Chapter 1

Produced by An Anonymous Project Gutenberg Volunteer

THE CASE OF THE GOLDEN BULLET

by Grace Isabel Colbron, and Augusta Groner

INTRODUCTION TO JOE MULLER

Joseph Muller, Secret Service detective of the Imperial Austrian police, is one of the great experts in his profession. In personality he differs greatly from other famous detectives. He has neither the impressive authority of Sherlock Holmes, nor the keen brilliancy of Monsieur Lecoq. Muller is a small, slight, plain-looking man, of indefinite age, and of much humbleness of mien. A naturally retiring, modest disposition, and two external causes are the reasons for Muller’s humbleness of manner, which is his chief characteristic. One cause is the fact that in early youth a miscarriage of justice gave him several years in prison, an experience which cast a stigma on his name and which made it impossible for him, for many years after, to obtain honest employment. But the world is richer, and safer, by Muller’s early misfortune. For it was this experience which threw him back on his own peculiar talents for a livelihood, and drove him into the police force. Had he been able to enter any other profession, his genius might have been stunted to a mere pastime, instead of being, as now, utilised for the public good.

Then, the red tape and bureaucratic etiquette which attaches to every governmental department, puts the secret service men of the Imperial police on a par with the lower ranks of the subordinates. Muller’s official rank is scarcely much higher than that of a policeman, although kings and councillors consult him and the Police Department realises to the full what a treasure it has in him. But official red tape, and his early misfortune... prevent the giving of any higher official standing to even such a genius. Born and bred to such conditions, Muller understands them, and his natural modesty of disposition asks for no outward honours, asks for nothing but an income sufficient for his simple needs, and for aid and opportunity to occupy himself in the way he most enjoys.

Joseph Muller’s character is a strange mixture. The kindest-hearted man in the world, he is a human bloodhound when once the lure of the trail has caught him. He scarcely eats or sleeps when the chase is on, he does not seem to know human weakness nor fatigue, in spite of his frail body. Once put on a case his mind delves and delves until it finds a clue, then something awakes within him, a spirit akin to that which holds the bloodhound nose to trail, and he will accomplish the apparently impossible, he will track down his victim when the entire machinery of a great police department seems helpless to discover anything. The high chiefs and commissioners grant a condescending permission when Muller asks, “May I do this? ... or may I handle this case this way?” both parties knowing all the while that it is a farce, and that the department waits helpless until this humble little man saves its honour by solving some problem before which its intricate machinery has stood dazed and puzzled.

This call of the trail is something that is stronger than anything else in Muller’s mentality, and now and then it brings him into conflict with the department,... or with his own better nature. Sometimes his unerring instinct discovers secrets in high places, secrets which the Police Department is bidden to hush up and leave untouched. Muller is then taken off the case, and left idle for a while if he persists in his opinion as to the true facts. And at other times, Muller’s own warm heart gets him into trouble. He will track down his victim, driven by the power in his soul which is stronger than all volition; but when he has this victim in the net, he will sometimes discover him to be a much finer, better man than the other individual, whose wrong at this particular criminal’s hand set in motion the machinery of justice. Several times that has happened to Muller, and each time his heart got the better of his professional instincts, of his practical common-sense, too, perhaps,... at least as far as his own advancement was concerned, and he warned the victim, defeating his own work. This peculiarity of Muller’s character caused his undoing at last, his official undoing that is, and compelled his retirement from the force. But his advice is often sought unofficially by the Department, and to those who know, Muller’s hand can be seen in the unravelling of many a famous case.

The following stories are but a few of the many interesting cases that have come within the experience of this great detective. But they give a fair portrayal of Muller’s peculiar method of working, his looking on himself as merely an humble member of the Department, and the comedy of his acting under “official orders” when the Department is in reality following out his directions.

THE CASE OF THE GOLDEN BULLET

“Please, sir, there is a man outside who asks to see you.”

“What does he want?” asked Commissioner Horn, looking up.

“He says he has something to report, sir.”

“Send him in, then.”

The attendant disappeared, and the commissioner looked up at the clock. It was just striking eleven, but the fellow official who was to relieve him at that hour had not yet appeared. And if this should chance to be a new case, he would probably be obliged to take it himself. The commissioner was not in a very good humour as he sat back to receive the young man who entered the room in the wake of the attendant. The stranger was a sturdy youth, with an unintelligent, good-natured face. He twisted his soft hat in his hands in evident embarrassment, and his eyes wandered helplessly about the great bare room.

“Who are you?” demanded the commissioner.

“My name is Dummel, sir, Johann Dummel.”

“And your occupation?”

“My occupation? Oh, yes, I--I am a valet, valet to Professor Fellner.”

The commissioner sat up and looked interested. He knew Fellner personally and liked him. “What have you to report to me?” he asked eagerly.

“I--I don’t know whether I ought to have come here, but at home--”

“Well, is anything the matter?” insisted Horn.

“Why, sir, I don’t know; but the Professor--he is so still--he doesn’t answer.”

Horn sprang from his chair. “Is he ill?” he asked.

“I don’t know, sir. His room is locked--he never locked it before.”

“And you are certain he is at home?”

“Yes, sir. I saw him during the night--and the key is in the lock on the inside.”

The commissioner had his hat in his hand when the colleague who was to relieve him appeared. “Good and cold out to-day!” was the latter’s greeting. Horn answered with an ironical: “Then I suppose you’ll be glad if I relieve you of this case. But I assure you I wouldn’t do it if it wasn’t Fellner. Good-bye. Oh, and one thing more. Please send a physician at once to Fellner’s house, No. 7 Field Street.”

Horn opened the door and passed on into the adjoining room, accompanied by Johann. The commissioner halted a moment as his eyes fell upon a little man who sat in the corner reading a newspaper. “Hello, Muller; you there? Suppose I take you with me? You aren’t doing anything now, are you?”

“No, sir.

“Well, come with me, then. If this should turn out to be anything serious, we may need you.”

The three men entered one of the cabs waiting outside the police station. As they rattled through the streets, Commissioner Horn continued his examination of the valet. “When did you see your master last?”

“About eleven o’clock last evening.”

“Did you speak with him then?

“No, I looked through the keyhole.”

“Oh, indeed; is that a habit of yours?”

Dummel blushed deeply, but his eyes flashed, and he looked angry.

“No, it is not, sir,” he growled. “I only did it this time because I was anxious about the master. He’s been so worked up and nervous the last few days. Last night I went to the theatre, as I always do Saturday evenings. When I returned, about half-past ten it was, I knocked at the door of his bedroom. He didn’t answer, and I walked away softly, so as not to disturb him in case he’d gone to sleep already. The hall was dark, and as I went through it I saw a ray of light coming from the keyhole of the Professor’s study. That surprised me, because he never worked as late as that before. I thought it over a moment, then I crept up and looked through the keyhole.”

“And what did you see?”

“He sat at his desk, quite quiet. So I felt easy again, and went off to bed.”

“Why didn’t you go into the room?”

“I didn’t dare, sir. The Professor never wanted to be disturbed when he was writing.”

“Well, and this morning?”

“I got up at the usual time this morning, set the breakfast table, and then knocked at the Professor’s bedroom door to waken him. He didn’t answer, and I thought he might want to sleep, seeing as it was Sunday, and he was up late last night. So I waited until ten o’clock. Then I knocked again and tried the door, but it was locked. That made me uneasy, because he never locked his bedroom door before. I banged at the door and called out, but there wasn’t a sound. Then I ran to the police station.”

Horn was evidently as alarmed as was the young valet. But Muller’s cheeks were flushed and a flash of secret joy, of pleasurable expectation, brightened his deep-set, grey eyes. He sat quite motionless, but every nerve in his body was alive and tingling. The humble-looking little man had become quite another and a decidedly interesting person. He laid his thin, nervous hand on the carriage door.

“We are not there yet,” said the commissioner.

“No, but it’s the third house from here,” replied Muller.

“You know where everybody lives, don’t you?” smiled Horn.

“Nearly everybody,” answered Muller gently, as the cab stopped before an attractive little villa surrounded by its own garden, as were most of the houses in this quiet, aristocratic part of the town.

The house was two stories high, but the upper windows were closed and tightly curtained. This upper story was the apartment occupied by the owner of the house, who was now in Italy with his invalid wife. Otherwise the dainty little villa, built in the fashionable Nuremberg style, with heavy wooden doors and lozenged-paned windows, had no occupants except Professor Fellner and his servant. With its graceful outlines and well-planned garden, the dwelling had a most attractive appearance. Opposite it was the broad avenue known as the Promenade, and beyond this were open fields. To the right and to the left were similar villas in their gardens.

Dummel opened the door and the three men entered the house. The commissioner and the valet went in first, Muller following them more slowly. His sharp eyes glanced quickly over the coloured tiles of the flooring, over the white steps and the carpeted hallway beyond. Once he bent quickly and picked up something, then he walked on with his usual quiet manner, out of which every trace of excitement had now vanished.

The dull winter sun seemed only to make the gloom of the dark vestibule more visible. Johann turned up the light, and Horn, who had visited the Professor several times and knew the situation of the rooms, went at once to the heavy, carved and iron trimmed door of the study. He attempted to open the door, but it resisted all pressure. The heavy key was in the inner side of the big lock with its medieval iron ornamentation. But the key was turned so that the lower part of the lock was free, a round opening of unusual size. Horn made sure of this by holding a lighted match to the door.

“You are right,” he said to the valet, “the door is locked from the inside. We’ll have to go through the bedroom. Johann, bring me a chisel or a hatchet. Muller, you stay here and open the door when the doctor comes.”

Muller nodded. Johann disappeared, returning in a few moments with a small hatchet, and followed the commissioner through the dining-room. It was an attractive apartment with its high wooden panelling and its dainty breakfast table. But a slight shiver ran through the commissioner’s frame as he realised that some misfortune, some crime even might be waiting for them on the other side of the closed door. The bedroom door also was locked on the inside, and after some moments of knocking and calling, Horn set the hatchet to the framework just as the bell of the house-door pealed out.

With a cracking and tearing of wood the bedroom door fell open, and in the same moment Muller and the physician passed through the dining-room. Johann hurried into the bedroom to open the window-shutters, and the others gathered in the doorway. A single look showed each of the men that the bed was untouched, and they passed on through the room. The door from the bedroom to the study stood open. In the latter room the shutters were tightly closed, and the lamp had long since gone out. But sufficient light fell through the open bedroom door for the men to see the figure of the Professor seated at his desk, and when Johann had opened the shutters, it was plain to all that the silent figure before them was that of a corpse.

“Heart disease, probably,” murmured the physician, as he touched the icy forehead. Then he felt the pulse of the stiffened hand from which the pen had fallen in the moment of death, raised the drooping head and lifted up the half-closed eyelids. The eyes were glazed.

The others looked on in silence. Horn was very pale, and his usually calm face showed great emotion. Johann seemed quite beside himself, the tears rolled down his cheeks unhindered. Muller stood without a sign of life, his sallow face seemed made of bronze; he was watching and listening. He seemed to hear and see what no one else could see or hear. He smiled slightly when the doctor spoke of “heart disease,” and his eyes fell on the revolver that lay near the dead man’s hand on the desk. Then he shook his head, and then he started suddenly. Horn noticed the movement; it was in the moment when the physician raised up the sunken figure that had fallen half over the desk.

“He was killed by a bullet,” said Muller.

“Yes, that was it,” replied the doctor. With the raising of the body the dead man’s waistcoat fell back into its usual position, and they could see a little round hole in his shirt. The doctor opened the shirt bosom and pointed to a little wound in the Professor’s left breast. There were scarcely three or four drops of blood visible. The hemorrhage had been internal.

“He must have died at once, without suffering,” said the physician.

“He killed himself--he killed himself,” murmured Johann, as if bewildered.

“It’s strange that he should have found time to lay down the revolver before he died,” remarked Horn. Johann put out his hand and raised the weapon before Horn could prevent him. “Leave that pistol where it was,” commanded the commissioner. “We have to look into this matter more closely.”

The doctor turned quickly. “You think it was a murder?” he exclaimed. “The doors were both locked on the inside--where could the murderer be?”

“I don’t pretend to see him myself yet. But our rule is to leave things as they are discovered, until the official examination. Muller, did you shut the outer door?”

“Yes, sir; here is the key.”

“Johann, are there any more keys for the outer door?”

“Yes, sir. One more, that is, for the third was lost some months ago. The Professor’s own key ought to be in the drawer of the little table beside the bed.”

“Will you please look for it, Muller?”

Muller went into the bedroom and soon returned with the key, which he handed to the commissioner. The detective had found something else in the little table drawer--a tortoise-shell hairpin, which he had carefully hidden in his own pocket before rejoining the others.

Horn turned to the servant again. “How many times have you been out of the apartment since last night?”

“Once only, sir, to go to the police station to fetch you.”

“And you locked the door behind you?”

“Why, yes, sir. You saw that I had to turn the key twice to let you in.”

Horn and Muller both looked the young man over very carefully. He seemed perfectly innocent, and their suspicion that he might have turned the key in pretense only, soon vanished. It would have been a foolish suspicion anyway. If he were in league with the murderer, he could have let the latter escape with much more safety during the night. Horn let his eyes wander about the rooms again, and said slowly: “Then the murderer is still here--or else--”

“Or else?” asked the doctor.

“Or else we have a strange riddle to solve.”

Johann had laid the pistol down again. Muller stretched forth his hand and took it up. He looked at it a moment, then handed it to the commissioner. “We have to do with a murder here. There was not a shot fired from this revolver, for every chamber is still loaded. And there is no other weapon in sight,” said the detective quietly.

“Yes, he was murdered. This revolver is fully loaded. Let us begin the search at once.” Horn was more excited than he cared to show.

Johann looked about in alarm, but when he saw the others beginning to peer into every corner and every cupboard, he himself joined in the man-hunt. A quarter of an hour later, the four men relinquished their fruitless efforts and gathered beside the corpse again.

“Doctor, will you have the kindness to report to the head Commissioner of Police, and to order the taking away of the body? We will look about for some motive for this murder in the meantime,” said Horn, as he held out his hand to the physician.

Muller walked out to the door of the house with the doctor.

“Do you think this valet did it?” asked the physician softly.

“He? Oh, dear, no,” replied the detective scornfully.

“You think he’s too stupid? But this stupidity might be feigned.”

“It’s real enough, doctor.”

“But what do you think about it--you, who have the gift of seeing more than other people see, even if it does bring you into disfavour with the Powers that Be?”

“Then you don’t believe me yet?”

“You mean about the beautiful Mrs. Kniepp?

“And yet I tell you I am right. It was an intentional suicide.”

“Muller, Muller, you must keep better watch over your imagination and your tongue! It is a dangerous thing to spread rumours about persons high in favor with the Arch-duke. But you had better tell me what you think about this affair,” continued the doctor, pointing back towards the room they had just left.

“There’s a woman in the case.”

“Aha! you are romancing again. Well, they won’t be so sensitive about this matter, but take care that you don’t make a mistake again, my dear Muller. It would be likely to cost you your position, don’t forget that.”

The doctor left the house. Muller smiled bitterly as he closed the door behind him, and murmured to himself: “Indeed, I do not forget it, and that is why I shall take this matter into my own hands. But the Kniepp case is not closed yet, by any means.”

When he returned to the study he saw Johann sitting quietly in a corner, shaking his head, as if trying to understand it all. Horn was bending over a sheet of writing paper which lay before the dead man. Fellner must have been busy at his desk when the bullet penetrated his heart. His hand in dying had let fall the pen, which had drawn a long black mark across the bottom of the sheet. One page of the paper was covered with a small, delicate handwriting.

Horn called up the detective, and together they read the following words:

“Dear Friend:--

“He challenged me--pistols--it means life or death. My enemy is very bitter. But I am not ready to die yet. And as I know that I would be the one to fall, I have refused the duel. That will help me little, for his revenge will know how to find me. I dare not be a moment without a weapon now--his threats on my refusal let me fear the worst. I have an uncanny presentiment of evil. I shall leave here to-morrow. With the excuse of having some pressing family affair to attend to, I have secured several days’ leave. Of course I do not intend to return. I am hoping that you will come here and break up my establishment in my stead. I will tell you everything else when I see you. I am in a hurry now, for there is a good deal of packing to do. If anything should happen to me, you will know who it is who is responsible for my death. His name is--”

Here the letter came to an abrupt close.

Muller and Horn looked at each other in silence, then they turned their eyes again toward the dead man.

“He was a coward,” said the detective coldly, and turned away. Horn repeated mechanically, “A coward!” and his eyes also looked down with a changed expression upon the handsome, soft-featured face, framed in curly blond hair, that lay so silent against the chair-back. Many women had loved this dead man, and many men had been fond of him, for they had believed him capable and manly.

The commissioner and Muller continued their researches in silence and with less interest than before. They found a heap of loose ashes in the bedroom stove. Letters and other trifles had been burned there. Muller raked out the heap very carefully, but the writing on the few pieces of paper still left whole was quite illegible. There were several envelopes in the waste-basket, but all of them were dated several months back. There was nothing that could give the slightest clue.

The letter written by the murdered man was sufficient proof that his death had been an act of vengeance. But who was it who had carried out this secret, terrible deed? The victim had not been allowed the time to write down the name of his murderer.

Horn took the letter into his keeping. Then he left the room, followed by Muller and the valet, to look about the rest of the house as far as possible. This was not very far, for the second story was closed off by a tall iron grating.

“Is the house door locked during the daytime?” asked Horn of the servant.

“The front door is, but the side door into the garden is usually open.”

“Has it ever happened that any one got into the house from this side door without your knowing it?”

“No, sir. The garden has a high wall around it. And there is extra protection on the side toward the Promenade.”

“But there’s a little gate there?”

“Yes, sir.”

“Is that usually closed?”

“We never use the key for that, sir. It has a trick lock that you can’t open unless you know how.”

“You said you went to the theatre yesterday evening. Did your master give you permission to go?”

“Yes, sir. It’s about a year now that he gave me money for a theatre ticket every Saturday evening. He was very kind.”

“Did you come into the house last night by the front door, or through the garden?”

“Through the garden, sir. I walked down the Promenade from the theatre.”

“And you didn’t notice anything--you saw no traces of footsteps?”

“No, sir. I didn’t notice anything unusual. We shut the side door, the garden door, every evening, also. It was closed yesterday and I found the key--we’ve only got one key to the garden door--in the same place where I was told to hide it when I went out in the evening.”

“What place was that?”

“In one of the pails by the well.”

“You say you were told to hide it there?”

“Yes, sir; the Professor told me. He’d go out in the evening sometimes, too, I suppose, and he wanted to be able to come in that way if necessary.”

“And no one else knew where the key was hidden?”

“No one else, sir. It’s nearly a year now that we’ve been alone in the house. Who else should know of it?”

“When you looked through the keyhole last night, are you sure that the Professor was still alive?”

“Why, yes, sir; of course I couldn’t say so surely. I thought he was reading or writing, but oh, dear Lord! there he was this morning, nearly twelve hours later, in just the same position.” Johann shivered at the thought that he might have seen his master sitting at his desk, already a corpse.

“He must have been dead when you came home. Don’t you think the sound of that shot would have wakened you?”