“Please, sir, there is a man outside who asks to see you.”
“What does he want?” asked Commissioner Horn, looking up.
“He says he has something to report, sir.”
“Send him in, then.”
The attendant disappeared, and the commissioner looked up at the clock.
It was just striking eleven, but the fellow official who was to relieve
him at that hour had not yet appeared. And if this should chance to be
a new case, he would probably be obliged to take it himself. The
commissioner was not in a very good humour as he sat back to receive
the young man who entered the room in the wake of the attendant. The
stranger was a sturdy youth, with an unintelligent, good-natured face.
He twisted his soft hat in his hands in evident embarrassment, and his
eyes wandered helplessly about the great bare room.
“Who are you?” demanded the commissioner.
“My name is Dummel, sir, Johann Dummel.”
“And your occupation?”
“My occupation? Oh, yes, I--I am a valet, valet to Professor Fellner.”
The commissioner sat up and looked interested. He knew Fellner
personally and liked him. “What have you to report to me?” he asked
eagerly.
“I--I don’t know whether I ought to have come here, but at home--”
“Well, is anything the matter?” insisted Horn.
“Why, sir, I don’t know; but the Professor--he is so still--he doesn’t
answer.”
Horn sprang from his chair. “Is he ill?” he asked.
“I don’t know, sir. His room is locked--he never locked it before.”
“And you are certain he is at home?”
“Yes, sir. I saw him during the night--and the key is in the lock on the
inside.”
The commissioner had his hat in his hand when the colleague who was
to relieve him appeared. “Good and cold out to-day!” was the latter’s
greeting. Horn answered with an ironical: “Then I suppose you’ll be glad
if I relieve you of this case. But I assure you I wouldn’t do it if
it wasn’t Fellner. Good-bye. Oh, and one thing more. Please send a
physician at once to Fellner’s house, No. 7 Field Street.”
Horn opened the door and passed on into the adjoining room, accompanied
by Johann. The commissioner halted a moment as his eyes fell upon a
little man who sat in the corner reading a newspaper. “Hello, Muller;
you there? Suppose I take you with me? You aren’t doing anything now,
are you?”
“No, sir.
“Well, come with me, then. If this should turn out to be anything
serious, we may need you.”
The three men entered one of the cabs waiting outside the police
station. As they rattled through the streets, Commissioner Horn
continued his examination of the valet. “When did you see your master
last?”
“About eleven o’clock last evening.”
“Did you speak with him then?
“No, I looked through the keyhole.”
“Oh, indeed; is that a habit of yours?”
Dummel blushed deeply, but his eyes flashed, and he looked angry.
“No, it is not, sir,” he growled. “I only did it this time because I was
anxious about the master. He’s been so worked up and nervous the last
few days. Last night I went to the theatre, as I always do Saturday
evenings. When I returned, about half-past ten it was, I knocked at the
door of his bedroom. He didn’t answer, and I walked away softly, so
as not to disturb him in case he’d gone to sleep already. The hall was
dark, and as I went through it I saw a ray of light coming from the
keyhole of the Professor’s study. That surprised me, because he never
worked as late as that before. I thought it over a moment, then I crept
up and looked through the keyhole.”
“And what did you see?”
“He sat at his desk, quite quiet. So I felt easy again, and went off to
bed.”
“Why didn’t you go into the room?”
“I didn’t dare, sir. The Professor never wanted to be disturbed when he
was writing.”
“Well, and this morning?”
“I got up at the usual time this morning, set the breakfast table, and
then knocked at the Professor’s bedroom door to waken him. He didn’t
answer, and I thought he might want to sleep, seeing as it was Sunday,
and he was up late last night. So I waited until ten o’clock. Then
I knocked again and tried the door, but it was locked. That made me
uneasy, because he never locked his bedroom door before. I banged at the
door and called out, but there wasn’t a sound. Then I ran to the police
station.”
Horn was evidently as alarmed as was the young valet. But Muller’s
cheeks were flushed and a flash of secret joy, of pleasurable
expectation, brightened his deep-set, grey eyes. He sat quite
motionless, but every nerve in his body was alive and tingling. The
humble-looking little man had become quite another and a decidedly
interesting person. He laid his thin, nervous hand on the carriage door.
“We are not there yet,” said the commissioner.
“No, but it’s the third house from here,” replied Muller.
“You know where everybody lives, don’t you?” smiled Horn.
“Nearly everybody,” answered Muller gently, as the cab stopped before
an attractive little villa surrounded by its own garden, as were most of
the houses in this quiet, aristocratic part of the town.
The house was two stories high, but the upper windows were closed and
tightly curtained. This upper story was the apartment occupied by
the owner of the house, who was now in Italy with his invalid wife.
Otherwise the dainty little villa, built in the fashionable Nuremberg
style, with heavy wooden doors and lozenged-paned windows, had no
occupants except Professor Fellner and his servant. With its graceful
outlines and well-planned garden, the dwelling had a most attractive
appearance. Opposite it was the broad avenue known as the Promenade, and
beyond this were open fields. To the right and to the left were similar
villas in their gardens.
Dummel opened the door and the three men entered the house. The
commissioner and the valet went in first, Muller following them more
slowly. His sharp eyes glanced quickly over the coloured tiles of the
flooring, over the white steps and the carpeted hallway beyond. Once he
bent quickly and picked up something, then he walked on with his usual
quiet manner, out of which every trace of excitement had now vanished.
The dull winter sun seemed only to make the gloom of the dark vestibule
more visible. Johann turned up the light, and Horn, who had visited the
Professor several times and knew the situation of the rooms, went
at once to the heavy, carved and iron trimmed door of the study. He
attempted to open the door, but it resisted all pressure. The heavy
key was in the inner side of the big lock with its medieval iron
ornamentation. But the key was turned so that the lower part of the lock
was free, a round opening of unusual size. Horn made sure of this by
holding a lighted match to the door.
“You are right,” he said to the valet, “the door is locked from the
inside. We’ll have to go through the bedroom. Johann, bring me a chisel
or a hatchet. Muller, you stay here and open the door when the doctor
comes.”
Muller nodded. Johann disappeared, returning in a few moments with a
small hatchet, and followed the commissioner through the dining-room. It
was an attractive apartment with its high wooden panelling and its dainty
breakfast table. But a slight shiver ran through the commissioner’s
frame as he realised that some misfortune, some crime even might be
waiting for them on the other side of the closed door. The bedroom door
also was locked on the inside, and after some moments of knocking and
calling, Horn set the hatchet to the framework just as the bell of the
house-door pealed out.
With a cracking and tearing of wood the bedroom door fell open, and in
the same moment Muller and the physician passed through the dining-room.
Johann hurried into the bedroom to open the window-shutters, and the
others gathered in the doorway. A single look showed each of the men
that the bed was untouched, and they passed on through the room. The
door from the bedroom to the study stood open. In the latter room the
shutters were tightly closed, and the lamp had long since gone out. But
sufficient light fell through the open bedroom door for the men to see
the figure of the Professor seated at his desk, and when Johann had
opened the shutters, it was plain to all that the silent figure before
them was that of a corpse.
“Heart disease, probably,” murmured the physician, as he touched the icy
forehead. Then he felt the pulse of the stiffened hand from which the
pen had fallen in the moment of death, raised the drooping head and
lifted up the half-closed eyelids. The eyes were glazed.
The others looked on in silence. Horn was very pale, and his usually
calm face showed great emotion. Johann seemed quite beside himself, the
tears rolled down his cheeks unhindered. Muller stood without a sign
of life, his sallow face seemed made of bronze; he was watching and
listening. He seemed to hear and see what no one else could see or hear.
He smiled slightly when the doctor spoke of “heart disease,” and his
eyes fell on the revolver that lay near the dead man’s hand on the desk.
Then he shook his head, and then he started suddenly. Horn noticed the
movement; it was in the moment when the physician raised up the sunken
figure that had fallen half over the desk.
“He was killed by a bullet,” said Muller.
“Yes, that was it,” replied the doctor. With the raising of the body the
dead man’s waistcoat fell back into its usual position, and they could
see a little round hole in his shirt. The doctor opened the shirt bosom
and pointed to a little wound in the Professor’s left breast. There were
scarcely three or four drops of blood visible. The hemorrhage had been
internal.
“He must have died at once, without suffering,” said the physician.
“He killed himself--he killed himself,” murmured Johann, as if
bewildered.
“It’s strange that he should have found time to lay down the revolver
before he died,” remarked Horn. Johann put out his hand and raised the
weapon before Horn could prevent him. “Leave that pistol where it was,”
commanded the commissioner. “We have to look into this matter more
closely.”
The doctor turned quickly. “You think it was a murder?” he exclaimed.
“The doors were both locked on the inside--where could the murderer be?”
“I don’t pretend to see him myself yet. But our rule is to leave things
as they are discovered, until the official examination. Muller, did you
shut the outer door?”
“Yes, sir; here is the key.”
“Johann, are there any more keys for the outer door?”
“Yes, sir. One more, that is, for the third was lost some months ago.
The Professor’s own key ought to be in the drawer of the little table
beside the bed.”
“Will you please look for it, Muller?”
Muller went into the bedroom and soon returned with the key, which he
handed to the commissioner. The detective had found something else
in the little table drawer--a tortoise-shell hairpin, which he had
carefully hidden in his own pocket before rejoining the others.
Horn turned to the servant again. “How many times have you been out of
the apartment since last night?”
“Once only, sir, to go to the police station to fetch you.”
“And you locked the door behind you?”
“Why, yes, sir. You saw that I had to turn the key twice to let you in.”
Horn and Muller both looked the young man over very carefully. He seemed
perfectly innocent, and their suspicion that he might have turned
the key in pretense only, soon vanished. It would have been a foolish
suspicion anyway. If he were in league with the murderer, he could have
let the latter escape with much more safety during the night. Horn
let his eyes wander about the rooms again, and said slowly: “Then the
murderer is still here--or else--”
“Or else?” asked the doctor.
“Or else we have a strange riddle to solve.”
Johann had laid the pistol down again. Muller stretched forth his
hand and took it up. He looked at it a moment, then handed it to the
commissioner. “We have to do with a murder here. There was not a shot
fired from this revolver, for every chamber is still loaded. And there
is no other weapon in sight,” said the detective quietly.
“Yes, he was murdered. This revolver is fully loaded. Let us begin the
search at once.” Horn was more excited than he cared to show.
Johann looked about in alarm, but when he saw the others beginning to
peer into every corner and every cupboard, he himself joined in the
man-hunt. A quarter of an hour later, the four men relinquished their
fruitless efforts and gathered beside the corpse again.
“Doctor, will you have the kindness to report to the head Commissioner
of Police, and to order the taking away of the body? We will look about
for some motive for this murder in the meantime,” said Horn, as he held
out his hand to the physician.
Muller walked out to the door of the house with the doctor.
“Do you think this valet did it?” asked the physician softly.
“He? Oh, dear, no,” replied the detective scornfully.
“You think he’s too stupid? But this stupidity might be feigned.”
“It’s real enough, doctor.”
“But what do you think about it--you, who have the gift of seeing more
than other people see, even if it does bring you into disfavour with the
Powers that Be?”
“Then you don’t believe me yet?”
“You mean about the beautiful Mrs. Kniepp?
“And yet I tell you I am right. It was an intentional suicide.”
“Muller, Muller, you must keep better watch over your imagination and
your tongue! It is a dangerous thing to spread rumours about persons
high in favor with the Arch-duke. But you had better tell me what you
think about this affair,” continued the doctor, pointing back towards
the room they had just left.
“There’s a woman in the case.”
“Aha! you are romancing again. Well, they won’t be so sensitive about
this matter, but take care that you don’t make a mistake again, my
dear Muller. It would be likely to cost you your position, don’t forget
that.”
The doctor left the house. Muller smiled bitterly as he closed the door
behind him, and murmured to himself: “Indeed, I do not forget it, and
that is why I shall take this matter into my own hands. But the Kniepp
case is not closed yet, by any means.”
When he returned to the study he saw Johann sitting quietly in a corner,
shaking his head, as if trying to understand it all. Horn was bending
over a sheet of writing paper which lay before the dead man. Fellner
must have been busy at his desk when the bullet penetrated his heart.
His hand in dying had let fall the pen, which had drawn a long black
mark across the bottom of the sheet. One page of the paper was covered
with a small, delicate handwriting.
Horn called up the detective, and together they read the following
words:
“Dear Friend:--
“He challenged me--pistols--it means life or death. My enemy is very
bitter. But I am not ready to die yet. And as I know that I would be the
one to fall, I have refused the duel. That will help me little, for
his revenge will know how to find me. I dare not be a moment without a
weapon now--his threats on my refusal let me fear the worst. I have an
uncanny presentiment of evil. I shall leave here to-morrow. With the
excuse of having some pressing family affair to attend to, I have
secured several days’ leave. Of course I do not intend to return. I
am hoping that you will come here and break up my establishment in my
stead. I will tell you everything else when I see you. I am in a hurry
now, for there is a good deal of packing to do. If anything should
happen to me, you will know who it is who is responsible for my death.
His name is--”
Here the letter came to an abrupt close.
Muller and Horn looked at each other in silence, then they turned their
eyes again toward the dead man.
“He was a coward,” said the detective coldly, and turned away. Horn
repeated mechanically, “A coward!” and his eyes also looked down with
a changed expression upon the handsome, soft-featured face, framed in
curly blond hair, that lay so silent against the chair-back. Many women
had loved this dead man, and many men had been fond of him, for they had
believed him capable and manly.
The commissioner and Muller continued their researches in silence and
with less interest than before. They found a heap of loose ashes in the
bedroom stove. Letters and other trifles had been burned there. Muller
raked out the heap very carefully, but the writing on the few pieces of
paper still left whole was quite illegible. There were several envelopes
in the waste-basket, but all of them were dated several months back.
There was nothing that could give the slightest clue.
The letter written by the murdered man was sufficient proof that his
death had been an act of vengeance. But who was it who had carried out
this secret, terrible deed? The victim had not been allowed the time to
write down the name of his murderer.
Horn took the letter into his keeping. Then he left the room, followed
by Muller and the valet, to look about the rest of the house as far as
possible. This was not very far, for the second story was closed off by
a tall iron grating.
“Is the house door locked during the daytime?” asked Horn of the
servant.
“The front door is, but the side door into the garden is usually open.”
“Has it ever happened that any one got into the house from this side
door without your knowing it?”
“No, sir. The garden has a high wall around it. And there is extra
protection on the side toward the Promenade.”
“But there’s a little gate there?”
“Yes, sir.”
“Is that usually closed?”
“We never use the key for that, sir. It has a trick lock that you can’t
open unless you know how.”
“You said you went to the theatre yesterday evening. Did your master
give you permission to go?”
“Yes, sir. It’s about a year now that he gave me money for a theatre
ticket every Saturday evening. He was very kind.”
“Did you come into the house last night by the front door, or through
the garden?”
“Through the garden, sir. I walked down the Promenade from the theatre.”
“And you didn’t notice anything--you saw no traces of footsteps?”
“No, sir. I didn’t notice anything unusual. We shut the side door, the
garden door, every evening, also. It was closed yesterday and I found
the key--we’ve only got one key to the garden door--in the same place
where I was told to hide it when I went out in the evening.”
“What place was that?”
“In one of the pails by the well.”
“You say you were told to hide it there?”
“Yes, sir; the Professor told me. He’d go out in the evening sometimes,
too, I suppose, and he wanted to be able to come in that way if
necessary.”
“And no one else knew where the key was hidden?”
“No one else, sir. It’s nearly a year now that we’ve been alone in the
house. Who else should know of it?”
“When you looked through the keyhole last night, are you sure that the
Professor was still alive?”
“Why, yes, sir; of course I couldn’t say so surely. I thought he was
reading or writing, but oh, dear Lord! there he was this morning, nearly
twelve hours later, in just the same position.” Johann shivered at the
thought that he might have seen his master sitting at his desk, already
a corpse.
“He must have been dead when you came home. Don’t you think the sound of
that shot would have wakened you?”
“Yes, sir, I think likely, sir,” murmured Johann. “But if the murderer
could get into the house, how could he get into the apartment?”
“There must have been a third key of which you knew nothing,” answered
Horn, turning to Muller again. “It’s stranger still how Fellner
could have been shot, for the window-shutters were fastened and quite
uninjured, and both doors were locked on the inside.”
As he said these words, Horn looked sharply at his subordinate; but
Muller’s calm face did not give the slightest clue to his thoughts. The
experienced police commissioner was pleased and yet slightly angered at
this behaviour on the part of the detective. He knew that it was quite
possible that Muller had already formed a clear opinion about the case,
and that he was merely keeping it to himself. And yet he was glad to
see that the little detective had apparently learned a lesson from his
recent mistake concerning the death of Mrs. Kniepp--that he had somewhat
lost confidence in his hitherto unerring instinct, and did not care to
express any opinion until he had studied the matter a little closer. The
commissioner was just a little bit vain, and just a little bit jealous
of this humble detective’s fame.
Muller shrugged his shoulders at the remark of his superior, and the
two men stood silent, thinking over the case, as the Chief of Police
appeared, accompanied by the doctor, a clerk, and two hospital
attendants. The chief commissioner received the report of what had
been discovered, while the corpse was laid on a bier to be taken to the
hospital.
Muller handed the commissioner his hat and cane and helped him into
his overcoat. Horn noticed that the detective himself was making
no preparations to go out. “Aren’t you coming with us?” he asked,
astonished.
“I hope the gentlemen will allow me to remain here for a little while,”
answered Muller modestly.
“But you know that we will have to close the apartment officially,” said
Horn, his voice sharpening in his surprise and displeasure.
“I do not need to be in these rooms any longer.”
“Don’t let them disturb you, my dear Muller; we will allow your
keenness all possible leeway here.” The Head of Police spoke with calm
politeness, but Muller started and shivered. The emphasis on the “here”
showed him that even the head of the department had been incensed at his
suggestion that the beautiful Mrs. Kniepp had died of her own free
will. It had been his assertion of this which, coming to the ears of
the bereaved husband, had enraged and embittered him, and had turned the
power of his influence with the high authorities against the detective.
Muller knew how greatly he had fallen from favour in the Police
Department, and the words of his respected superior showed him that he
was still in disgrace.
But the strange, quiet smile was still on his lips as, with his usual
humble deference, he accompanied the others to the sidewalk. Before
the commissioners left the house, the Chief commanded Johann to answer
carefully any questions Muller might put to him.
“He’ll find something, you may be sure,” said Horn, as they drove off in
the cab.
“Let him that’s his business. He is officially bound to see more than
the rest of us,” smiled the older official good-naturedly. “But in spite
of it, he’ll never get any further than the vestibule; he’ll be making
bows to us to the end of his days.”
“You think so? I’ve wondered at the man. I know his fame in the capital,
indeed, in police circles all over Austria and Germany. It seems hard
on him to be transferred to this small town, now that he is growing old.
I’ve wondered why he hasn’t done more for himself, with his gifts.”
“He never will,” replied the Chief. “He may win more fame--he may still
go on winning triumphs, but he will go on in a circle; he’ll never forge
ahead as his capabilities deserve. Muller’s peculiarity is that his
genius--for the man has undeniable genius--will always make concessions
to his heart just at the moment when he is about to do something
great--and his triumph is lost.”
Horn looked up at his superior, whom, in spite of his good nature, he
knew to be a sharp, keen, capable police official. “I forgot you have
known Muller longer than the rest of us,” he said. “What was that you
said about his heart?”
“I said that it is one of those inconvenient hearts that will always
make itself noticeable at the wrong time. Muller’s heart has played
several tricks on the police department, which has, at other times,
profited so well by his genius. He is a strange mixture. While he is on
the trail of the criminal he is like the bloodhound. He does not seem to
know fatigue nor hunger; his whole being is absorbed by the excitement
of the chase. He has done many a brilliant service to the cause of
justice, he has discovered the guilt, or the innocence, of many in cases
where the official department was as blind as Justice is proverbially
supposed to be. Joseph Muller has become the idol of all who are engaged
in this weary business of hunting down wrong and punishing crime. He
is without a peer in his profession. But he has also become the idol of
some of the criminals. For if he discovers (as sometimes happens) that
the criminal is a good sort after all, he is just as likely to warn his
prey, once he has all proofs of the guilt and a conviction is certain.
Possibly this is his way of taking the sting from his irresistible
impulse to ferret out hidden mysteries. But it is rather inconvenient,
and he has hurt himself by it--hurt himself badly. They were tired of
his peculiarities at the capital, and wanted to make his years an excuse
to discharge him. I happened to get wind of it, and it was my weakness
for him that saved him.”
“Yes, you brought him here when they transferred you to this town, I
remember now.”
“I’m afraid it wasn’t such a good thing for him, after all. Nothing
ever happens here, and a gift like Muller’s needs occupation to keep
it fresh. I’m afraid his talents will dull and wither here. The man has
grown perceptibly older in this inaction. His mind is like a high-bred
horse that needs exercise to keep it in good condition.”
“He hasn’t grown rich at his work, either,” said Horn.
“No, there’s not much chance for a police detective to get rich. I’ve
often wondered why Muller never had the energy to set up in business for
himself. He might have won fame and fortune as a private detective. But
he’s gone on plodding along as a police subordinate, and letting the
department get all the credit for his most brilliant achievements. It’s
a sort of incorrigible humbleness of nature--and then, you know, he had
the misfortune to be unjustly sentenced to a term in prison in his early
youth.”
“No, I did not know that.”
“The stigma stuck to his name, and finally drove him to take up this
work. I don’t think Muller realised, when he began, just how greatly
he is gifted. I don’t know that he really knows now. He seems to do it
because he likes it--he’s a queer sort of man.”
While the commissioners drove through the streets to the police station
the man of whom they were speaking sat in Johann’s little room in close
consultation with the valet.
“How long is it since the Professor began to give you money to go to the
theatre on Saturday evenings?”
“The first time it happened was on my name day.”
“What’s the rest of your name? There are so many Johanns on the calendar.”
“I am Johann Nepomuk.”
Muller took a little calendar from his pocket and turned its pages. “It
was May sixteenth,” volunteered the valet.
“Quite right. May sixteenth was a Saturday. And since then you have gone
to the theatre every Saturday evening?”
“Yes, sir.
“When did the owner of the house go away?”
“Last April. His wife was ill and he had to take her away. They went to
Italy.”
“And you two have been alone in the house since April?”
“Yes, sir, we two.”
“Was there no janitor?”
“No, sir. The garden was taken care of by a man who came in for the
day.”
“And you had no dog? I haven’t seen any around the place.”
“No, sir; the Professor did not like animals. But he must have been
thinking about buying a dog, because I found a new dog-whip in his room
one day.”
“Somebody might have left it there. One usually buys the dog first and
then the whip.”
“Yes, sir. But there wasn’t anybody here to forget it. The Professor did
not receive any visits at that time.”
“Why are you so sure of that?”
“Because it was the middle of summer, and everybody was away.”
“Oh, then, we won’t bother about the whip. Can you tell me of any ladies
with whom the Professor was acquainted?”
“Ladies? I don’t know of any. Of course, the Professor was invited out
a good deal, and most of the other gentlemen from the college were
married.”
“Did he ever receive letters from ladies?” continued Muller.
Johann thought the matter over, then confessed that he knew very little
about writing and couldn’t read handwriting very well anyway. But he
remembered to have seen a letter now and then, a little letter with a
fine and delicate handwriting.
“Have you any of these envelopes?” asked Muller. But Johann told him
that in spite of his usual carelessness in such matters, Professor
Fellner never allowed these letters to lie about his room.
Finally the detective came out with the question to which he had been
leading up. “Did your master ever receive visits from ladies?”
Johann looked extremely stupid at this moment. His lack of intelligence
and a certain crude sensitiveness in his nature made him take umbrage at
what appeared to him a very unnecessary question. He answered it with a
shake of the head only. Muller smiled at the young man’s ill-concealed
indignation and paid no attention to it.
“Your master has been here for about a year. Where was he before that?”
“In the capital.”
“You were in his service then?”
“I have been with him for three years.”
“Did he know any ladies in his former home?”
“There was one--I think he was engaged to her.”
“Why didn’t he marry her?”
“I don’t know.”
“What was her name?”
“Marie. That’s all I know about it.”
“Was she beautiful?”
“I never saw her. The only way I knew about her was when the Professor’s
friends spoke of her.”
“Did he have many friends?”
“There were ever so many gentlemen whom he called his friends.”
“Take me into the garden now.”
“Yes, sir.” Muller took his hat and coat and followed the valet into the
garden. It was of considerable size, carefully and attractively planned,
and pleasing even now when the bare twigs bent under their load of snow.
“Now think carefully, Johann. We had a full moon last night. Don’t
you remember seeing any footsteps in the garden, leading away from the
house?” asked Muller, as they stood on the snow-covered paths.
Johann thought it over carefully, then said decidedly, “No. At least I
don’t remember anything of the kind. There was a strong wind yesterday
anyway, and the snow drifts easily out here. No tracks could remain
clear for long.”
The men walked down the straight path which led to the little gate in
the high wall. This gate had a secret lock, which, however, was neither
hard to find nor hard to open. Muller managed it with ease, and looked
out through the gate on the street beyond. The broad promenade, deserted
now in its winter snowiness, led away in one direction to the heart of
the city. In the other it ended in the main county high-road. This was
a broad, well-made turnpike, with footpath and rows of trees. A
half-hour’s walk along it would bring one to the little village
clustering about the Archduke’s favourite hunting castle. There was a
little railway station near the castle, but it was used only by suburban
trains or for the royal private car.
Muller did not intend to burden his brain with unnecessary facts, so
with his usual thoroughness he left the further investigation of what
lay beyond the gate, until he had searched the garden thoroughly. But
even for his sharp eyes there was no trace to be found that would tell
of the night visit of the murderer.
“In which of the pails did you put the key to the side door?” he asked.
“In the first pail on the right hand side. But be careful, sir; there’s
a nail sticking out of the post there. The wind tore off a piece of wood
yesterday.”
The warning came too late. Muller’s sleeve tore apart with a sharp sound
just as Johann spoke, for the detective had already plunged his hand
into the pail. The bottom of the bucket was easy to reach, as this one
hung much lower than the others. Looking regretfully at the rent in
his coat, Muller asked for needle and thread that he might repair it
sufficiently to get home.
“Oh, don’t bother about sewing it; I’ll lend you one of mine,” exclaimed
Johann. “I’ll carry this one home for you, for I’m not going to stay
here alone--I’d be afraid. I’m going to a friend’s house. You can
find me there any time you need me. You’d better take the key of the
apartment and give it to the police.”
The detective had no particular fondness for the task of sewing, and
he was glad to accept the valet’s friendly offering. He was rather
astonished at the evident costliness of the garment the young man handed
him, and when he spoke of it, the valet could not say enough in praise
of the kindness of his late master. He pulled out several other articles
of clothing, which, like the overcoat, had been given to him by Fellner.
Then he packed up a few necessities and announced himself as ready to
start. He insisted on carrying the torn coat, and Muller permitted it
after some protest. They carefully closed the apartment and the house,
and walked toward the centre of the city to the police station, where
Muller lived.
As they crossed the square, it suddenly occurred to Johann that he had
no tobacco. He was a great smoker, and as he had many days of enforced
idleness ahead of him, he ran into a tobacco shop to purchase a
sufficiency of this necessity of life.
Muller waited outside, and his attention was attracted by a large grey
Ulmer hound which was evidently waiting for some one within the shop.
The dog came up to him in a most friendly manner, allowed him to pat its
head, rubbed up against him with every sign of pleasure, and would not
leave him even when he turned to go after Johann came out of the shop.
Still accompanied by the dog, the two men walked on quite a distance,
when a sharp whistle was heard behind them, and the dog became uneasy.
He would not leave them, however, until a powerful voice called
“Tristan!” several times. Muller turned and saw that Tristan’s master
was a tall, stately man wearing a handsome fur overcoat.
It was impossible to recognise his face at this distance, for the
snowflakes were whirling thickly in the air. But Muller was not
particularly anxious to recognise the stranger, as he had his head full
of more important thoughts.
When Johann had given his new address and remarked that he would call
for his coat soon, the men parted, and Muller returned to the police
station.
The next day the principal newspaper of the town printed the following
notice: