Chapter 2

“Yes, sir, I think likely, sir,” murmured Johann. “But if the murderer could get into the house, how could he get into the apartment?”

“There must have been a third key of which you knew nothing,” answered Horn, turning to Muller again. “It’s stranger still how Fellner could have been shot, for the window-shutters were fastened and quite uninjured, and both doors were locked on the inside.”

As he said these words, Horn looked sharply at his subordinate; but Muller’s calm face did not give the slightest clue to his thoughts. The experienced police commissioner was pleased and yet slightly angered at this behaviour on the part of the detective. He knew that it was quite possible that Muller had already formed a clear opinion about the case, and that he was merely keeping it to himself. And yet he was glad to see that the little detective had apparently learned a lesson from his recent mistake concerning the death of Mrs. Kniepp--that he had somewhat lost confidence in his hitherto unerring instinct, and did not care to express any opinion until he had studied the matter a little closer. The commissioner was just a little bit vain, and just a little bit jealous of this humble detective’s fame.

Muller shrugged his shoulders at the remark of his superior, and the two men stood silent, thinking over the case, as the Chief of Police appeared, accompanied by the doctor, a clerk, and two hospital attendants. The chief commissioner received the report of what had been discovered, while the corpse was laid on a bier to be taken to the hospital.

Muller handed the commissioner his hat and cane and helped him into his overcoat. Horn noticed that the detective himself was making no preparations to go out. “Aren’t you coming with us?” he asked, astonished.

“I hope the gentlemen will allow me to remain here for a little while,” answered Muller modestly.

“But you know that we will have to close the apartment officially,” said Horn, his voice sharpening in his surprise and displeasure.

“I do not need to be in these rooms any longer.”

“Don’t let them disturb you, my dear Muller; we will allow your keenness all possible leeway here.” The Head of Police spoke with calm politeness, but Muller started and shivered. The emphasis on the “here” showed him that even the head of the department had been incensed at his suggestion that the beautiful Mrs. Kniepp had died of her own free will. It had been his assertion of this which, coming to the ears of the bereaved husband, had enraged and embittered him, and had turned the power of his influence with the high authorities against the detective. Muller knew how greatly he had fallen from favour in the Police Department, and the words of his respected superior showed him that he was still in disgrace.

But the strange, quiet smile was still on his lips as, with his usual humble deference, he accompanied the others to the sidewalk. Before the commissioners left the house, the Chief commanded Johann to answer carefully any questions Muller might put to him.

“He’ll find something, you may be sure,” said Horn, as they drove off in the cab.

“Let him that’s his business. He is officially bound to see more than the rest of us,” smiled the older official good-naturedly. “But in spite of it, he’ll never get any further than the vestibule; he’ll be making bows to us to the end of his days.”

“You think so? I’ve wondered at the man. I know his fame in the capital, indeed, in police circles all over Austria and Germany. It seems hard on him to be transferred to this small town, now that he is growing old. I’ve wondered why he hasn’t done more for himself, with his gifts.”

“He never will,” replied the Chief. “He may win more fame--he may still go on winning triumphs, but he will go on in a circle; he’ll never forge ahead as his capabilities deserve. Muller’s peculiarity is that his genius--for the man has undeniable genius--will always make concessions to his heart just at the moment when he is about to do something great--and his triumph is lost.”

Horn looked up at his superior, whom, in spite of his good nature, he knew to be a sharp, keen, capable police official. “I forgot you have known Muller longer than the rest of us,” he said. “What was that you said about his heart?”

“I said that it is one of those inconvenient hearts that will always make itself noticeable at the wrong time. Muller’s heart has played several tricks on the police department, which has, at other times, profited so well by his genius. He is a strange mixture. While he is on the trail of the criminal he is like the bloodhound. He does not seem to know fatigue nor hunger; his whole being is absorbed by the excitement of the chase. He has done many a brilliant service to the cause of justice, he has discovered the guilt, or the innocence, of many in cases where the official department was as blind as Justice is proverbially supposed to be. Joseph Muller has become the idol of all who are engaged in this weary business of hunting down wrong and punishing crime. He is without a peer in his profession. But he has also become the idol of some of the criminals. For if he discovers (as sometimes happens) that the criminal is a good sort after all, he is just as likely to warn his prey, once he has all proofs of the guilt and a conviction is certain. Possibly this is his way of taking the sting from his irresistible impulse to ferret out hidden mysteries. But it is rather inconvenient, and he has hurt himself by it--hurt himself badly. They were tired of his peculiarities at the capital, and wanted to make his years an excuse to discharge him. I happened to get wind of it, and it was my weakness for him that saved him.”

“Yes, you brought him here when they transferred you to this town, I remember now.”

“I’m afraid it wasn’t such a good thing for him, after all. Nothing ever happens here, and a gift like Muller’s needs occupation to keep it fresh. I’m afraid his talents will dull and wither here. The man has grown perceptibly older in this inaction. His mind is like a high-bred horse that needs exercise to keep it in good condition.”

“He hasn’t grown rich at his work, either,” said Horn.

“No, there’s not much chance for a police detective to get rich. I’ve often wondered why Muller never had the energy to set up in business for himself. He might have won fame and fortune as a private detective. But he’s gone on plodding along as a police subordinate, and letting the department get all the credit for his most brilliant achievements. It’s a sort of incorrigible humbleness of nature--and then, you know, he had the misfortune to be unjustly sentenced to a term in prison in his early youth.”

“No, I did not know that.”

“The stigma stuck to his name, and finally drove him to take up this work. I don’t think Muller realised, when he began, just how greatly he is gifted. I don’t know that he really knows now. He seems to do it because he likes it--he’s a queer sort of man.”

While the commissioners drove through the streets to the police station the man of whom they were speaking sat in Johann’s little room in close consultation with the valet.

“How long is it since the Professor began to give you money to go to the theatre on Saturday evenings?”

“The first time it happened was on my name day.”

“What’s the rest of your name? There are so many Johanns on the calendar.”

“I am Johann Nepomuk.”

Muller took a little calendar from his pocket and turned its pages. “It was May sixteenth,” volunteered the valet.

“Quite right. May sixteenth was a Saturday. And since then you have gone to the theatre every Saturday evening?”

“Yes, sir.

“When did the owner of the house go away?”

“Last April. His wife was ill and he had to take her away. They went to Italy.”

“And you two have been alone in the house since April?”

“Yes, sir, we two.”

“Was there no janitor?”

“No, sir. The garden was taken care of by a man who came in for the day.”

“And you had no dog? I haven’t seen any around the place.”

“No, sir; the Professor did not like animals. But he must have been thinking about buying a dog, because I found a new dog-whip in his room one day.”

“Somebody might have left it there. One usually buys the dog first and then the whip.”

“Yes, sir. But there wasn’t anybody here to forget it. The Professor did not receive any visits at that time.”

“Why are you so sure of that?”

“Because it was the middle of summer, and everybody was away.”

“Oh, then, we won’t bother about the whip. Can you tell me of any ladies with whom the Professor was acquainted?”

“Ladies? I don’t know of any. Of course, the Professor was invited out a good deal, and most of the other gentlemen from the college were married.”

“Did he ever receive letters from ladies?” continued Muller.

Johann thought the matter over, then confessed that he knew very little about writing and couldn’t read handwriting very well anyway. But he remembered to have seen a letter now and then, a little letter with a fine and delicate handwriting.

“Have you any of these envelopes?” asked Muller. But Johann told him that in spite of his usual carelessness in such matters, Professor Fellner never allowed these letters to lie about his room.

Finally the detective came out with the question to which he had been leading up. “Did your master ever receive visits from ladies?”

Johann looked extremely stupid at this moment. His lack of intelligence and a certain crude sensitiveness in his nature made him take umbrage at what appeared to him a very unnecessary question. He answered it with a shake of the head only. Muller smiled at the young man’s ill-concealed indignation and paid no attention to it.

“Your master has been here for about a year. Where was he before that?”

“In the capital.”

“You were in his service then?”

“I have been with him for three years.”

“Did he know any ladies in his former home?”

“There was one--I think he was engaged to her.”

“Why didn’t he marry her?”

“I don’t know.”

“What was her name?”

“Marie. That’s all I know about it.”

“Was she beautiful?”

“I never saw her. The only way I knew about her was when the Professor’s friends spoke of her.”

“Did he have many friends?”

“There were ever so many gentlemen whom he called his friends.”

“Take me into the garden now.”

“Yes, sir.” Muller took his hat and coat and followed the valet into the garden. It was of considerable size, carefully and attractively planned, and pleasing even now when the bare twigs bent under their load of snow.

“Now think carefully, Johann. We had a full moon last night. Don’t you remember seeing any footsteps in the garden, leading away from the house?” asked Muller, as they stood on the snow-covered paths.

Johann thought it over carefully, then said decidedly, “No. At least I don’t remember anything of the kind. There was a strong wind yesterday anyway, and the snow drifts easily out here. No tracks could remain clear for long.”

The men walked down the straight path which led to the little gate in the high wall. This gate had a secret lock, which, however, was neither hard to find nor hard to open. Muller managed it with ease, and looked out through the gate on the street beyond. The broad promenade, deserted now in its winter snowiness, led away in one direction to the heart of the city. In the other it ended in the main county high-road. This was a broad, well-made turnpike, with footpath and rows of trees. A half-hour’s walk along it would bring one to the little village clustering about the Archduke’s favourite hunting castle. There was a little railway station near the castle, but it was used only by suburban trains or for the royal private car.

Muller did not intend to burden his brain with unnecessary facts, so with his usual thoroughness he left the further investigation of what lay beyond the gate, until he had searched the garden thoroughly. But even for his sharp eyes there was no trace to be found that would tell of the night visit of the murderer.

“In which of the pails did you put the key to the side door?” he asked.

“In the first pail on the right hand side. But be careful, sir; there’s a nail sticking out of the post there. The wind tore off a piece of wood yesterday.”

The warning came too late. Muller’s sleeve tore apart with a sharp sound just as Johann spoke, for the detective had already plunged his hand into the pail. The bottom of the bucket was easy to reach, as this one hung much lower than the others. Looking regretfully at the rent in his coat, Muller asked for needle and thread that he might repair it sufficiently to get home.

“Oh, don’t bother about sewing it; I’ll lend you one of mine,” exclaimed Johann. “I’ll carry this one home for you, for I’m not going to stay here alone--I’d be afraid. I’m going to a friend’s house. You can find me there any time you need me. You’d better take the key of the apartment and give it to the police.”

The detective had no particular fondness for the task of sewing, and he was glad to accept the valet’s friendly offering. He was rather astonished at the evident costliness of the garment the young man handed him, and when he spoke of it, the valet could not say enough in praise of the kindness of his late master. He pulled out several other articles of clothing, which, like the overcoat, had been given to him by Fellner. Then he packed up a few necessities and announced himself as ready to start. He insisted on carrying the torn coat, and Muller permitted it after some protest. They carefully closed the apartment and the house, and walked toward the centre of the city to the police station, where Muller lived.

As they crossed the square, it suddenly occurred to Johann that he had no tobacco. He was a great smoker, and as he had many days of enforced idleness ahead of him, he ran into a tobacco shop to purchase a sufficiency of this necessity of life.

Muller waited outside, and his attention was attracted by a large grey Ulmer hound which was evidently waiting for some one within the shop. The dog came up to him in a most friendly manner, allowed him to pat its head, rubbed up against him with every sign of pleasure, and would not leave him even when he turned to go after Johann came out of the shop. Still accompanied by the dog, the two men walked on quite a distance, when a sharp whistle was heard behind them, and the dog became uneasy. He would not leave them, however, until a powerful voice called “Tristan!” several times. Muller turned and saw that Tristan’s master was a tall, stately man wearing a handsome fur overcoat.

It was impossible to recognise his face at this distance, for the snowflakes were whirling thickly in the air. But Muller was not particularly anxious to recognise the stranger, as he had his head full of more important thoughts.

When Johann had given his new address and remarked that he would call for his coat soon, the men parted, and Muller returned to the police station.

The next day the principal newspaper of the town printed the following notice:

THE GOLDEN BULLET

It is but a few days since we announced to our readers the sad news of the death of a beautiful woman, whose leap from her window, while suffering from the agonies of fever, destroyed the happiness of an unusually harmonious marriage. And now we are compelled to print the news of another equally sad as well as mysterious occurrence. This time, Fate has demanded the sacrifice 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 at first that it was a case of suicide, for doors and windows were carefully closed from within and those who discovered the corpse were obliged to break open one of the doors to get to it. And a revolver was found lying close at hand, upon the desk. But this revolver was loaded in every chamber and there was no other weapon to be seen in the room. There was a bullet wound in the left breast of the corpse, and the bullet had penetrated the heart. Death must have been instantaneous.

The most mysterious thing about this strange affair was discovered during the autopsy. It is incredible, but it is absolutely true, as it is vouched for under oath by the authorities who were present, that the bullet which was found in the heart of the dead man was made of solid gold. And yet, strange as is this circumstance, it is still more a riddle how the murderer could have escaped from the room where he had shot down his victim, for the keys in both doors were in the locks from the inside. We have evidently to do here with a criminal of very unusual cleverness and it is therefore not surprising that there has been no clue discovered thus far. The only thing 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.