THE GOLDEN BULLETIt is but a few days since we announced to our readers the sadnews of the death of a beautiful woman, whose leap from herwindow, while suffering from the agonies of fever, destroyedthe happiness of an unusually harmonious marriage. And now weare compelled to print the news of another equally sad as wellas mysterious occurrence. This time, Fate has demanded thesacrifice of the life of a capable and promising young man.Professor Paul Fellner, a member of the faculty of our college,was found dead at his desk yesterday morning. It was thought atfirst that it was a case of suicide, for doors and windows werecarefully closed from within and those who discovered the corpsewere obliged to break open one of the doors to get to it. Anda revolver was found lying close at hand, upon the desk. Butthis revolver was loaded in every chamber and there was no otherweapon to be seen in the room. There was a bullet wound in theleft breast of the corpse, and the bullet had penetrated theheart. Death must have been instantaneous.The most mysterious thing about this strange affair wasdiscovered during the autopsy. It is incredible, but it isabsolutely true, as it is vouched for under oath by theauthorities who were present, that the bullet which was foundin the heart of the dead man was made of solid gold. And yet,strange as is this circumstance, it is still more a riddle howthe murderer could have escaped from the room where he had shotdown his victim, for the keys in both doors were in the locksfrom the inside. We have evidently to do here with a criminalof very unusual cleverness and it is therefore not surprisingthat there has been no clue discovered thus far. The onlything that is known is that this murder was an act of revenge.
The entire city was in excitement over the mystery, even the police station was shaken out of its usual business-like indifference. There was no other topic of conversation in any of the rooms but the mystery of the golden bullet and the doors closed from the inside. The attendants and the policeman gathered whispering in the corners, and strangers who came in on their own business forgot it in their excitement over this new and fascinating mystery.
That afternoon Muller passed through Horn’s office with a bundle of papers, on his way to the inner office occupied by his patron, Chief of Police Bauer. Horn, who had avoided Muller since yesterday although he was conscious of a freshened interest in the man, raised his head and watched the little detective as he walked across the room with his usual quiet tread. The commissioner saw nothing but the usual humble business-like manner to which he was accustomed—then suddenly something happened that came to him like a distinct shock. Muller stopped in his walk so suddenly that one foot was poised in the air. His bowed head was thrown back, his face flushed to his forehead, and the papers trembled in his hands. He ran the fingers of his unoccupied hand through his hair and murmured audibly, “That dog! that dog!” It was evident that some thought had struck him with such insistence as to render him oblivious of his surroundings. Then he finally realised where he was, and walked on quickly to Bauer’s room, his face still flushed, his hands trembling. When he came out from the office again, he was his usual quiet, humble self.
But the commissioner, with his now greater knowledge of the little man’s gifts and past, could not forget the incident. During the afternoon he found himself repeating mechanically, “That dog—that dog.” But the words meant nothing to him, hard as he might try to find the connection.
When the commissioner left for his home late that afternoon, Muller re-entered the office to lay some papers on the desk. His duties over, he was about to turn out the gas, when his eye fell on the blotter on Horn’s desk. He looked at it more closely, then burst into a loud laugh. The same two words were scribbled again and again over the white surface, but it was not the name of any fair maiden, or even the title of a love poem; it was only the words, “That dog—”
Several days had passed since the discovery of the murder. Fellner had been buried and his possessions taken into custody by the authorities until his heirs should appear. The dead man’s papers and affairs were in excellent condition and the arranging of the inheritance had been quickly done. Until the heirs should take possession, the apartment was sealed by the police. There was nothing else to do in the matter, and the commission appointed to make researches had discovered nothing of value. The murderer might easily feel that he was absolutely safe by this time.
The day after the publication of the article we have quoted, Muller appeared in Bauer’s office and asked for a few days’ leave.
“In the Fellner case?” asked the Chief with his usual calm, and Muller replied in the affirmative.
Two days later he returned, bringing with him nothing but a single little notice.
“Marie Dorn, now Mrs. Kniepp,” was one line in his notebook, and beside it some dates. The latter showed that Marie Dorn had for two years past been the wife of the Archducal Forest-Councillor, Leo Kniepp.
And for one year now Professor Paul Fellner had been in the town, after having applied for his transference from the university in the capital to this place, which was scarce half an hour’s walk distant from the home of the beautiful young woman who had been the love of his youth.
And Fellner had made his home in the quietest quarter of the city, in that quarter which was nearest the Archducal hunting castle. He had lived very quietly, had not cultivated the acquaintance of the ladies of the town, but was a great walker and bicycle rider; and every Saturday evening since he had been alone in the house, he had sent his servant to the theatre. And it was on Saturday evenings that Forest-Councillor Kniepp went to his Bowling Club at the other end of the city, and did not return until the last train at midnight.
And during these evening hours Fellner’s apartment was a convenient place for pleasant meetings; and nothing prevented the Professor from accompanying his beautiful friend home through the quiet Promenade, along the turnpike to the hunting castle. And Johann had once found a dog-whip in his master’s room-and Councillor Leo Kniepp, head of the Forestry Department, was the possessor of a beautiful Ulmer hound which took an active interest in people who wore clothes belonging to Fellner.
Furthermore, in the little drawer of the bedside table in the murdered man’s room, there had been found a tortoise-shell hairpin; and in the corner of the vestibule of his house, a little mother-of-pearl glove button, of the kind much in fashion that winter, because of a desire on the part of the ladies of the town to help the home industry of the neighbourhood. Mrs. Marie Kniepp was one of the fashionable women of the town, and several days before the Professor was murdered, this woman had thrown herself from the second-story window of her home, and her husband, whose passionate eccentric nature was well known, had been a changed man from that hour.
It was his deep grief at the loss of his beloved wife that had turned his hair grey and had drawn lines of terrible sorrow in his face—said gossip. But Muller, who did not know Kniepp personally although he had been taking a great interest in his affairs for the last few days, had his own ideas on the subject, and he decided to make the acquaintance of the Forest Councillor as soon as possible—that is, after he had found out all there was to be found out about his affairs and his habits.
Just a week after the murder, on Saturday evening therefore, the snow was whirling merrily about the gables and cupolas of the Archducal hunting castle. The weather-vanes groaned and the old trees in the park bent their tall tops under the mad wind which swept across the earth and tore the protecting snow covering from their branches. It was a stormy evening, not one to be out in if a man had a warm corner in which to hide.
An old peddler was trying to find shelter from the rapidly increasing storm under the lea of the castle wall. He crouched so close to the stones that he could scarcely be seen at all, in spite of the light from the snow. Finally he disappeared altogether behind one of the heavy columns which sprang out at intervals from the magnificent wall. Only his head peeped out occasionally as if looking for something. His dark, thoughtful eyes glanced over the little village spread out on one side of the castle, and over the railway station, its most imposing building. Then they would turn back again to the entrance gate in the wall near where he stood. It was a heavy iron-barred gate, its handsome ornamentation outlined in snow, and behind it the body of a large dog could be occasionally seen. This dog was an enormous grey Ulmer hound.
The peddler stood for a long time motionless behind the pillar, then he looked at his watch. “It’s nearly time,” he murmured, and looked over towards the station again, where lights and figures were gathering.
At the same time the noise of an opening door was heard, and steps creaked over the snow. A man, evidently a servant, opened the little door beside the great gate and held it for another man to pass out. “You’ll come back by the night train as usual, sir?” he asked respectfully.
“Yes,” replied the other, pushing back the dog, which fawned upon him.
“Come back here, Tristan,” called the servant, pulling the dog in by his collar, as he closed the door and re-entered the house.
The Councillor took the path to the station. He walked slowly, with bowed head and uneven step. He did not look like a man who was in the mood to join a merry crowd, and yet he was evidently going to his Club. “He wants to show himself; he doesn’t want to let people think that he has anything to be afraid of,” murmured the peddler, looking after him sharply. Then his eyes suddenly dimmed and a light sigh was heard, with another murmur, “Poor man.” The Councillor reached the station and disappeared within its door. The train arrived and departed a few moments later. Kniepp must have really gone to the city, for although the man behind the pillar waited for some little time, the Councillor did not return—a contingency that the peddler had not deemed improbable.
About half an hour after the departure of the train the watcher came out of his hiding place and walked noisily past the gate. What he expected, happened. The dog rushed up to the bars, barking loudly, but when the peddler had taken a silk muffler from the pack on his back and held it out to the animal, the noise ceased and the dog’s anger turned to friendliness. Tristan was quite gentle, put his huge head up to the bars to let the stranger pat it, and seemed not at all alarmed when the latter rang the bell.
The young man who had opened the door for the Councillor came out from a wing of the castle. The peddler looked so frozen and yet so venerable that the youth had not the heart to turn him away. Possibly he was glad of a little diversion for his own sake.
“Who do you want to see?” he asked.
“I want to speak to the maid, the one who attended your dead mistress.”
“Oh, then you know—?”
“I know of the misfortune that has happened here.”
“And you think that Nanette might have something to sell to you?”
“Yes, that’s it; that’s why I came. For I don’t suppose there’s much chance for any business with my cigar holders and other trifles here so near the city.”
“Cigar holders? Why, I don’t know; perhaps we can make a trade. Come in with me. Why, just see how gentle the dog is with you!”
“Isn’t he that way with everybody? I supposed he was no watchdog.”
“Oh, indeed he is. He usually won’t allow anybody to touch him, except those whom he knows well. I’m astonished that he lets you come to the house at all.”
They had reached the door by this time. The peddler laid his hand on the servant’s arm and halted a moment. “Where was it that she threw herself out?”
“From the last window upstairs there.”
“And did it kill her at once?”
“Yes. Anyway she was unconscious when we came down.”
“Was the master at home?”
“Why, yes, it happened in the middle of the night.”
“She had a fever, didn’t she? Had she been ill long?”
“No. She was in bed that day, but we thought it was nothing of importance.”
“These fevers come on quickly sometimes,” remarked the old man wisely, and added: “This case interests the entire neighbourhood and I will show you that I can be grateful for anything you may tell me—of course, only what a faithful servant could tell. It will interest my customers very much.”
“You know all there is to know,” said the valet, evidently disappointed that he had nothing to tell which could win the peddler’s gratitude. “There are no secrets about it. Everybody knows that they were a very happy couple, and even if there was a little talk between them on that day, why it was pure accident and had nothing to do with the mistress’ excitement.”
“Then there was a quarrel between them?”
“Are people talking about it?”
“I’ve heard some things said. They even say that this quarrel was the reason for—her death.”
“It’s stupid nonsense!” exclaimed the servant. The old peddler seemed to like the young man’s honest indignation.
While they were talking, they had passed through a long corridor and the young man laid his hand on one of the doors as the peddler asked, “Can I see Miss Nanette alone?”
“Alone? Oho, she’s engaged to me!”
“I know that,” said the stranger, who seemed to be initiated into all the doings of this household. “And I am an old man—all I meant was that I would rather not have any of the other servants about.”
“I’ll keep the cook out of the way if you want me to.”
“That would be a good idea. It isn’t easy to talk business before others,” remarked the old man as they entered the room. It was a comfortably furnished and cozily warm apartment. Only two people were there, an old woman and a pretty young girl, who both looked up in astonishment as the men came in.
“Who’s this you’re bringing in, George?” asked Nanette.
“He’s a peddler and he’s got some trifles here you might like to look at.”
“Why, yes, you wanted a thimble, didn’t you, Lena?” asked Nanette, and the cook beckoned to the peddler. “Let’s see what you’ve got there,” she said in a friendly tone. The old man pulled out his wares from his pack; thimbles and scissors, coloured ribbons, silks, brushes and combs, and many other trifles. When the women had made their several selections they noticed that the old man was shivering with the cold, as he leaned against the stove. Their sympathies were aroused in a moment. “Why don’t you sit down?” asked Nanette, pushing a chair towards him, and Lena rose to get him something warm from the kitchen.
The peddler threw a look at George, who nodded in answer. “He said he’d like to see the things they gave you after Mrs. Kniepp’s death,” the young man remarked,
“Do you buy things like that?” Nanette turned to the peddler.
“I’d just like to look at them first, if you’ll let me.”
“I’d be glad to get rid of them. But I won’t go upstairs, I’m afraid there.”
“Well, I’ll get the things for you if you want me to,” offered George and turned to leave the room. The door had scarcely closed behind him when a change came over the peddler. His old head rose from its drooping position, his bowed figure started up with youthful elasticity.
“Are you really fond of him?” he asked of the astonished Nanette, who stepped back a pace, stammering in answer: “Yes. Why do you ask? and who are you?”
“Never mind that, my dear child, but just answer the questions I have to ask, and answer truthfully, or it might occur to me to let your George know that he is not the first man you have loved.”
“What do you know?” she breathed in alarm.
The peddler laughed. “Oho, then he’s jealous! All the better for me—the Councillor was jealous too, wasn’t he?” Nanette looked at him in horror.
“The truth, therefore, you must tell me the truth, and get the others away, so I can speak to you alone. You must do this—or else I’ll tell George about the handsome carpenter in Church street, or about Franz Schmid, or—”
“For God’s sake, stop—stop—I’ll do anything you say.”
The girl sank back on her chair pale and trembling, while the peddler resumed his pose of a tired old man leaning against the stove. When George returned with a large basket, Nanette had calmed herself sufficiently to go about the unpacking of the articles in the hamper.
“George, won’t you please keep Lena out in the kitchen. Ask her to make some tea for us,” asked Nanette with well feigned assurance. George smiled a meaning smile and disappeared.
“I am particularly interested in the dead lady’s gloves,” said the peddler when they were alone again.
Nanette looked at him in surprise but was still too frightened to offer any remarks. She opened several boxes and packages and laid a number of pairs of gloves on the table. The old man looked through them, turning them over carefully. Then he shook his head: “There must be some more somewhere,” he said. Nanette was no longer astonished at anything he might say or do, so she obediently went through the basket again and found a little box in which were several pair of grey suede gloves, fastened by bluish mother-of-pearl buttons. One of the pairs had been worn, and a button was missing.
“These are the ones I was looking for,” said the peddler, putting the gloves in his pocket. Then he continued: “Your mistress was rather fond of taking long walks by herself, wasn’t she?”
The girl’s pale face flushed hotly and she stammered: “You know—about it?”
“You know about it also, I see. And did you know everything?”
“Yes, everything,” murmured Nanette.
“Then it was you and Tristan who accompanied the lady on her walks?”
“Yes.”
“I supposed she must have taken some one into her confidence. Well, and what do you think about the murder?”
“The Professor?” replied Nanette hastily. “Why, what should I know about it?”
“The Councillor was greatly excited and very unhappy when he discovered this affair, I suppose?”
“He is still.”
“And how did he act after the—let us call it the accident?”
“He was like a crazy man.”
“They tell me that he went about his duties just the same—that he went away on business.”
“It wasn’t business this time, at least not professional business. But before that he did have to go away frequently for weeks at a time.”
“And it was then that your mistress was most interested in her lonely walks, eh?”
“Yes.” Nanette’s voice was so low as to be scarcely heard.
“Well, and this time?” continued the peddler. “Why did he go away this time?”
“He went to the capital on private business of his own.”
“Are you sure of that?”
“Quite sure. He went two different times. I thought it was because he couldn’t stand it here and wanted to see something different. He went to his club this evening, too.”
“And when did he go away?”
“The first time was the day after his wife was buried.”
“And the second time?”
“Two or three days after his return.”
“How long did he stay away the first time?”
“Only one day.”
“Good! Pull yourself together now. I’ll send your George in to you and tell him you haven’t been feeling well. Don’t tell any one about our conversation. Where is the kitchen?”
“The last door to the right down the hall.”
The peddler left the room and Nanette sank down dazed and trembling on the nearest chair. George found her still pale, but he seemed to think it quite natural that she should have been overcome by the recollection of the terrible death of her mistress. He gave the old man a most cordial invitation to return during the next few days. The cook brought the peddler a cup of steaming tea, and purchased several trifles from him, before he left the house.
When the old man had reached a lonely spot on the road, about half way between the hunting castle and the city, he halted, set down his pack, divested himself of his beard and his wig and washed the wrinkles from his face with a handful of snow from the wayside. A quarter of an hour later, Detective Muller entered the railway station of the city, burdened with a large grip. He took a seat in the night express which rolled out from the station a few moments later.
As he was alone in his compartment, Muller gave way to his excitement, sometimes even murmuring half-aloud the thoughts that rushed through his brain. “Yes, I am convinced of it, but can I find the proofs?” the words came again and again, and in spite of the comfortable warmth in the compartment, in spite of his tired and half-frozen condition, he could not sleep.
He reached the capital at midnight and took a room in a small hotel in a quiet street. When he went out next morning, the servants looked after him with suspicion, as in their opinion a man who spent most of the night pacing up and down his room must surely have a guilty conscience.
Muller went to police headquarters and looked through the arrivals at the hotels on the 21st of November. The burial of Mrs. Kniepp had taken place on the 20th. Muller soon found the name he was looking for, “Forest Councillor Leo Kniepp,” in the list of guests at the Hotel Imperial. The detective went at once to the Hotel Imperial, where he was already well known. It cost him little time and trouble to discover what he wished to know, the reason for the Councillor’s visit to the capital.
Kniepp had asked for the address of a goldsmith, and had been directed to one of the shops which had the best reputation in the city. He had been in the capital altogether for about twenty-four hours. He had the manner and appearance of a man suffering under some terrible blow.
Muller himself was deep in thought as he entered the train to return to his home, after a visit to the goldsmith in question. He had a short interview with Chief of Police Bauer, who finally gave him the golden bullet and the keys to the apartment of the murdered man. Then the two went out together.
An hour later, the chief of police and Muller stood in the garden of the house in which the murder had occurred. Bauer had entered from the Promenade after Muller had shown him how to work the lock of the little gate. Together they went up into the apartment, which was icy cold and uncanny in its loneliness. But the two men did not appear to notice this, so greatly were they interested in the task that had brought them there. First of all, they made a most minute examination of the two doors which had been locked. The keys were still in both locks on the inside. They were big heavy keys, suitable for the tall massive heavily-panelled and iron-ornamented doors. The entire villa was built in this heavy old German style, the favourite fashion of the last few years.
When they had looked the locks over carefully, Muller lit the lamp that hung over the desk in the study and closed the window shutters tight. Bauer had smiled at first as he watched his protege’s actions, but his smile changed to a look of keen interest as he suddenly understood. Muller took his place in the chair before the desk and looked over at the door of the vestibule, which was directly opposite him. “Yes, that’s all right,” he said with a deep breath.
Bauer had sat down on the sofa to watch the proceedings, now he sprang up with an exclamation: “Through the keyhole?”
“Through the keyhole,” answered Muller.
“It is scarcely possible.”
“Shall we try it?”
“Yes, yes, you do it.” Even the usually indifferent old chief of police was breathing more hastily now. Muller took a roll of paper and a small pistol out of his pocket. He unrolled the paper, which represented the figure of a French soldier with a marked target on the breast. The detective pinned the paper on the back of the chair in which Professor Fellner had been seated when he met his death.
“But the key was in the hole,” objected Bauer suddenly.
“Yes, but it was turned so that the lower part of the hole was free. Johann saw the light streaming through and could look into the room. If the murderer put the barrel of his pistol to this open part of the keyhole, the bullet would have to strike exactly where the dead man sat. There would be no need to take any particular aim.” Muller gazed into space like a seer before whose mental eye a vision has arisen, and continued in level tones: “Fellner had refused the duel and the murderer was crazed by his desire for revenge. He came here to the house, he must have known just how to enter the place, how to reach the rooms, and he must have known also, that the Professor, coward as he was—”
“Coward? Is a man a coward when he refuses to stand up to a maniac?” interrupted Bauer.
Muller came back to the present with a start and said calmly, “Fellner was a coward.”
“Then you know more than you are telling me now?”
Muller nodded. “Yes, I do,” he answered with a smile. “But I will tell you more only when I have all the proofs in my own hand.”
“And the criminal will escape us in the meantime.”
“He has no idea that he is suspected.”
“But—you’ll promise to be sensible this time, Muller?”
“Yes. But you will pardon me my present reticence, even towards you? I—I don’t want to be thought a dreamer again.”
“As in the Kniepp case?”
“As in the Kniepp case,” repeated the little man with a strange smile. “So please allow me to go about it in my own way. I will tell you all you want to know to-morrow.”
“To-morrow, then.”
“May I now continue to unfold my theories?” Bauer nodded and Muller continued: “The criminal wanted Fellner’s blood, no matter how.”
“Even if it meant murder,” said Bauer.
Muller nodded calmly. “It would have been nobler, perhaps, to have warned his victim of his approach, but it might have all come to nothing then. The other could have called for help, could have barricaded himself in his room, one crime might have been prevented, and another, more shameful one, would have gone unavenged.”
“Another crime? Fellner a criminal?”
“To-morrow you shall know everything, my kind friend. And now, let us make the trial. Please lock the door behind me as it was locked then.”
Muller left the room, taking the pistol with him. Bauer locked the door. “Is this right?” he asked.
“Yes, I can see a wide curve of the room, taking in the entire desk. Please stand to one side now.”
There was deep silence for a moment, then a slight sound as of metal on metal, then a report, and Muller re-entered the study through the bedroom. He found Bauer stooping over the picture of the French soldier. There was a hole in the left breast, where the bullet, passing through, had buried itself in the back of the chair.
“Yes, it was all just as you said,” began the chief of police, holding out his hand to Muller. “But—why the golden bullet?”
“To-morrow, to-morrow,” replied the detective, looking up at his superior with a glance of pleading.
They left the house together and in less than an hour’s time Muller was again in the train rolling towards the capital.
He went to the goldsmith’s shop as soon as he arrived. The proprietor received him with eager interest and Muller handed him the golden bullet. “Here is the golden object of which I spoke,” said the detective, paying no heed to the other’s astonishment. The goldsmith opened a small locked drawer, took a ring from it and set about an examination of the two little objects. When he turned to his visitor again, he was evidently satisfied with what he had discovered. “These two objects are made of exactly the same sort of gold, of a peculiar old French composition, which can no longer be produced in the same richness. The weight of the gold in the bullet is exactly the same as in the ring.”
“Would you be willing to take an oath on that if you were called in as an expert?”
“I am willing to stand up for my judgment.”
“Good. And now will you read this over please, it contains the substance of what you told me yesterday. Should I have made any mistakes, please correct them, for I will ask you to set your signature to it.”
Muller handed several sheets of close writing to the goldsmith and the latter read aloud as follows: “On the 22nd of November, a gentleman came into my shop and handed me a wedding ring with the request that I should make another one exactly like it. He was particularly anxious that the work should be done in two days at the very latest, and also that the new ring, in form, colour, and in the engraving on the inside, should be a perfect counterpart of the first. He explained his order by saying that his wife was ill, and that she was grieving over the loss of her wedding ring which had somehow disappeared. The new ring could be found somewhere as if by chance and the sick woman’s anxiety would be over. Two days later, as arranged, the same gentleman appeared again and I handed him the two rings.
“He left the shop, greatly satisfied with my work and apparently much relieved in his mind. But he left me uneasy in spirit because I had deceived him. It had not been possible for me to reproduce exactly the composition of the original ring, and as I believed that the work was to be done in order to comfort an invalid, and I was getting no profit, but on the contrary a little extra work out of it, I made two new rings, lettered them according to the original and gave them to my customer. The original ring I am now, on this seventh day of December, giving to Mr. Joseph Mullet, who has shown me his legitimation as a member of the Secret Police. I am willing to put myself at the service of the authorities if I am called for.”
“You are willing to do this, aren’t you?” asked Muller when the goldsmith had arrived at the end of the notice.
“Of course.”
“Have you anything to add to this?”
“No, it is quite complete. I will sign it at once.”
Several hours later, Muller re-entered the police station in his home town and saw the windows of the chief’s apartment brilliantly lighted. “What’s going on,” he asked of Bauer’s servant who was just hurrying up the stairs.
“The mistress’ birthday, we’ve got company.”
Muller grumbled something and went on up to his own room. He knew it would not be pleasant for his patron to be disturbed in the midst of entertaining his guests, but the matter was important and could not wait.
The detective laid off his outer garments, made a few changes in his toilet and putting the goldsmith’s declaration, with the ring and the bullet in his pocketbook, he went down to the first floor of the building, in one wing of which was the apartment occupied by the Chief. He sent in his name and was told to wait in the little study. He sat down quietly in a corner of the comfortable little room beyond which, in a handsomely furnished smoking room, a number of guests sat playing cards. From the drawing rooms beyond, there was the sound of music and many voices.
It was all very attractive and comfortable, and the solitary man sat there enjoying once more the pleasant sensation of triumph, of joy at the victory that was his alone and that would win him back all his old friends and prestige. He was looking forward in agreeable anticipation to the explanations he had to give, when he suddenly started and grew pale. His eyes dimmed a moment, then he pulled himself together and murmured: “No, no, not this time. I will not be weak this time.”
Just then the Chief entered the room, accompanied by Councillor Kniepp.
“Won’t you sit down here a little?” asked the friendly host. “You will find it much quieter in this room.” He pulled up a little table laden with cigars and wine, close to a comfortable armchair. Then, noticing Muller, he continued with a friendly nod: “I’m glad they told you to wait in here. You must be frozen after your long ride. If you will wait just a moment more, I will return at once and we can go into my office. And if you will make yourself comfortable here, my dear Kniepp, I will send our friend Horn in to talk with you. He is bright and jovial and will keep you amused.”
The chief chattered on, making a strenuous endeavour to appear quite harmless. But Kniepp, more apt than ever just now to notice the actions of others, saw plainly that his genial host was concealing some excitement. When the latter had gone out the Councillor looked after him, shaking his head. Then his glance fell by chance on the quiet-looking man who had risen at his entrance and had not sat down again.
“Please sit down,” he said in a friendly tone, but the other did not move. His grey eyes gazed intently at the man whose fate he was to change so horribly.
Kniepp grew uneasy under the stare. “What is there that interests you so about me?” he asked in a tone that was an attempt at a joke.
“The ring, the ring on your watch chain,” murmured Muller.
“It belonged to my dead wife. I have worn it since she left me,” answered the unhappy man with the same iron calm with which he had, all these past days, been emphasizing his love for the woman he had lost. Yet the question touched him unpleasantly and he looked more sharply at the strange man over in the corner. He saw the latter’s face turn pale and a shiver run through his form. A feeling of sympathy came over Kniepp and he asked warmly: “Won’t you take a glass of this wine? If you have been out in the cold it will be good for you.” His tone was gentle, almost cordial, but the man to whom he offered the refreshment turned from him with a gesture that was almost one of terror.
The Councillor rose suddenly from his chair. “Who are you? What news is it you bring?” he asked with a voice that began to tremble.
Muller raised his head sharply as if his decision had been made, and his kind intelligent eyes grew soft as they rested on the pale face of the stately man before him. “I belong to the Secret Police and I am compelled to find out the secrets of others—not because of my profession—no, because my own nature compels me—I must do it. I have just come from Vienna and I bring the last of the proofs necessary to turn you over to the courts. And yet you are a thousand times better than the coward who stole the honour of your wife and who hid behind the shelter of the law—and therefore, therefore, therefore—” Muller’s voice grew hoarse, then died away altogether.
Kniepp listened with pallid cheeks but without a quiver. Now he spoke, completing the other’s words: “And therefore you wish to save me from the prison or from the gallows? I thank you. What is your name?” The unhappy man spoke as calmly as if the matter scarcely concerned him at all.
The detective told him his name.
“Muller, Muller,” repeated the Councillor, as if he were particularly anxious to remember the name. He held out his hand to the detective. “I thank you, indeed, thank you,” he said with the first sign of emotion he had shown, and then added low: “Do not fear that you will have trouble on my account. They can find me in my home.” With these words he turned away and sat down in his chair again. When Bauer entered the room a few moments later, Kniepp was smoking calmly.
“Now, Muller, I’m ready. Horn will be in in a moment, friend Kniepp; I know you will enjoy his chatter.” The chief led the way out of the room through another door. He could not see the ghastly pale face of the guest he left behind him, for it was almost hidden in a cloud of thick smoke, but Muller turned back once more at the threshold and caught a last grateful glance from eyes shadowed by deep sadness, as the Councillor raised his hand in a friendly gesture.
“Dear Muller, you take so long to get at the point of the story! Don’t you see you are torturing me?” This outburst came from the Chief about an hour later. But the detective would not permit himself to be interrupted in spinning out his story in his own way, and it was nearly another hour before Bauer knew that the man for whose name he had been waiting so long was Leo Kniepp.
The knowledge came as a terrible surprise to him. He was dazed almost. “And I,—I’ve got to arrest him in my own house?” he exclaimed as if horrified. And Muller answered calmly: “I doubt if you will have the opportunity, sir.”
“Muller! Did you, again—”
“Yes, I did! I have again warned an unfortunate. It’s my nature, I can’t seem to help it. But you will find the Councillor in his house. He promised me that.”
“And you believe it?”
“That man will keep his promise,” said Muller quietly.
Councillor Kniepp did keep his promise. When the police arrived at the hunting castle shortly after midnight, they found the terrified servants standing by the body of their master.
“Well, Muller, you had better luck than you deserved this time,” Bauer said a few days later. “This last trick has made you quite impossible for the service. But you needn’t worry about that, because the legacy Kniepp left you will put you out of reach of want.”
The detective was as much surprised as anybody. He was as if dazed by his unexpected good fortune. The day before he was a poor man bowed under the weight of sordid cares, and now he was the possessor of twenty thousand gulden. And it was not his clever brain but his warm heart that had won this fortune for him. His breast swelled with gratitude as he thought of the unhappy man whose life had been ruined by the careless cruelty of others and his own passions. Again and again he read the letter which had been found on Kniepp’s desk, addressed to him and which had been handed out to him after the inquest.
My friend:—You have saved me from the shame of an open trial. I thank youfor this from the very depth of my heart. I have left you apart of my own private fortune, that you may be a free man, freeas a poor man never can be. You can accept this present for itcomes from the hand of an honest man in spite of all. Yes, Icompelled my wife to go to her death after I had compelled herto confess her shame to me, and I entered her lover’s house withthe knowledge I had forced from her. When I looked through thekeyhole and saw his false face before me, I murdered him in coldblood. Then, that the truth might not be suspected, I continuedto play the sorrowing husband. I wore on my watch chain the ringI had had made in imitation of the one my wife had worn. Thisoriginal ring of hers, her wedding ring which she had defiled,I sent in the form of a bullet straight to her lover’s heart.Yes, I have committed a crime, but I feel that I am less criminalthan those two whom I judged and condemned, and whose sentence Icarried out as I now shall carry out my own sentence with a handwhich will not tremble. That I can do this myself, I have you tothank for, you who can look into the souls of men and recognisethe most hidden motives, you who have not only a wonderful brainbut a heart that can feel. You, I hope, will sometimes thinkkindly of your gratefulLEO KNIEPP.
Muller kept this letter as one of his most sacred treasures.
The “Kniepp Case” was really, as Bauer had predicted, the last in Muller’s public career. Even the friendliness of the kind old chief could not keep him in his position after this new display of the unreliability of his heart. But his quiet tastes allowed him to live in humble comfort from the income of his little fortune.
Every now and then letters or telegrams will come for him and he will disappear for several days. His few friends believe that the police authorities, who refused to employ him publicly owing to his strange weakness, cannot resist a private appeal to his talent whenever a particularly difficult case arises.