It was warm and comfortable in the little room where Muller sat. He
closed the windows, lit the gas, took off his overcoat--Muller was a
pedantically careful person--smoothed his hair and sat down comfortably
at the table. Just as he took up the little book, the attendant brought
the tea, which he proceeded at once to enjoy. He did not take up his
little book again until he had lit himself a cigar. He looked at the
cover of the dainty little notebook for many minutes before he opened
it. It was a couple of inches long, of the usual form, and had a cover
of brown leather. In the left upper corner were the letters A. L. in
gold. The leaves of the book, about fifty in all, were of a fine quality
of paper and covered with close writing. On the first leaves the writing
was fine and delicate, calm and orderly, but later on it was irregular
and uncertain, as if penned by a trembling hand under stress of terror.
This change came in the leaves of the book which followed the strange
and terrible title, “How I was murdered.”
Before Muller began to read he felt the covers of the book carefully. In
one of them there was a tiny pocket, in which he found a little piece of
wall paper of a noticeable and distinctly ugly pattern. The paper had a
dark blue ground with clumsy lines of gold on it. In the pocket he
found also a tramway ticket, which had been crushed and then carefully
smoothed out again. After looking at these papers, Muller replaced them
in the cover of the notebook. The book itself was strongly perfumed with
the same odour which had exhaled from the handkerchief.
The detective did not begin his reading in that part of the book which
followed the mysterious title, as the commissioner had done. He began
instead at the very first words.
“Ah! she is still young,” he murmured, when he had read the first lines.
“Young, in easy circumstances, happy and contented.”
These first pages told of pleasure trips, of visits from and to good
friends, of many little events of every-day life. Then came some
accounts, written in pencil, of shopping expeditions to the city. Costly
laces and jewels had been bought, and linen garments for children by the
dozen. “She is rich, generous, and charitable,” thought the detective,
for the book showed that the considerable sums which had been spent here
had not been for the writer herself. The laces bore the mark, “For our
church”; behind the account for the linen stood the words, “For the
charity school.”
Muller began to feel a strong sympathy for the writer of these notices.
She showed an orderly, almost pedantic, character, mingled with
generosity of heart. He turned leaf after leaf until he finally came to
the words, written in intentionally heavy letters, “How I was murdered.”
Muller’s head sank down lower over these mysterious words, and his eyes
flew through the writing that followed. It was quite a different writing
here. The hand that penned these words must have trembled in deadly
terror. Was it terror of coming death, foreseen and not to be escaped?
or was it the trembling and the terror of an overthrown brain? It was
undoubtedly, in spite of the difference, the same hand that had penned
the first pages of the book. A few characteristic turns of the writing
were plainly to be seen in both parts of the story. But the ink was
quite different also. The first pages had been written with a delicate
violet ink, the later leaves were penned with a black ink of uneven
quality, of the kind used by poor people who write very seldom. The
words of this later portion of the book were blurred in many places, as
if the writer had not been able to dry them properly before she turned
the leaves. She therefore had had neither blotting paper nor sand at her
disposal.
And then the weird title!
Was it written at the dictation of insanity? or did A. L. know, while
she wrote it, that it was too late for any help to reach her? Did she
see her doom approaching so clearly that she knew there was no escape?
Muller breathed a deep breath before he continued his reading. Later
on his breath came more quickly still, and he clinched his fist several
times, as if deeply moved. He was not a cold man, only thoroughly
self-controlled. In his breast there lived an unquenchable hatred of
all evil. It was this that awakened the talents which made him the
celebrated detective he had become.
“I fear that it will be impossible for any one to save me now, but
perhaps I may be avenged. Therefore I will write down here all that
has happened to me since I set out on my journey.” These were the first
words that were written under the mysterious title. Muller had just read
them when the commissioner entered.
“Will you speak to Amster; he has just returned?” he asked.
Muller rose at once. “Certainly. Did you telegraph to all the railway
stations?”
“Yes,” answered the commissioner, “and also to the other police
stations.”
“And to the hospitals?--asylums?”
“No, I did not do that.” Commissioner von Mayringen blushed, a blush
that was as becoming to him as was his frank acknowledgment of his
mistake. He went out to remedy it at once, while Muller heard Amster’s
short and not particularly important report. The workingman was
evidently shivering, and the detective handed him a glass of tea with a
good portion of rum in it.
“Here, drink this; you are cold. Are you ill?” Amster smiled sadly. “No,
I am not ill, but I was discharged to-day and am out of work now--that’s
almost as bad.”
“Are you married?”
“No, but I have an old mother to support.”
“Leave your address with the commissioner. He may be able to find work
for you; we can always use good men here. But now drink your tea.”
Amster drank the glass in one gulp. “Well, now we have lost the trail
in both directions,” said Muller calmly. “But we will find it again. You
can help, as you are free now anyway. If you have the talent for that
sort of thing, you may find permanent work here.”
A gesture and a look from the workingman showed the detective that the
former did not think very highly of such occupation. Muller laid his
hand on the other’s shoulder and said gravely: “You wouldn’t care to
take service with us? This sort of thing doesn’t rate very high, I know.
But I tell you that if we have our hearts in the right place, and our
brains are worth anything, we are of more good to humanity than many
an honest citizen who wouldn’t shake hands with us. There--and now I am
busy. Goodnight.”
With these words Muller pushed the astonished man out of the room, shut
the door, and sat down again with his little book. This is what he read:
“Wednesday--is it Wednesday? They brought me a newspaper to-day which
had the date of Wednesday, the 20th of November. The ink still smells
fresh, but it is so damp here, the paper may have been older. I do not
know surely on what day it is that I begin to write this narrative. I do
not know either whether I may not have been ill for days and weeks; I do
not know what may have been the matter with me--I know only that I was
unconscious, and that when I came to myself again, I was here in this
gloomy room. Did any physician see me? I have seen no one until to-day
except the old woman, whose name I do not know and who has so little to
say. She is kind to me otherwise, but I am afraid of her hard face and
of the smile with which she answers all my questions and entreaties.
‘You are ill.’ These are the only words that she has ever said to me,
and she pointed to her forehead as she spoke them. She thinks I am
insane, therefore, or pretends to think so.
“What a hoarse voice she has. She must be ill herself, for she coughs
all night long. I can hear it through the wall--she sleeps in the next
room. But I am not ill, that is I am not ill in the way she says. I have
no fever now, my pulse is calm and regular. I can remember everything,
until I took that drink of tea in the railway station. What could there
have been in that tea? I suppose I should have noticed how anxious my
travelling companion was to have me drink it.
“Who could the man have been? He was so polite, so fatherly in his
anxiety about me. I have not seen him since then. And yet I feel that it
is he who has brought me into this trap, a trap from which I may never
escape alive. I will describe him. He is very tall, stout and blond,
and wears a long heavy beard, which is slightly mixed with grey. On his
right cheek his beard only partly hides a long scar. His eyes are hidden
by large smoked glasses. His voice is low and gentle, his manners most
correct--except for his giving people poison or whatever else it was in
that tea.
“I did not suffer any--at least I do not remember anything except
becoming unconscious. And I seem to have felt a pain like an iron ring
around my head. But I am not insane, and this fear that I feel does
not spring from my imagination, but from the real danger by which I am
surrounded. I am very hungry, but I do not dare to eat anything except
eggs, which cannot be tampered with. I tasted some soup yesterday, and
it seemed to me that it had a queer taste. I will eat nothing that is at
all suspicious. I will be in my full senses when my murderers come; they
shall not kill me by poison at least.
“When I came to my senses again--it was the evening of the day before
yesterday--I found a letter on the little table beside my bed. It was
written in French, in a handwriting that I had never seen before, and
there was no signature.
“This strange letter demanded of me that I should write to my guardian,
calmly and clearly, to say that for reasons which I did not intend
to reveal, I had taken my own life. If I did this my present place of
sojourn would be exchanged for a far more agreeable one, and I would
soon be quite free. But if I did not do it, I would actually be put to
death. A pen, ink and paper were ready there for the answer.
“‘Never,’ I wrote. And then despair came over me, and I may have indeed
appeared insane. The old woman came in. I entreated and implored her to
tell me why this dreadful fate should have overtaken me. She remained
quite indifferent and I sank back, almost fainting, on the bed. She laid
a moist cloth over my face, a cloth that had a peculiar odour. I soon
fell asleep. It seemed to me that there was some one else besides the
woman in the room with me. Or was she talking to herself? Next morning
the letter and my answer had disappeared. It was as I thought; there
was some one else in my room. Some one who had come on the tramway. I
found the ticket on the carpet beside my bed. I took it and put it in my
notebook!!!!!
“I believe that it is Sunday to-day. It is four days now since I have
been conscious. The first sound that I remember hearing was the blast of
a horn. It must come from a factory very near me. The old windows in my
room rattle at the sound. I hear it mornings and evenings and at noon,
on week days. I did not hear it to-day, so it must be Sunday. It was
Monday, the 18th of November, that I set out on my trip, and reached
here in the evening--(here? I do not know where I am), that is, I set
out for Vienna, and I know that I reached the Northern Railway station
there in safety.
“I was cold and felt a little faint--and then he offered me the tea--and
what happened after that? Where am I? The paper that they gave me may
have been a day or two old or more. And to-day is Sunday--is it the
first Sunday since my departure from home? I do not know. I know only
this, that I set out on the 18th of November to visit my kind old
guardian, and to have a last consultation with him before my coming of
age. And I know also that I have fallen into the hands of some one who
has an interest in my disappearance.
“There is some one in the next room with the old woman. I hear a man’s
voice and they are quarrelling. They are talking of me. He wants her to
do something which she will not do. He commands her to go away, but she
refuses. What does he mean to do? I do not want her to leave me alone. I
do not hate her any more; I know that she is not bad. When I listened
I heard her speaking of me as of an insane person. She really believes
that I am ill. When the man went away he must have been angry. He
stamped down the stairs until the steps creaked under his tread: I know
it is a wooden staircase therefore.
“I am safe from him to-day, but I am really ill of fright. Am I really
insane? There is one thing that I have forgotten to write down. When
I first came to myself I found a bit of paper beside me on which was
written, ‘Beware of calling in help from outside. One scream will mean
death to you.’ It was written in French like the letter. Why? Was it
because the old woman could not read it? She knew of the piece of
paper, for she took it away from me. It frightens me that I should have
forgotten to write this down. Am I really ill? If I am not yet ill, this
terrible solitude will make me so.
“What a gloomy room this is, this prison of mine. And such a strange
ugly wall-paper. I tore off a tiny bit of it and hid it in this little
book. Some one may find it some day and may discover from it this place
where I am suffering, and where I shall die, perhaps. There cannot be
many who would buy such a pattern, and it must be possible to find the
factory where it was made. And I will also write down here what I can
see from my barred window. Far down below me there is a rusty tin roof,
it looks like as if it might belong to a sort of shed. In front and to
the right there are windowless walls; to the left, at a little distance,
I can see a slender church spire, greenish in colour, probably covered
with copper, and before the church there are two poplar trees of
different heights.
“Another day has passed, a day of torturing fear! Am I really insane? I
know that I see queer things. This morning I looked towards the window
and I saw a parrot sitting there! I saw it quite plainly. It ruffled
up its red and green feathers and stared at me. I stared back at it and
suddenly it was gone. I shivered. Finally I pulled myself together and
went to the window. There was no bird outside nor was there a trace of
any in the snow on the window sill. Could the wind have blown away the
tracks so soon, or was it really my sick brain that appeared to see this
tropical bird in the midst of the snow? It is Tuesday to-day; from now
on I will carefully count the days--the days that still remain to me.
“This morning I asked the old woman about the parrot. She only smiled
and her smile made me terribly afraid. The thought that this thing which
is happening to me, this thing that I took to be a crime, may be only
a necessity--the thought fills me with horror! Am I in a prison? or is
this the cell of an insane asylum? Am I the victim of a villain? or am I
really mad? My pulse is quickening, but my memory is quite clear; I can
look back over every incident in my life.
“She has just taken away my food. I asked her to bring me only eggs as I
was afraid of everything else. She promised that she would do it.
“Are they looking for me? My guardian is Theodore Fellner, Cathedral
Lane, 14. My own name is Asta Langen.
“They took away my travelling bag, but they did not find this little
book and the tiny bottle of perfume which I had in the pocket of my
dress. And I found this old pen and a little ink in a drawer of the
writing table in my room.
“Wednesday. The stranger was here again to-day. I recognised his soft
voice. He spoke to the woman in the hall outside my room. I listened,
but I could catch only a few words. ‘To-morrow evening--I will come
myself--no responsibility for you.’ Were these words meant for me? Are
they going to take me away? Where will they take me? Then they do not
dare to kill me here? My head is burning hot. I have not dared to drink
a drop of liquid for four days. I dare not take anything into which they
might have put some drug or some poison.
“Who could have such an interest in my death? It cannot be because of
the fortune which is to be mine when I come of age; for if I die, my
father has willed it to various charitable institutions. I have no
relatives, at least none who could inherit my money. I had never harmed
any one; who can wish for my death?
“There is somebody with her, somebody was listening at the door. I have
a feeling as if I was being watched. And yet--I examined the door, but
there is no crack anywhere and the key is in the lock. Still I seem to
feel a burning glance resting on me. Ah! the parrot! is this another
delusion? Oh God, let it end soon! I am not yet quite insane, but all
these unknown dangers around me will drive me mad. I must fight against
them.
“Thursday. They brought me back my travelling bag. My attendant is
uneasy. She was longer in cleaning up the room than usual to-day. She
seemed to want to say something to me, and yet she did not dare to
speak. Is something to happen to-day then? I did not close my eyes all
night. Can one be made insane from a distance? hypnotised into it, as
it were? I will not allow fear alone to make me mad. My enemy shall not
find it too easy. He may kill my body, but that is all--”
These were the last words which Asta Langen had written in her notebook,
the little book which was the only confidant of her terrible need. When
the detective had finished reading it, he closed his eyes for a few
minutes to let the impression made by the story sink into his mind.
Then he rose and put on his overcoat. He entered the commissioner’s room
and took up his hat and cane.
“Where are you going, Muller?” asked Herr Von Mayringen.
“To Cathedral Lane, if you will permit it.”
“At this hour? it is quarter past eleven! Is there any such hurry, do
you think? There is no train from any of our stations until morning. And
I have already sent a policeman to watch the house. Besides, I know that
Fellner is a highly respected man.
“There is many a man who is highly respected until he is found out,”
remarked the detective.
“And you are going to find out about Fellner?” smiled the commissioner.
“And this evening, too?”
“This very evening. If he is asleep I shall wake him up. That is the
best time to get at the truth about a man.”
The commissioner sat down at his desk and wrote out the necessary
credentials for the detective. A few moments later Muller was in the
street. He left the notebook with the commissioner. It was snowing
heavily, and an icy north wind was howling through the streets. Muller
turned up the collar of his coat and walked on quickly. It was just
striking a quarter to twelve when he reached Cathedral Lane. As he
walked slowly along the moonlit side of the pavement, a man stepped out
of the shadow to meet him. It was the policeman who had been sent to
watch the house. Like Muller, he wore plain clothes.
“Well?” the latter asked.
“Nothing new. Mr. Fellner has been ill in bed several days, quite
seriously ill, they tell me. The janitor seems very fond of him.”
“Hm--we’ll see what sort of a man he is. You can go back to the station
now, you must be nearly frozen standing here.”
Muller looked carefully at the house which bore the number 14. It was a
handsome, old-fashioned building, a true patrician mansion which looked
worthy of all confidence. But Muller knew that the outside of a house
has very little to do with the honesty of the people who live in it.
He rang the bell carefully, as he wished no one but the janitor to hear
him.
The latter did not seem at all surprised to find a stranger asking for
the owner of the house at so late an hour. “You come with a telegram, I
suppose? Come right up stairs then, I have orders to let you in.”
These were the words with which the old janitor greeted Muller. The
detective could see from this that Mr. Theodore Fellner’s conscience
must be perfectly clear. The expected telegram probably had something
to do with the non-appearance of Asta Langen, of whose terrible fate her
guardian evidently as yet knew nothing. The janitor knocked on one of
the doors, which was opened in a few moments by an old woman.
“Is it the telegram?” she asked sleepily.
“Yes,” said the janitor.
“No,” said Muller, “but I want to speak to Mr. Fellner.”
The two old people stared at him in surprise.
“To speak to him?” said the woman, and shook her head as if in doubt.
“Is it about Miss Langen?”
“Yes, please wake him.”
“But he is ill, and the doctor--”
“Please wake him up. I will take the responsibility.”
“But who are you?” asked the janitor.
Muller smiled a little at this belated caution on the part of the
old man, and answered. “I will tell Mr. Fellner who I am. But please
announce me at once. It concerns the young lady.” His expression was
so grave that the woman waited no longer, but let him in and then
disappeared through another door. The janitor stood and looked at Muller
with half distrustful, half anxious glances.
“It’s no good news you bring,” he said after a few minutes.
“You may be right.”
“Has anything happened to our dear young lady?”
“Then you know Miss Asta Langen and her family?”
“Why, of course. I was in service on the estate when all the dreadful
things happened.”
“What things?”
“Why the divorce--and--but you are a stranger and I shouldn’t talk about
these family affairs to you. You had better tell me what has happened to
our young lady.”
“I must tell that to your master first.”
The woman came back at this moment and said to Muller, “Come with
me, please. Berner, you are to stay here until the gentleman goes out
again.”
Muller followed her through several rooms into a large bed-chamber where
he found an elderly man, very evidently ill, lying in bed.
“Who are you?” asked the sick man, raising his head from the pillow. The
woman had gone out and closed the door behind her.
“My name is Muller, police detective. Here are my credentials.”
Fellner glanced hastily at the paper. “Why does the police send to me?”
“It concerns your ward.”
Fellner sat upright in bed now. He leaned over towards his visitor as he
said, pointing to a letter on the table beside his bed, “Asta’s overseer
writes me from her estate that she left home on the 18th of November to
visit me. She should have reached here on the evening of the 18th, and
she has not arrived yet. I did not receive this letter until to-day.”
“Did you expect the young lady?”
“I knew only that she would arrive sometime before the third of
December. That date is her twenty-fourth birthday and she was to
celebrate it here.”
“Did she not usually announce her coming to you?”
“No, she liked to surprise me. Three days ago I sent her a telegram
asking her to bring certain necessary papers with her. This brought the
answer from the overseer of her estate, an answer which has caused me
great anxiety. Your coming makes it worse, for I fear--” The sick man
broke off and turned his eyes on Muller; eyes so full of fear and grief
that the detective’s heart grew soft. He felt Fellner’s icy hand on his
as the sick man murmured: “Tell me the truth! Is Asta dead?”
The detective shrugged his shoulders. “We do not know yet. She was alive
and able to send a message at half past eight this evening.”
“A message? To whom?”
“To the nearest police station.” Muller told the story as it had come to
him.
The old man listened with an expression of such utter dazed terror that
the detective dropped all suspicion of him at once.
“What a terrible riddle,” stammered the sick man as the other finished
the story.
“Would you answer me several questions?” asked Muller. The old gentleman
answered quickly, “Any one, every one.”
“Miss Langen is rich?”
“She has a fortune of over three hundred thousand guldens, and
considerable land.”
“Has she any relatives?”
“No,” replied Fellner harshly. But a thought must have flashed through
his brain for he started suddenly and murmured, “Yes, she has one
relative, a step-brother.”
The detective gave an exclamation of surprise.
“Why are you astonished at this?” asked Fellner.
“According to her notebook, the young lady does not seem to know of this
step-brother.”
“She does not know, sir. There was an ugly scandal in her family before
her birth. Her father turned his first wife and their son out of his
house on one and the same day. He had discovered that she was deceiving
him, and also that her son, who was studying medicine at the time, had
stolen money from his safe. What he had discovered about his wife made
Langen doubt whether the boy was his son at all. There was a terrible
scene, and the two disappeared from their home forever. The woman died
soon after. The young man went to Australia. He has never been heard of
since and has probably come to no good.”
“Might he not possibly be here in Europe again, watching for an
opportunity to make a fortune?”
Fellner’s hand grasped that of his visitor. The eyes of the two men
gazed steadily at each other. The old man’s glance was full of sudden
helpless horror, the detective’s eyes shone brilliantly. Muller spoke
calmly: “This is one clue. Is there no one else who could have an
interest in the young lady’s death?”
“No one but Egon Langen, if he bear this name by right, and if he is
still alive.”
“How old would he be now?”
“He must be nearly forty. It was many years before Langen married
again.”
“Do you know him personally?”
“Have you a picture of Miss Langen?”
Fellner rang a bell and Berner appeared. “Give this gentleman Miss
Asta’s picture. Take the one in the silver frame on my desk;” the old
gentleman’s voice was friendly but faint with fatigue. His old servant
looked at him in deep anxiety. Fellner smiled weakly and nodded to the
man. “Sad news, Berner! Sad news and bad news. Our poor Asta is being
held a prisoner by some unknown villain who threatens her with death.”
“My God, is it possible? Can’t we help the poor young lady?”
“We will try to help her, or if it is--too late, we will at least avenge
her. My entire fortune shall be given up for it. But bring her picture
now.”
Berner brought the picture of a very pretty girl with a bright
intelligent face. Muller took the picture out of the frame and put it in
his pocket.
“You will come again? soon? And remember, I will give ten thousand
guldens to the man who saves Asta, or avenges her. Tell the police to
spare no expense--I will go to headquarters myself to-morrow.”
Fellner was a little surprised that Muller, although he had already
taken up his hat, did not go. The sick man had seen the light flash up
in the eyes of the other as he named the sum. He thought he understood
this excitement, but it touched him unpleasantly and he sank back,
almost frightened, in his cushions as the detective bent over him with
the words “Good. Do not forget your promise, for I will save Miss Langen
or avenge her. But I do not want the money for myself. It is to go to
those who have been unjustly convicted and thus ruined for life. It may
give the one or the other of them a better chance for the future.”
“And you? what good do you get from that?” asked the old gentleman,
astonished. A soft smile illumined the detective’s plain features and
he answered gently, “I know then that there will be some poor fellow who
will have an easier time of it than I have had.”
He nodded to Fellner, who had already grasped his hand and pressed it
hard. A tear ran down his grey beard, and long after Muller had gone the
old gentleman lay pondering over his last words.
Berner led the visitor to the door. As he was opening it, Muller asked:
“Has Egon Langen a bad scar on his right cheek?”
Berner’s eyes looked his astonishment. How did the stranger know this?
And how did he come to mention this forgotten name.
“Yes, he has, but how did you know it?” he murmured in surprise. He
received no answer, for Muller was already walking quickly down the
street. The old man stared after him for some few minutes, then suddenly
his knees began to tremble. He closed the door with difficulty, and
sank down on a bench beside it. The wind had blown out the light of his
lantern; Berner was sitting in the dark without knowing it, for a sudden
terrible light had burst upon his soul, burst upon it so sharply that
he hid his eyes with his hands, and his old lips murmured, “Horrible!
Horrible! The brother against the sister.”
The next morning was clear and bright. Muller was up early, for he had
taken but a few hours sleep in one of the rooms of the station, before
he set out into the cold winter morning. At the next corner he
found Amster waiting for him. “What are you doing here?” he asked in
astonishment.
“I have been thinking over what you said to me yesterday. Your profession
is as good and perhaps better than many another.”
“And you come out here so early to tell me that?”
Amster smiled. “I have something else to say.”
“Well?”
“The commissioner asked me yesterday if I knew of a church in the city
that had a slender spire with a green top and two poplars in front of
it.”
Muller looked his interest.
“I thought it might possibly be the Convent Church of the Grey Sisters,
but I wasn’t quite sure, so I went there an hour ago. It’s all right,
just as I thought. And I suppose it has something to do with the case of
last night, so I thought I had better report at once. I was on my way to
the station.”
“That will do very well. You have saved us much time and you have shown
that you are eminently fitted for this business.”
“If you really will try me, then--”
“We’ll see. You can begin on this. Come to the church with me now.”
Muller was no talker, particularly not when, as now, his brain was busy
on a problem.
The two men walked on quickly. In about half an hour they found
themselves in a little square in the middle of which stood an old
church. In front of the church, like giant sentinels, stood a pair of
tall poplars. One of them looked sickly and was a good deal shorter than
its neighbour. Muller nodded as if content.
“Is this the church the commissioner was talking about?” queried Amster.
“It is,” was the answer. Muller walked on toward a little house built up
against the church, which was evidently the dwelling of the sexton.
The detective introduced himself to this official, who did not look
over-intelligent, as a stranger in the city who had been told that the
view from the tower of the church was particularly interesting. A bright
silver piece banished all distrust from the soul of the worthy man. With
great friendliness he inquired when the gentlemen would like to ascend
the tower. “At once,” was the answer.
The sexton took a bunch of keys and told the strangers to follow him. A
few moments later Muller and his companion stood in the tiny belfry room
of the slender spire. The fat sexton, to his own great satisfaction,
had yielded to their request not to undertake the steep ascent. The
cloudless sky lay crystal clear over the still sleeping city and the
wide spread snow-covered fields which lay close at hand, beyond the
church. On the one side were gardens and the low rambling buildings
of the convent, and on the other were huddled high-piled dwellings of
poverty.
Muller looked out of each of the four windows in turn. He spent some
time at each window, but evidently without discovering what he looked
for, for he shook his head in discontent. But when he went once more to
the opening in the East, into which the sun was just beginning to pour
its light, something seemed to attract his attention. He called Amster
and pointed from the window. “Your eyes are younger than mine, lend them
to me. What do you see over there to the right, below the tall factory
chimney?” Muller’s voice was calm, but there was something in his manner
that revealed excitement. Amster caught the infection without knowing
why. He looked sharply in the direction towards which Muller pointed,
and began: “There is a tall house near the chimney, to the right of
it, one wall touching it. The house is crowded in between other newer
buildings, and looks to be very old and of a much better sort than
its neighbours. The other houses are plain stone, but this house has
carvings and statues on it, which are white with snow. But the house is
in bad condition, one can see cracks in the wall.”
“And its windows?”
“I cannot see them. They must be on the other side of the house, towards
the courtyard which seems to be hemmed in by the blank walls of the
other houses.”
“And at the front of the house?”
“There is a low wall in front which shuts off the courtyard from a
narrow, ill-kept street.”
“Yes, I see it myself now. The street is bordered mainly by gardens and
vacant lots.”
“Yes, sir, that is it.” Muller nodded as if satisfied. Amster looked
at him in surprise, still more surprised, however, at the excitement
he felt himself. He did not understand it, but Muller understood it. He
knew that he had found in Amster a talent akin to his own, one of those
natures who once having taken up a trail cannot rest until they reach
their goal. He looked for a few moments in satisfaction at the assistant
he had found by such chance, then he turned and hastened down the stairs
again.
“We’re going to that house?” asked Amster when they were down in the
street. Muller nodded.
Without hesitation the two men made their way through a tangle of dingy,
uninteresting alleys, between modern tenements, until about ten minutes
later they stood before an old three-storied building, which had a
frontage of four windows on the street. “This is our place,” said the
detective, looking up at the tall, handsome gateway and the rococo
carvings that ornamented the front of this decaying dwelling. It was
very evidently of a different age and class from those about it.
Muller had already raised his hand to pull the bell, when he stopped and
let it sink again. His eye caught sight of a placard pasted up on the
wall of the next house, and already half torn off by the wind. The
detective walked over, and raising the placard with his cane, read the
words on it. “That’s right,” he said to himself. Amster gave a look on
the paper. But he could not connect the contents of the notice with
the case of the kidnapped lady, and he shook his head in surprise when
Muller turned to him with the words: “The lady we are looking for is not
insane.” On the paper was announced in large letters that a reward would
be offered to the finder of a red and green parrot which had escaped
from a neighbouring house.
Muller rang the bell and they had to wait some few minutes before the
door opened with great creakings, and the towsled head of an old woman
peered out.
“What do you want?” she asked hoarsely, with distrustful looks.
“Let us in, and then give us the keys of the upstairs rooms.” Muller’s
voice was friendly, but the woman grew perceptibly paler.
“Who are you?” she stammered. Muller threw back his overcoat and showed
her his badge. “But there is nobody here, the house is quite empty.”
“There were a lady and gentleman here last evening.” The woman threw
a frightened look at Muller, then she said hesitatingly: “The lady was
insane and has been taken to an asylum.”
“That is what the man told you. He is a criminal and the police are
looking for him.”
“Come with me,” murmured the woman. She seemed to understand that
further resistance was useless. She carefully locked the outside door.
Amster remained down stairs in the corridor, while Muller followed the
old woman up the stairs. The staircase to the third story was made of
wood. The house was evidently very old, with low ceilings and many dark
corners.
The woman led Muller into the room in which she had cared for the
strange lady at the order of the latter’s “husband.” He had told her
that it was only until he could take the lady to an asylum. One look at
the wall paper, a glance out of the window, and Muller knew that this
was where Asta Langen had been imprisoned. He sat down on a chair and
looked at the woman, who stood frightened before him.
“Do you know where they have taken the lady?”
“No, sir.
“Do you know the gentleman’s name?”
“No, sir.
“You did not send the lady’s name to the authorities?” *
“No, sir.”
* Any stranger taking rooms in a hotel or lodging house must
be registered with the police authorities by the proprietor
of the house within forty-eight hours of arrival.
“Were you not afraid you would get into trouble?”
“The gentleman paid me well, and I did not think that he meant anything
bad, and--and--”
“And you did not think that it would be found out?” said Muller sternly.
“I took good care of the lady.”
“Yes, we know that.”
“Did she escape from her husband?”
“He was not her husband. But now tell me all you know about these
people; the more truthful you are the better it will be for you.”
The old woman was so frightened that she could scarcely find strength to
talk. When she finally got control of herself again she began: “He came
here on the first of November and rented this room for himself. But he
was here only twice before he brought the lady and left her alone here.
She was very ill when he brought her here--so ill that he had to carry
her upstairs. I wanted to go for a doctor, but he said he was a doctor
himself, and that he could take care of his wife, who often had such
attacks. He gave me some medicine for her after I had put her to bed. I
gave her the drops, but it was a long while before she came to herself
again.
“Then he told me that she had lost her mind, and that she believed
everybody was trying to harm her. She was so bad that he was taking her
to an asylum. But he hadn’t found quite the right place yet, and wanted
me to keep her here until he knew where he could take her. Once he left
a revolver here by mistake. But I hid it so the lady wouldn’t see it,
and gave it to the gentleman the next time he came. He was angry at
that, though I couldn’t see why, and said I shouldn’t have touched it.”
The woman had told her story with much hesitation, and stopped
altogether at this point. She had evidently suddenly realised that the
lady was not insane, but only in great despair, and that people in
such a state will often seek death, particularly if any weapon is left
conveniently within their reach.
“What did this gentleman look like?” asked Muller, to start her talking
again. She described her tenant as very tall and stout with a long
beard slightly mixed with grey. She had never seen his eyes, for he wore
smoked glasses.
“Did you notice anything peculiar about his face?”
“No, nothing except that his beard was very heavy and almost covered his
face.”
“Could you see his cheeks at all?”
“No, or else I didn’t notice.”
“Did he leave nothing that might enable us to find him?”
“No, sir, nothing. Or yes, perhaps, but I don’t suppose that will be any
good.”
“What was it? What do you mean?”
“It gave him a good deal of trouble to get the lady into the wagon,
because she had fainted again. He lost his glove in doing it. I have it
down stairs in my room, for I sleep down stairs again since the lady has
gone.”
Muller had risen from his chair and walked over to the old writing desk
which stood beside one window. There were several sheets of ordinary
brown paper on it and sharp pointed pencil and also something not
usually found on writing desks, a piece of bread from which some of the
inside had been taken. “Everything as I expected it,” he said to himself.
“The young lady made up the package in the last few moments that she was
left alone here.”
He turned again to the old woman and commanded her to lead him down
stairs. “What sort of a carriage was it in which they took the lady
away?” he asked as they went down.
“A closed coupe.”
“Did you see the number?”
“No, sir. But the carriage was very shabby and so was the driver.”
“Was he an old man?”
“He was about forty years old, but he looked like a man who drank. He
had a light-coloured overcoat on.”
“Good. Is this your room?”
“Yes, sir.”
They were now in the lower corridor, where they found Amster walking up
and down. The woman opened the door of the little room, and took a glove
from a cupboard. Muller put it in his pocket and told the woman not to
leave the house for anything, as she might be sent for to come to the
police station at any moment. Then he went out into the street with
Amster. When they were outside in the sunlight, he looked at the glove.
It was a remarkably small size, made for a man with a slender, delicate
hand, not at all in accordance with the large stout body of the man
described by the landlady. Muller put his hand into the glove and found
something pushed up into the middle finger. He took it out and found
that it was a crumpled tramway ticket.
“Look out for a shabby old closed coupe, with a driver about forty years
old who looks like a drunkard and wears a light overcoat. If you find
such a cab, engage it and drive in it to the nearest police station.
Tell them there to hold the man until further notice. If the cab is not
free, at least take his number. And one thing more, but you will know
that yourself,--the cab we are looking for will have new glass in the
right-hand window.” Thus Muller spoke to his companion as he put the
glove into his pocket and unfolded the tramway ticket. Amster understood
that they had found the starting point of the drive of the night before.
“I will go to all coupe stands,” he said eagerly.
“Yes, but we may be able to find it quicker than that.” Muller took the
little notebook, which he was now carrying in his pocket, and took from
it the tramway ticket which was in the cover. He compared it with the
one he had just found. They were both marked for the same hour of the
day and for the same ride.
“Did the man use them?” asked Amster. The detective nodded. “How can
they help us?”
“Somewhere on this stretch of the street railroad you will probably find
the stand of the cab we are looking for. The man who hired it evidently
arrived on the 6:30 train at the West Station--I have reason to believe
that he does not live here,--and then took the street car to this
corner. The last ticket is marked for yesterday. In the car he probably
made his plans to hire a cab. So you had better stay along the line of
the car tracks. You will find me in room seven, Police Headquarters,
at noon to-day. The authorities have already taken up the case. You may
have something to tell us then. Good luck to you.”
Muller hurried on, after he had taken a quick breakfast in a little
cafe. He went at once to headquarters, made his report there and
then drove to Fellner’s house. The latter was awaiting him with great
impatience. There the detective gathered much valuable information about
the first marriage of Asta Langen’s long-dead father. It was old Berner
who could tell him the most about these long-vanished days.
When he reached his office at headquarters again, he found telegrams in
great number awaiting him. They were from all the hospitals and insane
asylums in the entire district. But in none of them had there been
a patient fitting the description of the vanished girl. Neither the
commissioner nor Muller was surprised at this negative result. They
were also not surprised at all that the other branches of the police
department had been able to discover so little about the disappearance
of the young lady. They were aware that they had to deal with a criminal
of great ability who would be careful not to fall into the usual slips
made by his kind.
There was no news from the cab either, although several detectives were
out looking for it. It was almost nightfall when Amster ran breathlessly
into room number seven. “I have him! he’s waiting outside across the
way!” This was Amster’s report.
Muller threw on his coat hastily. “You didn’t pay him, did you? On
a cold day like this the drivers don’t like to wait long in any one
place.”
“No danger. I haven’t money enough for that,” replied Amster with a
sad smile. Muller did not hear him as he was already outside. But
the commissioner with whom he had been talking and to whom Muller had
already spoken of his voluntary assistant, entered into a conversation
with Amster, and said to him finally: “I will take it upon myself to
guarantee your future, if you are ready to enter the secret service
under Muller’s orders. If you wish to do this you can stay right on now,
for I think we will need you in this case.”
Amster bowed in agreement. His life had been troubled, his reputation
darkened by no fault of his own, and the work he was doing now had
awakened an interest and an ability that he did not know he possessed.
He was more than glad to accept the offer made by the official.
Muller was already across the street and had laid his hand upon the door
of the cab when the driver turned to him and said crossly, “Some one
else has ordered me. But I am not going to wait in this cold, get in if
you want to.”
“All right. Now tell me first where you drove to last evening with the
sick lady and her companion?” The man looked astonished but found his
tongue again in a moment. “And who are you?” he asked calmly.
“We will tell you that upstairs in the police station,” answered Muller
equally calmly, and ordered the man to drive through the gateway into
the inner courtyard. He himself got into the wagon, and in the course
of the short drive he had made a discovery. He had found a tiny glass
stopper, such as is used in perfume bottles. He could understand from
this why the odour of perfume which had now become familiar to him was
still so strong inside the old cab. Also why it was so strong on the
delicate handkerchief. Asta Langen had taken the stopper from the bottle
in her pocket, so as to leave a trail of odour behind her.