Fifteen minutes after the driver had made his report to Commissioner
Von Mayringen, the latter with Amster entered another cab. A well-armed
policeman mounted the box of this second vehicle. “Follow that cab
ahead,” the commissioner told his driver. The second cab followed the
one-horse coupe in which Muller was seated. They drove first to No. 14
Cathedral Lane, where Muller told Berner to come with him. He found Mr.
Fellner ready to go also, and it was with great difficulty that he could
dissuade the invalid, who was greatly fatigued by his morning visit to
the police station, from joining them.
The carriages then drove off more quickly than before. It was now quite
dark, a gloomy stormy winter evening. Muller had taken his place on the
box of his cab and sat peering out into the darkness. In spite of the
sharp wind and the ice that blew against his face the detective could
see that they were going out from the more closely built up portions of
the city, and were now in new streets with half-finished houses. Soon
they passed even these and were outside of the city. The way was lonely
and dreary, bordered by wooden fences on both sides. Muller looked
sharply to right and to left.
“You should have become alarmed here,” he said to the driver, pointing
to one part of the fence.
“Why?” asked the man.
“Because this is where the window was broken.”
“I didn’t know that--until I got home.”
“H’m; you must have been nicely drunk.”
The driver murmured something in his beard.
“Stop here, this is your turn, down that street,” Muller said a few
moments later, as the driver turned the other way.
“How do you know that?” asked the man, surprised.
“None of your business.”
“This street will take us there just the same.”
“Probably, but I prefer to go the way you went yesterday.”
“Very well, it’s all the same to me.” They were silent again, only
the wind roared around them, and somewhere in the distance a fog horn
moaned.
It was now six o’clock. The snow threw out a mild light which could not
brighten the deep darkness around them. About half an hour later the
first cab halted. “There’s the house up there. Shall I drive to the
garden gate?”
“No, stop here.” Muller was already on the ground. “Are there any dogs
here?” he asked.
“I didn’t hear any yesterday.”
“That’s of no value. You didn’t seem to hear much of anything
yesterday.” Muller opened the door of the cab and helped Berner out. The
old man was trembling. “That was a dreadful drive!” he stammered.
“I hope you will be happier on the drive back,” said the detective and
added, “You stay here with the commissioner now.”
The latter had already left his cab with his companion. His sharp eyes
glanced over the heavily shaded garden and the little house in its
midst. A little light shone from two windows of the first story. The
men’s eyes looked toward them, then the detective and Amster walked
toward a high picket fence which closed the garden on the side nearest
its neighbours. They shook the various pickets without much caution,
for the wind made noise enough to kill any other sound. Amster called to
Muller, he had found a loose picket, and his strong young arms had torn
it out easily. Muller motioned to the other three to join them. A moment
later they were all in the garden, walking carefully toward the house.
The door was closed but there were no bars at the windows of the ground
floor. Amster looked inquiringly at the commissioner and the latter
nodded and said, “All right, go ahead.”
The next minute Amster had broken in through one pane of the window and
turned the latch. The inner window was broken already so that it was not
difficult for him to open it without any further noise. He disappeared
into the dark room within. In a few seconds they heard a key turn in the
door and it opened gently. The men entered, all except the policeman,
who remained outside. The blind of his lantern was slightly opened, and
he had his revolver ready in his hand.
Muller had opened his lantern also, and they saw that they were in a
prettily furnished corridor from which the staircase and one door led
out.
The four men tiptoed up the stairway and the commissioner stepped to
the first of the two doors which opened onto the upper corridor. He
turned the key which was in the lock, and opened the door, but they
found themselves in a room as dark as was the corridor. From somewhere,
however, a ray of light fell into the blackness. The official stepped
into the room, pulling Berner in after him. The poor old man was in a
state of trembling excitement when he found himself in the house where
his beloved young lady might already be a corpse. One step more and a
smothered cry broke from his lips. The commissioner had opened the door
of an adjoining room, which was lighted and handsomely furnished. Only
the heavy iron bars across the closed windows showed that the young lady
who sat leaning back wearily in an arm-chair was a prisoner.
She looked up as they entered. The expression of utter despair and deep
weariness which had rested on her pale face changed to a look of terror;
then she saw that it was not her would-be murderer who was entering, but
those who came to rescue. A bright flush illumined her cheeks and her
eyes gleamed. But the change was too sudden for her tortured soul. She
rose from her chair, then sank fainting to the floor.
Berner threw himself on his knees beside her, sobbing out, “She is
dying! She is dying!”
Muller turned on the instant, for he had heard the door on the other
side of the hall open, and a tall slender man with a smooth face and a
deep scar on his right cheek stood on the threshold looking at them in
dazed surprise. For an instant only had he lost his control. The next
second he was in his room again, slamming the door behind him. But it
was too late. Amster’s foot was already in the crack of the door and he
pushed it open to let Muller enter. “Well done,” cried the latter, and
then he turned to the man in the room. “Here, stop that. I can fire
twice before you get the window open.”
The man turned and walked slowly to the centre of the room, sinking down
into an arm-chair that stood beside the desk. Neither Amster nor Muller
turned their eyes from him for a moment, ready for any attempt on his
part to escape. But the detective had already seen something that told
him that Langen was not thinking of flight. When he turned to the desk,
Muller had seen his eyes glisten while a scornful smile parted his
thin lips. A second later he had let his handkerchief fall, apparently
carelessly, upon the desk. But in this short space of time the
detective’s sharp eyes had seen a tiny bottle upon which was a black
label with a grinning skull. Muller could not see whether the bottle was
full or empty, but now he knew that it must hold sufficient poison to
enable the captured criminal to escape open disgrace. Knowing this,
Muller looked with admiration at the calmness of the villain, whose
intelligent eyes were turned towards him in evident curiosity.
“Who are you and who else is here with you?” asked the man calmly.
“I am Muller of the Secret Service,” replied his visitor and added,
“You must put up with us for the time being, Mr. Egon Langen. The police
commissioner is occupied with your step-sister, whom you were about to
murder.”
Langen put his hand to his cheek, looking at Muller between his lashes
as he said, “To murder? Who can prove that?”
“We have all the proofs we need.”
“I will acknowledge only that I wanted Asta to disappear.”
Muller smiled. “What good would that have done you? You wanted her
entire fortune, did you not? But that could have come to you only after
thirty years, and you are not likely to have waited that long. Your plan
was to murder your step-sister, even if you could not get a letter from
her telling of her intention to commit suicide.”
Langen rose suddenly, but controlled himself again and sank back easily
in his chair. “Then the old woman has been talking?” he asked.
Muller shook his head. “We knew it through Miss Langen herself.”
“She has spoken to no one for over ten days.”
“But you let her throw her notebook out of the window of the cab.”
“Ah--”
“There, you see, you should not have let that happen.”
Drops of perspiration stood out on Langen’s forehead. Until now,
perhaps, he had had some possible hope of escape. It was useless now, he
knew.
As calmly as he had spoken thus far Muller continued. “For twenty years
I have been studying the hearts of criminals like yourself. But there
are things I do not understand about this case and it interests me very
much.”
Langen had wiped the drops from his forehead and he now turned on Muller
a face that seemed made of bronze. There was but one expression on it,
that of cold scorn.
“I feel greatly flattered, sir, to think that I can offer a problem
to one of your experience,” Langen began. His voice, which had been
slightly veiled before, was now quite clear. “Ask me all you like. I
will answer you.”
Muller began: “Why did you wait so long before committing the murder?
and why did you drag your victim from place to place when you could have
killed her easily in the compartment of the railway train?”
“The windows of the compartment were open, my honoured friend, and it
was a fine warm evening for the season, because of which the windows in
the other compartment were also open. There was nothing else I could
do at that time then, except to offer Asta a cup of tea when she felt a
little faint upon leaving the train. I am a physician and I know how to
use the right drugs at the right time. When Asta had taken the tea, she
knew nothing more until she woke up a day later in a room in the city.”
“And the piece of paper with the threat on it? and the revolver you
left so handy for her? oh, but I forgot, the old woman took the weapon
away before the lady could use it in her despair,” said Muller.
“Quite right. I see you know every detail.”
“But why didn’t you complete your crime in the room in the old house?”
persisted Muller.
“Because I lost my false beard one day upon the staircase, and I feared
the old woman might have seen my face enough to recognise me again. I
thought it better to look for another place.”
“And then you found this house.”
“Yes, but several days later.”
“And you hired it in the name of Miss Asta Langen? Who would then have
been found dead here several days after you had entered the house?”
“Several days, several weeks perhaps. I preferred to wait until the
woman who rented the house had read in the papers that Asta Langen had
disappeared and was being sought for. Somebody would have found her
here, and her identity would have easily been established, for I knew
that she had some important family documents with her.”
Muller was silent a moment, with an expression of deep pity on his face.
Then he continued: “Yes, someone would have found her, and her suicide
would have been a dark mystery, unless, of course, malicious tongues
would have found ugly reasons enough why a beautiful young lady should
hide herself in a lonely cottage to take her own life.”
Muller had spoken as if to himself. Egon Langen’s lips, parted in a
smile so evil that Amster clenched his fists.
“And you would not have regretted this ruining the reputation as well as
taking the life of an innocent girl?” asked the detective low and tense.
“No, for I hated her.”
“You hated her because she was rich and innocent. She was very
charitable and would gladly have helped you if you were in need. Beside
this, you were entitled to a portion of your father’s estate. It is
almost thirty thousand guldens, as Mr. Fellner tells me. Why did you not
take that?”
“Fellner did not know that I had already received twenty thousand of
this when my father turned me out. He probably would have heard of it
later, for Berner was the witness. I did not care for the remaining ten
thousand because I would have the entire fortune after Asta’s death. I
would have seen the official notice and the call for heirs in Australia,
and would have written from there, announcing that I was still alive. If
you had come several days later I should have been a rich man within a
year.”
His clenched fist resting on his knee, the rascal stared out ahead
of him when he ended his shameless confession. In his rage and
disappointment he had not noticed that Muller’s hand dropped gently to
the desk and softly took a little bottle from under the handkerchief.
Langen came out of his dark thoughts only when Muller’s voice broke the
silence. “But you miscalculated, if you expected to inherit from your
sister. She is still a minor and your father’s will would have given you
only ten thousand guldens.
“But you forget that Asta will be twenty-four on the third of December.”
“Ah, then you would have kept her alive until then.”
“You understand quickly,” said Langen with a mocking smile.
“But she disappeared on the eighteenth of November. How could you prove
that she died after her birthday, therefore in full possession of her
fortune and without leaving any will?”
“That is very simple. I buy several newspapers every day. I would have
taken them up to the fourth and fifth of December and left them here
with the body.”
“You are more clever even than I thought,” said the detective dryly as
he heard the commissioner’s steps behind him. Muller put a whistle
to his lips and its shrill tone ran through the house, calling up the
policeman who stood by the door.
Egon Langen’s face was grey with pallor, his features were distorted,
and yet there was the ghost of a smile on his lips as he saw his captors
enter the door. He put his hand out, raised his handkerchief hastily
and then a wild scream echoed through the room, a scream that ended in a
ghastly groan.
“I have taken your bottle, you might as well give yourself up quietly,”
said Muller calmly, holding his revolver near Langen’s face. The
prisoner threw himself at the detective but was caught and overpowered
by Amster and the policeman.
A quarter of an hour later the cabs drove back toward the city. Inside
one cowered Egon Langen, watched by the policeman and Amster. Berner was
on the box beside the driver, telling the now interested man the story
of what had happened to his dear young lady. In the other cab sat Asta
Langen with Kurt von Mayringen and Muller.
“Do you feel better now?” asked the young commissioner in sincere
sympathy that was mingled with admiration for the delicate beauty of
the girl beside him, an admiration heightened by her romantic story and
marvelous escape.
Asta nodded and answered gently: “I feel as if some terrible weight were
lifted from my heart and brain. But I doubt if I will ever forget these
horrible days, when I had already come to accept it as a fact that--that
I was to be murdered.”
“This is the man to whom you owe your escape,” said the commissioner,
laying his hand on Muller’s knee. Asta did not speak, but she reached
out in the darkness of the cab, caught Muller’s hand and would have
raised it to her lips, had not the little man drawn it away hastily. “It
was only my duty, dear young lady,” he said. “A duty that is not onerous
when it means the rescue of innocence and the preventing of crime. It is
not always so, unfortunately--nor am I always so fortunate as in this
case.”
This indeed is what Muller calls a “case with a happy ending,” for
scarcely a year later, to his own great embarrassment, he found himself
the most honoured guest, and a centre of attraction equally with the
bridal couple, at the marriage of Kurt von Mayringen and Asta Langen.
Muller asserts, however, that he is not a success in society, and that
he would rather unravel fifty difficult cases than again be the “lion”
at a fashionable function.