a clue that soon would bring him to the trail he was seeking. He did not
know yet what he could do with his clue. But this much he knew; sooner
or later this scratch in the floor would lead him to the murderer. The
trail might be long and devious; but he would follow it and at its end
would be success. He knew that this scratch had been made after the
murder was committed; this was proved by the blood that marked its
beginning. And it could not have been made by any of those who entered
the room during the day because by that time the blood had dried. This
strange streak in the floor, with its weird curves and spirals, could
have been made only by the murderer. But how? With what instrument?
There was the riddle which must be solved.
And now Muller, making another careful examination of the floor, found
something else. It was something that might be utterly unimportant or
might be of great value. It was a tiny bit of hardened lacquer which he
found on the floor beside one of the legs of the desk. It was rounded
out, with sharp edges, and coloured grey with a tiny zigzag of yellow
on its surface. Muller lifted it carefully and looked at it keenly.
This tiny bit of lacquer had evidently been knocked off from some convex
object, but it was impossible to tell at the moment just what sort of an
object it might have been. There are so many different things which are
customarily covered with lacquer. However, further examination brought
him down to a narrower range of subjects. For on the inside of the
lacquer he found a shred of reddish wood fibre. It must have been a
wooden object, therefore, from which the lacquer came, and the wood had
been of reddish tinge.
Muller pondered the matter for a little while longer. Then he placed his
discovery carefully in the pastor’s emptied tobacco-box, and dropped
the box in his own pocket. He closed the window and the door to the
dining-room, lit a lamp, and entered the passageway leading to the
vestry. It was a short passageway, scarcely more than a dozen paces
long.
The walls were whitewashed, the floor tiled and the entire passage shone
in neatness. Muller held the light of his lamp to every inch of it, but
there was nothing to show that the criminal had gone through here with
the body of his victim.
“The criminal”--Muller still thought of only one. His long experience
had taught him that the most intricate crimes were usually committed by
one man only. The strength necessary for such a crime as this did not
deceive him either. He knew that in extraordinary moments extraordinary
strength will come to the one who needs it.
He now passed down the steps leading into the vestry. There was no trace
of any kind here either. The door into the vestry was not locked. It was
seldom locked, they had told him, for the vestry itself was closed by
a huge carved portal with a heavy ornamented iron lock that could be
opened only with the greatest noise and trouble. This door was locked
and closed as it had been since yesterday morning. Everything in the
vestry was in perfect order; the priest’s garments and the censers
all in their places. Muller assured himself of this before he left the
little room. He then opened the glass door that led down by a few steps
into the church.
It was a beautiful old church, and it was a rich church also. It was
built in the older Gothic style, and its heavy, broad-arched walls, its
massive columns would have made it look cold and bare had not handsome
tapestries, the gift of the lady of the manor, covered the walls. Fine
old pictures hung here and there above the altars, and handsome stained
glass windows broke the light that fell into the high vaulted interior.
There were three great altars in the church, all of them richly
decorated. The main altar stood isolated in the choir. In the open space
behind it was the entrance to the crypt, now veiled in a mysterious
twilight. Heavy silver candlesticks, three on a side, stood on the
altar. The pale gold of the tabernacle door gleamed between them.
Muller walked through the silent church, in which even his light
steps resounded uncannily. He looked into each of the pews, into the
confessionals, he walked around all the columns, he climbed up into the
pulpit, he did everything that the others had done before him yesterday.
And as with them, he found nothing that would indicate that the murderer
had spent any time in the church. Finally he turned back once more to
the main altar on his way out. But he did not leave the church as he
intended. His last look at the altar had showed him something that
attracted his attention and he walked up the three steps to examine it
more closely.
What he had seen was something unusual about one of the silver
candlesticks. These candlesticks had three feet, and five of them were
placed in such a way that the two front feet were turned toward the
spectator. But on the end candlestick nearest Muller the single foot
projected out to the front of the altar. This candlestick therefore had
been set down hastily, not placed carefully in the order of things as
were the others.
And not only this. The heavy wax candle which was in the candlestick
was burned down about a finger’s breadth more than the others, for
these were all exactly of a height. Muller bent still nearer to the
candlestick, but he saw that the dim light in the church was not
sufficient. He went to one of the smaller side altars, took a candle
from there, lit it with one of the matches that he found in his own
pocket and returned with the burning candle to the main altar. The steps
leading up to this altar were covered by a large rug with a white ground
and a pattern of flowers. Looking carefully at it the detective saw a
tiny brown spot, the mark of a burn, upon one of the white surfaces.
Beside it lay a half used match.
Walking around this carefully, Muller approached the candlestick that
interested him and holding up his light he examined every inch of its
surface. He found what he was looking for. There were dark red spots
between the rough edges of the silver ornamentation.
“Then the body is somewhere around here,” thought the detective and came
down from the steps, still holding the burning candle.
He walked slowly to the back of the altar. There was a little table
there such as held the sacred dishes for the communion service, and the
little carpet-covered steps which the sexton put out for the pastor when
he took the monstrance from the high-built tabernacle. That was all that
was to be seen in the dark corner behind the altar. Holding his candle
close to the floor Muller discovered an iron ring fastened to one of the
big stone flags. This must be the entrance to the crypt.
Muller tried to raise the flag and was astonished to find how easily
it came up. It was a square of reddish marble, the same with which the
entire floor of the church was tiled. This flag was very thin and could
easily be raised and placed back against the wall. Muller took up his
candle, too greatly excited to stop to get a stick for it. He felt
assured that now he would soon be able to solve at least a part of the
mystery. He climbed down the steps carefully and found that they led
into the crypt as he supposed. They were kept spotlessly clean, as
was the entire crypt as far as he could see it by the light of his
flickering candle. He was not surprised to discover that the air was
perfectly pure here. There must be windows or ventilators somewhere,
this he knew from the way his candle behaved.
The ancient vault had a high arched ceiling and heavy massive pillars.
It was a subterranean repetition of the church above. There had
evidently been a convent attached to this church at one time; for here
stood a row of simple wooden coffins all exactly alike, bearing each one
upon its lid a roughly painted cross surrounded by a wreath. Thus were
buried the monks of days long past.
Muller walked slowly through the rows of coffins looking eagerly to each
side. Suddenly he stopped and stood still. His hand did not tremble but
his thin face was pale--pale as that face which looked up at him out of
one of the coffins. The lid of the coffin stood up against the wall and
Muller saw that there were several other empty ones further on, waiting
for their silent occupants.
The body in the open coffin before which Muller stood was the body of
the man who had been missing since the day previous. He lay there quite
peacefully, his hands crossed over his breast, his eyes closed, a line
of pain about his lips. In the crossed fingers was a little bunch of
dark yellow roses. At the first glance one might almost have thought
that loving hands had laid the old pastor in his coffin. But the red
stain on the white cloth about his throat, and the bloody disorder of
his snow-white hair contrasted sadly with the look of peace on the dead
face. Under his head was a white silk cushion, one of the cushions from
the altar.
Muller stood looking down for some time at this poor victim of a strange
crime, then he turned to go.
He wanted to know one thing more: how the murderer had left the crypt.
The flame of his candle told him, for it nearly went out in a gust of
wind that came down the opening right above him. This was a window about
three or four feet from the floor, protected by rusty iron bars which
had been sawed through, leaving the opening free. It was a small window,
but it was large enough to allow a man of much greater size than Muller
to pass through it. The detective blew out his candle and climbed up
onto the window sill. He found himself outside, in a corner of the
churchyard. A thicket of heavy bushes grown up over neglected graves
completely hid the opening through which he had come. There were thorns
on these bushes and also a few scattered roses, dark yellow roses.
Muller walked thoughtfully through the churchyard. The sexton sat
huddled in an unhappy heap at the gate. He looked up in alarm as he saw
the detective walking towards him. Something in the stranger’s face told
the little hunchback that he had made a discovery. The sexton sprang up,
his lips did not dare utter the question that his eyes asked.
“I have found him,” said the detective gravely.
The hunchback sexton staggered, then recovered himself, and hurried away
to fetch the magistrate and the doctor.
An hour later the murdered pastor lay in state in the chief apartment
of his home, surrounded by burning candles and high-heaped masses of
flowers. But he still lay in the simple convent coffin and the little
bunch of roses which his murderer had placed between his stiffening
fingers had not been touched.
Two days later the pastor was buried. The Count and his family led the
train of numerous mourners and among the last was Muller.
A day or two after the funeral the detective sauntered slowly through
the main street of the village. He was not in a very good humour, his
answer to the greeting of those who passed him was short. The children
avoided him, for with the keenness of their kind they recognised the
fact that this usually gentle little man was not in possession of his
habitual calm temper. One group of boys, playing with a top, did not
notice his coming and Muller stopped behind them to look on. Suddenly
a sharp whistle was heard and the boys looked up from their play,
surprised at seeing the stranger behind them. His eyes were gleaming,
and his cheeks were flushed, and a few bars of a merry tune came in
a keen whistle from his lips as he watched the spirals made by the
spinning top.
Before the boys could stop their play the detective had left the group
and hastened onward to the little shop. He left it again in eager haste
after having made his purchase, and hurried back to the rectory. The
shop-keeper stood in the doorway looking in surprise at this grown man
who came to buy a top. And at home in the rectory the old housekeeper
listened in equal surprise to the humming noise over her head. She
thought at first it might be a bee that had got in somehow. Then she
realised that it was not quite the same noise, and having already
concluded that it was of no use to be surprised at anything this strange
guest might do, she continued reading her scriptures.
Upstairs in the pastor’s study, Muller sat in the armchair attentively
watching the gyrations of a spinning top. The little toy, started at a
certain point, drew a line exactly parallel to the scratch on the floor
that had excited his thoughts and absorbed them day and night.
“It was a top--a top” repeated the detective to himself again and again.
“I don’t see why I didn’t think of that right away. Why, of course,
nothing else could have drawn such a perfect curve around the room,
unhindered by the legs of the desk. Only I don’t see how a toy like that
could have any connection with this cruel and purposeless murder. Why,
only a fool--or a madman--”
Muller sprang up from his chair and again a sharp shrill whistle came
from his lips. “A madman!--” he repeated, beating his own forehead. “It
could only have been a madman who committed this murder! And the
pastor was not the first, there were two other murders here within a
comparatively short time. I think I will take advantage of Dr. Orszay’s
invitation.”
Half an hour later Muller and the doctor sat together in a summer-house,
from the windows of which one could see the park surrounding the asylum
to almost its entire extent. The park was arranged with due regard to
its purpose. The eye could sweep through it unhindered. There were no
bushes except immediately along the high wall. Otherwise there were
beautiful lawns, flower beds and groups of fine old trees with tall
trunks.
As would be natural in visiting such a place Muller had induced the
doctor to talk about his patients. Dr. Orszay was an excellent talker
and possessed the power of painting a personality for his listeners.
He was pleased and flattered by the evident interest with which the
detective listened to his remarks.
“Then your patients are all quite harmless?” asked Muller thoughtfully,
when the doctor came to a pause.
“Yes, all quite harmless. Of course, there is the man who strangely
enough considers himself the reincarnation of the famous French
murderer, the goldsmith Cardillac, who, as you remember, kept all Paris
in a fervour of excitement by his crimes during the reign of Louis XIV.
But in spite of his weird mania this man is the most good-natured of
any. He has been shut up in his room for several days now. He was a
mechanician by trade, living in Budapest, and an unsuccessful invention
turned his mind.”
“Is he a large, powerful man?” asked Muller.
Dr. Orszay looked a bit surprised. “Why do you ask that? He does happen
to be a large man of considerable strength, but in spite of it I have no
fear of him. I have an attendant who is invaluable to me, a man of such
strength that even the fiercest of them cannot overcome him, and yet
with a mind and a personal magnetism which they cannot resist. He can
always master our patients mentally and physically--most of them are
afraid of him and they know that they must do as he says. There is
something in his very glance which has the power to paralyse even
healthy nerves, for it shows the strength of will possessed by this
man.”
“And what is the name of this invaluable attendant?” asked Muller with a
strange smile which the doctor took to be slightly ironical.
“Gyuri Kovacz. You are amused at my enthusiasm? But consider my position
here. I am an old man and have never been a strong man. At my age I
would not have strength enough to force that little woman there--she
thinks herself possessed and is quite cranky at times--to go to her own
room when she doesn’t want to. And do you see that man over there in the
blue blouse? He is an excellent gardener but he believes himself to
be Napoleon, and when he has his acute attacks I would be helpless to
control him were it not for Gyuri.”
“And you are not afraid of Cardillac?” interrupted Muller.
“Not in the least. He is as good-natured as a child and as confiding. I
can let him walk around here as much as he likes. If it were not for the
absurd nonsense that he talks when he has one of his attacks, and which
frightens those who do not understand him, I could let him go free
altogether.”
“Then you never let him leave the asylum grounds?
“Oh, yes. I take him out with me very frequently. He is a man of
considerable education and a very clever talker. It is quite a pleasure
to be with him. That was the opinion of my poor friend also, my poor
murdered friend.”
“The pastor?”
“The pastor. He often invited Cardillac to come to the rectory with me.”
“Indeed. Then Cardillac knew the inside of the rectory?”
“Yes. The pastor used to lend him books and let him choose them himself
from the library shelves. The people in the village are very kind to my
poor patients here. I have long since had the habit of taking some of
the quieter ones with me down into the village and letting the people
become acquainted with them. It is good for both parties. It gives
the patients some little diversion, and it takes away the worst of
the senseless fear these peasants had at first of the asylum and its
inmates. Cardillac in particular is always welcome when he comes, for he
brings the children all sorts of toys that he makes in his cell.”
The detective had listened attentively and once his eyes flashed and his
lips shut tight as if to keep in the betraying whistle. Then he asked
calmly: “But the patients are only allowed to go out when you accompany
them, I suppose?”
“Oh, no; the attendants take them out sometimes. I prefer, however, to
let them go only with Gyuri, for I can depend upon him more than upon
any of the others.”
“Then he and Cardillac have been out together occasionally?”
“Oh, yes, quite frequently. But--pardon me--this is almost like a
cross-examination.”
“I beg your pardon, doctor, it’s a bad habit of mine. One gets so
accustomed to it in my profession.”
“What is it you want?” asked Doctor Orszay, turning to a fine-looking
young man of superb build, who entered just then and stood by the door.
“I just wanted to announce, sir, that No. 302 is quiet again!
“302 is Cardillac himself, Mr. Muller, or to give him his right name,
Lajos Varna,” explained the doctor turning to his guest. “He is the
302nd patient who has been received here in these twenty years. Then
Cardillac is quiet again?” he asked, looking up at the young giant. “I
am glad of that. You can announce our visit to him. This gentleman wants
to inspect the asylum.”
Muller realised that this was the attendant Gyuri, and he looked at
him attentively. He was soon clear in his own mind that this remarkably
handsome man did not please him, in fact awoke in him a feeling of
repulsion. The attendant’s quiet, almost cat-like movements were in
strange contrast to the massivity of his superb frame, and his large
round eyes, shaped for open, honest glances, were shifty and cunning.
They seemed to be asking “Are you trying to discover anything about me?”
coupled with a threat. “For your own sake you had better not do it.”
When the young man had left the room Muller rose hastily and walked up
and down several times. His face was flushed and his lips tight set.
Suddenly he exclaimed: “I do not like this Gyuri.”
Dr. Orszay looked up astonished. “There are many others who do not like
him--most of his fellow-warders for instance, and all of the patients.
I think there must be something in the contrast of such quiet movements
with such a big body that gets on people’s nerves. But consider, Mr.
Muller, that the man’s work would naturally make him a little different
from other people. I have known Gyuri for five years as a faithful
and unassuming servant, always willing and ready for any duty,
however difficult or dangerous. He has but one fault--if I may call it
such--that is that he has a mistress who is known to be mercenary and
hard-hearted. She lives in a neighbouring village.”
“For five years, you say? And how long has Cardillac been here?”
“Cardillac? He has been here for almost three years.”
“For almost three years, and is it not almost three years--” Muller
interrupted himself. “Are we quite alone? Is no one listening?” The
doctor nodded, greatly surprised, and the detective continued almost in
a whisper, “and it is just about three years now that there have
been committed, at intervals, three terrible crimes notable from
the cleverness with which they were carried out, and from the utter
impossibility, apparently, of discovering the perpetrator.”
Orszay sprang up. His face flushed and then grew livid, and he put his
hand to his forehead. Then he forced a smile and said in a voice
that trembled in spite of himself: “Mr. Muller, your imagination is
wonderful. And which of these two do you think it is that has committed
these crimes--the perpetrator of which you have come here to find?”
“I will tell you that later. I must speak to No. 302 first, and I must
speak to him in the presence of yourself and Gyuri.”
The detective’s deep gravity was contagious. Dr. Orszay had sufficiently
controlled himself to remember what he had heard in former days, and
just now recently from the district judge about this man’s marvellous
deeds. He realised that when Muller said a thing, no matter how
extravagant it might sound, it was worth taking seriously. This
realisation brought great uneasiness and grief to the doctor’s heart,
for he had grown fond of both of the men on whom terrible suspicion was
cast by such an authority.
Muller himself was uneasy, but the gloom that had hung over him for
the past day or two had vanished. The impenetrable darkness that had
surrounded the mystery of the pastor’s murder had gotten on his nerves.
He was not accustomed to work so long over a problem without getting
some light on it. But now, since the chance watching of the spinning
top in the street had given him his first inkling of the trail, he was
following it up to a clear issue. The eagerness, the blissful vibrating
of every nerve that he always felt at this stage of the game, was on him
again. He knew that from now on what was still to be done would be easy.
Hitherto his mind had been made up on one point; that one man alone was
concerned in the crime. Now he understood the possibility that there
might have been two, the harmless mechanician who fancied himself a
dangerous murderer, and the handsome young giant with the evil eyes.
The two men stood looking at each other in a silence that was almost
hostile. Had this stranger come to disturb the peace of the refuge for
the unfortunate and to prove that Dr. Orszay, the friend of all the
village, had unwittingly been giving shelter to such criminals?
“Shall we go now?” asked the detective finally.
“If you wish it, sir,” answered the doctor in a tone that was decidedly
cool.
Muller held out his hand. “Don’t let us be foolish, doctor. If you
should find yourself terribly deceived, and I should have been the means
of proving it, promise me that you will not be angry with me.”
Orszay pressed the offered hand with a deep sigh. He realised the
other’s position and knew it was his duty to give him every possible
assistance. “What is there for me to do now?” he asked sadly.
“You must see that all the patients are shut up in their cells so that
the other attendants are at our disposal if we need them. Varna’s room
has barred windows, I suppose?”
“Yes.”
“And I suppose also that it has but one door. I believe you told me that
your asylum was built on the cell system.”
“Yes, there is but one door to the room.”
“Let the four other attendants stand outside this door. Gyuri will be
inside with us. Tell the men outside that they are to seize and hold
whomever I shall designate to them. I will call them in by a whistle.
You can trust your people?”
“Yes, I think I can.”
“Well, I have my revolver,” said Muller calmly, “and now we can go.”
They left the room together, and found Gyuri waiting for them a little
further along the corridor. “Aren’t you well, sir?” the attendant asked
the doctor, with an anxious note in his voice.
The man’s anxiety was not feigned. He was really a faithful servant in
his devotion to the old doctor, although Muller had not misjudged him
when he decided that this young giant was capable of anything. Good and
evil often lie so close together in the human heart.
The doctor’s emotion prevented him from speaking, and the detective
answered in his place. “It is a sudden indisposition,” he said. “Lead
me to No. 302, who is waiting for us, I suppose. The doctor wants to lie
down a moment in his own room.”
Gyuri glanced distrustfully at this man whom he had met for the first
time to-day, but who was no stranger to him--for he had already learned
the identity of the guest in the rectory. Then he turned his eyes on his
master. The latter nodded and said: “Take the gentleman to Varna’s room.
I will follow shortly.”