departure, a soldier of the 14th regiment of Jäger, passing the front
of the University on his way to barracks, came upon the lifeless
body of the Professor lying a little way from the side of the road.
He had fallen upon his face, with both hands stretched out. His head
was literally split in two halves by a tremendous blow, which, it
is conjectured, must have been struck from behind, there remaining
a peaceful smile upon the old man’s face, as if he had been still
dwelling upon his new archæological acquisition when death had
overtaken him. There is no other mark of violence upon the body, except
a bruise over the left patella, caused probably by the fall. The most
mysterious part of the affair is that the Professor’s purse, containing
forty-three gulden, and his valuable watch have been untouched. Robbery
cannot, therefore, have been the incentive to the deed, unless the
assassins were disturbed before they could complete their work.
“This idea is negatived by the fact that the body must have lain
at least an hour before anyone discovered it. The whole affair is
wrapped in mystery. Dr. Langemann, the eminent medico-jurist, has
pronounced that the wound is such as might have been inflicted by a
heavy sword-bayonet wielded by a powerful arm. The police are extremely
reticent upon the subject, and it is suspected that they are in
possession of a clew which may lead to important results.”
Thus far the _Pesther Abendblatt_. The researches of the police failed,
however, to throw the least glimmer of light upon the matter. There
was absolutely no trace of the murderer, nor could any amount of
ingenuity invent any reason which could have induced anyone to commit
the dreadful deed. The deceased Professor was a man so wrapped in his
own studies and pursuits that he lived apart from the world, and had
certainly never raised the slightest animosity in any human breast. It
must have been some fiend, some savage, who loved blood for its own
sake, who struck that merciless blow.
Though the officials were unable to come to any conclusions upon the
matter, popular suspicion was not long in pitching upon a scapegoat.
In the first published accounts of the murder the name of one Schiffer
had been mentioned as having remained with the janitor after the
Professor’s departure. This man was a Jew, and Jews have never been
popular in Hungary. A cry was at once raised for Schiffer’s arrest;
but as there was not the slightest grain of evidence against him,
the authorities very properly refused to consent to so arbitrary a
proceeding. Reinmaul, who was an old and most respected citizen,
declared solemnly that Schiffer was with him until the startled cry
of the soldier had caused them both to run out to the scene of the
tragedy. No one ever dreamed of implicating Reinmaul in such a matter;
but still it was rumored that his ancient and well-known friendship for
Schiffer might have induced him to tell a falsehood in order to screen
him. Popular feeling ran very high upon the subject, and there seemed
a danger of Schiffer’s being mobbed in the street, when an incident
occurred which threw a very different light upon the matter.
On the morning of December 12th, just nine days after the mysterious
murder of the Professor, Schiffer, the Bohemian Jew, was found lying
in the northwestern corner of the Grand Platz stone dead, and so
mutilated that he was hardly recognizable. His head was cloven open in
very much the same way as that of Von Hopstein, and his body exhibited
numerous deep gashes, as if the murderer had been so carried away and
transported with fury that he had continued to hack the lifeless body.
Snow had fallen heavily the day before, and was lying at least a foot
deep all over the square; some had fallen during the night, too, as was
evidenced by a thin layer lying like a winding-sheet over the murdered
man. It was hoped at first that this circumstance might assist in
giving a clew by enabling the footsteps of the assassin to be traced;
but the crime had been committed, unfortunately, in a place much
frequented during the day, and there were innumerable tracks in every
direction. Besides, the newly fallen snow had blurred the footsteps to
such an extent that it would have been impossible to draw trustworthy
evidence from them.
In this case there was exactly the same impenetrable mystery and
absence of motive which had characterized the murder of Professor
von Hopstein. In the dead man’s pocket there was found a note-book
containing a considerable sum in gold and several very valuable bills,
but no attempt had been made to rifle him. Supposing that anyone to
whom he had lent money (and this was the first idea which occurred to
the police) had taken this means of evading his debt, it was hardly
conceivable that he would have left such a valuable spoil untouched.
Schiffer lodged with a widow named Gruga, at 49 Marie Theresa Strasse,
and the evidence of his landlady and her children showed that he had
remained shut up in his room the whole of the preceding day in a state
of deep dejection, caused by the suspicion which the populace had
fastened upon him. She had heard him go out about eleven o’clock at
night for his last and fatal walk, and as he had a latch-key she had
gone to bed without waiting for him. His object in choosing such a late
hour for a ramble obviously was that he did not consider himself safe
if recognized in the streets.
The occurrence of this second murder so shortly after the first threw
not only the town of Buda-Pesth, but the whole of Hungary, into a
terrible state of excitement and even of terror. Vague dangers seemed
to hang over the head of every man. The only parallel to this intense
feeling was to be found in our own country at the time of the Williams
murders described by De Quincey. There were so many resemblances
between the cases of Von Hopstein and of Schiffer that no one could
doubt that there existed a connection between the two. The absence of
object and of robbery, the utter want of any clew to the assassin, and,
lastly, the ghastly nature of the wounds, evidently inflicted by the
same or a similar weapon, all pointed in one direction. Things were in
this state when the incidents which I am now about to relate occurred,
and in order to make them intelligible I must lead up to them from a
fresh point of departure.
Otto von Schlegel was a younger son of the old Silesian family of that
name. His father had originally destined him for the army, but at the
advice of his teachers, who saw the surprising talent of the youth, had
sent him to the University of Buda-Pesth to be educated in medicine.
Here young Schlegel carried everything before him, and promised to
be one of the most brilliant graduates turned out for many a year.
Though a hard reader, he was no bookworm, but an active, powerful young
fellow, full of animal spirits and vivacity, and extremely popular
among his fellow-students.
The New Year examinations were at hand, and Schlegel was working
hard--so hard that even the strange murders in the town, and the
general excitement in men’s minds, failed to turn his thoughts from
his studies. Upon Christmas Eve, when every house was illuminated,
and the roar of drinking songs came from the Bierkeller in the
Student-quartier, he refused the many invitations to roystering suppers
which were showered upon him, and went off with his books under his arm
to the rooms of Leopold Strauss, to work with him into the small hours
of the morning.
Strauss and Schlegel were bosom friends. They were both Silesians,
and had known each other from boyhood. Their affection had become
proverbial in the University. Strauss was almost as distinguished a
student as Schlegel, and there had been many a tough struggle for
academic honors between the two fellow-countrymen, which had only
served to strengthen their friendship by a bond of mutual respect.
Schlegel admired the dogged pluck and never-failing good temper of
his old playmate; while the latter considered Schlegel, with his many
talents and brilliant versatility, the most accomplished of mortals.
The friends were still working together, the one reading from a volume
on anatomy, the other holding a skull and marking off the various parts
mentioned in the text, when the deep-toned bell of St. Gregory’s church
struck the hour of midnight.
“Hark to that!” said Schlegel, snapping up the book and stretching out
his long legs toward the cheery fire. “Why, it’s Christmas morning, old
friend! May it not be the last that we spend together!”
“May we have passed all these confounded examinations before another
one comes!” answered Strauss. “But see here, Otto, one bottle of wine
will not be amiss. I have laid one up on purpose;” and with a smile on
his honest South German face, he pulled out a long-necked bottle of
Rhenish from among a pile of books and bones in the corner.
“It is a night to be comfortable indoors,” said Otto von Schlegel,
looking out at the snowy landscape, “for ’tis bleak and bitter enough
outside. Good health, Leopold!”
“_Lebe hoch!_” replied his companion. “It is a comfort, indeed, to
forget sphenoid bones and ethmoid bones, if it be but for a moment. And
what is the news of the corps, Otto? Has Graube fought the Swabian?”
“They fight to-morrow,” said Von Schlegel. “I fear that our man will
lose his beauty, for he is short in the arm. Yet activity and skill may
do much for him. They say his hanging guard is perfection.”
“And what else is the news among the students?” asked Strauss.
“They talk, I believe, of nothing but the murders. But I have worked
hard of late, as you know, and hear little of the gossip.”
“Have you had time,” inquired Strauss, “to look over the books and the
weapons which our dear old Professor was so concerned about the very
day he met his death? They say they are well worth a visit.”
“I saw them to-day,” said Schlegel, lighting his pipe. “Reinmaul, the
janitor, showed me over the store-room, and I helped to label many of
them from the original catalogue of Graf Schulling’s museum. As far as
we can see, there is but one article missing of all the collection.”
“One missing!” exclaimed Strauss. “That would grieve old Von Hopstein’s
ghost. Is it anything of value?”
“It is described as an antique hatchet, with a head of steel and a
handle of chased silver. We have applied to the railway company, and no
doubt it will be found.”
“I trust so,” echoed Strauss; and the conversation drifted off into
other channels. The fire was burning low and the bottle of Rhenish was
empty before the two friends rose from their chairs and Von Schlegel
prepared to depart.
“Ugh! It’s a bitter night!” he said, standing on the doorstep and
folding his cloak round him. “Why, Leopold, you have your cap on. You
are not going out, are you?”
“Yes, I am coming with you,” said Strauss, shutting the door behind
him. “I feel heavy,” he continued, taking his friend’s arm, and walking
down the street with him. “I think a walk as far as your lodgings, in
the crisp frosty air, is just the thing to set me right.”
The two students went down Stephen Strasse together and across Julien
Platz, talking on a variety of topics. As they passed the corner of
the Grand Platz, however, where Schiffer had been found dead, the
conversation turned naturally upon the murder.
“That’s where they found him,” remarked Von Schlegel, pointing to the
fatal spot.
“Perhaps the murderer is near us now,” said Strauss. “Let us hasten on.”
They both turned to go, when Von Schlegel gave a sudden cry of pain and
stooped down.
“Something has cut through my boot!” he cried; and feeling about with
his hand in the snow, he pulled out a small glistening battle-axe, made
apparently entirely of metal. It had been lying with the blade turned
slightly upward, so as to cut the foot of the student when he trod upon
it.
“The weapon of the murderer!” he ejaculated.
“The silver hatchet from the museum!” cried Strauss in the same breath.
There could be no doubt that it was both the one and the other. There
could not be two such curious weapons, and the character of the wounds
was just such as would be inflicted by a similar instrument. The
murderer had evidently thrown it aside after committing the dreadful
deed, and it had lain concealed in the snow some twenty metres from the
spot ever since. It was extraordinary that of all the people who had
passed and repassed none had discovered it; but the snow was deep, and
it was a little off the beaten track.
“What are we to do with it?” said Von Schlegel, holding it in his hand.
He shuddered as he noticed by the light of the moon that the head of it
was all dabbled with dark-brown stains.
“Take it to the Commissary of Police,” suggested Strauss.
“He’ll be in bed now. Still, I think you are right. But it is nearly
four o’clock. I will wait until morning, and take it round before
breakfast. Meanwhile, I must carry it with me to my lodgings.”
“That is the best plan,” said his friend; and the two walked on
together talking of the remarkable find which they had made. When they
came to Schlegel’s door, Strauss said good-by, refusing an invitation
to go in, and walked briskly down the street in the direction of his
own lodgings.
Schlegel was stooping down putting the key into the lock, when a
strange change came over him. He trembled violently, and dropped the
key from his quivering fingers. His right hand closed convulsively
round the handle of the silver hatchet, and his eye followed the
retreating figure of his friend with a vindictive glare. In spite of
the coldness of the night the perspiration streamed down his face. For
a moment he seemed to struggle with himself, holding his hand up to his
throat as if he were suffocating. Then, with crouching body and rapid,
noiseless steps, he crept after his late companion.
Strauss was plodding sturdily along through the snow, humming snatches
of a student song, and little dreaming of the dark figure which pursued
him. At the Grand Platz it was forty yards behind him; at the Julien
Platz it was but twenty; in Stephen Strasse it was ten, and gaining
on him with panther-like rapidity. Already it was almost within arm’s
length of the unsuspecting man, and the hatchet glittered coldly in the
moonlight, when some slight noise must have reached Strauss’s ears, for
he faced suddenly round upon his pursuer. He started and uttered an
exclamation as his eye met the white set face, with flashing eyes and
clenched teeth, which seemed to be suspended in the air behind him.
“What, Otto!” he exclaimed, recognising his friend. “Art thou ill? You
look pale. Come with me to my---- Ah! hold, you madman, hold! Drop that
axe! Drop it, I say, or by heaven I’ll choke you!”
Von Schlegel had thrown himself upon him with a wild cry and uplifted
weapon; but the student was stout-hearted and resolute. He rushed
inside the sweep of the hatchet and caught his assailant round the
waist, narrowly escaping a blow which would have cloven his head. The
two staggered for a moment in a deadly wrestle, Schlegel endeavoring
to shorten his weapon; but Strauss with a desperate wrench managed
to bring him to the ground, and they rolled together in the snow,
Strauss clinging to the other’s right arm and shouting frantically for
assistance. It was as well that he did so, for Schlegel would certainly
have succeeded in freeing his arm had it not been for the arrival of
two stalwart gendarmes, attracted by the uproar. Even then the three of
them found it difficult to overcome the maniacal strength of Schlegel,
and they were utterly unable to wrench the silver hatchet from his
grasp. One of the gendarmes, however, had a coil of rope round his
waist, with which he rapidly secured the student’s arms to his sides.
In this way, half pushed, half dragged, he was conveyed, in spite of
furious cries and frenzied struggles, to the central police station.
Strauss assisted in coercing his former friend, and accompanied the
police to the station; protesting loudly at the same time against any
unnecessary violence, and giving it as his opinion that a lunatic
asylum would be a more fitting place for the prisoner. The events of
the last half-hour had been so sudden and inexplicable that he felt
quite dazed himself. What did it all mean? It was certain that his
old friend from boyhood had attempted to murder him, and had nearly
succeeded. Was Von Schlegel, then, the murderer of Professor von
Hopstein and of the Bohemian Jew? Strauss felt that it was impossible,
for the Jew was not even known to him, and the Professor had been his
especial favorite. He followed mechanically to the police station, lost
in grief and amazement.
Inspector Baumgarten, one of the most energetic and best known of
the police officials, was on duty in the absence of the Commissary.
He was a wiry little active man, quiet and retiring in his habits,
but possessed of great sagacity and a vigilance which never relaxed.
Now, though he had had a six hours’ vigil, he sat as erect as ever,
with his pen behind his ear, at his official desk, while his friend,
Sub-inspector Winkel, snored in a chair at the side of the stove. Even
the inspector’s usually immovable features betrayed surprise, however,
when the door was flung open and Von Schlegel was dragged in with pale
face and disordered clothes, the silver hatchet still grasped firmly in
his hand. Still more surprised was he when Strauss and the gendarmes
gave their account, which was duly entered in the official register.
“Young man, young man,” said Inspector Baumgarten, laying down his pen
and fixing his eyes sternly upon the prisoner, “this is pretty work for
Christmas morning; why have you done this thing?”
“God knows!” cried Von Schlegel, covering his face with his hands
and dropping the hatchet. A change had come over him; his fury and
excitement were gone, and he seemed utterly prostrated with grief.
“You have rendered yourself liable to a strong suspicion of having
committed the other murders which have disgraced our city.”
“No, no, indeed!” said Von Schlegel, earnestly. “God forbid!”
“At least you are guilty of attempting the life of Herr Leopold
Strauss.”
“The dearest friend I have in the world,” groaned the student. “Oh, how
could I! How could I!”
“His being your friend makes your crime ten times more heinous,” said
the inspector, severely. “Remove him for the remainder of the night to
the---- But steady! Who comes here?”
The door was pushed open and a man came into the room, so haggard
and careworn that he looked more like a ghost than a human being. He
tottered as he walked, and had to clutch at the backs of the chairs as
he approached the inspector’s desk. It was hard to recognize in this
miserable looking object the once cheerful and rubicund sub-Curator of
the Museum and Privat-docent of Chemistry, Herr Wilhelm Schlessinger.
The practised eye of Baumgarten, however, was not to be baffled by any
change.
“Good morning, mein herr,” he said; “you are up early. No doubt the
reason is that you have heard that one of your students, Von Schlegel,
is arrested for attempting the life of Leopold Strauss?”
“No; I have come for myself,” said Schlessinger, speaking huskily, and
putting his hand up to his throat. “I have come to ease my soul of the
weight of a great sin, though, God knows, an unmeditated one. It was I
who---- But, merciful heavens! there it is--the horrid thing! Oh, that
I had never seen it!”
He shrank back in a paroxysm of terror, glaring at the silver hatchet
where it lay upon the floor, and pointing at it with his emaciated hand.
“There it lies!” he yelled. “Look at it! It has come to condemn me. See
that brown rust on it! Do you know what that is? That is the blood of
my dearest, best friend, Professor von Hopstein. I saw it gush over the
very handle as I drove the blade through his brain. Mein Gott, I see it
now!”
“Sub-inspector Winkel,” said Baumgarten, endeavoring to preserve his
official austerity, “you will arrest this man, charged on his own
confession with the murder of the late Professor. I also deliver into
your hands Von Schlegel here, charged with a murderous assault upon
Herr Strauss. You will also keep this hatchet”--here he picked it from
the floor--“which has apparently been used for both crimes.”
Wilhelm Schlessinger had been leaning against the table, with a face of
ashy paleness. As the inspector ceased speaking, he looked up excitedly.
“What did you say?” he cried. “Von Schlegel attack Strauss!--the two
dearest friends in the college! I slay my old master! It is magic, I
say; it is a charm! There is a spell upon us! It is--Ah, I have it!
It is that hatchet--that thrice accursed hatchet!” and he pointed
convulsively at the weapon which Inspector Baumgarten still held in his
hand.
The inspector smiled contemptuously.
“Restrain yourself, mein herr,” he said. “You do but make your case
worse by such wild excuses for the wicked deed you confess to. Magic
and charms are not known in the legal vocabulary, as my friend Winkel
will assure you.”
“I know not,” remarked his sub-inspector, shrugging his broad
shoulders. “There are many strange things in the world. Who knows but
that----”
“What!” roared Inspector Baumgarten, furiously. “You would undertake to
contradict me! You would set up your opinion! You would be the champion
of these accursed murderers! Fool, miserable fool, your hour has come!”
and rushing at the astounded Winkel, he dealt a blow at him with the
silver hatchet which would certainly have justified his last assertion
had it not been that, in his fury, he overlooked the lowness of the
rafters above his head. The blade of the hatchet struck one of these,
and remained there quivering, while the handle was splintered into a
thousand pieces.
“What have I done?” gasped Baumgarten, falling back into his chair.
“What have I done?”
“You have proved Herr Schlessinger’s words to be correct,” said Von
Schlegel, stepping forward, for the astonished policemen had let go
their grasp of him. “That is what you have done. Against reason,
science, and everything else though it be, there is a charm at work.
There must be! Strauss, old boy, you know I would not, in my right
senses, hurt one hair of your head. And you, Schlessinger, we both know
you loved the old man who is dead. And you, Inspector Baumgarten, you
would not willingly have struck your friend the sub-inspector?”
“Not for the whole world,” groaned the inspector, covering his face
with his hands.
“Then is it not clear? But now, thank Heaven, the accursed thing is
broken, and can never do harm again. But see, what is that?”
Right in the centre of the room was lying a thin brown cylinder of
parchment. One glance at the fragments of the handle of the weapon
showed that it had been hollow. This roll of paper had apparently been
hidden away inside the metal case thus formed, having been introduced
through a small hole, which had been afterward soldered up. Von
Schlegel opened the document. The writing upon it was almost illegible
from age; but as far as they could make out it stood thus, in mediæval
German:
“Diese Waffe benutzte Max von Erlichingen um Joanna Bodeck zu ermorden,
deshalb beschuldige Ich, Johann Bodeck, mittelst der macht welche mir
als mitglied des Concils des rothen Kreuzes verliehen wurde, dieselbe
mit dieser unthat. Mag sie anderen denselben schmerz verursachen den
sie mir verursacht hat. Mag Jede hand die sie ergreift mit dem blut
eines freundes geröthet sein.
“‘Immer übel--niemals gut,
Geröthet mit des freundes blut.’”
Which may be roughly translated:
“This weapon was used by Max von Erlichingen for the murder of Joanna
Bodeck. Therefore do I, Johann Bodeck, accurse it by the power which
has been bequeathed to me as one of the Council of the Rosy Cross. May
it deal to others the grief which it has dealt to me! May every hand
that grasps it be reddened in the blood of a friend!
“‘Ever evil, never good,
Reddened with a loved one’s blood.’”
There was a dead silence in the room when Von Schlegel had finished
spelling out this strange document. As he put it down Strauss laid his
hand affectionately upon his arm.
“No such proof is needed by me, old friend,” he said. “At the very
moment that you struck at me I forgave you in my heart. I well know
that if the poor Professor were in the room he would say as much to
Herr Wilhelm Schlessinger.”