“Just as the others were,” agreed Whyland. “I’ll keep this counter, if you don’t mind. I want to add it to my collection. Now I suppose I had better step across and see Copperdock. I should like you to come with me, if you can spare the time.”
“I think I can risk shutting the shop for a few minutes,” replied the herbalist. “I get very few customers in the morning. Most of the people who require my services are at work all day.”
“Dishonest work, I’ll be bound,” said Whyland chaffingly. “Well, come along, then.”
They went across to Mr. Copperdock’s shop together, and were shown by the tobacconist into the room behind the shop, which was used as an office. At one side was a table upon which stood a Planet typewriter, at the other a desk. Inspector Whyland seated himself at the latter, selected one of the pens before him, and dipped it into an inkpot, which happened to contain red ink.
“Now then, Mr. Copperdock,” he said. “Tell me exactly what happened yesterday evening.”
The tobacconist immediately launched into an account of his adventure. Whyland listened patiently, occasionally making a brief note with the pen. “You say that nobody could have entered the house while you were out?” he asked, as Mr. Copperdock came to the end of his story.
“Quite impossible,” replied Mr. Copperdock emphatically. “There’s only one door, with a spring lock which catches when you shuts it.”
“H’m. I’d like to have a look round, if you don’t mind,” said the Inspector.
He examined the house carefully. On the ground floor was the shop, and behind it the office and a little kitchen containing a gas stove. The windows of these did not open, and were high up in the wall, and covered with a stout iron grating. There was no back entrance. From a narrow passage a staircase ran up to the first floor, upon which were two bedrooms, occupied respectively by Mr. Copperdock and his son, and a sitting-room. The bedrooms were over the shop, and looked out upon Praed Street. The sitting-room was at the back, and looked out over an enclosed yard, belonging to a transport contractor, and used for storing vans at night. The windows on the first floor were obviously inaccessible without the aid of a ladder. Above the first floor were a couple of attics, lighted only by skylights, which were closed and padlocked. From the cobwebs which covered them, it was obvious that they had not been opened for a long time.
Inspector Whyland returned to the first floor. “Were these windows closed and fastened while you were out last night?” he enquired.
“The sitting-room was,” replied Ted, who had followed them upstairs. “I looked at it when I came in. It hasn’t been touched since.”
Whyland looked at it, and satisfied himself that it showed no signs of having been forced. “What about the bedroom windows?” he asked.
“Both Dad’s and mine were open at the top,” replied Ted. “But nobody could have got in through them, unless they had put up a ladder in the middle of Praed Street.”
“Even the black sailor isn’t likely to have done that,” observed Whyland sarcastically. “Well, Mr. Copperdock, the best advice I can give you is not to go about alone at night too much. I’ll have a man watch outside the premises for a bit, if that’s any comfort to you. But, if you ask me, I don’t think you’re in any immediate danger.”
It seemed that the Inspector was right. Several days passed without anything untoward happening to Mr. Copperdock. The tobacconist resumed his normal routine, with the modification that he took care never to be alone. His son walked with him as far as the Cambridge Arms, and one at least of his cronies there walked back with him to the shop. Mr. Ludgrove, watching with some amusement, recognized every night the watcher that Whyland had promised to provide. It struck him that the man’s instructions were probably to keep an eye on Mr. Copperdock’s movements rather than to provide for his safety. But upon the tobacconist, who, now he had got over his fright, appeared to regard himself as something of a hero, the man’s presence produced an impression of importance and of security.
The only aspect of the incident which appealed to Whyland was the counter itself. He had submitted it to the experts at Scotland Yard, together with the notes which he had made in red ink in Mr. Copperdock’s office, and they had given it as their opinion that the figure upon it had been drawn with the same ink as that in which the notes had been written, and by a similar pen. Further, this pen and ink corresponded with those which had been used on the previous counters, in the cases in which they had been preserved. The more the Inspector considered it, the more convinced he became that Mr. Copperdock was at the bottom of the business. But how to bring it home to him? That was the difficulty.
Mr. Copperdock had found the numbered counter on Tuesday evening. On the following Saturday Ted had arranged to take Ivy to a dance, from which he was not likely to return until after midnight. It had been suggested that Mr. Copperdock, in order that he should not be left alone, should spend the time between the closing of the Cambridge Arms and the return of his son in Mr. Ludgrove’s sanctum.
But, deriving courage from the fact that four days had elapsed without anything happening, Mr. Copperdock refused to consider any such proposal. He must have detected the general scepticism with which his story of the finding of the counter had been received, and had resolved to say no more about it. He went to the Cambridge Arms at his usual hour, stayed there until closing time, and was then accompanied home by two friends of his, who lived in the Edgware Road, and
