It is but a few days since we announced to our readers the sad
news of the death of a beautiful woman, whose leap from her
window, while suffering from the agonies of fever, destroyed
the happiness of an unusually harmonious marriage. And now we
are compelled to print the news of another equally sad as well
as mysterious occurrence. This time, Fate has demanded the
sacrifice of the life of a capable and promising young man.
Professor Paul Fellner, a member of the faculty of our college,
was found dead at his desk yesterday morning. It was thought at
first that it was a case of suicide, for doors and windows were
carefully closed from within and those who discovered the corpse
were obliged to break open one of the doors to get to it. And
a revolver was found lying close at hand, upon the desk. But
this revolver was loaded in every chamber and there was no other
weapon to be seen in the room. There was a bullet wound in the
left breast of the corpse, and the bullet had penetrated the
heart. Death must have been instantaneous.
The most mysterious thing about this strange affair was
discovered during the autopsy. It is incredible, but it is
absolutely true, as it is vouched for under oath by the
authorities who were present, that the bullet which was found
in the heart of the dead man was made of solid gold. And yet,
strange as is this circumstance, it is still more a riddle how
the murderer could have escaped from the room where he had shot
down his victim, for the keys in both doors were in the locks
from the inside. We have evidently to do here with a criminal
of very unusual cleverness and it is therefore not surprising
that there has been no clue discovered thus far. The only
thing that is known is that this murder was an act of revenge.
The entire city was in excitement over the mystery, even the police
station was shaken out of its usual business-like indifference. There
was no other topic of conversation in any of the rooms but the
mystery of the golden bullet and the doors closed from the inside. The
attendants and the policeman gathered whispering in the corners,
and strangers who came in on their own business forgot it in their
excitement over this new and fascinating mystery.
That afternoon Muller passed through Horn’s office with a bundle of
papers, on his way to the inner office occupied by his patron, Chief of
Police Bauer. Horn, who had avoided Muller since yesterday although he
was conscious of a freshened interest in the man, raised his head and
watched the little detective as he walked across the room with his
usual quiet tread. The commissioner saw nothing but the usual humble
business-like manner to which he was accustomed--then suddenly
something happened that came to him like a distinct shock. Muller
stopped in his walk so suddenly that one foot was poised in the air. His
bowed head was thrown back, his face flushed to his forehead, and the
papers trembled in his hands. He ran the fingers of his unoccupied hand
through his hair and murmured audibly, “That dog! that dog!” It was
evident that some thought had struck him with such insistence as to
render him oblivious of his surroundings. Then he finally realised where
he was, and walked on quickly to Bauer’s room, his face still flushed,
his hands trembling. When he came out from the office again, he was his
usual quiet, humble self.
But the commissioner, with his now greater knowledge of the little man’s
gifts and past, could not forget the incident. During the afternoon
he found himself repeating mechanically, “That dog--that dog.” But the
words meant nothing to him, hard as he might try to find the connection.
When the commissioner left for his home late that afternoon, Muller
re-entered the office to lay some papers on the desk. His duties over,
he was about to turn out the gas, when his eye fell on the blotter on
Horn’s desk. He looked at it more closely, then burst into a loud
laugh. The same two words were scribbled again and again over the white
surface, but it was not the name of any fair maiden, or even the title
of a love poem; it was only the words, “That dog--”
Several days had passed since the discovery of the murder. Fellner had
been buried and his possessions taken into custody by the authorities
until his heirs should appear. The dead man’s papers and affairs were
in excellent condition and the arranging of the inheritance had been
quickly done. Until the heirs should take possession, the apartment was
sealed by the police. There was nothing else to do in the matter, and
the commission appointed to make researches had discovered nothing of
value. The murderer might easily feel that he was absolutely safe by
this time.
The day after the publication of the article we have quoted, Muller
appeared in Bauer’s office and asked for a few days’ leave.
“In the Fellner case?” asked the Chief with his usual calm, and Muller
replied in the affirmative.
Two days later he returned, bringing with him nothing but a single
little notice.
“Marie Dorn, now Mrs. Kniepp,” was one line in his notebook, and beside
it some dates. The latter showed that Marie Dorn had for two years past
been the wife of the Archducal Forest-Councillor, Leo Kniepp.
And for one year now Professor Paul Fellner had been in the town, after
having applied for his transference from the university in the capital
to this place, which was scarce half an hour’s walk distant from the
home of the beautiful young woman who had been the love of his youth.
And Fellner had made his home in the quietest quarter of the city, in
that quarter which was nearest the Archducal hunting castle. He had
lived very quietly, had not cultivated the acquaintance of the ladies of
the town, but was a great walker and bicycle rider; and every Saturday
evening since he had been alone in the house, he had sent his servant
to the theatre. And it was on Saturday evenings that Forest-Councillor
Kniepp went to his Bowling Club at the other end of the city, and did
not return until the last train at midnight.
And during these evening hours Fellner’s apartment was a convenient
place for pleasant meetings; and nothing prevented the Professor from
accompanying his beautiful friend home through the quiet Promenade,
along the turnpike to the hunting castle. And Johann had once found a
dog-whip in his master’s room-and Councillor Leo Kniepp, head of the
Forestry Department, was the possessor of a beautiful Ulmer hound which
took an active interest in people who wore clothes belonging to Fellner.
Furthermore, in the little drawer of the bedside table in the murdered
man’s room, there had been found a tortoise-shell hairpin; and in the
corner of the vestibule of his house, a little mother-of-pearl glove
button, of the kind much in fashion that winter, because of a desire
on the part of the ladies of the town to help the home industry of the
neighbourhood. Mrs. Marie Kniepp was one of the fashionable women of the
town, and several days before the Professor was murdered, this woman
had thrown herself from the second-story window of her home, and her
husband, whose passionate eccentric nature was well known, had been a
changed man from that hour.
It was his deep grief at the loss of his beloved wife that had turned
his hair grey and had drawn lines of terrible sorrow in his face--said
gossip. But Muller, who did not know Kniepp personally although he had
been taking a great interest in his affairs for the last few days, had
his own ideas on the subject, and he decided to make the acquaintance of
the Forest Councillor as soon as possible--that is, after he had found
out all there was to be found out about his affairs and his habits.
Just a week after the murder, on Saturday evening therefore, the snow
was whirling merrily about the gables and cupolas of the Archducal
hunting castle. The weather-vanes groaned and the old trees in the park
bent their tall tops under the mad wind which swept across the earth and
tore the protecting snow covering from their branches. It was a stormy
evening, not one to be out in if a man had a warm corner in which to
hide.
An old peddler was trying to find shelter from the rapidly increasing
storm under the lea of the castle wall. He crouched so close to the
stones that he could scarcely be seen at all, in spite of the light
from the snow. Finally he disappeared altogether behind one of the heavy
columns which sprang out at intervals from the magnificent wall. Only
his head peeped out occasionally as if looking for something. His dark,
thoughtful eyes glanced over the little village spread out on one side
of the castle, and over the railway station, its most imposing building.
Then they would turn back again to the entrance gate in the wall
near where he stood. It was a heavy iron-barred gate, its handsome
ornamentation outlined in snow, and behind it the body of a large dog
could be occasionally seen. This dog was an enormous grey Ulmer hound.
The peddler stood for a long time motionless behind the pillar, then he
looked at his watch. “It’s nearly time,” he murmured, and looked over
towards the station again, where lights and figures were gathering.
At the same time the noise of an opening door was heard, and steps
creaked over the snow. A man, evidently a servant, opened the little
door beside the great gate and held it for another man to pass
out. “You’ll come back by the night train as usual, sir?” he asked
respectfully.
“Yes,” replied the other, pushing back the dog, which fawned upon him.
“Come back here, Tristan,” called the servant, pulling the dog in by his
collar, as he closed the door and re-entered the house.
The Councillor took the path to the station. He walked slowly, with
bowed head and uneven step. He did not look like a man who was in the
mood to join a merry crowd, and yet he was evidently going to his Club.
“He wants to show himself; he doesn’t want to let people think that he
has anything to be afraid of,” murmured the peddler, looking after him
sharply. Then his eyes suddenly dimmed and a light sigh was heard,
with another murmur, “Poor man.” The Councillor reached the station
and disappeared within its door. The train arrived and departed a few
moments later. Kniepp must have really gone to the city, for although
the man behind the pillar waited for some little time, the Councillor
did not return--a contingency that the peddler had not deemed
improbable.
About half an hour after the departure of the train the watcher came out
of his hiding place and walked noisily past the gate. What he expected,
happened. The dog rushed up to the bars, barking loudly, but when the
peddler had taken a silk muffler from the pack on his back and held
it out to the animal, the noise ceased and the dog’s anger turned to
friendliness. Tristan was quite gentle, put his huge head up to the
bars to let the stranger pat it, and seemed not at all alarmed when the
latter rang the bell.
The young man who had opened the door for the Councillor came out from
a wing of the castle. The peddler looked so frozen and yet so venerable
that the youth had not the heart to turn him away. Possibly he was glad
of a little diversion for his own sake.
“Who do you want to see?” he asked.
“I want to speak to the maid, the one who attended your dead mistress.”
“Oh, then you know--?”
“I know of the misfortune that has happened here.”
“And you think that Nanette might have something to sell to you?”
“Yes, that’s it; that’s why I came. For I don’t suppose there’s much
chance for any business with my cigar holders and other trifles here so
near the city.”
“Cigar holders? Why, I don’t know; perhaps we can make a trade. Come in
with me. Why, just see how gentle the dog is with you!”
“Isn’t he that way with everybody? I supposed he was no watchdog.”
“Oh, indeed he is. He usually won’t allow anybody to touch him, except
those whom he knows well. I’m astonished that he lets you come to the
house at all.”
They had reached the door by this time. The peddler laid his hand on the
servant’s arm and halted a moment. “Where was it that she threw herself
out?”
“From the last window upstairs there.”
“And did it kill her at once?”
“Yes. Anyway she was unconscious when we came down.”
“Was the master at home?”
“Why, yes, it happened in the middle of the night.”
“She had a fever, didn’t she? Had she been ill long?”
“No. She was in bed that day, but we thought it was nothing of
importance.”
“These fevers come on quickly sometimes,” remarked the old man wisely,
and added: “This case interests the entire neighbourhood and I will show
you that I can be grateful for anything you may tell me--of course, only
what a faithful servant could tell. It will interest my customers very
much.”
“You know all there is to know,” said the valet, evidently disappointed
that he had nothing to tell which could win the peddler’s gratitude.
“There are no secrets about it. Everybody knows that they were a very
happy couple, and even if there was a little talk between them on that
day, why it was pure accident and had nothing to do with the mistress’
excitement.”
“Then there was a quarrel between them?”
“Are people talking about it?”
“I’ve heard some things said. They even say that this quarrel was the
reason for--her death.”
“It’s stupid nonsense!” exclaimed the servant. The old peddler seemed to
like the young man’s honest indignation.
While they were talking, they had passed through a long corridor and the
young man laid his hand on one of the doors as the peddler asked, “Can I
see Miss Nanette alone?”
“Alone? Oho, she’s engaged to me!”
“I know that,” said the stranger, who seemed to be initiated into all
the doings of this household. “And I am an old man--all I meant was that
I would rather not have any of the other servants about.”
“I’ll keep the cook out of the way if you want me to.”
“That would be a good idea. It isn’t easy to talk business before
others,” remarked the old man as they entered the room. It was a
comfortably furnished and cozily warm apartment. Only two people were
there, an old woman and a pretty young girl, who both looked up in
astonishment as the men came in.
“Who’s this you’re bringing in, George?” asked Nanette.
“He’s a peddler and he’s got some trifles here you might like to look
at.”
“Why, yes, you wanted a thimble, didn’t you, Lena?” asked Nanette, and
the cook beckoned to the peddler. “Let’s see what you’ve got there,” she
said in a friendly tone. The old man pulled out his wares from his pack;
thimbles and scissors, coloured ribbons, silks, brushes and combs, and
many other trifles. When the women had made their several selections
they noticed that the old man was shivering with the cold, as he leaned
against the stove. Their sympathies were aroused in a moment. “Why don’t
you sit down?” asked Nanette, pushing a chair towards him, and Lena rose
to get him something warm from the kitchen.
The peddler threw a look at George, who nodded in answer. “He said he’d
like to see the things they gave you after Mrs. Kniepp’s death,” the
young man remarked,
“Do you buy things like that?” Nanette turned to the peddler.
“I’d just like to look at them first, if you’ll let me.”
“I’d be glad to get rid of them. But I won’t go upstairs, I’m afraid
there.”
“Well, I’ll get the things for you if you want me to,” offered George
and turned to leave the room. The door had scarcely closed behind him
when a change came over the peddler. His old head rose from its drooping
position, his bowed figure started up with youthful elasticity.
“Are you really fond of him?” he asked of the astonished Nanette, who
stepped back a pace, stammering in answer: “Yes. Why do you ask? and who
are you?”
“Never mind that, my dear child, but just answer the questions I have to
ask, and answer truthfully, or it might occur to me to let your George
know that he is not the first man you have loved.”
“What do you know?” she breathed in alarm.
The peddler laughed. “Oho, then he’s jealous! All the better for me--the
Councillor was jealous too, wasn’t he?” Nanette looked at him in horror.
“The truth, therefore, you must tell me the truth, and get the others
away, so I can speak to you alone. You must do this--or else I’ll tell
George about the handsome carpenter in Church street, or about Franz
Schmid, or--”
“For God’s sake, stop--stop--I’ll do anything you say.”
The girl sank back on her chair pale and trembling, while the peddler
resumed his pose of a tired old man leaning against the stove. When
George returned with a large basket, Nanette had calmed herself
sufficiently to go about the unpacking of the articles in the hamper.
“George, won’t you please keep Lena out in the kitchen. Ask her to make
some tea for us,” asked Nanette with well feigned assurance. George
smiled a meaning smile and disappeared.
“I am particularly interested in the dead lady’s gloves,” said the
peddler when they were alone again.
Nanette looked at him in surprise but was still too frightened to offer
any remarks. She opened several boxes and packages and laid a number of
pairs of gloves on the table. The old man looked through them, turning
them over carefully. Then he shook his head: “There must be some more
somewhere,” he said. Nanette was no longer astonished at anything he
might say or do, so she obediently went through the basket again and
found a little box in which were several pair of grey suede gloves,
fastened by bluish mother-of-pearl buttons. One of the pairs had been
worn, and a button was missing.
“These are the ones I was looking for,” said the peddler, putting the
gloves in his pocket. Then he continued: “Your mistress was rather fond
of taking long walks by herself, wasn’t she?”
The girl’s pale face flushed hotly and she stammered: “You know--about
it?”
“You know about it also, I see. And did you know everything?”
“Yes, everything,” murmured Nanette.
“Then it was you and Tristan who accompanied the lady on her walks?”
“Yes.”
“I supposed she must have taken some one into her confidence. Well, and
what do you think about the murder?”
“The Professor?” replied Nanette hastily. “Why, what should I know about
it?”
“The Councillor was greatly excited and very unhappy when he discovered
this affair, I suppose?”
“He is still.”
“And how did he act after the--let us call it the accident?”
“He was like a crazy man.”
“They tell me that he went about his duties just the same--that he went
away on business.”
“It wasn’t business this time, at least not professional business. But
before that he did have to go away frequently for weeks at a time.”
“And it was then that your mistress was most interested in her lonely
walks, eh?”
“Yes.” Nanette’s voice was so low as to be scarcely heard.
“Well, and this time?” continued the peddler. “Why did he go away this
time?”
“He went to the capital on private business of his own.”
“Are you sure of that?”
“Quite sure. He went two different times. I thought it was because he
couldn’t stand it here and wanted to see something different. He went to
his club this evening, too.”
“And when did he go away?”
“The first time was the day after his wife was buried.”
“And the second time?”
“Two or three days after his return.”
“How long did he stay away the first time?”
“Only one day.”
“Good! Pull yourself together now. I’ll send your George in to you and
tell him you haven’t been feeling well. Don’t tell any one about our
conversation. Where is the kitchen?”
“The last door to the right down the hall.”
The peddler left the room and Nanette sank down dazed and trembling on
the nearest chair. George found her still pale, but he seemed to think
it quite natural that she should have been overcome by the recollection
of the terrible death of her mistress. He gave the old man a most
cordial invitation to return during the next few days. The cook brought
the peddler a cup of steaming tea, and purchased several trifles from
him, before he left the house.
When the old man had reached a lonely spot on the road, about half way
between the hunting castle and the city, he halted, set down his pack,
divested himself of his beard and his wig and washed the wrinkles from
his face with a handful of snow from the wayside. A quarter of an
hour later, Detective Muller entered the railway station of the city,
burdened with a large grip. He took a seat in the night express which
rolled out from the station a few moments later.
As he was alone in his compartment, Muller gave way to his excitement,
sometimes even murmuring half-aloud the thoughts that rushed through his
brain. “Yes, I am convinced of it, but can I find the proofs?” the words
came again and again, and in spite of the comfortable warmth in the
compartment, in spite of his tired and half-frozen condition, he could
not sleep.
He reached the capital at midnight and took a room in a small hotel in
a quiet street. When he went out next morning, the servants looked after
him with suspicion, as in their opinion a man who spent most of the
night pacing up and down his room must surely have a guilty conscience.
Muller went to police headquarters and looked through the arrivals at
the hotels on the 21st of November. The burial of Mrs. Kniepp had
taken place on the 20th. Muller soon found the name he was looking
for, “Forest Councillor Leo Kniepp,” in the list of guests at the Hotel
Imperial. The detective went at once to the Hotel Imperial, where he was
already well known. It cost him little time and trouble to discover what
he wished to know, the reason for the Councillor’s visit to the capital.
Kniepp had asked for the address of a goldsmith, and had been directed
to one of the shops which had the best reputation in the city. He had
been in the capital altogether for about twenty-four hours. He had the
manner and appearance of a man suffering under some terrible blow.
Muller himself was deep in thought as he entered the train to return
to his home, after a visit to the goldsmith in question. He had a short
interview with Chief of Police Bauer, who finally gave him the golden
bullet and the keys to the apartment of the murdered man. Then the two
went out together.
An hour later, the chief of police and Muller stood in the garden of
the house in which the murder had occurred. Bauer had entered from the
Promenade after Muller had shown him how to work the lock of the little
gate. Together they went up into the apartment, which was icy cold and
uncanny in its loneliness. But the two men did not appear to notice
this, so greatly were they interested in the task that had brought them
there. First of all, they made a most minute examination of the two
doors which had been locked. The keys were still in both locks on
the inside. They were big heavy keys, suitable for the tall massive
heavily-panelled and iron-ornamented doors. The entire villa was built
in this heavy old German style, the favourite fashion of the last few
years.
When they had looked the locks over carefully, Muller lit the lamp that
hung over the desk in the study and closed the window shutters tight.
Bauer had smiled at first as he watched his protege’s actions, but
his smile changed to a look of keen interest as he suddenly understood.
Muller took his place in the chair before the desk and looked over at
the door of the vestibule, which was directly opposite him. “Yes, that’s
all right,” he said with a deep breath.
Bauer had sat down on the sofa to watch the proceedings, now he sprang
up with an exclamation: “Through the keyhole?”
“Through the keyhole,” answered Muller.
“It is scarcely possible.”
“Shall we try it?”
“Yes, yes, you do it.” Even the usually indifferent old chief of police
was breathing more hastily now. Muller took a roll of paper and a small
pistol out of his pocket. He unrolled the paper, which represented
the figure of a French soldier with a marked target on the breast. The
detective pinned the paper on the back of the chair in which Professor
Fellner had been seated when he met his death.
“But the key was in the hole,” objected Bauer suddenly.
“Yes, but it was turned so that the lower part of the hole was free.
Johann saw the light streaming through and could look into the room.
If the murderer put the barrel of his pistol to this open part of the
keyhole, the bullet would have to strike exactly where the dead man sat.
There would be no need to take any particular aim.” Muller gazed into
space like a seer before whose mental eye a vision has arisen, and
continued in level tones: “Fellner had refused the duel and the murderer
was crazed by his desire for revenge. He came here to the house, he must
have known just how to enter the place, how to reach the rooms, and he
must have known also, that the Professor, coward as he was--”
“Coward? Is a man a coward when he refuses to stand up to a maniac?”
interrupted Bauer.
Muller came back to the present with a start and said calmly, “Fellner
was a coward.”
“Then you know more than you are telling me now?”
Muller nodded. “Yes, I do,” he answered with a smile. “But I will tell
you more only when I have all the proofs in my own hand.”
“And the criminal will escape us in the meantime.”
“He has no idea that he is suspected.”
“But--you’ll promise to be sensible this time, Muller?”
“Yes. But you will pardon me my present reticence, even towards you?
I--I don’t want to be thought a dreamer again.”
“As in the Kniepp case?”
“As in the Kniepp case,” repeated the little man with a strange smile.
“So please allow me to go about it in my own way. I will tell you all
you want to know to-morrow.”
“To-morrow, then.”
“May I now continue to unfold my theories?” Bauer nodded and Muller
continued: “The criminal wanted Fellner’s blood, no matter how.”
“Even if it meant murder,” said Bauer.
Muller nodded calmly. “It would have been nobler, perhaps, to have
warned his victim of his approach, but it might have all come to nothing
then. The other could have called for help, could have barricaded
himself in his room, one crime might have been prevented, and another,
more shameful one, would have gone unavenged.”
“Another crime? Fellner a criminal?”
“To-morrow you shall know everything, my kind friend. And now, let us
make the trial. Please lock the door behind me as it was locked then.”
Muller left the room, taking the pistol with him. Bauer locked the door.
“Is this right?” he asked.
“Yes, I can see a wide curve of the room, taking in the entire desk.
Please stand to one side now.”
There was deep silence for a moment, then a slight sound as of metal
on metal, then a report, and Muller re-entered the study through the
bedroom. He found Bauer stooping over the picture of the French soldier.
There was a hole in the left breast, where the bullet, passing through,
had buried itself in the back of the chair.
“Yes, it was all just as you said,” began the chief of police, holding
out his hand to Muller. “But--why the golden bullet?”
“To-morrow, to-morrow,” replied the detective, looking up at his
superior with a glance of pleading.
They left the house together and in less than an hour’s time Muller was
again in the train rolling towards the capital.
He went to the goldsmith’s shop as soon as he arrived. The proprietor
received him with eager interest and Muller handed him the golden
bullet. “Here is the golden object of which I spoke,” said the
detective, paying no heed to the other’s astonishment. The goldsmith
opened a small locked drawer, took a ring from it and set about an
examination of the two little objects. When he turned to his visitor
again, he was evidently satisfied with what he had discovered. “These
two objects are made of exactly the same sort of gold, of a peculiar
old French composition, which can no longer be produced in the same
richness. The weight of the gold in the bullet is exactly the same as in
the ring.”
“Would you be willing to take an oath on that if you were called in as
an expert?”
“I am willing to stand up for my judgment.”
“Good. And now will you read this over please, it contains the substance
of what you told me yesterday. Should I have made any mistakes, please
correct them, for I will ask you to set your signature to it.”
Muller handed several sheets of close writing to the goldsmith and the
latter read aloud as follows: “On the 22nd of November, a gentleman came
into my shop and handed me a wedding ring with the request that I should
make another one exactly like it. He was particularly anxious that the
work should be done in two days at the very latest, and also that the
new ring, in form, colour, and in the engraving on the inside, should
be a perfect counterpart of the first. He explained his order by saying
that his wife was ill, and that she was grieving over the loss of her
wedding ring which had somehow disappeared. The new ring could be found
somewhere as if by chance and the sick woman’s anxiety would be over.
Two days later, as arranged, the same gentleman appeared again and I
handed him the two rings.
“He left the shop, greatly satisfied with my work and apparently much
relieved in his mind. But he left me uneasy in spirit because I had
deceived him. It had not been possible for me to reproduce exactly the
composition of the original ring, and as I believed that the work was to
be done in order to comfort an invalid, and I was getting no profit,
but on the contrary a little extra work out of it, I made two new rings,
lettered them according to the original and gave them to my customer.
The original ring I am now, on this seventh day of December, giving to
Mr. Joseph Mullet, who has shown me his legitimation as a member of
the Secret Police. I am willing to put myself at the service of the
authorities if I am called for.”
“You are willing to do this, aren’t you?” asked Muller when the
goldsmith had arrived at the end of the notice.
“Of course.”
“Have you anything to add to this?”
“No, it is quite complete. I will sign it at once.”
Several hours later, Muller re-entered the police station in his home
town and saw the windows of the chief’s apartment brilliantly lighted.
“What’s going on,” he asked of Bauer’s servant who was just hurrying up
the stairs.
“The mistress’ birthday, we’ve got company.”
Muller grumbled something and went on up to his own room. He knew it
would not be pleasant for his patron to be disturbed in the midst of
entertaining his guests, but the matter was important and could not
wait.
The detective laid off his outer garments, made a few changes in his
toilet and putting the goldsmith’s declaration, with the ring and
the bullet in his pocketbook, he went down to the first floor of the
building, in one wing of which was the apartment occupied by the Chief.
He sent in his name and was told to wait in the little study. He sat
down quietly in a corner of the comfortable little room beyond which,
in a handsomely furnished smoking room, a number of guests sat playing
cards. From the drawing rooms beyond, there was the sound of music and
many voices.
It was all very attractive and comfortable, and the solitary man sat
there enjoying once more the pleasant sensation of triumph, of joy at
the victory that was his alone and that would win him back all his old
friends and prestige. He was looking forward in agreeable anticipation
to the explanations he had to give, when he suddenly started and grew
pale. His eyes dimmed a moment, then he pulled himself together and
murmured: “No, no, not this time. I will not be weak this time.”
Just then the Chief entered the room, accompanied by Councillor Kniepp.
“Won’t you sit down here a little?” asked the friendly host. “You will
find it much quieter in this room.” He pulled up a little table laden
with cigars and wine, close to a comfortable armchair. Then, noticing
Muller, he continued with a friendly nod: “I’m glad they told you to
wait in here. You must be frozen after your long ride. If you will wait
just a moment more, I will return at once and we can go into my office.
And if you will make yourself comfortable here, my dear Kniepp, I will
send our friend Horn in to talk with you. He is bright and jovial and
will keep you amused.”
The chief chattered on, making a strenuous endeavour to appear quite
harmless. But Kniepp, more apt than ever just now to notice the
actions of others, saw plainly that his genial host was concealing some
excitement. When the latter had gone out the Councillor looked
after him, shaking his head. Then his glance fell by chance on the
quiet-looking man who had risen at his entrance and had not sat down
again.
“Please sit down,” he said in a friendly tone, but the other did not
move. His grey eyes gazed intently at the man whose fate he was to
change so horribly.
Kniepp grew uneasy under the stare. “What is there that interests you so
about me?” he asked in a tone that was an attempt at a joke.
“The ring, the ring on your watch chain,” murmured Muller.
“It belonged to my dead wife. I have worn it since she left me,”
answered the unhappy man with the same iron calm with which he had, all
these past days, been emphasizing his love for the woman he had lost.
Yet the question touched him unpleasantly and he looked more sharply at
the strange man over in the corner. He saw the latter’s face turn pale
and a shiver run through his form. A feeling of sympathy came over
Kniepp and he asked warmly: “Won’t you take a glass of this wine? If you
have been out in the cold it will be good for you.” His tone was gentle,
almost cordial, but the man to whom he offered the refreshment turned
from him with a gesture that was almost one of terror.
The Councillor rose suddenly from his chair. “Who are you? What news is
it you bring?” he asked with a voice that began to tremble.
Muller raised his head sharply as if his decision had been made, and his
kind intelligent eyes grew soft as they rested on the pale face of
the stately man before him. “I belong to the Secret Police and I
am compelled to find out the secrets of others--not because of my
profession--no, because my own nature compels me--I must do it. I have
just come from Vienna and I bring the last of the proofs necessary to
turn you over to the courts. And yet you are a thousand times better
than the coward who stole the honour of your wife and who hid behind
the shelter of the law--and therefore, therefore, therefore--” Muller’s
voice grew hoarse, then died away altogether.
Kniepp listened with pallid cheeks but without a quiver. Now he spoke,
completing the other’s words: “And therefore you wish to save me from
the prison or from the gallows? I thank you. What is your name?” The
unhappy man spoke as calmly as if the matter scarcely concerned him at
all.
The detective told him his name.
“Muller, Muller,” repeated the Councillor, as if he were particularly
anxious to remember the name. He held out his hand to the detective.
“I thank you, indeed, thank you,” he said with the first sign
of emotion he had shown, and then added low: “Do not fear that you will
have trouble on my account. They can find me in my home.” With these
words he turned away and sat down in his chair again. When Bauer entered
the room a few moments later, Kniepp was smoking calmly.
“Now, Muller, I’m ready. Horn will be in in a moment, friend Kniepp; I
know you will enjoy his chatter.” The chief led the way out of the room
through another door. He could not see the ghastly pale face of the
guest he left behind him, for it was almost hidden in a cloud of thick
smoke, but Muller turned back once more at the threshold and caught
a last grateful glance from eyes shadowed by deep sadness, as the
Councillor raised his hand in a friendly gesture.
“Dear Muller, you take so long to get at the point of the story! Don’t
you see you are torturing me?” This outburst came from the Chief
about an hour later. But the detective would not permit himself to be
interrupted in spinning out his story in his own way, and it was nearly
another hour before Bauer knew that the man for whose name he had been
waiting so long was Leo Kniepp.
The knowledge came as a terrible surprise to him. He was dazed almost.
“And I,--I’ve got to arrest him in my own house?” he exclaimed as if
horrified. And Muller answered calmly: “I doubt if you will have the
opportunity, sir.”
“Muller! Did you, again--”
“Yes, I did! I have again warned an unfortunate. It’s my nature, I
can’t seem to help it. But you will find the Councillor in his house. He
promised me that.”
“And you believe it?”
“That man will keep his promise,” said Muller quietly.
Councillor Kniepp did keep his promise. When the police arrived at the
hunting castle shortly after midnight, they found the terrified servants
standing by the body of their master.
“Well, Muller, you had better luck than you deserved this time,” Bauer
said a few days later. “This last trick has made you quite impossible
for the service. But you needn’t worry about that, because the legacy
Kniepp left you will put you out of reach of want.”
The detective was as much surprised as anybody. He was as if dazed by
his unexpected good fortune. The day before he was a poor man bowed
under the weight of sordid cares, and now he was the possessor of twenty
thousand gulden. And it was not his clever brain but his warm heart that
had won this fortune for him. His breast swelled with gratitude as he
thought of the unhappy man whose life had been ruined by the careless
cruelty of others and his own passions. Again and again he read the
letter which had been found on Kniepp’s desk, addressed to him and which
had been handed out to him after the inquest.