“I have indeed,” replied Mr. Ludgrove gravely. “I imagine that the whole thing was an utterly heartless practical joke. I only hope the police will be able to trace the sender.”
“Aye, practical joke, maybe, but it killed him all the same,” said Mr. Copperdock doubtfully. “Fancy an old chap like that, what couldn’t have had more than a year or two to live! The paper says that he couldn’t even walk from one room to another, had to be wheeled in a chair. This daughter of his what was looking after him says here that the doctor had told her that any shock might be fatal. Wonder if she sent it herself, being tired of waiting for his money? Listen, this is what she says: ‘My father’s chief amusement was to read the papers. He took the keenest interest in every item of news, and often discussed them with me. We often talked about the murders which have taken place recently in Praed Street, and my father always maintained that the curious episode of the numbered counters proved that they were not the work of a maniac.’ ”
“Yes. It is easy to understand what a shock the receipt of the counter must have been to him,” replied Mr. Ludgrove reflectively. “It would be interesting to know who, besides his daughter, knew of this passion for news on his part. I see by the account in my paper that three letters arrived for him by the morning post, and that his daughter brought them in to him on his breakfast tray. He opened the first one, and a counter numbered V fell out of it.”
“Then he fell back on his pillow and never spoke again,” put in Mr. Copperdock excitedly. “The shock killed him right enough, as the doctors had said it would. I wouldn’t like to be in the shoes of the person what sent it him.”
Mr. Ludgrove glanced at his friend sharply. “I cannot understand it, except upon the assumption of a practical joke, and a particularly cruel one at that,” he said. “Here was this Mr. Goodwin, a retired manufacturer, who had been living in this house at Highgate for many years past. All his acquaintances knew that his heart was very seriously affected, and that he had only a short time to live. Of course, we know nothing of his past history, but, whatever motive there may have been, to murder a man in his condition would merely be to anticipate the course of nature by a few months. And, in our experience, the receipt of the counter has always been followed by violent death. I say we know nothing about him; I certainly do not. I suppose that you have never heard of him before, have you, Mr. Copperdock?”
Mr. Copperdock shook his head. “Never!” he replied emphatically. “Seems to me it’s just like that poet chap, Pargent. Somebody sends him the counter, and his number’s up. Well thank heaven, it didn’t happen in Praed Street, this time.”
It was not long after Mr. Copperdock’s departure that Inspector Whyland came in to see the herbalist. He said nothing, but glanced at Mr. Ludgrove enquiringly.
“Yes, I’ve seen it in the paper,” said Mr. Ludgrove. “As a matter of fact, I’ve just been discussing it with Mr. Copperdock. He came over here as soon as he read about it.”
“Oh, he did, did he?” replied Whyland. “And what do you make of it, may I ask?”
Mr. Ludgrove shrugged his shoulders. “I know no more than what the paper contains,” he said. “It looks to me like a practical joke. I shouldn’t wonder if some idiot derives amusement from sending these counters broadcast. I daresay he gets the names of people to send them to from the telephone directory.”