staircase. “Extremely convenient,” thought Muller to himself. It was a
large room, comfortably furnished and filled now with the red glow of
the setting sun. A turning-lathe stood by the window and an elderly man
was at work at it. Gyuri called to him and he turned and rose when he
saw a stranger.
Lajos Varna was a tall, loose-jointed man with sallow skin and tired
eyes. He gave only a hasty glance at his visitor, then looked at Gyuri.
The expression in his eyes as he turned them on those of the warder
was like the look in the eyes of a well-trained dog when it watches its
master’s face. Gyuri’s brows were drawn close together and his mouth
set tight to a narrow line. His eyes fairly bored themselves into the
patient’s eyes with an expression like that of a hypnotiser.
Muller knew now what he wanted to know. This young man understood how
to bend the will of others, even the will of a sick mind, to his own
desires. The little silent scene he had watched had lasted just the
length of time it had taken the detective to walk through the room and
hold out his hand to the patient.
“I don’t want to disturb you, Mr. Varna,” he said in a friendly tone,
with a motion towards the bench from which the mechanician had just
arisen. Varna sat down again, obedient as a child. He was not always so
apparently, for Muller saw a red mark over the fingers of one hand
that was evidently the mark of a blow. Gyuri was not very choice in the
methods by which he controlled the patients confided to his care.
“May I sit down also?” asked Muller.
Varna pushed forward a chair. His movements were like those of an
automaton.
“And now tell me how you like it here?” began the detective. Varna
answered with a low soft voice, “Oh, I like it very much, sir.” As he
spoke he looked up at Gyuri, whose eyes still bore their commanding
expression.
“They treat you kindly here?”
“Oh, yes.”
“The doctor is very good to you?”
“Ah, the doctor is so good!” Varna’s dull eyes brightened.
“And the others are good to you also?”
“Oh, yes.” The momentary gleam in the sad eye had vanished again.
“Where did you get this red scar?”
The patient became uneasy, he moved anxiously on his chair and looked up
at Gyuri. It was evident that he realised there would be more red marks
if he told the truth to this stranger.
Muller did not insist upon an answer. “You are uneasy and nervous
sometimes, aren’t you?”
“Yes, sir, I have been--nervous--lately.”
“And they don’t let you go out at such times?”
“Why, I--no, I may not go out at such times.”
“But the doctor takes you with him sometimes--the doctor or Gyuri?”
asked the detective.
“Yes.”
“I haven’t had him out with me for weeks,” interrupted the attendant.
He seemed particularly anxious to have the “for weeks” clearly heard by
this inconvenient questioner.
Muller dropped this subject and took up another. “They tell me you are
very fond of children, and I can see that you are making toys for them
here.”
“Yes, I love children, and I am so glad they are not afraid of me.”
These words were spoken with more warmth and greater interest than
anything the man had yet said.
“And they tell me that you take gifts with you for the children every
time you go down to the village. This is pretty work here, and it must
be a pleasant diversion for you.” Muller had taken up a dainty little
spinning-wheel which was almost completed. “Isn’t it made from the wood
of a red yew tree?”
“Yes, the doctor gave me a whole tree that had been cut down in the
park.”
“And that gave you wood for a long time?”
“Yes, indeed; I have been making toys from it for months.” Varna had
become quite eager and interested as he handed his visitor a number of
pretty trifles. The two had risen from their chairs and were leaning
over the wide window seat which served as a store-house for the wares
turned out by the busy workman. They were toys, mostly, all sorts
of little pots and plates, dolls’ furniture, balls of various sizes,
miniature bowling pins, and tops. Muller took up one of the latter.
“How very clever you are, and how industrious,” he exclaimed, sitting
down again and turning the top in his hands. It was covered with grey
varnish with tiny little yellow stripes painted on it. Towards the lower
point a little bit of the varnish had been broken off and the reddish
wood underneath was visible. The top was much better constructed than
the cheap toys sold in the village. It was hollow and contained in its
interior a mechanism started by a pressure on the upper end. Once set in
motion the little top spun about the room for some time.
“Oh, isn’t that pretty! Is this mechanism your own invention?” asked
Muller smiling. Gyuri watched the top with drawn brows and murmured
something about “childish foolishness.”
“Yes, it is my own invention,” said the patient, flattered. He started
out on an absolutely technical explanation of the mechanism of tops in
general and of his own in particular, an explanation so lucid and so
well put that no one would have believed the man who was speaking was
not in possession of the full powers of his mind.
Muller listened very attentively with unfeigned interest.
“But you have made more important inventions than this, haven’t you?” he
asked when the other stopped talking. Varna’s eyes flashed and his voice
dropped to a tone of mystery as he answered: “Yes indeed I have. But I
did not have time to finish them. For I had become some one else.”
“Some one else?”
“Cardillac,” whispered Varna, whose mania was now getting the best of
him again.
“Cardillac? You mean the notorious goldsmith who lived in Paris 200
years ago? Why, he’s dead.”
Varna’s pale lips curled in a superior smile. “Oh, yes--that’s
what people think, but it’s a mistake. He is still alive--I am--I
have--although of course there isn’t much opportunity here--”
Gyuri cleared his throat with a rasping noise.
“What were you saying, friend Cardillac?” asked Muller with a great show
of interest.
“I have done things here that nobody has found out. It gives me great
pleasure to see the authorities so helpless over the riddles I have
given them to solve. Oh, indeed, sir, you would never imagine how stupid
they are here.”
“In other words, friend Cardillac, you are too clever for the
authorities here?
“Yes, that’s it,” said the insane man greatly flattered. He raised his
head proudly and smiled down at his guest. At this moment the doctor
came into the room and Gyuri walked forward to the group at the window.
“You are making him nervous, sir,” he said to Muller in a tone that was
almost harsh.
“You can leave that to me,” answered the detective calmly. “And you will
please place yourself behind Mr. Varna’s chair, not behind mine. It is
your eyes that are making him uneasy.”
The attendant was alarmed and lost control of himself for a moment.
“Sir!” he exclaimed in an outburst.
“My name is Muller, in case you do not know it already, Joseph Muller,
detective. Gyuri Kovacz, you will do what I tell you to! I am master
here just now. Is it not so, doctor?”
“Yes, it is so,” said the doctor.
“What does this mean?” murmured Gyuri, turning pale.
“It means that the best thing for you to do is to stand up against that
wall and fold your arms on your breast,” said Muller firmly. He took a
revolver from his pocket and laid it beside him on the turning-lathe.
The young giant, cowed by the sight of the weapon, obeyed the commands
of this little man whom he could have easily crushed with a single blow.
Dr. Orszay sank down on the chair beside the door. Muller, now
completely master of the situation, turned to the insane man who stood
looking at him in a surprise which was mingled with admiration.
“And now, my dear Cardillac, you must tell us of your great deeds here,”
said the detective in a friendly tone.
The unfortunate man bent over him with shining eyes and whispered: “But
you’ll shoot him first, won’t you?”
“Why should I shoot him?”
“Because he won’t let me say a word without beating me. He is so cruel.
He sticks pins into me if I don’t do what he wants.”
“Why didn’t you tell the doctor?”
“Gyuri would have treated me worse than ever then. I am a coward, sir,
I’m so afraid of pain and he knew that--he knew that I was afraid of
being hurt and that I’d always do what he asked of me. And because I
don’t like to be hurt myself I always finished them off quickly.”
“Finished who?”
“Why, there was Red Betty, he wanted her money.”
“Who wanted it?”
“Gyuri.”
The man at the wall moved when he heard this terrible accusation. But
the detective took up his revolver again. “Be quiet there!” he called,
with a look such as he might have thrown at an angry dog. Gyuri stood
quiet again but his eyes shot flames and great drops stood out on his
forehead.
“Now go on, friend Cardillac,” continued the detective. “We were talking
about Red Betty.”
“I strangled her. She did not even know she was dying. She was such a
weak old woman, it really couldn’t have hurt her.”
“No, certainly not,” said Muller soothingly, for he saw that the thought
that his victim might have suffered was beginning to make the madman
uneasy. “You needn’t worry about that. Old Betty died a quiet death. But
tell me, how did Gyuri know that she had money?”
“The whole village knew it. She laid cards for people and earned a lot
of money that way. She was very stingy and saved every bit. Somebody saw
her counting out her money once, she had it in a big stocking under her
bed. People in the village talked about it. That’s how Gyuri heard of
it.”
“And so he commanded you to kill Betty and steal her money?”
“Yes. He knew that I loved to give them riddles to guess, just as I did
in Paris so long ago.”
“Oh, yes, you’re Cardillac, aren’t you? And now tell us about the
smith’s swineherd.”
“You mean Janos? Oh, he was a stupid lout,” answered Varna scornfully.
“He had cast an eye on the beautiful Julcsi, Gyuri’s mistress, so of
course I had to kill him.”
“Did you do that alone?”
“No, Gyuri helped me.”
“Why did you cut the bridge supports?”
“Because I enjoy giving people riddles, as I told you. But Gyuri forbade
me to kill people uselessly. I liked the chance of getting out though.
The doctor’s so good to me and the others too. Gyuri is good to me
when I have done what he wanted. But you see, Mr. Muller, I am like a
prisoner here and that makes me angry. I made Gyuri let me out nights
sometimes.”
“You mean he let you out alone, all alone?”
“Yes, of course, for I threatened to tell the doctor everything if he
didn’t.”
“You wouldn’t have dared do that.”
“No, that’s true,” smiled Varna slyly. “But Gyuri was afraid I might
do it, for he isn’t always strong enough to frighten me with his
eyes. Those were the hours when I could make him afraid--I liked those
hours--”
“What did you do when you were out alone at night?”
“I just walked about. I set fire to a tree in the woods once, then the
rain came and put it out. Once I killed a dog and another time I cut
through the bridge supports. That took me several hours to do and made
me very tired. But it was such fun to know that people would be worrying
and fussing about who did it.”
Varna rubbed his hands gleefully. He did not look the least bit
malicious but only very much amused. The doctor groaned. Gyuri’s great
body trembled, his arms shook, but he did not make a single voluntary
movement. He saw the revolver in Muller’s hand and felt the keen grey
eyes resting on him in pitiless calm.
“And now tell us about the pastor?” said the detective in a firm clear
voice.
“Oh, he was a dear, good gentleman,” said No. 302 with an expression of
pitying sorrow on his face. “I owed him much gratitude; that’s why I put
the roses in his hand.”
“Yes, but you murdered him first.”
“Of course, Gyuri told me to.”
“And why?”
“He hated the pastor, for the old gentleman had no confidence in him.”
“Is this true?” Muller turned to the doctor.
“I did not notice it,” said Orszay with a voice that showed deep sorrow.
“And you?” Muller’s eyes bored themselves into the orbs of the young
giant, now dulled with fear.
Gyuri started and shivered. “He looked at me sharply every now and
then,” he murmured.
“And that was why he was killed?”
The warder’s head sank on his breast.
“No, not only for that reason,” continued No. 302. “Gyuri needed money
again. He ordered me to bring him the silver candlesticks off the
altar.”
“Murder and sacrilege,” said the detective calmly.
“No, I did not rob the church. When I had buried the reverend gentleman
I heard the cock crowing. I was afraid I might get home here too late
and I forgot the candlesticks. I had to stop to wash my hands in the
brook. While I was there I saw shepherd Janci coming along and I hid
behind the willows. He almost discovered me once, but Janci’s a
dreamer, he sees things nobody else sees--and he doesn’t see things that
everybody else does see. I couldn’t help laughing at his sleepy face.
But I didn’t laugh when I came back to the asylum. Gyuri was waiting for
me at the door. When he saw that I hadn’t brought the candlesticks he
beat me and tortured me worse than he’d ever done before.”
“And you didn’t tell anyone?”
“Why, no; because I was afraid that if I told on him, I’d never be able
to go out again.”
“And you, quite alone, could carry the pastor’s body out of his room?”
“I am very strong.”
“How did you arrange it that there should be no traces of blood to
betray you?”
“I waited until the body had stiffened, then I tied up the wound and
carried him down into the crypt.”
“Why did you do that?”
“I didn’t want to leave him in that horrid pool of blood.”
“You were sorry for him then?”
“Why, yes; it looked so horrid to see him lying there--and he had
always been so good to me. He was so good to me that very evening when I
entered his study.
“He recognised you?
“Certainly. He sprang up from his chair when I came in through the
passage from the church. I saw that he was startled, but he smiled at me
and reached out his hand to me and said: ‘What brings you here, my dear
Cardillac?’ And then I struck. I wanted him to die with that smile on
his lips. It is beautiful to see a man die smiling, it shows that he has
not been afraid of death. He was dead at once. I always kill that way--I
know just how to strike and where. I killed more than a hundred people
years ago in Paris, and I didn’t leave one of them the time for even a
sigh. I was renowned for that--I had a kind heart and a sure hand.”
Muller interrupted the dreadful imaginings of the madman with a
question. “You got into the house through the crypt?”
“Yes, through the crypt. I found the window one night when I was
prowling around in the churchyard. When I knew that the pastor was to be
the next, I cut through the window bars. Gyuri went into the church one
day when nobody was there and found out that it was easy to lift the
stone over the entrance to the crypt. He also learned that the doors
from the church to the vestry were never locked. I knew how to find the
passageway, because I had been through it several times on my visits to
the rectory. But it was a mere chance that the door into the pastor’s
study was unlocked.”
“A chance that cost the life of a worthy man,” said the detective
gravely.
Varna nodded sadly. “But he didn’t suffer, he was dead at once.”
“And now tell me what this top was doing there?” No. 302 looked at the
detective in great surprise, and then laid his hand on the latter’s arm.
“How did you know that I had the top there?” he asked with a show of
interest.
“I found its traces in the room, and it was those traces that led me
here to you,” answered Muller.
“How strange!” remarked Varna. “Are you like shepherd Janci that you can
see the things others don’t see?”
“No, I have not Janci’s gift. It would be a great comfort to me and a
help to the others perhaps if I had. I can only see things after they
have happened.”
“But you can see more than others--the others did not see the traces of
the top?”
“My business is to see more than others see,” said Muller. “But you have
not told me yet what the top was doing there. Why did you take a toy
like that with you when you went out on such an errand?”
“It was in my pocket by chance. When I reached for my handkerchief to
quench the flow of blood the top came out with it. I must have touched
the spring without knowing it, for the top began to spin. I stood still
and watched it, then I ran after it. It spun around the room and finally
came back to the body. So did I. The pastor was quite still and dead by
that time.”
“You have heard everything, Dr. Orszay?” asked the detective, rising
from his chair.
“Yes, I have heard everything,” answered the venerable head of the
asylum. He was utterly crushed by the realisation that all this tragedy
and horror had gone out from his house.
Varna rose also. He understood perfectly that now Gyuri’s power was
at an end and he was as pleased as a child that has just received a
present. “And now you’re going to shoot him?” he asked, in the tone a
boy would use if asking when the fireworks were to begin.
Muller shook his head. “No, my dear Cardillac,” he replied gravely. “He
will not be shot--that is a death for a brave soldier--but this man has
deserved--” He did not finish the sentence, for the warder sank to the
floor unconscious.
“What a coward!” murmured the detective scornfully, looking down at the
giant frame that lay prostrate before him. Even in his wide experience
he had known of no case of a man of such strength and such bestial
cruelty, combined with such utter cowardice.
Varna also stood looking down at the unconscious warder. Then he glanced
up with a cunning smile at the other two men who stood there. The
doctor, pale and trembling with horror, covered his face with his hands.
Muller turned to the door to call in the attendants waiting outside.
During the moment’s pause that ensued the madman bent over his
worktable, seized a knife that lay there and dropped on one knee beside
the prostrate form. His hand was raised to strike when a calm voice
said: “Fie! Cardillac, for shame! Do not belittle yourself. This man
here is not worthy of your knife, the hangman will look after him.”
Varna raised his loose-jointed frame and looked about with glistening
eyes and trembling lips. His mind was completely darkened once more.
“I must kill him--I must have his blood--there is no one to see me,” he
murmured. “I am a hangman too--he has made a hangman of me,” and again
he bent with uplifted hand over the man who had utilised his terrible
misfortune to make a criminal of him. But two of the waiting attendants
seized his arms and threw him back on the floor, while the other two
carted Gyuri out. Both unfortunates were soon securely guarded.
“Do not be angry with me, doctor,” said Muller gravely, as he walked
through the garden accompanied by Orszay.
Doctor Orszay laughed bitterly. “Why should I be angry with you--you
who have discovered my inexcusable credulity?”
“Inexcusable? Oh, no, doctor; it was quite natural that you should have
believed a man who had himself so well in hand, and who knew so well
how to play his part. When we come to think of it, we realise that
most crimes have been made possible through some one’s credulity, or
over-confidence, a credulity which, in the light of subsequent events,
seems quite incomprehensible. Do not reproach yourself and do not lose
heart. Your only fault was that you did not recognise the heart of the
beast of prey in this admirable human form.”
“What course will the law take?” asked Orszay. “The poor unfortunate
madman--whose knife took all these lives--cannot be held responsible,
can he?”
“Oh, no; his misfortune protects him. But as for the other, though his
hands bear no actual bloodstains, he is more truly a murderer than the
unhappy man who was his tool. Hanging is too good for him. There are
times when even I could wish that we were back in the Middle Ages, when
it was possible to torture a prisoner.
“You do not look like that sort of a man,” smiled the doctor through his
sadness.
“No, I am the most good-natured of men usually, I think--the meekest
anyway,” answered Muller. “But a case like this--. However, as I said
before, keep a stout heart, doctor, and do not waste time in unnecessary
self-reproachings.” The detective pressed the doctor’s hand warmly and
walked down the hill towards the village.
He went at once to the office of the magistrate and made his report,
then returned to the rectory and packed his grip. He arranged for its
transport to the railway station, as he himself preferred to walk the
inconsiderable distance. He passed through the village and had just
entered the open fields when he met Janci with his flock. The shepherd
hastened his steps when he saw the detective approaching.
“You have found him, sir?” he exclaimed as he came up to Muller. The men
had come to be friends by this time. The silent shepherd with the power
of second sight had won Muller’s interest at once.
“Yes, I found him. It is Gyuri, the warder at the asylum.”
“No, sir, it is not Gyuri--Gyuri did not do it.”
“But when I tell you that he did?”
“But I tell you, sir, that Gyuri did not do it. The man who did it--he
has yellowish hands--I saw them--I saw big yellowish hands. Gyuri’s
hands are big, but they are brown.”
“Janci, you are right. I was only trying to test you. Gyuri did not do
it; that is, he did not do it with his own hands. The man who held the
knife that struck down the pastor was Varna, the crazy mechanician.”
Janci beat his forehead. “Oh, I am a foolish and useless dreamer!” he
exclaimed; “of course it was Varna’s hands that I saw. I have seen them
a hundred times when he came down into the village, and yet when I saw
them in the vision I did not recognise them.”
“We’re all dreamers, Janci--and our dreams are very useless generally.”
“Yours are not useless, sir,” said the shepherd. “If I had as much
brains as you have, my dreams might be of some good.”
Muller smiled. “And if I had your visions, Janci, it would be a powerful
aid to me in my profession.”
“I don’t think you need them, sir. You can find out the hidden things
without them. You are going to leave us?”
“Yes, Janci, I must go back to Budapest, and from there to Vienna. They
need me on another case.”
“It’s a sad work, this bringing people to the gallows, isn’t it?”
“Yes, Janci, it is sometimes. But it’s a good thing to be able to avenge
crime and bring justice to the injured. Good-bye, Janci.”
“Good-bye, sir, and God speed you.”
The shepherd stood looking after the small, slight figure of the man
who walked on rapidly through the heather. “He’s the right one for the
work,” murmured Janci as he turned slowly back towards the village.
An hour later Muller stood in the little waiting-room of the railway
station writing a telegram. It was addressed to Count ----.
“Do you know the shepherd Janci? It would be a good thing to
make him the official detective for the village. He has high
qualifications for the profession. If I had his gifts combined
with my own, not one could escape me. I have found this one
however. The guards are already taking him to you. My work
here is done. If I should be needed again I can be found at
Police Headquarters, Vienna.
“Respectfully,
“JOSEPH MULLER.”
While the detective was writing his message--it was one of the rare
moments of humour that Muller allowed himself, and he wondered mildly
what the stately Hungarian nobleman would think of it--a heavy farm
wagon jolted over the country roads towards the little county seat.
Sitting beside the driver and riding about the wagon were armed
peasants. The figure of a man, securely bound, his face distorted by
rage and fear, lay in the wagon. It was Gyuri Kovacz, who had murdered
by the hands of another, and who was now on his way to meet the death
that was his due.
And at one of the barred windows in the big yellow house stood a
sallow-faced man, looking out at the rising moon with sad, tired eyes.
His lips were parted in a smile like that of a dreaming child, and he
hummed a gentle lullaby.