Commissioner Von Riedau sat at his desk late that evening, finishing
up some important papers. The quiet of an undisturbed night watch had
settled down on the busy police station. An occasional low murmur of
whispering voices floated up from the guardroom below, but otherwise the
stillness was broken only by the scratching of the commissioner’s pen
and the rustle of the paper as he turned the leaves. It was a silence so
complete that a light step on the stair outside and the gentle turning
of the doorknob was heard distinctly and the commissioner looked up with
almost a start to see who was coming to his room so late. Joseph Muller
stood in the open door, awaiting his chief’s official recognition.
“Oh! it’s you, Muller. So late? Come in. Anything new?” asked the
commissioner. “Have you succeeded in drawing a confession from that
stubborn tramp yet? You’ve been interviewing him, I take it?”
“Yes, I had a long talk with Johann Knoll to-day.”
“Well, that ought to help matters along. Has he confessed? What could
you get out of him?”
“Nothing, or almost nothing more than he told us here in the station,
sir.
“The man’s incredibly stubborn,” said the commissioner. “If he could
only be made to understand that a free confession would benefit him more
than any one else! Well, don’t look so down-cast about it, Muller. This
thing is going to take longer than we thought at first for such a simple
affair. But it’s only a question of time until the man comes to his
senses. You’ll get him to talk soon. You always do. And even if you
should fail here, this matter is not so very important, when we think of
all the other things you have done.” Muller, standing front of the desk,
shook his head sadly.
“But I haven’t failed here, sir. More’s the pity, I had almost said.”
“What!” The commissioner looked up in surprise. “I thought you just said
that you couldn’t get anything more out of the accused.”
“Knoll has told us all he knows, sir. He did not murder Leopold
Winkler.”
“Hmph!” The commissioner’s exclamation had a touch of acidity in it.
“Then, if he didn’t murder him, who did?”
“Herbert Thorne, painter, living in the Thorne mansion in B. Street,
Hietzing, now in Venice, Hotel Danieli. I ask for a warrant for his
arrest, sir, and orders to start for Venice on the early morning express
to-morrow.”
“Muller!... what the deuce does all this mean?” The commissioner sprang
up, his face flushing deeply as he leaned over the desk staring at the
sad quiet face of the little man opposite. “What are you talking about?
What does all this mean?”
“It means, sir, that we now know who committed the murder in Hietzing.
Johann Knoll is innocent of anything more than the theft confessed by
himself. He took the purse and watch from the senseless form of the just
murdered man. The body was warm and still supple and the tramp supposed
the victim to be merely intoxicated. His story was in every respect
true, sir.”
The commissioner flushed still deeper. “And who do you say murdered this
man?”
“Herbert Thorne, sir.
“But Thorne! I know of him... have even a slight personal acquaintance
with him. Thorne is a rich man, of excellent family. Why should he
murder and rob an obscure clerk like this Winkler?”
“He did not rob him sir, Knoll did that.”
“Oh, yes. But why should Thorne commit murder on this man who scarcely
touched his life at any point... It’s incredible! Muller! Muller! are
you sure you are not letting your imagination run away with you again?
It is a serious thing to make such an accusation against any man, much
less against a man in Thorne’s position. Are you sure of what you are
saying?” The commissioner’s excitement rendered him almost inarticulate.
The shock of the surprise occasioned by the detective’s words produced a
feeling of irritation... a phenomenon not unusual in the minds of worthy
but pedantic men of affairs when confronted by a startling new thought.
“I am quite sure of what I am saying, sir. I have just heard the
confession of one who might be called an accomplice of the murderer.”
“It is incredible... incredible! An accomplice you say?... who is
this accomplice? Might it not be some one who has a grudge against
Thorne--some one who is trying to purposely mislead you?”
“I am not so easily deceived or misled, sir. Every evidence points to
Thorne, and the confession I have just heard was made by a woman who
loves him, who has loved and cared for him from his babyhood. There is
not the slightest doubt of it, sir.”
Muller moved a step nearer the desk, gazing firmly in the eyes of the
excited commissioner. The sadness on the detective’s face had given way
to a gleam of pride that flushed his sallow cheek and brightened his
grey eyes. It was one of those rare moments when Muller allowed
himself a feeling of triumph in his own power, in spite of official
subordination and years of habit. His slight frame seemed to grow taller
and broader as he faced the Chief with an air of quiet determination
that made him at once master of the situation. His voice was as low as
ever but it took on a keen incisive note that compelled attention, as he
continued: “Herbert Thorne is the murderer of Leopold Winkler. Now that
he knows an innocent man is under accusation for his deed it is only
a question of time before he will come himself to confess. He will
doubtless make this confession to me, if I go to Venice to see him, and
to bring him back to trial.”
The commissioner could doubt no longer. Pedantic though he was,
Commissioner von Riedau possessed sufficient insight to know the truth
when it was presented to him with such conviction, and also sufficient
insight to have recognised the gifts of the man before him. “But why...
why?” he murmured, sinking back into his chair, and shaking his head in
bewilderment.
“Winkler was a miserable scoundrel, sir, a blackmailer. Thorne did only
what any decent man would have felt like doing in his place. But justice
must be done.”
Muller’s elation vanished and a deep sigh welled up from his heart. The
commissioner nodded slowly, and glanced across the desk almost timidly.
This case had appeared to be so simple, and suddenly the hidden deeps
of a dark mystery had opened before him, deeps already sounded by
the little man here who had gone so quietly about his work while the
official police, represented in this case by Commissioner von Riedau
himself, had sat calmly waiting for an innocent man to confess to a
crime he had not committed! It was humiliating. The commissioner flushed
again and his eyes sank to the floor.
“Tell me what you know, Muller,” he said finally.
Muller told the story of his experiences in the Thorne mansion, told of
the slight clues which led him to take an interest in the house and its
inmates, until finally the truth began to glimmer up out of the depths.
The commissioner listened with eager interest. “Then you believed this
elaborate yarn told by the tramp?” he interrupted once, at the beginning
of the narrative.
“Why, yes, sir, just because it was so elaborate. A man like Knoll would
not have had the mind to invent such a story. It must have been true, on
the face of it.”
The commissioner’s eyes sank again, and he did not speak until the
detective had reached the end of his story. Then he opened a drawer in
his desk and took out a bundle of official blank-forms.
“It is wonderful! Wonderful! Muller, this case will go on record as one
of your finest achievements--and we thought it was so simple.”
“Oh, indeed, sir, chance favoured me at every turn,” replied Muller
modestly.
“There is no such thing as chance,” said the commissioner. “We might as
well be honest with ourselves. Any one might have seen, doubtless
did see, all the things you saw, but no one else had the insight
to recognise their value, nor the skill to follow them up to such a
conclusion. But it’s a sad case, a sad case. I never wrote a warrant
with a heavier heart. Thorne is a true-hearted gentleman, while the
scoundrel he killed...”
“Yes, sir, I feel that way about it myself. I can confess now that there
was one moment when I was ready to--well, just to say nothing.
“And let us blunder on in our official stupidity and blindness?”
interrupted the commissioner, a faint smile breaking the gravity of his
face. “We certainly gave you every opportunity.”
“But there’s an innocent man accused--suffering fear of death--justice
must be done. But, sir,” Muller took the warrant the commissioner handed
across the table to him. “May I not make it as easy as I can for Mr.
Thorne--I mean, bring him here with as little publicity as possible? His
wife is with him in Venice.”
“Poor little woman, it’s terrible! Do whatever you think best, Muller.
You’re a queer mixture. Here you’ve hounded this man down, followed hot
on his trail when not a soul but yourself connected him in any way with
the murder. And now you’re sorry for him! A soft heart like yours is a
dangerous possession for a police detective, Muller. It’s no aid to our
business.”
“No, sir, I know that.”
“Well take care it doesn’t run away with you this time. Don’t let
Herbert Thorne escape, however much pity you may feel for him.”
“I doubt if he’ll want to sir, as long as another is in prison for his
crime.
“But he may make his confession and then try to escape the disgrace.”
“Yes, sir, I’ve thought of that. That’s why I want to go to Venice
myself. And then, there’s the poor young wife, he must think of her when
the desire comes to end his own life...”
“Yes! Yes! This terrible thing has shaken us both up more than a little.
I feel exhausted. You look tired yourself, Muller. Go home now, and get
some rest for your early start. Good-night.”
“Good-night, sir.”