“Practical joke? H’m,” said Whyland. “Mind, I’m not denying that a lot of fools do send out these counters to their friends. The Yard has had dozens of cases reported to them. I always said that would happen as soon as people heard about them. But in this case I have seen the envelope in which the counter was sent. It was typed on the same machine as the others, and it was posted in this district, exactly as the others were. Your practical joker has followed his original model pretty closely, don’t you think?”
The ardent seekers after sensation redoubled their eagerness for news of the next counter. Although opinion on the whole followed Mr. Ludgrove in attributing the counter sent to Mr. Goodwin to some irresponsible practical joker, the fact that death had undoubtedly followed its receipt caused many to shake their heads knowingly. If Mr. Martin’s death had been due to suicide, and Mr. Goodwin’s to a practical joke, how would the original sender of the counters number his next one? It was not to be supposed that he would claim credit for these spurious imitations of his work. If the next number were to be VI, public opinion was quite prepared to credit him with having compassed the last two deaths. But most people anticipated that it would bear the number IV.
The fact that such discussion was possible showed clearly that the theory of the existence of some mysterious assassin had captured the popular imagination. There was really no reason why any murderer should not send a numbered counter to his prospective victim, but people argued, quite correctly, that murders were far more often the result of sudden impulse than of deliberate intention. It was for this reason that the “counter deaths” as they were sometimes called, attracted so much attention. Yet the weeks drew into months, and the cold winds of spring took the place of the misty drizzle of winter, without any news of another numbered counter being received. The arm-chair criminologists gave it as their opinion that the last had been heard of them, that the mysterious criminal had either fulfilled his vengeance or had died unrecognized in some lunatic asylum. The murders in Praed Street were added to the long list of undiscovered crimes, and slowly they began to be forgotten.
One evening towards the end of April, Mr. Copperdock was sitting in the herbalist’s back room, enjoying a generous whiskey and soda. He was on his way home from the Cambridge Arms, and, seeing his friend’s door still open, had looked in for a chat. The night was warm, one of those nights which London sometimes experiences in early spring, conveying the promise, so rarely fulfilled, of a fine summer.
The liquor which he had consumed made Mr. Copperdock even more communicative than usual. Some reference to his son had led him on to speak of Ivy, and thus, by a simple association of ideas, to the murder of Mr. Tovey.
“You know, Ludgrove, that fellow Whyland always suspected me of having to do with that business,” he said. “I don’t believe he’s satisfied yet, between ourselves. At one time he was always hanging about, coming into my place at all hours, and asking all sorts of questions. I used to see chaps lounging about outside, and sometimes they followed me when I went out. It was jolly uncomfortable, I can tell you.”
Mr. Ludgrove smiled. “I don’t suppose you were any more under suspicion than the rest of us,” he replied. “Whyland had an idea that somebody in this neighbourhood was responsible, and I don’t know that I don’t agree with him. He came in here, too, and asked questions, for that matter. For all I know he may have suspected me.”
But Mr. Copperdock shook his head. “No, Ludgrove, that won’t do,” he said. “There was something about the way he spoke to me that gave him away. He still comes in sometimes, and asks me all sorts of questions about those poor fellows who were killed. Very often they’re the same things as he’s asked before. Trying to catch me out, I suppose. And he’s always asking if I’ve ever seen the black sailor again.”
“I suppose you really did see him?” asked Mr. Ludgrove casually.
“See him? I saw him as plain as I see you now,” replied Mr. Copperdock, with some indignation. “What would I want to say I’d seen him for if I hadn’t? I wish now I’d never said anything about it. I wouldn’t have, but I thought it would be doing Whyland a good turn.”