Enter Dr. Priestley
That eccentric scientist, Dr. Priestley, sat in his study on the
Monday morning following the death of Mr. Copperdock, busily engaged
in sorting out a mass of untidy-looking papers. Most of them he tore
up and placed in the waste-paper basket by his side; a few he glanced
at and put aside. The April sun lit up the room with a pale radiance,
lending an air of Spring even to this dignified but rather gloomy
house in Westbourne Terrace.
Dr. Priestley was thus engaged when the door opened and his secretary,
Harold Merefield, came into the room. There was an air of heaviness
about both men, the old and the young, as though the Spring had not
yet touched them, and Winter held them still in its grip. One might
have guessed that some absorbing work had monopolized their energies,
leaving them no leisure for anything but the utmost concentration. And
one would have guessed right. For the last six months Dr. Priestley
had been engaged upon the writing of a book which was to enhance his
already brilliant reputation. Its title was _Some Aspects of Modern
Thought_, and in it Dr. Priestley had, with his usual incontrovertible
logic, shattered the majority of the pet theories of orthodox science.
It was, as the reviews were to say, a brilliant achievement, all the
more entertaining from the vein of biting sarcasm which ran through
it.
When Dr. Priestley settled down to writing a book, he concentrated his
whole attention upon it, to the exclusion of everything else. He
allowed nothing whatever to distract his mind, even for a few minutes.
He lived entirely in his subject, refusing even to read the
newspapers, except certain scientific periodicals which might happen
to contain something relevant to the work he had in hand. As he
expected his secretary to follow his example, it was hardly to be
wondered at that both of them looked jaded and worn out.
“I took the manuscript to the Post Office myself, sir,” said Harold
Merefield listlessly. “Here is the registration receipt.”
“Excellent, my boy, excellent,” replied the Professor, looking up. “So
the work is finished at last, eh? I have been destroying such notes as
we shall not require again. The rest you can file at your leisure.
Dear me, you look as if you needed a change of occupation.”
He stared at his secretary through his spectacles, as though he had
seen him that morning for the first time for many months. “Yes, I
think we both need a change of occupation,” he continued. “I feel that
I should welcome some enticing problem, mathematical or human. It is
time we stepped from our recent absorption back into the world. Let me
see. What is the date?”
“April 28th, sir,” replied Harold with a smile. He knew well enough
that the Professor would have accepted any other day he chose to
mention.
“Dear me! Then the world is six months older than when we retired from
it. No doubt many interesting problems have arisen in the interval,
but I fear that their solutions lie in other hands than ours. By the
way, when does our friend Inspector Hanslet return from America?”
Harold turned to one of the big presses which lined the walls of the
room, and took from it a folder marked “Inspector Hanslet.” He
consulted this for a moment, then looked up towards his employer. “At
the end of this month, sir. There is no definite date mentioned. I
dare say he is in London already.”
“Perhaps so,” agreed the Professor. “It does not really matter. My
thoughts turned to him naturally, as to one who has in the past
supplied us with some very satisfactory problems. Well, we must be
patient, my boy. I have no doubt that we shall very soon succeed in
finding some congenial work with which to occupy our minds.”
He returned to the business of sorting his papers, while Harold sat
down at the table reserved for his use, thankful to be able to do
absolutely nothing for a few minutes. His idea of a change of
occupation was not to plunge at once into some abstruse mathematical
investigation which would involve him in the writing up of endless
notes. If only Hanslet would come back and divert the Professor’s
thoughts into some other channel! But of Hanslet, since he had
departed for New York during the previous year to co-operate with the
American police in running to earth a gang of international swindlers,
nothing had been heard.
Inspector Hanslet was rapidly becoming the foremost figure at Scotland
Yard. He was a man who, without being brilliant, possessed more than
the usual quickness of perception. He could, in his own phrase, see as
far through a brick wall as most people, and to this attribute he
added an agility of mind remarkable in a man whose training had been
of a stereotyped kind. Early in his career he had become acquainted
with Dr. Priestley, and the Professor, to whom a problem of any kind
was as the breath of his body, had since encouraged him to come to
Westbourne Terrace and discuss his difficulties. To many of these the
Professor’s logical mind had suggested the solution. Since he refused
to allow his name to be mentioned, the credit for his deductions
descended upon Hanslet. As a matter of fact, the authorities knew very
well how matters stood, and Hanslet was always employed upon those
cases which promised to be complicated, since it was an open secret
that he could call upon the advice and assistance of Dr. Priestley.
It was evident that the sudden reaction of having nothing to do, after
his unremitting labours of the past six months, was having an
unfavourable effect upon Dr. Priestley’s temper. He roamed about the
study, pulling out a file from time to time, and finding fault with
Harold because some item did not come immediately to his hand. It was
not until it was time to dress for dinner that he desisted from this
irritating occupation. And even at dinner he was silent and morose,
obviously seeking in vain for some new interest which should occupy
his restless thoughts. But hardly had he and Harold finished their
coffee, which they always had in the study after dinner, than Mary the
parlourmaid opened the door softly. “Inspector Hanslet to see you,
sir,” she announced.
The Professor turned so abruptly in his chair as seriously to endanger
the coffee cup he was holding. “Inspector Hanslet!” he exclaimed. “Why
show him in, of course. Good evening, Inspector, it was only this
morning that Harold and I were speaking of you. I hope that you
enjoyed yourself in America.”
“I did indeed, Professor,” replied Hanslet, shaking hands warmly with
Dr. Priestley, and nodding cheerily to Harold. “Not that I’m not very
glad to be home again; one’s own country’s best, after all. I landed
at Southampton last Wednesday.”
“And now you have come back to tell us of your experiences,” said the
Professor. “I am sure we shall be most interested to hear them. Did
you succeed in your object?”
“Oh, yes, we rounded them up all right,” replied Hanslet. “My word,
Professor, you ought to go over to New York and see the things the
fellows do over there. As far as scientific detection goes, they’ve
got us beat to a frazzle. You’d appreciate their methods. And they’re
a cheery crowd, too. They gave me no end of a good time while I was
over there.”
“Well, sit down, and tell us all about it,” said the Professor,
motioning Hanslet towards a comfortable chair. “You will relieve the
tedium I am feeling at having nothing to do.”
Hanslet sat down, and, as he did so, looked enquiringly at the
Professor. “You say you’ve nothing to do, sir? Well, I’m very glad to
hear that. The truth is that I didn’t come here to tell you my
experiences. As a matter of fact, I meant to take a month’s leave when
I got back, but the Chief asked me to wait a bit and take over a case
which has been puzzling the Yard for several months. And I wanted to
ask your advice, if you would be good enough to listen.”
The Professor rubbed his hands together briskly. “Excellent,
excellent!” he exclaimed. “I told you this morning, Harold, that a
problem was bound to turn up before long. By all means tell me your
difficulties, Inspector. But let me beg of you to keep to facts, and
not to digress into conjecture.”
Hanslet smiled. The Professor’s passion for facts was well-known to
him from past experience. “Well, I expect you know as much about it as
I do,” he began. “Ever since Tovey the greengrocer was killed last
November, there’s been a lot in the papers——”
But the Professor interrupted him. “I should perhaps have explained,
Inspector, that since last October I have scarcely opened a newspaper.
My whole mind has been concentrated upon a task which is now happily
finished. The name of Tovey the greengrocer is, I regret to say,
utterly unfamiliar to me. I should be glad if you would treat me as
one who has only lately reached this world from the planet Mars, and
give me the facts without presuming that I have any previous knowledge
of them.”
“Very well, Professor,” replied Hanslet. “You must have heard of a
series of deaths under peculiar circumstances which have occurred in
Praed Street, not half a mile away from here? Why, I read about them
in New York! They caused a great sensation.”
“I am not concerned with popular sensations,” said the Professor
coldly. “I admit that some rumours of such happenings penetrated the
isolation with which I have endeavoured to surround myself, but I
dismissed them from my mind as likely to introduce a disturbing
factor. I repeat that you had better repeat the facts, as briefly as
possible.”
“Very well, Professor, I will tell you the story exactly as it was
told to me at the Yard,” replied Hanslet. “You will be able to see how
much is fact and how much conjecture. As I was not on the spot myself,
I cannot vouch for the details. Will that do?”
The Professor nodded, and turned to Harold. “Make a note of the names
and dates mentioned by Inspector Hanslet,” he said. “Now, Inspector,
you may proceed.”
Hanslet, whose memory for names and facts was rarely at fault,
recounted as briefly as he could the course of events from the murder
of Mr. Tovey in November, to the finding of Martin’s body in the
cellar of Number 407, in January. The Professor interrupted him now
and then to ask a question, but in the main he allowed him to tell the
story in his own way. When he had finished, and the Professor had
expressed himself satisfied, Hanslet continued.
“The man who’s been in charge of the case is a fellow called Whyland,
keen enough on his job, but a bit lacking in imagination. I had a chat
with him yesterday, and he confessed that he was completely at the end
of his tether. Up till last Saturday evening, he told me, he was
pretty sure that he could lay his hand on the criminal, but that night
something happened which entirely upset his calculations.”
“What was that?” enquired the Professor, who was listening intently.
“Why, for one thing, the man whom he suspected of the murders has been
killed,” replied Hanslet. “Not that there was anything amazing in
that, for he seems to have been a trifle unbalanced in any case, and
his death may possibly have been due to suicide. No, what altogether
upset Whyland’s apple-cart was that another man received a counter,
some time after the death of the man whom Whyland suspected of
delivering them.”
“It is remarkable how frequently hypotheses founded upon pure
conjecture are upset by one simple fact,” remarked the Professor
acidly. “Now, what was the name of this man whom Whyland suspected,
and who so inconsiderately spoilt the theory by his premature death?”
“Samuel Copperdock,” replied Hanslet, turning to Harold, who wrote the
name on his pad.
“Copperdock?” repeated the Professor. “An unusual name, and yet I seem
to have heard it before in some connection. Copperdock, Copperdock!
Let me think——”
“You’ve probably seen the name above his shop, Professor,” said
Hanslet. “He was a tobacconist in Praed Street. Or you may have seen
it some months ago in the paper. He was a witness at the inquest on
Tovey, who was the first man murdered.”
But the Professor shook his head. “No, if my memory serves me, I heard
the name many years ago, in some connection which escapes me for the
moment. However, the point would not appear to have any importance. I
must apologize for interrupting you, Inspector. You were saying that
another man received a counter after this man Copperdock’s death, but
I do not think you mentioned his name?”
“Ludgrove. Elmer Ludgrove,” said Hanslet. “Rather an interesting
personality, from what Whyland tells me. He keeps a herbalist’s shop,
and is a bit of a character in his way. He’s a man of some education,
between fifty and sixty, a very dignified old boy with a striking
white beard, which I expect is a bit of an asset in his trade. He
doesn’t say much about himself, but does a lot of good in his own
quiet way. All the poorer people in the neighbourhood come to him if
they’re in any sort of trouble, and he freely admits he hears a good
many secrets. Whyland thought he would be a useful chap to get on the
right side of, and often used to drop in to see him. He says he got
more than one valuable hint from him. He was also pretty certain that
this chap Ludgrove shared his suspicions of Copperdock, but he would
never say so outright. You see, Copperdock was a friend of his.”
The Professor nodded. “I see,” he said. “And it was this Mr. Ludgrove
who received the counter you say?”
“Yes, and, what’s more, Whyland was with him when he found it. The
poor old boy was terribly shaken for the moment, Whyland says, but
after a bit he pretended to treat it as a joke. I’ve seen him since,
and he’s pretty plucky about it, knowing as he does that everybody who
has received one of these infernal numbered counters has died a sudden
death. He says that he is an old man, anyhow, alone in the world and
with only a few more years to live in any case, so that his death will
be no great blow to anybody.”
“A most philosophic attitude,” agreed the Professor. “But to return to
Mr. Copperdock, I should like to hear the circumstances under which he
met his death.”
Hanslet related the events of the previous Saturday night in
considerable detail, up to the time when Whyland and Ludgrove entered
the latter’s sanctum. “There’s not much more to add,” he continued,
“except that the doctor’s suspicions were confirmed as to the poison.
The Home Office people examined the fragment of broken needle, and I
heard this afternoon that they found traces of a remarkable virulent
synthetic alkaloid. You’ll know what that is better than I do,
Professor.”
“Yes, I know,” replied the Professor grimly. “I have reason to. It was
with one of these synthetic alkaloids—there are a number of them—that
Farwell tipped the spines of the hedgehog to which I so nearly fell a
victim.¹ You remember that incident, I dare say?”
¹ See _The Ellerby Case_ by John Rhode.
“I do, indeed,” said Hanslet warmly. “What’s more, the Home Office
people say that a dose of the stuff would produce almost immediate
paralysis, and death within a few minutes. The incrustation was
potassium carbonate all right, almost certainly the result of putting
caustic potash on the place. But that only makes the business more
puzzling. If Copperdock poisoned himself, how did he have time to
apply the caustic potash before he was paralysed? If someone else did
it, why should they apply the caustic, and how did they get in and out
of the house? Remember, Whyland’s man Waters had the place under
observation all the time.”
“Then you are inclined to favour the theory of suicide?” asked the
Professor.
“On the whole, yes,” replied Hanslet. “Oh, by the way, I forgot to
tell you that soon after daylight Waters found the syringe, with the
other part of the needle still in it, by the side of the road under
Copperdock’s window. There had been a heavy shower of rain about half
past three, and the syringe was covered with mud and filth. The
analysts could not find any traces remaining of the poison, but the
end of the needle proved that it was the one that had been used. That
points to suicide, a murderer wouldn’t chuck away his weapon like that
where anyone could see it.
“Besides, if you come to think of it, suicide fits in best with what
we know. It is a fact that Copperdock’s mind was to some extent
unhinged. He declared that he met the black sailor, when a reliable
witness declares that no such person was about. In fact, the only
person besides Copperdock who seriously claims to have seen this black
sailor is a degenerate youth who is also a convicted pick-pocket. It
is highly probable that the counters were numbered, and the envelopes
containing them typed in Mr. Copperdock’s office. Whyland assures me
that the only link between the victims was Copperdock, not in any
definite form, certainly, but still definite enough to make the
coincidence remarkable. I am inclined to believe that Copperdock was
at the bottom of it all somehow. My difficulty will be to prove it.”
“You think, I gather, that this Mr. Copperdock suffered from a
peculiar form of homicidal mania, which finally culminated in his
taking his own life?” suggested the Professor. “I admit that such
cases are not unknown, but the theory involves you in many
difficulties. I mention only one of them, the first that occurs to me.
Where did he obtain this synthetic alkaloid? These substances are not
articles of commerce, they are not, so far as I am aware, used in
medicine. They are only produced experimentally in research
laboratories. Farwell had a well-equipped laboratory, as you probably
remember, which accounts for his use of such a poison. But how could a
man in Copperdock’s position procure it?”
Hanslet shrugged his shoulders. “I don’t know, Professor,” he replied.
“I confess that I turn to the theory of Copperdock as the murderer
because it seems to present fewer difficulties than any other. The
whole thing seems to me to involve a mass of contradictions, whichever
way you look at it. It’s for that very reason I came to see you,
Professor. But you must at least admit that madness in some form must
be responsible. What rational motive could there be for the murder of
half a dozen men entirely unconnected with one another, and whose
deaths could be of no possible benefit to the murderer?”
“I am prepared to admit nothing until I have further examined the
facts,” replied the Professor severely. “Now, Harold, will you read me
your notes upon the first murder? Thank you. I should like all details
relating to Mr. Tovey, please, Inspector.”
It was long past midnight before they reached the end of the
catalogue, and the Professor was satisfied that he knew everything
which Hanslet could tell him.
“You will, of course, let me know if any fresh facts come to light,”
he said, as Hanslet rose to take his leave. “Meanwhile, I will
consider the matter. If I come to any definite conclusions I will let
you know. Good-night, and pray accept my most sincere thanks for
presenting me with a most absorbing problem.”