“One of my reasons for coming to see you was to ask you to say nothing about it,” replied the Inspector. “We have decided that there is nothing to be gained by letting it be known. Bone counters of this size are very common, and we are not likely to learn where these particular ones originated. On the other hand, the minute the story becomes known, there will be an epidemic of counters bearing the number III in red ink. The Post Office will be overwhelmed by envelopes containing them, and every one of the recipients will come clamouring to us for protection. You may think this is an exaggeration. But you have no idea of the effect of crime upon some people’s mentality.”
Mr. Ludgrove laughed softly. “I think I have,” he replied. “I haven’t been a sort of confidential adviser to the poorer classes all these years for nothing. Nearly everybody who has been in this room for the last week has had definite knowledge of the murderer of Mr. Tovey, for which knowledge they seem to think it is my duty to pay a large sum of money. When I tell them to go to the police their enthusiasm evaporates with amazing rapidity. And since you people offered a reward for Wal Snyder’s sailor, the whole neighbourhood appears to have seen him.”
“So I imagine,” said the Inspector. “There is usually a queue at the police station waiting to claim the reward. But what could we do? I confess I was very sceptical about the existence of this man; but I’ve bullied the wretched Wal half a dozen times, drunk and sober, and he sticks to the story. ‘S’welp me, it’s as true as I’m standing here,’ he says, ‘a big tall bloke, dressed like a sailor, with a black beard, an ugly gash on his cheek, and a woollen cap.’ We had no option but to advertise for such a man.”
“Well, I hope you’ll find him, Inspector,” remarked Mr. Ludgrove. “But you’ll forgive my saying that I have grave doubts about it. Even Mr. Copperdock, who spends a large part of his time watching the people who pass his shop, has never seen anybody answering his description. And again I find it difficult to imagine a black-bearded sailor with a scar having a grudge against Mr. Tovey. Besides, he doesn’t sound the sort of person to deliver numbered counters in typewritten envelopes.”
The Inspector rose from his chair with a smile. “It is a maxim of the police never to admit defeat,” he said. “I am immensely obliged to you for your courtesy, Mr. Ludgrove. Perhaps if you hear of anything which has any possible bearing on the case you will send for me?”
The herbalist willingly consenting to this, Inspector Whyland took his departure. He had scarcely been gone five minutes before Mr. Ludgrove, who had returned to the back room, heard Mr. Copperdock’s voice in the shop.
“Come in, Mr. Copperdock,” called the herbalist genially.
The curtain was furtively drawn aside, and Mr. Copperdock came in, a look of deep anxiety upon his face. “That was Inspector Whyland in here just now, wasn’t it?” he enquired.
“It was,” replied Mr. Ludgrove. “We had quite a long chat.” Then, with a sudden change of manner, he laid his hand on his friend’s shoulder. “Look here, Mr. Copperdock,” he said earnestly, “get out of your head all idea that the police have any suspicions of you or your son. I can assure you that they have not, and that your straightforwardness in going to them and telling them all you know has impressed them greatly in your favour.”
“Thank God for that!” exclaimed the tobacconist fervently. “I’ve been terrible worried these last few days. I’ve laid awake at nights and puzzled over it all again and again. I’ve even given up going to the Cambridge Arms of an evening. I sort of feel that the fellows there don’t talk to me quite in the way they did.”