The Murders in Praed Street

Praed Street is not at any time one of London’s brighter thoroughfares. Certainly it ends upon a note of hope, terminating as it does on the fringe of the unquestioned respectability of Bayswater, but for the rest of its course it is frankly lamentable. Narrow, bordered by small and often furtive shops, above which the squalid looking upper parts are particularly uninviting, it can never have been designed as more than a humble annex of its more prosperous parent, the Edgware Road. And then, for no apparent reason, the Great Western Railway planted its terminus upon it, and Praed Street found itself called upon to become a main artery of traffic.

It seems to have done very little to adapt itself to its new role. Beyond an occasional grudging widening, it has left the unending streams of buses, of heavy railway lorries, of hurrying foot passengers, to shift for themselves as best they can. It almost seems as though Praed Street regarded Paddington Station as an intrusion, and those who throng to and from it as unwelcome strangers. It had its own interests long before the railway came⁠—one of the termini of the Grand Junction Canal lies within a few yards of its sombre limits. Praed Street watches with indifference the thronging crowds which pass along, and they in turn take little heed of the uninviting thoroughfare through which their journey leads them.

Not that these philosophic reflections occupied the mind of Mr. James Tovey, which was far too full of an acute sense of annoyance and discomfort to find room for any other sensations.

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?

“You have seen the black sailor? Sit down and tell me all about it, Mr. Copperdock,” he replied gravely.

But Mr. Copperdock was far too excited to sit down. “I see him plain as I see you now,” he exclaimed. “Just after I left the Cambridge Arms⁠—”

But Inspector Whyland put out his hand and forced him gently into the nearest chair. “Now, look here, Mr. Copperdock, if your information is to be of any use to me, you must tell it to me in the proper order. Begin by telling me how you spent the evening.”

“Soon as I shut up shop at eight o’clock, I goes off to the Cambridge, same as I always does,” replied the tobacconist protestingly. “Ted went out too, he’s taking Ivy to the pictures, and they won’t be back for an hour or so yet. I has a couple there, sitting in front of the fire, and it wasn’t until nigh on closing time that I left.

He drew out his watch and consulted it. It was nearly five minutes past two, but he remembered that he had noticed that morning that it was a trifle fast. Lacey, whoever he was, would doubtless be along in a moment. Mr. Martin hoped he would be quick; he had no wish to be recognized outside the premises by any of his old acquaintances. A sudden thought struck him. Perhaps Lacey was already inside, waiting for him. There was an electric bellpush by the side of the door. Mr. Martin pressed it firmly, but could hear no answering ring above the roar of the traffic. Then all at once he became aware that a small girl was standing by his side, looking up at him with an appraising expression.

As he turned to look at her, she made up her mind and spoke. “Is your name Mr. Martin?” she asked.

Mr. Martin frowned down at her. “What’s that got to do with you?” he replied.

“ ’Cos if you are, Dad told me to give you the key,” she continued, quite unabashed. “And there’s a message from Mr. Lacey that you’re to go in and wait for him, as he’ll be a few minutes late.”

“Oh, I see,” said Mr. Martin with a smile. “Yes, my dear, I am Mr. Martin. How did your father come to have the key?”

She jerked her head towards a sweet shop two or three doors away. “We lives there,” she replied curtly. “Mr. Briggs the builder, what’s working here, leaves it with us because he’s my uncle.

Five minutes later he heard a heavy step hurrying through the shop, and the form of Mr. Copperdock appeared unceremoniously through the curtain that covered the door of the inner room. Mr. Ludgrove rose to his feet in concern. The tobacconist’s face was deathly pale, and his hands were trembling violently. He staggered across the room, and sank down into the chair he had so lately quitted.

He held out one shaking hand open towards the herbalist. “Here, look at this!” he exclaimed in a queer hoarse voice.

The herbalist bent over the outstretched hand. In the palm of it lay a white counter, upon which the figure VI had been roughly drawn in red ink.

And then, all of a sudden, with an abruptness which fell upon his ears like a blow, the Professor heard a bell ring sharply behind him. He spun round in his tracks, raising his stick instinctively, as though in self-defence. Coming along the path behind him was a tall figure on a bicycle, indistinguishable but for its outline in the swiftly-falling night. The slight mist magnified it to inhuman proportions.

Dr. Priestley stepped back into the heather, and waited for the figure to approach him. As it came nearer he began to distinguish details one by one. It was a man, dressed apparently in trousers and jersey, with a seaman’s cap upon his head. The Professor felt a sudden feeling of relief. No doubt this was a man from one of the stone barges which came up to Goathorn Pier to load stone or clay. He would no doubt join the railway, and follow the track beside it down to the pier. He could see the man’s features by now, or such of them as were not hidden by the mass of black beard, which grew up in whiskers on either side of his face until it was lost beneath his cap. And then, with a sudden recollection of a certain vivid description which Hanslet had given him, the Professor realized that the man had an angry-looking scar extending the whole length of his right cheek. Even as he realized the significance of the man’s appearance, he had dismounted from his bicycle, and stood confronting the Professor.