Meanwhile Pokorny and Mrs. Klingmayer had reached the police station and
were going upstairs to the rooms of the commissioner on service for the
day. Like all people of her class, Mrs. Klingmayer stood in great awe
and terror of anything connected with the police or the law generally.
She crept slowly and tremblingly up the stairs behind the head
bookkeeper and was very glad when she was left alone for a few minutes
while Pokorny went in to see the commissioner. But as soon as his errand
was known, both the bookkeeper and his companion were led into the
office of Head Commissioner Dr. von Riedau, who had charge of the
Hietzing murder case.
When Dr. von Riedau heard the reason of their coming, his interest was
immediately aroused, and he pulled a chair to his side for the little
thin man with whom he had been talking when the two strangers were
ushered in.
“Then you believe you could identify the murdered man?” asked the
commissioner.
“From the general description and the initials on his linen, I believe
it must be Leopold Winkler,” answered Pokorny. “Mrs. Klingmayer has not
seen him since Monday morning, nor has she had any message from him. He
left the office Monday afternoon at 6 o’clock and that was the last time
that we saw him. The only thing that makes me doubt his identity is that
the paper reports that three hundred gulden were found in his pocket.
Winkler never seemed to have money, and I do not understand how he
should have been in possession of such a sum.”
“The money was found in the dead man’s pockets,” said the commissioner.
“And yet it may be Winkler, the man you know. Muller, will you order a
cab, please?”
“I have a cab waiting for me. But it only holds two,” volunteered
Pokorny.
“That doesn’t matter, I’ll sit on the box,” answered the man addressed
as Muller.
“You are going with us?” asked Pokorny.
“Yes, he will accompany you,” replied the commissioner. “This is
detective Muller, sir. By a mere chance, he happened to be on hand to
take charge of this case and he will remain in charge, although it may
be wasting his talents which we need for more difficult problems. If you
or any one else have anything to tell us, it must be told only to me
or to Muller. And before you leave to look at the body, I would like
to know whether the dead man owned a watch, or rather whether he had it
with him on the day of the murder.”
“Yes, sir; he did have a watch, a gold watch,” answered Mrs. Klingmayer.
Riedau looked at the bookkeeper, who nodded and said: “Yes, sir; Winkler
had a watch, a gold watch with a double case. It was a large watch, very
thick. I happen to have noticed it by chance and also I happen to know
that he had not had the watch for very long.”
“Can you tell us anything more about the watch?” asked the commissioner
of the landlady.
“Yes, sir; there was engraving on the outside cover, initials, and a
crown on the other side.”
“What were the initials?”
“I don’t know that, sir; at least I’m not sure about it. There were so
many twists and curves to them that I couldn’t make them out. I think
one of them was a W though, sir.”
“The other was probably an L then.”
“That might be, sir.”
“The younger clerks in the office may be able to tell something more
about the watch,” said Pokorny, “for they were quite interested in it
for a while. It was a handsome watch and they were envious of Winkler’s
possession of it. But he was so tactless in his boasting about it that
they paid no further attention to him after the first excitement.”
“You say he didn’t have the watch long?”
“Since spring I think, sir.”
“He brought it home on the 19th of March,” interrupted Mrs. Klingmayer.
“I remember the day because it was my birthday. I pretended that he had
brought it home to me for a present.”
“Was he in the habit of making you presents?”
“Oh, no, sir; he was very close with his money, sir.
“Well, perhaps he didn’t have much money to be generous with. Now tell
me about his watch chain. I suppose he had a watch chain?”
Both the bookkeeper and the landlady nodded and the latter exclaimed:
“Oh, yes, sir; I could recognise it in a minute.”
“How?”
“It was broken once and Mr. Winkler mended it himself. I lent him my
pliers and he bent the two links together with them. It didn’t look very
nice after that, but it was strong again. You could see the mark of the
pliers easily.”
“Why didn’t he take the chain to the jeweler’s to be fixed?” asked the
commissioner.
The woman smiled. “It wouldn’t have been worth the money, sir; the chain
wasn’t real gold.”
“But the watch was real, wasn’t it?”
“Oh, yes, sir; that was real gold. I pawned it once for Mr. Winkler and
they gave me 24 gulden for it.”
“One question more, did he have a purse? And did he have it with him on
the day of the murder?”
“Yes, sir; he had a purse, and he must have taken it with him because he
didn’t leave it in his room.”
“What sort of a purse was it?”
“A brown leather purse, sir.”
“Was it a new one?”
“Oh, no, sir; it was well worn.”
“How big was it? About like mine?” Riedau took out his own pocketbook.
“No, sir; it was a little smaller. It had three pockets in it. I mended
it for him once, so I know it well. I didn’t have any brown thread so I
mended it with yellow.”
Dr. von Riedau nodded to Muller. The latter had been sitting at a little
side-table writing down the questions and answers. When Riedau saw this
he did not send for a clerk to do the work, for Muller preferred to
attend to such matters himself as much as possible. The facts gained in
the examination were impressed upon his mind while he was writing them,
and he did not have to wade through pages of manuscript to get at what
he needed. Now he handed his superior officer the paper.
“Thank you,” said Riedau, “I’ll send it out to the other police
stations. I will attend to this myself. You go on with these people to
see whether they can identify the corpse.”
Fifteen minutes later the three stood before the body in the morgue and
both the bookkeeper and his companion identified the dead man positively
as Leopold Winkler.
When the identification was made, a notice was sent out to all Austrian
police stations and to all pawnshops with an exact description of the
stolen watch and purse.
Muller led his companions back to the commissioner’s office and they
made their report to Dr. von Riedau. Upon being questioned further,
Pokorny stated: “I had very little to do with Winkler. We met only when
he had a report to make to me or to show me his books, and we never met
outside the office. The clerks who worked in the same room with him, may
know him better. I know only that he was a very reserved man and very
little liked.”
“Then I do not need to detain you any longer, nor to trouble you further
in this affair. I thank you for coming to us so promptly. It has been of
great assistance.”
The bookkeeper left the station, but Mrs. Klingmayer, who was now quite
reassured as to the harmlessness of the police, was asked to remain
and to tell what she knew of the private life of the murdered man. Her
answers to the various questions put to her proved that she knew very
little about her tenant. But this much was learned from her: that he
was very close with his money at times, but that again at other times
he seemed to have all he wanted to spend. At such times he paid all his
debts, and when he stayed home for supper, he would send her out for
all sorts of expensive delicacies. These extravagant days seemed to have
nothing whatever to do with Winkler’s business pay day, but came at odd
times.
Mrs. Klingmayer remembered two separate times when he had received a
postal money order. But she did not know from whom the letters came,
nor even whether they were sent from the city or from some other town.
Winkler received other letters now and then, but his landlady was not of
the prying kind, and she had paid very little attention to them.
He seemed to have few friends or even acquaintances. She did not know
of any love affair, at least of nothing “regular.” He had remained
away over night two or three times during the year that he had been
her tenant. This was about all that Mrs. Klingmayer could say, and she
returned to her home in a cab furnished her by the kind commissioner.
About two hours later, a police attendant announced that a gentleman
would like to see Dr. von Riedan on business concerning the murder in
Hietzing. “Friedrich Bormann” was the name on the card.
“Ask him to step in here,” said the commissioner. “And please ask Mr.
Muller to join us.”
The good-looking young clerk entered the office bashfully and Muller
slipped in behind him, seating himself inconspicuously by the door. At a
sign from the commissioner the visitor began. “I am an employee of Braun
& Co. I have the desk next to Leopold Winkler, during the year that he
has been with us--the year and a quarter to be exact--”
“Ah, then you know him rather well?”
“Why, yes. At least we were together all day, although I never met him
outside the office.”
“Then you cannot tell us much about his private life?”
“No, sir, but there was something happened on Monday, and in talking it
over with Mr. Braun, he suggested that I should come to you and tell you
about it. It wasn’t really very important, and it doesn’t seem as if it
could have anything to do with this murder and robbery; still it may be
of some use.”
“Everything that would throw light on the dead man’s life could be of
use,” said Dr. von Riedau. “Please tell us what it is you know.”
Fritz Bormann began: “Winkler came to the office as usual on Monday
morning and worked steadily at his desk. But I happened to notice that
he spoiled several letters and had to rewrite them, which showed me
that his thoughts were not on his work, a frequent occurrence with him.
However, everything went along as usual until 11 o’clock. Then Winkler
became very uneasy. He looked constantly toward the door, compared his
watch with the office clock, and sprang up impatiently as the special
letter carrier, who usually comes about 11 with money orders, finally
appeared.”
“Then he was expecting money you think?”
“It must have been so. For as the letter carrier passed him, he called
out: ‘Haven’t you anything for me?’ and as the man shook his head
Winkler seemed greatly disappointed and depressed. Before he left to go
to lunch, he wrote a hasty letter, which he put in his pocket.
“He came in half an hour later than the rest of us. He had often been
reprimanded for his lack of punctuality, but it seemed to do no good. He
was almost always late. Monday was no exception, although he was later
than usual that day.”
“And what sort of a mood was he in when he came back?”
“He was irritable and depressed. He seemed to be awaiting a message
which did not come. His excitement hindered him from working, he
scarcely did anything the entire afternoon. Finally at five o’clock a
messenger boy came with a letter for him. I saw that Winkler turned
pale as he took the note in his hand. It seemed to be only a few words
written hastily on a card, thrust into an envelope. Winkler’s teeth were
set as he opened the letter. The messenger had already gone away.”
“Did you notice his number?” asked Dr. von Riedau.
“No, I scarcely noticed the man at all. I was looking at Winkler, whose
behaviour was so peculiar. When he read the card his face brightened.
He read it through once more, then he tore both card and envelope into
little bits and threw the pieces out of the open window.
“Then he evidently did not want anybody to see the contents of this
note,” said a voice from the corner of the room.
Fritz Bormann looked around astonished and rather doubtful at the little
man who had risen from his chair and now came forward. Without waiting
for an answer from the clerk, the other continued: “Did Winkler have
money sent him frequently?”
Bormann looked inquiringly at the commissioner, who replied with a
smile: “You may answer. Answer anything that Mr. Muller has to ask of
you, as he is in charge of this case.”
“As far as I can remember, it happened three times,” was Bormann’s
answer.
“How close together?”
“Why--about once in every three or four months, I think.”
“That looks almost like a regular income,” exclaimed Riedau. His eyes
met Muller’s, which were lit up in sudden fire. “Well, what are you
thinking of?” asked the commissioner.
“A woman,” answered Muller; and continued more as if thinking aloud than
as if addressing the others: “Winkler was a good-looking man. Might he
not have had a rich love somewhere? Might not the money have come from
her, the money that was found in his pocket?” Muller’s voice trailed
off into indistinctness at the last words, and the fire died out of his
eyes. Then he laughed aloud.
The commissioner smiled also, a good-natured smile, such as one would
give to a child who has been over-eager. “It doesn’t matter to us where
the money came from. All that matters here is where the bullet came
from--the bullet which prevented his enjoying this money. And it is
of more interest to us to find out who robbed him of his life and his
property, rather than the source from which this property came.”
The commissioner’s tone was friendly, but Muller’s face flushed red, and
his head dropped. Riedau turned to Bormann and continued: “And because
it is of no interest to us where his money came from--for it can
have nothing whatever to do with his murder and the subsequent
robbery--therefore what you noticed of his behaviour cannot be of any
importance or bearing in the case in any way. Unless, indeed, you should
find out anything more. But we appreciate the thoughtfulness of yourself
and your employer and your readiness to help us.”
Bormann rose to leave, but the commissioner put out a hand to stop him.
“A few moments more, please; you may know of something else that will
be of assistance to us. We have heard that Winkler boasted of his
belongings--did he talk about his private affairs in any way?”
“No, sir, I do not think he did.”
“You say that he destroyed the note at once, evidently realising that no
one must see it--this note may have been a promise for the money which
had not yet come. Did he, however, tell any one later that he expected a
certain sum? Do you think he would have been likely to tell any one?”
“No, I do not think that he would tell any one. He never mentioned
to any of us that he had received money, or even that he expected to
receive it. None of us knew what outside resources he might have, or
whence they came. If it had not been that the money was paid him by the
carrier in the office two or three times--so, that we could see it--we
would none of us have known of this income, except for the fact that he
was freer in spending after the money came. He would dine at expensive
restaurants, and this fact he would mention to us, whereas at other
times he would go to the cheap cafe.”
“Do you know anything about the people he was acquainted with outside
the office?”
“No, sir. I seldom met him outside of the office. One evening it did
happen that I saw him at Ronacher’s. He was there with a lady--that is,
a so-called ‘lady’--and it must have been one of the times that he had
money, for they were enjoying an expensive supper. At other times, some
of the other clerks met him at various resorts, always with the same
sort of woman. But not always with the same woman, for they were
different in appearance.”
“He was never seen anywhere with other men?”
“No, sir; at least not by any of us.”
“He was not liked in the office?”
“No.” Bormann’s answer was sharp.
“For what reason?”
“I don’t know; we just didn’t like him. We had very little to do with
him at first because of this, and soon we noticed that he seemed just as
anxious to avoid us as we were to avoid him.”
The commissioner rose and Bormann followed his example. “I am very
sorry, sir, if I have taken up your time to no purpose,” said the latter
modestly, as he took up his hat.
“I am not so sure that what you have said may not be of great value to
us,” said a voice behind them. Muller stood there, looking at Riedau
with a glance almost of defiance. His eyes were again lit up with
the strange fire that shone in them when he was on the trail. The
commissioner shrugged his shoulders, bowed to the departing visitor, and
then turned without an answer to some documents on his desk. There was
silence in the room for a few moments. Finally a gentle voice came from
Muller’s corner again: “Dr. von Riedau?”
The commissioner raised his head and looked around. “Oh, are you still
there?” he asked with a drawl.
Muller knew what this drawl meant. It was the manner adopted by the
amiable commissioner when he was in a mood which was not amiable. And
Muller knew also the cause of the mood. It was his own last remark, the
words he addressed to Bormann. Muller himself recognised the fact
that this remark was out of place, that it was almost an impertinence,
because it was in direct contradiction to a statement made a few moments
before by his superior officer. Also he realised that his remark had
been quite unnecessary, because it was a matter of indifference to the
young man, who was only obeying his employer’s orders in reporting what
he had seen, whether his report was of value or not. Muller had simply
uttered aloud the thought that came into his mind, a habit of his which
years of official training had not yet succeeded in breaking. It was
annoying to himself sometimes, for these half-formed thoughts were mere
instinct--they were the workings of his own genius that made him catch
a suspicion of the truth long before his conscious mind could reason it
out or appreciate its value. But that sort of thing was not popular in
official police life.
“Well,” asked the commissioner, as Muller did not continue, “your tongue
is not usually so slow--as you have proved just a few moments back--what
were you going to say now?”
“I was about to ask your pardon for my interruption. It was unnecessary,
I should not have said it.”
“Well, I realise that you know better yourself,” said Riedau, now quite
friendly again, “and now what else have you to say? Do you really think
that what the young man has just told us is of any value at all for this
case?”
“It seems to me as if it might be of value to us.”
“Oh, it seems to you, eh? Your imagination is working overtime again,
Muller,” said the commissioner with a laugh. But the laugh turned to
seriousness as he realised how many times Muller’s imagination
had helped the clumsy official mind to its proudest triumphs. The
commissioner was an intelligent man, as far as his lights went, and he
was a good-hearted man. He rose from his chair and walked over to where
the detective stood. “You needn’t look so embarrassed, Muller,” he said.
“There is no cause for you to feel bad about it. And--I am quite willing
to admit that my remark just now was unnecessary. You may give your
imagination full rein, we can trust to your intelligence and your
devotion to duty to keep it from unnecessary flights. So curbed, I know
it will be of as much assistance to us this time as it always has been.”
Muller’s quiet face lit up, and his eyes shone in a happiness that made
him appear ten years younger. That was one of the strange things about
Joseph Muller. This genius in his profession was in all other ways a
man of such simplicity of heart and bearing, that the slightest word of
approval from one of the officials for whom he worked could make him as
happy as praise from the teacher will make a schoolboy. The moments when
he was in command of any difficult case, when these same superiors would
wait for a word from him, when high officials would take his orders or
would be obliged to acknowledge that without him they were helpless,
these moments were forgotten as soon as the problem was solved and
Muller became again the simple subordinate and the obscure member of the
Imperial police force.
When Muller left the commissioner’s room and walked through the
outer office, one of the clerks looked after him and whispered to his
companion: “Do you think he’s found the Hietzing murderer yet?” The
other answered: “I don’t think so, but he looks as if he had found a
clue. He’ll find him sooner or later. He always does.”
Muller did not hear these words, although they also would have pleased
him. He walked slowly down the stairs murmuring to himself: “I think I
was right just the same. We are following a false trail.”