“Oh, sir, save him if you can--save my poor nephew! I know he is
innocent!”
The little old lady sank back in her chair, gazing up at Commissioner
von Riedau with tear-dimmed eyes full of helpless appeal. The
commissioner looked thoughtful. “But the case is in the hands of the
local authorities, Madam,” he answered gently, a strain of pity in his
voice. “I don’t exactly see how we could interfere.”
“But they believe Albert guilty! They haven’t given him a chance!”
“He cannot be sentenced without sufficient proof of his guilt.”
“But the trial, the horrible trial--it will kill him--his heart is
weak. I thought--I thought you might send some one--some one of your
detectives--to find out the truth of the case. You must have the best
people here in Vienna. Oh, my poor Albert--”
Her voice died away in a suppressed sob, and she covered her face to
keep back the tears.
The commissioner pressed a bell on his desk. “Is Detective Joseph Muller
anywhere about the building?” he asked of the attendant who appeared at
the door.
“I think he is, sir. I saw him come in not long ago.”
“Ask him to come up to this room. Say I would like to speak to him.” The
attendant went out.
“I have sent for one of the best men on our force, Madam,” continued the
commissioner, turning back to the pathetic little figure in the chair.
“We will go into this matter a little more in detail and see if it is
possible for us to interfere with the work of the local authorities in
G----------.”
The little old lady gave her eyes a last hasty dab with a dainty
handkerchief and raised her head again, fighting for self-control. She
was a quaint little figure, with soft grey hair drawn back smoothly from
a gentle-featured face in which each wrinkle seemed the seal of some
loving thought for others. Her bonnet and gown were of excellent
material in delicate soft colours, but cut in the style of an earlier
decade. The capable lines of her thin little hands showed through the
fabric of her grey gloves. Her whole attitude bore the impress of one
who had adventured far beyond the customary routine of her home circle,
adventured out into the world in fear and trembling, impelled by the
stress of a great love.
A knock was heard at the door, and a small, slight man, with a kind,
smooth-shaven face, entered at the commissioner’s call. “You sent for
me, sir?” he asked.
“Yes, Muller, there is a matter here in which I need your advice, your
assistance, perhaps. This is Detective Muller, Miss--” (the commissioner
picked up the card on his desk) “Miss Graumann. If you will tell us now,
more in detail, all that you can tell us about this case, we may be able
to help you.”
“Oh, if you would,” murmured Miss Graumann, with something more of hope
in her voice. The expression of sympathetic interest on the face of
the newcomer had already won her confidence for him. Her slight figure
straightened up in the chair, and the two men sat down opposite her,
prepared to listen to her story.
“I will tell you all I know and understand about this matter,
gentlemen,” she began. “My name is Babette Graumann, and I live with my
nephew, Albert Graumann, engineering expert, in the village of Grunau,
which is not far from the city of G----------. My nephew Albert, the dearest,
truest--” sobs threatened to overcome her again, but she mastered them
bravely. “Albert is now in prison, accused of the murder of his friend,
John Siders, in the latter’s lodgings in G------.”
“Yes, that is the gist of what you have already told me,” said the
commissioner. “Muller, Miss Graumann believes her nephew innocent,
contrary to the opinion of the local authorities in G------. She has come
to ask for some one from here who could ferret out the truth of this
matter. You are free now, and if we find that it can be done without
offending the local authorities--”
“Who is the commissioner in charge of the case in G------?” asked Muller.
“Commissioner Lange is his name, I believe,” replied Miss Graumann.
“H’m!” Muller and the commissioner exchanged glances.
“I think we can venture to hear more of this,” said the commissioner,
as if in answer to their unspoken thought. “Can you give us the details
now, Madam? Who is, or rather who was, this John Siders?”
“John Siders came to our village a little over a year ago,” continued
Miss Graumann. “He came from Chicago; he told us, although he was
evidently a German by birth. He bought a nice little piece of property,
not far from our home, and settled down there. He was a quiet man and
made few friends, but he seemed to take to Albert and came to see us
frequently. Albert had spent some years in America, in Chicago, and
Siders liked to talk to him about things and people there. But one day
Siders suddenly sold his property and moved to G------. Two weeks later he
was found dead in his lodgings in the city, murdered, and now--now they
have accused Albert of the crime.”
“On what grounds?--oh, I beg your pardon, sir; I did not mean--”
“That’s all right, Muller,” said the commissioner. “As you may have to
undertake the case, you might as well begin to do the questioning now.”
“They say”--Miss Graumann’s voice quavered--“they say that Albert was
the last person known to have been in Siders’ room; they say that it was
his revolver, found in the room. That is the dreadful part of it--it was
his revolver. He acknowledges it, but he did not know, until the police
showed it to him, that the weapon was not in its usual place in his
study. They tell me that everything speaks for his guilt, but I cannot
believe it--I cannot. He says he is innocent in spite of everything. I
believe him. I brought him up, sir; I was like his own mother to him. He
never knew any other mother. He never lied to me, not once, when he was
a little boy, and I don’t believe he’d lie to me now, now that he’s a
man of forty-five. He says he did not kill John Siders. Oh, I know, even
without his saying it, that he would not do such a thing.”
“Can you tell us anything more about the murder itself?” questioned
Muller gently. “Is there any possibility of suicide? Or was there a
robbery?”
“They say it was no suicide, sir, and that there was a large sum of
money missing. But why should Albert take any one else’s money? He has
money of his own, and he earns a good income besides--we have all that
we need. Oh, it is some dreadful mistake! There is the newspaper account
of the discovery of the body. Perhaps Mr. Muller might like to read
that.” She pointed to a sheet of newspaper on the desk. The commissioner
handed it to Muller. It was an evening paper, dated G------, September
24th, and it gave an elaborate account, in provincial journalese, of the
discovery that morning of the body of John Siders, evidently murdered,
in his lodgings. The main facts to be gathered from the long-winded
story were as follows:
John Siders had rented the rooms in which he met his death about ten
days before, paying a month’s rent in advance. The lodgings consisted of
two rooms in a little house in a quiet street. It was a street of simple
two-story, one and two family dwellings, occupied by artisans and small
tradespeople. There were many open spaces, gardens and vacant lots in
the street. The house in which Siders lodged belonged to a travelling
salesman by the name of Winter. The man was away from home a great deal,
and his wife, with her child and an old servant, lived in the lower
part of the house, while the rooms occupied by Siders were in the upper
story. Siders lived very quietly, going out frequently in the afternoon,
but returning early in the evening. He had said to his landlady that he
had many friends in G------. But during the time of his stay in the house he
had had but one caller, a gentleman who came on the evening of the 23rd
of September. The old maid had opened the door for him and showed him
to Mr. Siders’ rooms. She described this visitor as having a full black
beard, and wearing a broad-brimmed grey felt hat. Nobody saw the man
go out, for the old maid, the only person in the house at the time, had
retired early. Mrs. Winter and her little girl were spending the night
with the former’s mother in a distant part of the city. The next morning
the old servant, taking the lodger’s coffee up to him at the usual hour,
found him dead on the floor of his sitting-room, shot through the heart.
The woman ran screaming from the house and alarmed the neighbours. A
policeman at the corner heard the noise, and led the crowd up to the
room where the dead man lay. It was plain to be seen that this was not
a case of suicide. Everywhere were signs of a terrible struggle. The
furniture was overturned, the dressing-table and the cupboard were open
and their contents scattered on the floor, one of the window curtains
was torn into strips, as if the victim had been trying to escape by way
of the window, but had been dragged back into the room by his murderer.
An overturned ink bottle on the table had spattered wide, and added to
the general confusion. In the midst of the disorder lay the body of the
murdered man, now cold in the rigour of death.
The police commissioner arrived soon, took possession of the rooms, and
made a thorough examination of the premises. A letter found on the desk
gave another proof, if such were needed, that this was not a case of
suicide. This letter was in the handwriting of the dead man, and read as
follows:
Dear Friend:
I appreciate greatly all the kindness shown me by yourself and your good
wife. I have been more successful than I thought possible in overcoming
the obstacles you know of. Therefore, I shall be very glad to join you
day after to-morrow, Sunday, in the proposed excursion. I will call for
you at 8 A.M.--the cab and the champagne will be my share of the trip.
We’ll have a jolly day and drink a glass or two to our plans for the
future.
With best greetings for both of you,
Your old friend,