Samuel Copperdock, whom he had studied so carefully, did not appear to him to be a deliberate criminal. He was not of the type which harbours revenge, and he did not seem either clever or painstaking enough to work out the details of a premeditated murder. Although, if it were true that he had formed a design to marry Mrs. Tovey, the murder of Mr. Tovey might be said to be advantageous to him, it was inconceivable that he had had any hand in it. He could not have struck the blow himself, and, since he was not a rich man, it was difficult to see what inducement he could offer to a hired assassin. In all human probability, Mr. Copperdock was innocent of the murder of James Tovey.
But, on the other hand, this murder, followed so closely by the mysterious death of his other acquaintance, Colburn, had made a great impression upon him. He had thought and talked of little else, and, as it happened, he had known every detail. He had seen the knife with which James Tovey had been killed; he, in common with very few others, had known of the receipt of the marked counters. Suppose that the crimes had had such a powerful effect upon his imagination that he had felt an irresistible impulse to imitate them? Such things were known, were in fact a commonplace of the criminal psychologists.
Upon this assumption, the rest was easy. Mr. Copperdock had learnt by some accident that this man Richard Pargent would arrive at Paddington at 4.55 on Saturday, and had selected him as a likely victim. His imitative faculty fully developed, he had sent him the numbered counter, and had purchased a knife similar to the one which he had already seen. Then, just before the train was due, he had left his shop, met his victim, committed the crime, had a drink to steady his nerves, and then come home.
The theory was plausible, but Inspector Whyland knew well enough that so far he had not a fragment of real evidence with which to support it. But, unless he were to adopt the suggestion of Mr. Ludgrove, that some homicidal maniac was responsible, Whyland could see no alternative. The lack of motive was so extraordinarily puzzling. The murders had been utterly purposeless, and the only possible theory could be one which took full account of this fact. And then again, how account for the despatch of the numbered counters? If the murders had been inspired by irresponsible impulse, what had been their object?
Still deep in thought, Inspector Whyland left the picture-house and walked slowly back to the police station through the less frequented streets. It was a little past eight on a typical December evening, with a light wet mist which magnified the outlines of the passers-by and covered the pavements with a shining dampness. But the weather never had much effect upon Whyland, and, beyond a passing reflection that on such an evening murder in the streets of London was not, after all, an enterprise presenting any great difficulties to a determined man, he paid no great attention to it.
He reached the police station without adventure, ordered a modest supper, and sat down to deal with the mass of reports which awaited him. He was thus engaged when a sergeant entered the room, with the message that a man giving the name of Copperdock wished to speak to him on the telephone. He rose, walked to the instrument, and picked up the receiver. “Inspector Whyland speaking,” he said coldly.
“Is that you, Inspector?” came an excited voice, which Whyland recognized at once. “Can you come and see me at once? I’ve something very important to tell you.”
Whyland hesitated for a moment. Whatever it was that Mr. Copperdock had to say to him, a visit to his house could afford him an excellent opportunity for keeping his eyes open for some clue in support of his theory. “Yes, I’ll come along straight away,” he replied. With a word to the sergeant, he left the station and walked rapidly to Praed Street.
It was about a quarter to ten when he arrived and rang the bell outside Mr. Copperdock’s shop. The tobacconist was obviously awaiting him, and the door was opened immediately. With a brief word of greeting, Mr. Copperdock led the way upstairs to the sitting-room. Then, shutting the door carefully behind him, he turned dramatically, “I’ve seen that there black sailor!” he exclaimed in a hoarse whisper.
Inspector Whyland looked at him sharply. When the reward had originally been offered, he had been overwhelmed by a flood of people who had claimed to have seen the “black sailor,” but of late this elusive figure had ceased to occupy the popular imagination. Was this a vindication of his theory, showing that Mr. Copperdock’s brain was completely under the influence of the crime?