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THE CASE OF THE POOL OF BLOOD IN THE PASTOR’S STUDY
By Grace Isabel Colbron and Augusta Groner
INTRODUCTION TO JOE MULLER
Joseph Muller, Secret Service detective of the Imperial Austrian police,
is one of the great experts in his profession. In personality he differs
greatly from other famous detectives. He has neither the impressive
authority of Sherlock Holmes, nor the keen brilliancy of Monsieur Lecoq.
Muller is a small, slight, plain-looking man, of indefinite age, and of
much humbleness of mien. A naturally retiring, modest disposition, and
two external causes are the reasons for Muller’s humbleness of manner,
which is his chief characteristic. One cause is the fact that in early
youth a miscarriage of justice gave him several years in prison, an
experience which cast a stigma on his name and which made it impossible
for him, for many years after, to obtain honest employment. But the
world is richer, and safer, by Muller’s early misfortune. For it was
this experience which threw him back on his own peculiar talents for
a livelihood, and drove him into the police force. Had he been able to
enter any other profession, his genius might have been stunted to a mere
pastime, instead of being, as now, utilised for the public good.
Then, the red tape and bureaucratic etiquette which attaches to every
governmental department, puts the secret service men of the Imperial
police on a par with the lower ranks of the subordinates. Muller’s
official rank is scarcely much higher than that of a policeman, although
kings and councillors consult him and the Police Department realises to
the full what a treasure it has in him. But official red tape, and his
early misfortune... prevent the giving of any higher official standing
to even such a genius. Born and bred to such conditions, Muller
understands them, and his natural modesty of disposition asks for no
outward honours, asks for nothing but an income sufficient for his
simple needs, and for aid and opportunity to occupy himself in the way
he most enjoys.
Joseph Muller’s character is a strange mixture. The kindest-hearted man
in the world, he is a human bloodhound when once the lure of the trail
has caught him. He scarcely eats or sleeps when the chase is on, he does
not seem to know human weakness nor fatigue, in spite of his frail body.
Once put on a case his mind delves and delves until it finds a clue,
then something awakes within him, a spirit akin to that which holds
the bloodhound nose to trail, and he will accomplish the apparently
impossible, he will track down his victim when the entire machinery of
a great police department seems helpless to discover anything. The high
chiefs and commissioners grant a condescending permission when Muller
asks, “May I do this? ... or may I handle this case this way?”
both parties knowing all the while that it is a farce, and that the
department waits helpless until this humble little man saves its honour
by solving some problem before which its intricate machinery has stood
dazed and puzzled.
This call of the trail is something that is stronger than anything else
in Muller’s mentality, and now and then it brings him into conflict with
the department,... or with his own better nature. Sometimes his unerring
instinct discovers secrets in high places, secrets which the Police
Department is bidden to hush up and leave untouched. Muller is then
taken off the case, and left idle for a while if he persists in his
opinion as to the true facts. And at other times, Muller’s own warm
heart gets him into trouble. He will track down his victim, driven by
the power in his soul which is stronger than all volition; but when he
has this victim in the net, he will sometimes discover him to be a
much finer, better man than the other individual, whose wrong at this
particular criminal’s hand set in motion the machinery of justice.
Several times that has happened to Muller, and each time his heart got
the better of his professional instincts, of his practical common-sense,
too, perhaps,... at least as far as his own advancement was concerned,
and he warned the victim, defeating his own work. This peculiarity of
Muller’s character caused his undoing at last, his official undoing that
is, and compelled his retirement from the force. But his advice is often
sought unofficially by the Department, and to those who know, Muller’s
hand can be seen in the unravelling of many a famous case.
The following stories are but a few of the many interesting cases that
have come within the experience of this great detective. But they give
a fair portrayal of Muller’s peculiar method of working, his looking on
himself as merely an humble member of the Department, and the comedy
of his acting under “official orders” when the Department is in reality
following out his directions.
JOE MULLER: DETECTIVE
THE CASE OF THE POOL OF BLOOD IN THE PASTOR’S STUDY
The sun rose slowly over the great bulk of the Carpathian mountains
lying along the horizon, weird giant shapes in the early morning mist.
It was still very quiet in the village. A cock crowed here and there,
and swallows flew chirping close to the ground, darting swiftly about
preparing for their higher flight. Janci the shepherd, apparently the
only human being already up, stood beside the brook at the point where
the old bridge spans the streamlet, still turbulent from the mountain
floods. Janci was cutting willows to make his Margit a new basket.
Once the shepherd raised his head from his work, for he thought he heard
a loud laugh somewhere in the near distance. But all seemed silent and
he turned back to his willows. The beauty of the landscape about him was
much too familiar a thing that he should have felt or seen its
charm. The violet hue of the distant woods, the red gleaming of the
heather-strewn moor, with its patches of swamp from which the slow
mist arose, the pretty little village with its handsome old church and
attractive rectory--Janci had known it so long that he never stopped to
realise how very charming, in its gentle melancholy, it all was.
Also, Janci did not know that this little village of his home had once
been a flourishing city, and that an invasion of the Turks had razed
it to the ground leaving, as by a miracle, only the church to tell of
former glories.
The sun rose higher and higher. And now the village awoke to its daily
life. Voices of cattle and noises of poultry were heard about the
houses, and men and women began their accustomed round of tasks. Janci
found that he had gathered enough willow twigs by this time. He tied
them in a loose bundle and started on his homeward way.
His path led through wide-stretching fields and vineyards past a little
hill, some distance from the village, on which stood a large house. It
was not a pleasant house to look at, not a house one would care to live
in, even if one did not know its use, for it looked bare and repellant,
covered with its ugly yellow paint, and with all the windows secured
with heavy iron bars. The trees that surrounded it were tall and
thick-foliaged, casting an added gloom over the forbidding appearance
of the house. At the foot of the hill was a high iron fence, cutting off
what lay behind it from all the rest of the world. For this ugly yellow
house enclosed in its walls a goodly sum of hopeless human misery and
misfortune. It was an insane asylum.
For twenty years now, the asylum had stood on its hill, a source of
superstitious terror to the villagers, but at the same time a source of
added income. It meant money for them, for it afforded a constant and
ever-open market for their farm products and the output of their home
industry. But every now and then a scream or a harsh laugh would ring
out from behind those barred windows, and those in the village who could
hear, would shiver and cross themselves. Shepherd Janci had little fear
of the big house. His little hut cowered close by the high iron gates,
and he had a personal acquaintance with most of the patients, with all
of the attendants, and most of all, with the kind elderly physician who
was the head of the establishment. Janci knew them all, and had a kind
word equally for all. But otherwise he was a silent man, living much
within himself.
When the shepherd reached his little home, his wife came to meet him
with a call to breakfast. As they sat down at the table a shadow moved
past the little window. Janci looked up. “Who was that?” asked Margit,
looking up from her folded hands. She had just finished her murmured
prayer.
“Pastor’s Liska,” replied Janci indifferently, beginning his meal.
(Liska was the local abbreviation for Elizabeth.)
“In such a hurry?” thought the shepherd’s wife. Her curiosity would not
let her rest. “I hope His Reverence isn’t ill again,” she remarked after
a while. Janci did not hear her, for he was very busy picking a fly out
of his milk cup.
“Do you think Liska was going for the old man?” began Margit again after
a few minutes.
The “old man” was the name given by the people of the village, more as
a term of endearment than anything else, to the generally loved and
respected physician who was the head of the insane asylum. He had become
general mentor and oracle of all the village and was known and loved by
man, woman and child.
“It’s possible,” answered Janci.
“His Reverence didn’t look very well yesterday, or maybe the old
housekeeper has the gout again.”
Janci gave a grunt which might have meant anything. The shepherd was a
silent man. Being alone so much had taught him to find his own thoughts
sufficient company. Ten minutes passed in silence since Margit’s last
question, then some one went past the window. There were two people this
time, Liska and the old doctor. They were walking very fast, running
almost. Margit sprang up and hurried to the door to look after them.
Janci sat still in his place, but he had laid aside his spoon and with
wide eyes was staring ahead of him, murmuring, “It’s the pastor this
time; I saw him--just as I did the others.”
“Shepherd, the inn-keeper wants to see you, there’s something the matter
with his cow.” Count ---- a young man, came from the other direction
and pushed in at the door past Margit, who stood there staring up the
road.
Janci was so deep in his own thoughts that he apparently did not hear
the boy’s words. At all events he did not answer them, but himself asked
an unexpected question--a question that was not addressed to the others
in the room, but to something out and beyond them. It was a strange
question and it came from the lips of a man whose mind was not with his
body at that moment--whose mind saw what others did not see.
“Who will be the next to go? And who will be our pastor now?”
These were Janci’s words.
“What are you talking about, shepherd? Is it another one of your
visions?” exclaimed the young fellow who stood there before him. Janci
rubbed his hands over his eyes and seemed to come down to earth with a
start.
“Oh, is that you, Ferenz? What do you want of me?”
The boy gave his message again, and Janci nodded good-humouredly and
followed him out of the house. But both he and his young companion were
very thoughtful as they plodded along the way. The boy did not dare
to ask any questions, for he knew that the shepherd was not likely to
answer. There was a silent understanding among the villagers that no one
should annoy Janci in any way, for they stood in a strange awe of him,
although he was the most good-natured mortal under the sun.
While the shepherd and the boy walked toward the inn, the old doctor and
Liska had hurried onward to the rectory. They were met at the door by
the aged housekeeper, who staggered down the path wringing her hands,
unable to give voice to anything but inarticulate expressions of grief
and terror. The rest of the household and the farm hands were gathered
in a frightened group in the great courtyard of the stately rectory
which had once been a convent building. The physician hurried up the
stairs into the pastor’s apartments. These were high sunny and airy
rooms with arched ceilings, deep window seats, great heavy doors and
handsomely ornamented stoves. The simple modern furniture appeared still
more plain and common-place by contrast with the huge spaces of the
building.
In one of the rooms a gendarme was standing beside the window. The man
saluted the physician, then shrugged his shoulders with an expression of
hopelessness. The doctor returned a silent greeting and passed through
into the next apartment. The old man was paler than usual and his face
bore an expression of pain and surprise, the same expression that showed
in the faces of those gathered downstairs. The room he now entered was
large like the others, the walls handsomely decorated, and every corner
of it was flooded with sunshine. There were two men in this room, the
village magistrate and the notary. Their expression, as they held out
their hands to the doctor, showed that his coming brought great relief.
And there was something else in the room, something that drew the eyes
of all three of the men immediately after their silent greeting.
This was a great pool of blood which lay as a hideous stain on the
otherwise clean yellow-painted floor. The blood must have flowed from
a dreadful wound, from a severed artery even, the doctor thought, there
was such a quantity of it. It had already dried and darkened, making its
terrifying ugliness the more apparent.
“This is the third murder in two years,” said the magistrate in a low
voice.
“And the most mysterious of all of them,” added the clerk.
“Yes, it is,” said the doctor. “And there is not a trace of the body,
you say?--or a clue as to where they might have taken the dead--or dying
man?”
With these words he looked carefully around the room, but there was no
more blood to be seen anywhere. Any spot would have been clearly visible
on the light-coloured floor. There was nothing else to tell of the
horrible crime that had been committed here, nothing but the great,
hideous, brown-red spot in the middle of the room.
“Have you made a thorough search for the body?” asked the doctor.
The magistrate shook his head. “No, I have done nothing to speak of yet.
We have been waiting for you. There is a gendarme at the gate; no one
can go in or out without being seen.”
“Very well, then, let us begin our search now.”
The magistrate and his companion turned towards the door of the room but
the doctor motioned them to come back. “I see you do not know the house
as well as I do,” he said, and led the way towards a niche in the side
of the wall, which was partially filled by a high bookcase.
“Ah--that is the entrance of the passage to the church?” asked the
magistrate in surprise.
“Yes, this is it. The door is not locked.”
“You mean you believe--”
“That the murderers came in from the church? Why not? It is quite
possible.”
“To think of such a thing!” exclaimed the notary with a shake of his
head.
The doctor laughed bitterly. “To those who are planning a murder, a
church is no more than any other place. There is a bolt here as you see.
I will close this bolt now. Then we can leave the room knowing that no
one can enter it without being seen.”
The simple furniture of the study, a desk, a sofa, a couple of chairs
and several bookcases, gave no chance of any hiding place either for the
body of the victim or for the murderers. When the men left the room
the magistrate locked the door and put the key in his own pocket. The
gendarme in the neighbouring apartment was sent down to stand in the
courtyard at the entrance to the house. The sexton, a little hunchback,
was ordered to remain in the vestry at the other end of the passage from
the church to the house.
Then the thorough search of the house began. Every room in both stories,
every corner of the attic and the cellar, was looked over thoroughly.
The stable, the barns, the garden and even the well underwent a close
examination. There was no trace of a body anywhere, not even a trail
of blood, nothing which would give the slightest clue as to how the
murderers had entered, how they had fled, or what they had done with
their victim.
The great gate of the courtyard was closed. The men, reinforced by the
farm hands, entered the church, while Liska and the dairy-maids huddled
in the servants’ dining-room in a trembling group around the old
housekeeper. The search in the church as well as in the vestry was
equally in vain. There was no trace to be found there any more than in
the house.
Meanwhile, during these hours of anxious seeking, the rumour of another
terrible crime had spread through the village, and a crowd that grew
from minute to minute gathered in front of the closed gates to the
rectory, in front of the church, the closed doors of which did not open
although it was a high feast day. The utter silence from the steeple,
where the bells hung mute, added to the spreading terror. Finally the
doctor came out from the rectory, accompanied by the magistrate, and
announced to the waiting villagers that their venerable pastor had
disappeared under circumstances which left no doubt that he had met his
death at the hand of a murderer. The peasants listened in shuddering
silence, the men pale-faced, the women sobbing aloud with frightened
children hanging to their skirts. Then at the magistrate’s order, the
crowd dispersed slowly, going to their homes, while a messenger set off
to the near-by county seat.
It was a weird, sad Easter Monday. Even nature seemed to feel the
pressure of the brooding horror, for heavy clouds piled up towards noon
and a chill wind blew fitfully from the north, bending the young corn
and the creaking tree-tops, and moaning about the straw-covered roofs.
Then an icy cold rain descended on the village, sending the children,
the only humans still unconscious of the fear that had come on them all,
into the houses to play quietly in the corner by the hearth.
There was nothing else spoken of wherever two or three met together
throughout the village except this dreadful, unexplainable thing
that had happened in the rectory. The little village inn was full
to overflowing and the hum of voices within was like the noise of an
excited beehive. Everyone had some new explanation, some new guess, and
it was not until the notary arrived, looking even more important than
usual, that silence fell upon the excited throng. But the expectations
aroused by his coming were not fulfilled. The notary knew no more than
the others although he had been one of the searchers in the rectory.
But he was in no haste to disclose his ignorance, and sat wrapped in a
dignified silence until some one found courage to question him.
“Was there nothing stolen?” he was asked.
“No, nothing as far as we can tell yet. But if it was the gypsies--as
may be likely--they are content with so little that it would not be
noticed.”
“Gypsies?” exclaimed one man scornfully. “It doesn’t have to be gypsies,
we’ve got enough tramps and vagabonds of our own. Didn’t they kill the
pedlar for the sake of a bag of tobacco, and old Katiza for a couple of
hens?”
“Why do you rake up things that happened twenty years ago?” cried
another over the table. “You’d better tell us rather who killed Red
Betty, and pulled Janos, the smith’s farm hand, down into the swamp?”
“Yes, or who cut the bridge supports, when the brook was in flood, so
that two good cows broke through and drowned?”
“Yes, indeed, if we only knew what band of robbers and villains it is
that is ravaging our village.”
“And they haven’t stopped yet, evidently.”
“This is the worst misfortune of all! What will our poor do now that
they have murdered our good pastor, who cared for us all like a father?”
“He gave all he had to the poor, he kept nothing for himself.”
“Yes, indeed, that’s how it was. And now we can’t even give this good
man Christian burial.”
“Shepherd Janci knew this morning early that we were going to have a new
pastor,” whispered the landlord in the notary’s ear. The latter looked
up astonished. “Who said so?” he asked.
“My boy Ferenz, who went to fetch him about seven o’clock. One of my
cows was sick.”
Ferenz was sent for and told his story. The men listened with
great interest, and the smith, a broad-shouldered elderly man, was
particularly eager to hear, as he had always believed in the shepherd’s
power of second sight. The tailor, who was more modern-minded, laughed
and made his jokes at this. But the smith laid one mighty hand on the
other’s shoulder, almost crushing the tailor’s slight form under its
weight, and said gravely: “Friend, do you be silent in this matter.
You’ve come from other parts and you do not know of things that have
happened here in days gone by. Janci can do more than take care of his
sheep. One day, when my little girl was playing in the street, he said
to me, ‘Have a care of Maruschka, smith!’ and three days later the child
was dead. The evening before Red Betty was murdered he saw her in a
vision lying in a coffin in front of her door. He told it to the sexton,
whom he met in the fields; and next morning they found Betty dead. And
there are many more things that I could tell you, but what’s the use;
when a man won’t believe it’s only lost talk to try to make him. But
one thing you should know: when Janci stares ahead of him without seeing
what’s in front of him, then the whole village begins to wonder what’s
going to happen, for Janci knows far more than all the rest of us put
together.”
The smith’s grave, deep voice filled the room and the others listened
in a silence that gave assent to his words. He had scarcely finished
speaking, however, when there was a noise of galloping hoofs and rapidly
rolling wagon wheels. A tall brake drawn by four handsome horses dashed
past in a whirlwind.
“It’s the Count--the Count and the district judge,” said the landlord
in a tone of respect. The notary made a grab at his hat and umbrella and
hurried from the room. “That shows how much they thought of our pastor,”
continued the landlord proudly. “For the Count himself has come and
with four horses, too, to get here the more quickly. His Reverence was a
great friend of the Countess.”
“They didn’t make so much fuss over the pedlar and Betty,” murmured
the cobbler, who suffered from a perpetual grouch. But he followed the
others, who paid their scores hastily and went out into the streets
that they might watch from a distance at least what was going on in
the rectory. The landlord bustled about the inn to have everything in
readiness in case the gentlemen should honour him by taking a meal,
and perhaps even lodgings, at his house. At the gate of the rectory the
coachman and the maid Liska stood to receive the newcomers, just as five
o’clock was striking from the steeple.
It should have been still quite light, but it was already dusk, for the
clouds hung heavy. The rain had ceased, but a heavy wind came up which
tore the delicate petals of the blossoms from the fruit trees and
strewed them like snow on the ground beneath. The Count, who was the
head of one of the richest and most aristocratic families in Hungary,
threw off his heavy fur coat and hastened up the stairs at the top of
which his old friend and confidant, the venerable pastor, usually came
to meet him. To-day it was only the local magistrate who stood there,
bowing deeply.
“This is incredible, incredible!” exclaimed the Count.
“It is, indeed, sir,” said the man, leading the magnate through the
dining-room into the pastor’s study, where, as far as could be seen, the
murder had been committed. They were joined by the district judge, who
had remained behind to give an order sending a carriage to the nearest
railway station. The judge, too, was serious and deeply shocked, for he
also had greatly admired and revered the old pastor. The stately rectory
had been the scene of many a jovial gathering when the lord of the manor
had made it a centre for a day’s hunting with his friends. The bearers
of some of the proudest names in all Hungary had gathered in the
high-arched rooms to laugh with the venerable pastor and to sample
the excellent wines in his cellar. These wines, which the gentlemen
themselves would send in as presents to the master of the rectory, would
be carefully preserved for their own enjoyment. Not a landed proprietor
for many leagues around but knew and loved the old pastor, who had now
so strangely disappeared under such terrifying circumstances.
“Well, we might as well begin our examination,” remarked the Count.
“Although if Dr. Orszay’s sharp eyes did not find anything, I doubt very
much if we will. You have asked the doctor to come here again, haven’t
you?”
“Yes, your Grace! As soon as I saw you coming I sent the sexton to the
asylum.” Then the men went in again into the room which had been the
scene of the mysterious crime. The wind rattled the open window and blew
out its white curtains. It was already dark in the corners of the room,
one could see but indistinctly the carvings of the wainscoting. The
light backs of the books, or the gold letters on the darker bindings,
made spots of brightness in the gloom. The hideous pool of blood in the
centre of the floor was still plainly to be seen.
“Judging by the loss of blood, death must have come quickly.”
“There was no struggle, evidently, for everything in the room was in
perfect order when we entered it.”
“There is not even a chair misplaced. His Bible is there on the desk, he
may have been preparing for to-day’s sermon.”
“Yes, that is the case; because see, here are some notes in his
handwriting.”
The Count and Judge von Kormendy spoke these sentences at intervals as
they made their examination of the room. The local magistrate was able
to answer one or two simpler questions, but for the most part he could
only shrug his shoulders in helplessness. Nothing had been seen or heard
that was at all unusual during the night in the rectory. When the old
housekeeper was called up she could say nothing more than this. Indeed,
it was almost impossible for the old woman to say anything, her voice
choked with sobs at every second word. None of the household force had
noticed anything unusual, or could remember anything at all that would
throw light on this mystery.
“Well, then, sir, we might just as well sit down and wait for the
detective’s arrival,” said the judge.
“You are waiting for some one besides the doctor?” asked the local
magistrate timidly.
“Yes, His Grace telegraphed to Budapest,” answered the district judge,
looking at his watch. “And if the train is on time, the man we are
waiting for ought to be here in an hour. You sent the carriage to the
station, didn’t you? Is the driver reliable?”
“Yes, sir, he is a dependable man,” said the old housekeeper.
Dr. Orszay entered the room just then and the Count introduced him to
the district judge, who was still a stranger to him.
“I fear, Count, that our eyes will serve but little in discovering the
truth of this mystery,” said the doctor.
The nobleman nodded. “I agree with you,” he replied. “And I have sent
for sharper eyes than either yours or mine.”
The doctor looked his question, and the Count continued: “When the news
came to me I telegraphed to Pest for a police detective, telling them
that the case was peculiar and urgent. I received an answer as I stopped
at the station on my way here. This is it: ‘Detective Joseph Muller from
Vienna in Budapest by chance. Have sent him to take your case.’”
“Muller?” exclaimed Dr. Orszay. “Can it be the celebrated Muller, the
most famous detective of the Austrian police? That would indeed be a
blessing.”
“I hope and believe that it is,” said the Count gravely. “I have heard
of this man and we need such a one here that we may find the source of
these many misfortunes which have overwhelmed our peaceful village for
two years past. It is indeed a stroke of good luck that has led a man
of such gifts into our neighbourhood at a time when he is so greatly
needed. I believe personally that it is the same person or persons who
have been the perpetrators of all these outrages and I intend once for
all to put a stop to it, let it cost what it may.”
“If any one can discover the truth it will be Muller,” said the district
judge. “It was I who told the Count how fortunate we were that this man,
who is known to the police throughout Austria and far beyond the borders
of our kingdom, should have chanced to be in Budapest and free to come
to us when we called. You and I”--he turned with a smile to the local
magistrate--“you and I can get away with the usual cases of local
brutality hereabouts. But the cunning that is at the bottom of these
crimes is one too many for us.”
The men had taken their places around the great dining-table. The old
housekeeper had crept out again, her terror making her forget her usual
hospitality. And indeed it would not have occurred to the guests to ask
or even to wish for any refreshment. The maid brought a lamp, which sent
its weak rays scarcely beyond the edges of the big table. The four men
sat in silence for some time.
“I suppose it would be useless to ask who has been coming and going from
the rectory the last few days?” began the Count.
“Oh, yes, indeed, sir,” said the district judge with a sigh. “For if
this murderer is the same who committed the other crimes he must live
here in or near the village, and therefore must be known to all and not
likely to excite suspicion.”
“I beg your pardon, sir,” put in the doctor. “There must be at least two
of them. One man alone could not have carried off the farm hand who was
killed to the swamp where his body was found. Nor could one man alone
have taken away the bloody body of the pastor. Our venerable friend was
a man of size and weight, as you know, and one man alone could not have
dragged his body from the room without leaving an easily seen trail.”
The judge blushed, but he nodded in affirmation to the doctor’s words.
This thought had not occurred to him before. In fact, the judge was more
notable for his good will and his love of justice rather than for his
keen intelligence. He was as well aware of this as was any one else,
and he was heartily glad that the Count had sent to the capital for
reinforcements.
Some time more passed in deep silence. Each of the men was occupied with
his own thoughts. A sigh broke the silence now and then, and a slight
movement when one or the other drew out his watch or raised his head to
look at the door. Finally, the sound of a carriage outside was heard.
The men sprang up.
The driver’s voice was heard, then steps which ascended the stairs lowly
and lightly, audible only because the stillness was so great.
The door opened and a small, slight, smooth-shaven man with a gentle
face and keen grey eyes stood on the threshold. “I am Joseph Muller,” he
said with a low, soft voice.
The four men in the room looked at him in astonishment.
“This simple-looking individual is the man that every one is afraid of?”
thought the Count, as he walked forward and held out his hand to the
stranger.
“I sent for you, Mr. Muller,” said the magnate, conscious of his stately
size and appearance, as well as of his importance in the presence of a
personage who so little looked what his great fame might have led one to
expect.
“Then you are Count ----?” answered Muller gently. “I was in Budapest,
having just finished a difficult case which took me there. They told me
that a mysterious crime had happened in your neighbourhood, and sent me
here to take charge of it. You will pardon any ignorance I may show as a
stranger to this locality. I will do my best and it may be possible that
I can help you.”
The Count introduced the other gentlemen in order and they sat down
again at the table.
“And now what is it you want me for, Count?” asked Muller.
“There was a murder committed in this house,” answered the Count.
“When?”
“Last night.”
“Who is the victim?”
“Our pastor.”
“How was he killed?”
“We do not know.”
“You are not a physician, then?” asked Muller, turning to Orszay.
“Yes, I am,” answered the latter.
“Well?”
“The body is missing,” said Orszay, somewhat sharply.
“Missing?” Muller became greatly interested. “Will you please lead me to
the scene of the crime?” he said, rising from his chair.
The others led him into the next room, the magistrate going ahead with
a lamp. The judge called for more lights and the group stood around the
pool of blood on the floor of the study. Muller’s arms were crossed on
his breast as he stood looking down at the hideous spot. There was no
terror in his eyes, as in those of the others, but only a keen attention
and a lively interest.
“Who has been in this room since the discovery?” he asked.
The doctor replied that only the servants of the immediate household,
the notary, the magistrate, and himself, then later the Count and the
district judge entered the room.
“You are quite certain that no one else has been in here?”
“No, no one else.”
“Will you kindly send for the three servants?” The magistrate left the
room.
“Who else lives in the house?”
“The sexton and the dairymaid.”
“And no one else has left the house to-day or has entered it?”
“No one. The main door has been watched all day by a gendarme.”
“Is there but one door out of this room?”
“No, there is a small door beside that bookcase.”
“Where does it lead to?”
“It leads to a passageway at the end of which there is a stair down into
the vestry.”
Muller gave an exclamation of surprise.
“The vestry as well as the church have neither of them been opened on
the side toward the street.”
“The church or the vestry, you mean,” corrected Muller. “How many doors
have they on the street side?”
“One each.”
“The locks on these doors were in good condition?”
“Yes, they were untouched.”
“Was there anything stolen from the church?”
“No, nothing that we could see.”
“Was the pastor rich?”
“No, he was almost a poor man, for he gave away all that he had.”
“But you were his patron, Count.”
“I was his friend. He was the confidential adviser of myself and
family.”
“This would mean rich presents now and then, would it not?”
“No, that is not the case. Our venerable pastor would take nothing for
himself. He would accept no presents but gifts of money for his poor.”
“Then you do not believe this to have been a murder for the sake of
robbery?”
“No. There was nothing disturbed in any part of the house, no drawers or
cupboards broken open at all.”
Muller smiled. “I have heard it said that your romantic Hungarian
bandits will often be satisfied with the small booty they may find in
the pocket or on the person of their victim.”
“You are right, Mr. Muller. But that is only when they can find nothing
else.”
“Or perhaps if it is a case of revenge.
“It cannot be revenge in this case!”
“The pastor was greatly loved?”
“He was loved and revered.”
“By every one?”
“By every one!” the four men answered at once.
Muller was still a while. His eyes were veiled and his face thoughtful.
Finally he raised his head. “There has been nothing moved or changed in
this room?”
“No--neither here nor anywhere else in the house or the church,”
answered the local magistrate.
“That is good. Now I would like to question the servants.”
Muller had already started for the door, then he turned back into
the room and pointing toward the second door he asked: “Is that door
locked?”
“Yes,” answered the Count. “I found it locked when I examined it myself
a short time ago.”
“It was locked on the inside?”
“Yes, locked on the inside.”
“Very well. Then we have nothing more to do here for the time being. Let
us go back into the dining-room.”
The men returned to the dining-room, Muller last, for he stopped to lock
the door of the study and put the key in his pocket. Then he began his
examination of the servants.
The old housekeeper, who, as usual, was the first to rise in the
household, had also, as usual, rung the bell to waken the other
servants. Then when Liska came downstairs she had sent her up to the
pastor’s room. His bedroom was to the right of the dining-room.
Liska had, as usual, knocked on the door exactly at seven o’clock and
continued knocking for some few minutes without receiving any answer.
Slightly alarmed, the girl had gone back and told the housekeeper that
the pastor did not answer.
Then the old woman asked the coachman to go up and see if anything
was the matter with the reverend gentleman. The man returned in a few
moments, pale and trembling in every limb and apparently struck dumb by
fright. He motioned the women to follow him, and all three crept up
the stairs. The coachman led them first to the pastor’s bed, which was
untouched, and then to the pool of blood in his study. The sight of the
latter frightened the servants so much that they did not notice at first
that there was no sign of the pastor himself, whom they now knew must
have been murdered. When they finally came to themselves sufficiently to
take some action, the man hurried off to call the magistrate, and Liska
ran to the asylum to fetch the old doctor; the pastor’s intimate friend.
The aged housekeeper, trembling in fear, crept back to her own room and
sat there waiting the return of the others.
This was the story of the early morning as told by the three servants,
who had already given their report in much the same words to the Count
on his arrival and also to the magistrate. There was no reason to doubt
the words of either the old housekeeper or of Janos, the coachman, who
had served for more than twenty years in the rectory and whose fidelity
was known. The girl Liska was scarcely eighteen, and her round childish
face and big eyes dimmed with tears, corroborated her story. When they
had told Muller all they knew, the detective sat stroking his chin, and
looking thoughtfully at the floor. Then he raised his head and said,
in a tone of calm friendliness: “Well, good friends, this will do for
to-night. Now, if you will kindly give me a bite to eat and a glass of
some light wine, I’d be very thankful. I have had no food since early
this morning.”
The housekeeper and the maid disappeared, and Janos went to the stable
to harness the Count’s trap.
The magnate turned to the detective. “I thank you once more that you
have come to us. I appreciate it greatly that a stranger to our part of
the country, like yourself, should give his time and strength to this
problem of our obscure little village.”
“There is nothing else calling me, sir,” answered Muller. “And the
Budapest police will explain to headquarters at Vienna if I do not
return at once.”
“Do you understand our tongue sufficiently to deal with these people
here?”
“Oh, yes; there will be no difficulty about that. I have hunted
criminals in Hungary before. And a case of this kind does not usually
call for disguises in which any accent would betray one.”
“It is a strange profession,” said the doctor.
“One gets used to it--like everything else,” answered Muller, with a
gentle smile. “And now I have to thank you gentlemen for your confidence
in me.”
“Which I know you will justify,” said the Count.
Muller shrugged his shoulders: “I haven’t felt anything yet--but it will
come--there’s something in the air.”
The Count smiled at his manner of expressing himself, but all four
of the men had already begun to feel sympathy and respect for this
quiet-mannered little person whose words were so few and whose voice was
so gentle. Something in his grey eyes and in the quiet determination of
his manner made them realise that he had won his fame honestly. With the
enthusiasm of his race the Hungarian Count pressed the detective’s hand
in a warm grasp as he said: “I know that we can trust in you. You will
avenge the death of my old friend and of those others who were killed
here. The doctor and the magistrate will tell you about them to-morrow.
We two will go home now. Telegraph us as soon as anything has happened.
Every one in the village will be ready to help you and of course you can
call on me for funds. Here is something to begin on.” With these words
the Count laid a silk purse full of gold pieces on the table. One more
pressure of the hand and he was gone. The other men also left the room,
following the Count’s lead in a cordial farewell of the detective. They
also shared the nobleman’s feeling that now indeed, with this man to
help them, could the cloud of horror that had hung over the village for
two years, and had culminated in the present catastrophe, be lifted.
The excitement of the Count’s departure had died away and the steps of
the other men on their way to the village had faded in the distance.
There was nothing now to be heard but the rustling of the leaves and the
creaking of the boughs as the trees bent before the onrush of the wind.
Muller stood alone, with folded arms, in the middle of the large room,
letting his sharp eyes wander about the circle of light thrown by the
lamps. He was glad to be alone--for only when he was alone could his
brain do its best work. He took up one of the lamps and opened the door
to the room in which, as far as could be known, the murder had been
committed. He walked in carefully and, setting the lamp on the desk,
examined the articles lying about on it. There was nothing of importance
to be found there. An open Bible and a sheet of paper with notes for the
day’s sermon lay on top of the desk. In the drawers, none of which were
locked, were official papers, books, manuscripts of former sermons, and
a few unimportant personal notes.
The flame of the lamp flickered in the breeze that came from the open
window. But Muller did not close the casement. He wanted to leave
everything just as he had found it until daylight. When he saw that it
was impossible to leave the lamp there he took it up again and left the
room.
“What is the use of being impatient?” he said to himself. “If I move
about in this poor light I will be sure to ruin some possible clue. For
there must be some clue left here. It is impossible for even the most
practiced criminal not to leave some trace of his presence.”
The detective returned to the dining-room, locking the study door
carefully behind him. The maid and the coachman returned, bringing in
an abundant supper, and Muller sat down to do justice to the many good
things on the tray. When the maid returned to take away the dishes
she inquired whether she should put the guest chamber in order for the
detective. He told her not to go to any trouble for his sake, that he
would sleep in the bed in the neighbouring room.
“You going to sleep in there?” said the girl, horrified.
“Yes, my child, and I think I will sleep well to-night. I feel very
tired.” Liska carried the things out, shaking her head in surprise at
this thin little man who did not seem to know what it was to be afraid.
Half an hour later the rectory was in darkness. Before he retired,
Muller had made a careful examination of the pastor’s bedroom. Nothing
was disturbed anywhere, and it was evident that the priest had not made
any preparations for the night, but was still at work at his desk in
the study when death overtook him. When he came to this conclusion, the
detective went to bed and soon fell asleep.
In his little hut near the asylum gates, shepherd Janci slept as sound
as usual. But he was dreaming and he spoke in his sleep. There was no
one to hear him, for his faithful Margit was snoring loudly. Snatches
of sentences and broken words came from Janci’s lips: “The hand--the big
hand--I see it--at his throat--the face--the yellow face--it laughs--”
Next morning the children on their way to school crept past the rectory
with wide eyes and open mouths. And the grown people spoke in lower
tones when their work led them past the handsome old house. It had once
been their pride, but now it was a place of horror to them. The old
housekeeper had succumbed to her fright and was very ill. Liska went
about her work silently, and the farm servants walked more heavily and
chattered less than they had before. The hump-backed sexton, who had not
been allowed to enter the church and therefore had nothing to do, made
an early start for the inn, where he spent most of the day telling what
little he knew to the many who made an excuse to follow him there.
The only calm and undisturbed person in the rectory household was
Muller. He had made a thorough examination of the entire scene of the
murder, but had not found anything at all. Of one thing alone was he
certain: the murderer had come through the hidden passageway from the
church. There were two reasons to believe this, one of which might
possibly not be sufficient, but the other was conclusive.
The heavy armchair before the desk, the chair on which the pastor was
presumably sitting when the murderer entered, was half turned around,
turned in just such a way as it would have been had the man who was
sitting there suddenly sprung up in excitement or surprise. The chair
was pushed back a step from the desk and turned towards the entrance
to the passageway. Those who had been in the room during the day had
reported that they had not touched any one of the articles of furniture,
therefore the position of the chair was the same that had been given it
by the man who had sat in it, by the murdered pastor himself.
Of course there was always the possibility that some one had moved the
chair without realising it. This clue, therefore, could not be looked
upon as an absolutely certain one had it stood alone. But there was
other evidence far more important. The great pool of blood was just
half-way between the door of the passage and the armchair. It was here,
therefore, that the attack had taken place. The pastor could not have
turned in this direction in the hope of flight, for there was nothing
here to give him shelter, no weapon that he could grasp, not even
a cane. He must have turned in this direction to meet and greet the
invader who had entered his room in this unusual manner. Turned to meet
him as a brave man would, with no other weapon than the sacredness of
his calling and his age.
But this had not been enough to protect the venerable priest. The
murderer must have made his thrust at once and his victim had sunk down
dying on the floor of the room in which he had spent so many hours of
quiet study, in which he had brought comfort and given advice to so many
anxious hearts; for dying he must have been--it would be impossible for
a man to lose so much blood and live.
“The struggle,” thought the detective, “but was there a struggle?” He
looked about the room again, but could see nothing that showed disorder
anywhere in its immaculate neatness. No, there could have been no
struggle. It must have been a quick knife thrust and death at once. “Not
a shot?” No, a shot would have been heard by the night watchman walking
the streets near the church. The night was quiet, the window open. Some
one in the village would have heard the noise of a shot. And it was not
likely that the old housekeeper who slept in the room immediately below,
slept the light sleep of the aged would have failed to have heard the
firing of a pistol.
Muller took a chair and sat down directly in front of the pool of blood,
looking at it carefully. Suddenly he bowed his head deeper. He had
caught sight of a fine thread of the red fluid which had been drawn
out for about a foot or two in the direction towards the door to the
dining-room. What did that mean? Did it mean that the murderer went out
through that door, dragging something after him that made this delicate
line? Muller bent down still deeper. The sun shone brightly on the
floor, sending its clear rays obliquely through the window. The sharp
eyes which now covered every inch of the yellow-painted floor discovered
something else. They discovered that this red thread curved slightly and
had a continuation in a fine scratch in the paint of the floor. Muller
followed up this scratch and it led him over towards the window and then
back again in wide curves, then out again under the desk and finally,
growing weaker and weaker, it came back to the neighbourhood of the pool
of blood, but on the opposite side of it. Muller got down on his hands
and knees to follow up the scratch. He did not notice the discomfort of
his position, his eyes shone in excitement and a deep flush glowed in
his cheeks. Also, he began to whistle softly.