Street. The evening pavements were no longer blocked by a strolling, noisy crowd. Women and children were rarely to be seen abroad after dark. Even men, traversing the street upon their lawful occasions, had a way of keeping close to the inner side of the pavements, and crossing the road upon the approach of any unfamiliar form.
Christmas passed in this atmosphere of intangible fear; the old year died and the new year came in with a welcome spell of clear and frosty weather. But, in spite of the fact that no further tragedies occurred, the shadow still lay heavily upon the district. Ludgrove, listening to the whispered and entangled stories of his clients, became more and more certain that, even in the hidden depths of the underworld, there was no knowledge of the agency by which the crimes had been committed.
Had such knowledge existed, it must inevitably have been divulged to him. The police, under the direction of Inspector Whyland, were engaged in passing a fine-toothed comb through the Paddington district, and the minor offenders disturbed in this process were as concerned as a colony of ants unearthed by a spade. Mr. Ludgrove was visited furtively late at night by anxious people seeking advice how to conceal the evidence of their misdemeanours from the prying eyes of the police. He questioned each of these closely, but the more he did so the more he became convinced that none of them had the slightest inkling of the perpetrator of the murders.
Another section of his clients, however, equally furtive and mysterious, had clues in plenty, which they seemed to think entitled them to some reward. These, after assuring themselves that no one could overhear them, would produce an incoherent story of how one of their neighbours must be the criminal. He had been heard to utter threats that he would do someone in some day, he had been in Praed Street on the night when Mr. Tovey was murdered, in the neighbourhood of Paddington station when Mr. Pargent was killed. Others, again, had met a muffled figure brandishing a knife, or had seen a dark man with a beard standing in the shadow thrown by a projecting wall. Two or three searching questions were always sufficient to prove that their suspicions were baseless.
The murders in Praed Street were thus peculiar in the annals of crime. In nearly every case of a crime being committed, there are others besides the criminal who know all the facts. The police know this, but their great difficulty is to secure evidence sufficiently convincing to lead to a conviction. There is a certain esprit de corps in the constant strife between the professional criminal and the police, and those who know are careful to keep their knowledge to themselves. But in this case, had there been any of the inhabitants of the district in the secret, Mr. Ludgrove would have obtained some hint of it. It seemed conclusive that the criminal was either working alone and independently, or came from some other district.
This was the state of affairs towards the end of January. The police were completely baffled; Inspector Whyland, although he still favoured
