Two other facts did Inspector Whyland discover. The first, which did not astonish him, was that the letter signed John Lacey had in all probability been typed upon the same machine as had been the envelope in which the numbered counter had been sent to Richard Pargent. The second, which was distinctly perplexing, was that the call to Mr. Briggs had been made from a call-box at Aldersgate station, apparently at the very time when Mr. Martin was known to have been there. Lastly, the automatic was identified as the property of Mr. Martin, and a fingermark on the counter corresponded to an imprint taken from the dead man’s hand.
The significance of the curious butt found by the electrician in the lamp-holder was not so clear. It seemed reasonable to assume that nobody but the dead man had entered the premises after they had been locked by the foreman on Saturday morning. Whyland had examined all the doors and windows very carefully, and had satisfied himself that they bore no signs of violence. He could account for both keys, and although it was possible that a third key existed, it seemed unlikely that anyone had used it between 12:30 and two. Again, since the door had been found bolted on Monday morning, it was probable that the dead man had bolted it behind him, and that he was alone in the house when he died. The foreman had assured him that he had found the windows fastened inside, and that it was only by the use of a special tool that he had been enabled to open the one at the back. It looked very much as if Martin had himself fixed the butt in the lamp-holder. But why?
Certainly it looked very like a case of suicide. But against this theory was the letter found in the dead man’s pocket and the numbered counter. Martin himself might have deposited the latter, as the doctor had suggested, but would he have gone so far as to write a letter which must certainly put the police on the alert when it was found? It seemed highly improbable. Inspector Whyland felt convinced that the death of Mr. Martin was merely another link in the mysterious chain of murders in Praed Street.
The evening papers were, of course, full of it, though naturally somewhat guarded. “Another tragedy in Praed Street. City man found poisoned in Empty House”—such was the general trend of their headlines. And Praed Street, which had begun to breathe again during the respite of the past month, felt once more the cold touch of almost superstitious horror. The killer was abroad again, unknown, unrecognized, and no man could tell when he might feel the dread hand of death upon his shoulder.
Inspector Whyland, walking through Praed Street that evening about ten o’clock, heard a cheerful voice bid him good evening, and turned to find Mr. Ludgrove by his side.
“Hullo, Mr. Ludgrove!” he exclaimed. “I called at your place just now, and found it shut up. I thought you were away.”
“I have been taking my usual evening stroll,” replied the herbalist. “Won’t you come in? I’m on my way home now.”
With scarcely a moment’s hesitation, Whyland accepted the invitation. There was always the chance that the herbalist might make some suggestion which would throw light on this latest problem. He waited until they were seated in the familiar back room before he asked the inevitable question. “You’ve heard what happened here this morning, I suppose?”
“I have, indeed,” replied Mr. Ludgrove gravely. “The papers contain little beyond the bare facts, but I gather that this unfortunate Mr. Martin was undoubtedly murdered?”
“I’m afraid so,” replied the Inspector. “And I fancy by the same hand which committed the previous murders. We found a typed letter on him, suggesting that he should call at Number 407, which had been posted in this district, and there was a counter bearing the number IV lying by his side. You don’t happen to know anything about this Mr. Martin, I suppose?”
Mr. Ludgrove shook his head. “I understand that he left Praed Street fifteen years ago,” he replied. “That was long before I came here. In those days I was leading a very quiet life in Devonshire.” He paused, and a curious look of sadness came into his eyes, as of some painful memory. Then he continued briskly, as if ashamed of his momentary lapse. “I daresay that Mr. Copperdock remembers him, he has a wonderful memory for everybody who has ever lived in the neighbourhood.”
Inspector Whyland’s eyes contracted slightly as he replied. “Yes, he remembers him all right. They did a certain amount of business together, he tells me. In fact, Mr. Copperdock is the only person about here who will admit to knowing anything about this fellow Martin.”
“Well, I suppose that we are all under suspicion once more,” said Mr. Ludgrove, with a kindly smile. “No, Inspector, it’s no use protesting; I know exactly how I should look at the matter if I were in your place. Until you have some definite clue to the perpetrator of the crimes, the whole neighbourhood is equally guilty in your eyes. I may say that I left here about one o’clock on Saturday, caught the 1:55 from Fenchurch, spent the day in Essex, and did not return until after dark. Not, I gather, that an alibi is much use in this case, since it appears that this Mr. Martin was alone in the house, in any event.”
“I wish everybody in Praed Street would deal with me as frankly as you have, Mr. Ludgrove,” replied Whyland. “There seems to be a sort of dread in the minds of most of them that the police will in some
