_Bucholz grows Skeptical and Doubtful._--_A Fruitless Search._--_The
Murderer Involuntarily Reveals Himself._
The days sped on, and the trial of William Bucholz, for the murder of
Henry Schulte, his employer, was fast approaching. Regularly Edward
Sommers had visited the imprisoned man, and upon the occasion of each
visit had endeavored to assure him of the possibility of escaping
from the charge against him.
The mind of Bucholz was in a chaotic state of worriment and unrest.
Between his confidences to Edward Sommers and the repeated warnings
of his counsel he scarcely knew what to do or what to say. At times
he would bitterly regret having informed Sommers of anything about
himself, and at others he would hug him to his breast as the only
human being upon whom he could rely.
To Sommers this experience had been a trying one indeed. He had been
compelled to endure the various moods of Bucholz with patience and
equanimity and to endeavor to disabuse his mind of frequent-recurring
doubts. Many times during his visits he would be vexed beyond
endurance at the doubtful questionings of his companion, which he
frequently found very difficult to parry or explain. Then, too, he
became extravagant in his demands, and required the choicest
delicacies that could be procured. He wanted new clothing, and even
expressed a desire that Sommers should procure for him a uniform
dress of the regiment of hussars of which he was formerly a
member--in fact, became so importunate in his demands and so
ridiculous in his fancied wants, that Sommers, fearful of affording
grounds for suspicion in the minds both of the inmates of the prison
and of the counsel for Bucholz, was compelled to emphatically refuse
to gratify his wishes.
These denials of course were productive of differences of opinion and
angry altercations. Fresh doubts would be engendered, which would
require the exercise of all the ingenuity of the detective to allay.
Bucholz seemed to have no idea that a liberal expenditure of money at
this time would be very injurious to his case, and that as Mr.
Bollman had sole charge of the money received from Germany, he would
naturally become suspicious of his client should he discover that
Sommers was supplying his wants from a source which his counsel was
ignorant of.
He thirsted also for a glance at the money which had been found,
especially the gold-piece with a hole in it, and besought Sommers to
bring it with him, so that he might feast his eyes upon the wealth
that was soon to be his. So frequent and imperious became these
demands that Sommers had the greatest difficulty in convincing him of
the danger to both of them which would be attendant upon any such
proceeding.
He had informed Bucholz that the money had been securely placed in
the vaults of a safe deposit company in New York City, but he did not
tell him that the German Consul carried the key.
Upon the occasion of almost every visit he would be compelled to
wrestle with this doubtfulness of his companion before he could
induce him to converse upon the matters that would naturally be
considered of the utmost importance to him, but after long and
arduous labor, he usually left him more cheerful and hopeful than he
found him.
The time drew near for the anonymous letters to arrive from San
Francisco, and Sommers went to South Norwalk, and, locating the spot
mentioned in the letter, he dug up the solid earth in such a manner
as to convince whoever came to look for the hidden articles mentioned
in the communication, that some one else had anticipated them, and
that the articles had been removed.
The letters were duly received, and Mr. Olmstead, who, of course, had
been informed of their manufacture, upon receiving his paid no
attention to the important information it was supposed to convey. The
attorneys for Bucholz, however, visited the spot, and to their dismay
and disappointment they found the earth broken, and every indication
that the articles, if any existed, had been removed in advance of
their arrival.
When Bucholz heard of the disappointment of his counsel, he was much
chagrined, and accused Sommers of having arranged it so that Mr.
Olmstead received his before the other was delivered. This, however,
was proven to the contrary, and the fact was that even had there been
anything hidden under the ground, Bucholz's defenders were too
dilatory in going in search of them.
It was at the visit after the information had reached them of this
fruitless search for important testimony, that Bucholz related to
Sommers another dream, in which his former prison companion was said
to have appeared to him as a detective, and as he finished the
recital, he turned to his companion, and said:
"If you are a detective, and if you do take the stand against me, it
is all over. I will tell my lawyers to stop the trial--that will be
the end of it--and me."
Sommers laughed at this and turned the drift of the conversation to
the question of the approaching trial and the evidence that would
soon be produced against him.
He asked him in a quiet manner, if he had thrown the two old pistols
where they had been found on the night of the murder, and Bucholz,
with a smile, answered him:
"Oh, my dear fellow, you make a mistake; the murderers threw them
there."
Sommers looked incredulously at him for a moment, and then replied:
"I did not ask you whether you killed the old man or not; but you
must not think me such a fool as not to know it."
Bucholz laughed, a hard, bitter laugh, and the glitter of the
serpent's came into the wicked blue eyes, but he made no denial.
"I never thought when I first became acquainted with you," continued
Sommers, "that you knew anything about this murder, but rather
thought you an innocent, harmless-looking fellow. Indeed I never
imagined that you had nerve enough to do anything like that."
Again that diabolical laugh, and Bucholz, holding out his right arm
without a tremor of the muscles, replied, ironically:
"Oh, no; I have got no nerve at all."
The next day they referred again to the finding of the articles
hidden in the ground, and Sommers informed his companion that Mr.
Olmstead had secured the axe that was in the barn, and regretted very
much that he had not taken it when he was there.
Bucholz looked troubled at this information, but, rousing himself, he
inquired:
"What kind of an axe did you get?"
"Why, I got one as nearly like that in the barn as I could--about as
thick as the iron bars on the door of the cell there."
"Yes, that is right," said Bucholz, eagerly, while a glow of
satisfaction dashed across his face.
"I don't know about that," replied Sommers. "How large were the
wounds upon the head of Mr. Schulte?"
"One was about three inches long."
"Was that the wound that was made by the sharp edge of the axe?"
"Yes! yes!" replied Bucholz, eagerly.
"Well, how large was the other wound?"
"Well," said Bucholz, musingly, and making a circle of his thumb and
forefinger, he held it up before the detective; "I should think it
was a hole about this large."
No tremor of the voice, no shaking of the hand, as he held it up,
but, with a cold, unfeeling look, he made this explanation.
"I am afraid that the axe I bought was too large, because the back of
it was as broad as the bar upon this door--about two inches."
"That is right enough," quickly replied Bucholz, "because if you
would take the axe and strike the blow upwards behind the ear, where
that wound was, you would strike the head with the edge of the back,
and that would crush in the bones of the skull and produce just such
a hole as that was in Schulte's head."
He illustrated this by starting to his feet and raising his hands as
if he was about to strike the blow himself. The murderous glitter
came again into those flashing eyes. His words came thick and
fast--the demon smile was upon his lips. He was acting again the
scene of that dreadful night, and, oblivious of his listener, or the
impressions he was creating, he lived again that frightful moment
when he had inflicted the blows that laid the old man dead at his
feet.
There was a realism about his manner that was awfully impressive, and
the detective involuntarily shuddered as he looked into those
gleaming eyes, in which murder was clearly reflected. All doubts were
removed from his mind--the murderer of Henry Schulte stood before
him--and if the judges and the jury that were to hear his case in a
few days could have witnessed this scene, conviction would have been
carried to the minds of the most skeptical.
No confession seemed necessary now. If ever murder was depicted upon
a human face it was expressed in every lineament of the face of the
man who stood before the detective in that prison cell.
The wicked gleam had not died out from his eyes, as, unconscious of
the effect his manner had produced, he resumed his position, and
added, in a tone of entire satisfaction:
"Yes, yes, that axe is all right!"
Edward Sommers shuddered as he gazed at the man before him--the man
who had become as putty in his hands, and yet who possessed a heart
so black as to be capable of the damning deed for which he was so
soon to be tried for committing.
He thought of the tears this man had shed in the darkness of the
lonely nights; of the accusing voices that had rung in his ears
during his uneasy slumbers; of the conscience that would not down at
the command of the resolute will--and then of the incidents of this
afternoon, when the murderer stood revealed before him in all the
hideous deformity of his brutal passion and his self confessed crime.
Of a truth events and not men are alone worthy of consideration in
the life of a detective.
THE JUDGMENT.