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 gentleman, he was alone in the carriage when the train left Reading.
Nobody at Paddington had noticed him among the streams flowing from the arrival platforms, and it was impossible to establish whether or not he had left the station alone. The taxi-driver who had seen him fall had not seen the blow struck, could not even say whether anyone else had been standing on the refuge with him or not. It was a nasty, skiddy evening, and dark at that. He had enough to do to watch the traffic without worrying about people on refuges. It wasn’t until he had seen the poor man stagger into the road almost under his front wheels that he had even noticed him. And then his attention was fully occupied in pulling up and trying to avoid collisions.
Finally, neither of the Miss Pargents could throw the faintest glimmer of light upon the affair. Their brother was not the type of man to have secrets from his family. Both sisters appeared to know the inner history of every moment of his life since infancy, and insisted upon dispensing the knowledge at great length. As to his having an enemy in the world, the thing was absurd. He was a very retiring man, who lived only for his work, and had never sought adventure beyond the narrow bounds of the family circle. Inspector Whyland came away from his last interview with the sisters—for Miss Margaret had been prevailed upon to come up to London—convinced that it would have been impossible for the dead man to have embarked upon any clandestine enterprise without the knowledge of one or other of them.
He was equally unsuccessful in finding any link between Richard Pargent and any of the inhabitants of Praed Street. Their names were utterly unfamiliar to either of the sisters, and Mr. Pargent’s only connection with Praed Street appeared to be that he occasionally passed along it in a bus. Inspector Whyland was convinced that the same hand that had struck down Mr. Tovey, had killed Richard Pargent, and probably Mr. Colburn, though the receipt of the counter was the only link in the latter case. But what could be the motive for the murder of these three men, so entirely disconnected from one another? And, if one adopted the theory of a homicidal maniac, the difficulty was scarcely diminished. Homicidal maniacs either kill indiscriminately, or, as in the classic case of Jack the Ripper, they attack a certain class or type. Yet the receipt of the numbered counters implied some process of definite selection. Upon what possible grounds could such a selection be based?
The inquest helped the authorities not at all. Nothing beyond what Inspector Whyland already knew was elicited, and the only fresh sensation which it provided was the disclosure of the fact that each of the three victims had received a numbered counter. Whyland’s forecast of the results of this were proved to have been only slightly exaggerated. Most of the newspapers of the day following the inquest appeared with leading articles discussing the wisdom of official secrecy upon such a matter. A large number of practical jokers despatched counters bearing the number IV to their friends, many of whom arrived hot-foot at Scotland Yard demanding instant police protection. The fatal counter became for the moment a national symbol. The Opposition newspapers contained cartoons depicting the Prime Minister opening an envelope labelled “Public Opinion,” and containing a numbered counter. An enterprising Insurance Company issued a poster upon which appeared an enormous representation of the counter, and under it the words, “You need not fear this if you are insured with the Gigantic.” To find one in one’s Christmas pudding was an omen of bad luck for the ensuing year. Then, having played its part as a nine days’ wonder, the vogue of the numbered counter ceased as suddenly as it had begun.
Meanwhile, the police had been by no means idle. To Inspector Whyland it had always seemed that the focus of the whole business had lain in Mr. Copperdock’s shop. Mr. Copperdock had been an intimate friend of Mr. Tovey’s; Ted Copperdock was on familiar terms with Dick Colburn. It had been through Mr. Copperdock that he had first learned of the receipt of the numbered counters; the pipe which had been responsible for Mr. Colburn’s death been bought at Mr. Copperdock’s shop. Inspector Whyland began to regard the three victims as represented by the extremities of the letter Y, which, although they are not connected to one another, are each connected to a central point. But Mr. Copperdock was the central point, this graphic representation was incomplete until the connection between Richard Pargent and Mr. Copperdock could be established. And, try as he would, Inspector Whyland could find absolutely no link between the two.
Nevertheless, Whyland determined to make a very thorough investigation into Mr. Copperdock’s habits and associates. He was rewarded by the discovery of two very interesting facts. A representative of Scotland Yard, announcing himself as an agent of the Planet Typewriter Company, the manufacturers of the machine owned by Mr. Copperdock, and used by his son for writing business letters, called at the tobacconist’s shop, ostensibly for the purpose of inspecting the machine. He succeeded in carrying away with him a specimen of its work, which was submitted to experts. They reported that, although there were no perceptible peculiarities in any of the letters which would enable them to identify this specimen with the address on the envelope sent to Richard Pargent, there was, on the other hand no discrepancy between the two types, and that therefore the envelope might well have been typed on Mr. Copperdock’s machine.
This, though disappointingly inconclusive, was to Whyland’s ideas a point to be remembered should any corroborative evidence come to light. Among the circle in whose actions he found himself interested, the Copperdocks were the only people who possessed a typewriter at all. As a matter of fact, Mr. Copperdock had only purchased it quite recently, at the instance of Ted, who while stoutly maintaining that no respectable tradesman could be without one, had been suspected by his shrewd father of less disinterested motives. Certainly it had seemed only natural that, the machine once purchased, the expert Ivy should come in of an evening and show Ted how to work it; but Mr. Copperdock had a way of winking at his son behind her back which made that ingenuous youth blush most embarrassingly.