Mr. Martin had carried on a wine merchant’s business at 407, Praed Street, until fifteen years before. He had then moved to the Barbican, where he employed two clerks and a couple of packers. He had never married, and lived at a boarding house in Streatham. He had more than once gone away for the week-end without notice, and his absence had therefore caused no concern. He was not known to have any enemies, although more than once there had been some unsavoury rumours in circulation as to his dealings with girls whom he had engaged as his secretaries. His movements on Saturday morning were traced from the time he left his office to his reaching Aldersgate station. Finally, as a result of the hint contained in the letter signed John Lacey, the police had searched his office, and had found there certain papers which threw a flood of light upon a long sequence of jewel robberies extending back for the last twenty years.
Mr. Lacey was the owner of a group of grocer’s shops scattered about West London. He had acquired the lease of Number 407, when the premises were given up by the late tenant, a clothier. He had never heard of Mr. Martin, and had certainly never written to him. He always signed himself John R. Lacey, and the signature on the letter found on Mr. Martin’s body bore no resemblance whatever to his handwriting. He had only once entered the cellars of Number 407, and had made no discoveries there of any kind. On Saturday he had left Liverpool Street at ten o’clock, to stay with his brother in Ipswich, and had not returned until the first train on Monday morning. He had sent no telephone message to Mr. Briggs, nor had he made any appointment with anybody to inspect the drains of Number 407. He had no key of the premises, having given the only two which so far as he knew existed to Houlder, the builder. He was utterly unable to throw any light whatever upon the incident, since more than a week had passed since he had visited Praed Street.
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?”