CHAPTER IX. THE ELECTRICIAN
When Muller reached the house where Mrs. Klingmayer lived he ordered thecabman to wait and hurried up to the widow's little apartment. He hadthe key to Leopold Winkler's room in his own pocket, for Mrs. Klingmayerhad given this key to Commissioner von Riedau at the latter's requestand the commissioner had given it to Muller. The detective told the goodwoman not to bother about him as he wanted to make an examination of theplace alone. Left to himself in the little room, Muller made a thoroughsearch of it, opening the cupboard, the bureau drawers, every possiblereceptacle where any article could be kept or hidden. What he wantedto find was some letter, some bit of paper, some memoranda perhaps,anything that would show any connection existing between the murderedman and Mrs. Bernauer, who lived so near the place where this man haddied and who was so greatly interested in his murder.
The detective's search was not quite in vain, although he could not tellyet whether what he had found would be of any value. Leopold Winkler hadhad very little correspondence, or else he had had no reason to keepthe letters he received. Muller found only about a half dozen letters inall. Three of them were from women of the half-world, giving dates formeetings. Another was written by a man and signed "Theo." This "Theo"appeared to be the same sort of a cheap rounder that Winkler was. And heseemed to have sunk one grade deeper than the dead man, in spite of thelatter's bad reputation. For this other addressed Winkler as his"Dear Friend" and pleaded with him for "greater discretion," alludingevidently to something which made this discretion necessary.
"I wonder what rascality it was that made these two friends?" murmuredMuller, putting Theo's letter with the three he had already read.But before he slipped it in his pocket he glanced at the postmark. Theletters of the three women had all been posted from different quartersof the city some months ago. Theo's letter was postmarked "Marburg," anddated on the 1st of September of the present year.
Then Muller looked at the postmark of the two remaining letters whichhe had not yet read, and whistled softly to himself. Both these letterswere posted from a certain station in Hietzing, the station which wasnearest his own lodgings and also nearest the Thorne house. He looked atthe postmark more sharply. They both bore the dates of the present year,one of them being stamped "March 17th," the other "September 24th." Thislast letter interested the detective most.
Muller was not of a nervous disposition, but his hand trembled slightlyas he took the letter from its envelope. It was clear that this letterhad been torn open hastily, for the edges of the opening were jagged anduneven.
When the detective had read the letter--it contained but a few lines andbore neither address nor signature--he glanced over it once more as ifto memorise the words. They were as follows: "Do not come again. In aday or two I will be able to do what I have to do. I will send you laternews to your office. Impatience will not help you."--These words werewritten hastily on a piece of paper that looked as if it had been tornfrom a pad. In spite of the haste the writer had been at some pains todisguise the handwriting. But it was a clumsy disguise, done by one notaccustomed to such tricks, and it was evidently done by a woman. All shehad known how to do to disguise her writing had been to twist and turnthe paper while writing, so that every letter had a different position.The letters were also made unusually long. This peculiarity of thewriting was seen on both letters and both envelopes. The earlier letterwas still shorter and seemed to have been written with the same haste,and with the same disgust, or perhaps even hatred, for the man to whomit was written.
"Come to-morrow, but not before eight o'clock. He has gone away. Godforgive him and you." This was the contents of the letter of the 17th ofMarch. That is, the writer had penned the letter this way. But the lasttwo words, "and you," had evidently not come from her heart, for she hadannulled them by a heavy stroke of the pen. A stroke that seemed like aknife thrust, so full of rage and hate it was.
"So he was called to a rendezvous in Hietzing, too," murmured Muller,then he added after a few moments: "But this rendezvous had nothingwhatever to do with love."
There was nothing else in Winkler's room which could be of any value toMuller in the problem that was now before him. And yet he was very wellsatisfied with the result of his errand.
He entered his cab again, ordering the driver to take him to Hietzing.Just before he had reached the corner where he had told the man to stop,another cab passed them, a coupe, in which was a solitary woman. Mullerhad just time enough to recognise this woman as Adele Bernauer, and tosee that she looked even more haggard and miserable than she had thatmorning. She did not look up as the other cab passed her carriage,therefore she did not see Muller. The detective looked at his watch andsaw that it was almost half-past four. The unexpected meeting changed,his plans for the afternoon. He had decided that he must enter theThorne mansion again that very day, for he must find out the meaning ofthe red-shaded lamp. And now that the housekeeper was away it would beeasier for him to get into the house, therefore it must be done at once.His excuse was all ready, for he had been weighing possibilities.He dismissed his cab a block from his own home and entered his housecautiously.
Muller's lodgings consisted of two large rooms, really much too largefor a lone man who was at home so little. But Muller had engaged themat first sight, for the apartment possessed one qualification which wasabsolutely necessary for him. Its situation and the arrangement of itsdoors made it possible for him to enter and leave his rooms withoutbeing seen either by his own landlady or by the other lodgers in thehouse. The little apartment was on the ground floor, and Muller's ownrooms had a separate entrance opening on to the main corridor almostimmediately behind the door. Nine times out of ten, he could come and gowithout being seen by any one in the house. To-day was the firsttime, however, that Muller had had occasion to try this particularqualification of his new lodgings.
He opened the street door and slipped into his own room without havingseen or been seen by any one.
Fifteen minutes later he left the apartment again, but left it such achanged man that nobody who had seen him go in would have recognisedhim. Before he came out, however, he looked about carefully to seewhether there was any one in sight He came out unseen and was justclosing the main door behind him, when he met the janitress.
"Were you looking for anybody in the house?" said the woman, glancingsharply at the stranger, who answered in a slightly veiled voice: "No,I made a mistake in the number. The place I am looking for is two housesfurther down."
He walked down the street and the woman looked after him until she sawhim turn into the doorway of the second house. Then she went into herown rooms. The house Muller entered happened to be a corner house withan entrance on the other street, through which the detective passedand went on his way. He was quite satisfied with the security of hisdisguise, for the woman who knew him well had not recognised him at all.If his own janitress did not know him, the people in the Thorne housewould never imagine it was he.
And indeed Muller was entirely changed. In actuality small and thin,with sparse brown hair and smooth shaven face, he was now an inch or twotaller and very much stouter. He wore thick curly blond hair, a littlepointed blond beard and moustache. His eyes were hidden by heavy-rimmedspectacles.
It was just half-past five when he rang the bell at the entrance gate tothe Thorne property. He had spent the intervening time in the cafe,as he was in no hurry to enter the house. Franz came down the path andopened the door. "'What do you want?" he asked.
"I come from Siemens & Halske; I was to ask whether the other man--"
"Has been here already?" interrupted Franz, adding in an irritated tone,"No, he hasn't been here at all."
"Well, I guess he didn't get through at the other place in time. I'llsee what the trouble is," said the stranger, whom Franz naturallysupposed to be the electrician, he opened the gate and asked the otherto come in, leading him into the house. Under a cloudy sky the daywas fading rapidly. Muller knew that it would not occur to the realelectricia
n to begin any work as late as this, and that he was perfectlysafe in the examination he wanted to make.
"Well, what's the trouble here? Why did you write to our firm?" askedthe supposed electrician.
"The wires must cross somewhere, or there's something wrong with thebells. When the housekeeper touches the button in her room to ring forthe cook or the upstairs girl, the bell rings in Mr. Thorne's room. Itstarts ringing and it keeps up with a deuce of a noise. Fortunately thefamily are away."
"Well, we'll fix it all right for you. First of all I want to look atthe button in the housekeeper's room."
"I'll take you up there," said Franz.
They walked through the wide corridor, then turned into a shorter,darker hall and went up a narrow winding stairway. Franz halted beforea door in the second story. It was the last of the three doors inthe hall. Muller took off his hat as the door opened and murmured a"good-evening."
"There's no one there; Mrs. Bernauer's out."
"Has she gone away, too?" asked the electrician hastily.
Franz did not notice that there was a slight change in the stranger'svoice at this question, and he answered calmly as ever: "Oh, no; she'sjust driven to town. I think she went to see the doctor who lives quitea distance away. She hasn't been feeling at all well. She took a cabto-day. I told her she ought to, as she wasn't well enough to go by thetram. She ought to be home any moment now."
"Well, I'll hurry up with the job so that I'll be out of the way whenthe lady comes," said Muller, as Franz led him to the misbehaving bell.
It was in the wall immediately above a large table which filled thewindow niche so completely that there was but scant space left for thecomfortable armchair that stood in front of it. The window was open andMuller leaned out, looking down at the garden below.
"What a fine old garden!" he exclaimed aloud. To himself he said: "Thisis the last window in the left wing. It is the window where Johann Knollsaw the red light."
And when he turned back into the room again he found the source of thislight right at his hand on the handsome old table at which Mrs. Bernauerevidently spent many of her hours. A row of books stood against thewall, framing the back of the table. Well-worn volumes of the classicsamong them gave proof that the one-time nurse was a woman of education.A sewing basket and neat piles of house linen, awaiting repairs, covereda large part of the table-top, and beside them stood a gracefully shapedlamp, covered by a shade of soft red silk.
It took Muller but a few seconds to see all this. Then he set abouthis investigation of the electric button. He unscrewed the plate andexamined the wires meeting under it. While doing so he cast anotherglance at the table and saw a letter lying there, an open letter halfout of its envelope. This envelope was of unusual shape, long andnarrow, and the paper was heavy and high-glossed.
"Your housekeeper evidently has no secrets from the rest of you," Mullerremarked with a laugh, still busy at the wires, "or she wouldn't leaveher letters lying about like that."
"Oh, we've all heard what's in that letter," replied Franz. "She read itto us when it came this morning. It's from the Madam. She sent messagesto all of us and orders, so Mrs. Bernauer read us the whole letter.There's no secrets in that."
"The button has been pressed in too far and caught down. That seems tobe the main trouble," said Muller, readjusting the little knob. "I'dlike a candle here if I may have one."
"I'll get you a light at once," said Franz. But his intentions, howeverexcellent, seemed difficult of fulfilment. It was rapidly growing dark,and the old butler peered about uncertainly. "Stupid," he muttered. "Idon't know where she keeps the matches. I can't find them anywhere. I'mnot a smoker, so I haven't any in my pocket."
"Nor I," said Muller calmly, letting his hand close protectingly over anew full box of them in his own pocket.
"I'll get you some from my own room," and Franz hurried away, his looseslippers clattering down the stairs. He was no sooner well out of theroom than Muller had the letter in his hand and was standing close bythe window to catch the fading light. But on the old servant's returnthe supposed electrician stood calmly awaiting the coming of the light,and the letter was back on the table half hidden by a piece of linen.Franz did not notice that the envelope was missing. And the housekeeper,whose mind was so upset by the events of the day, and whose thoughtswere on other more absorbing matters, would hardly be likely to rememberwhether she had returned this quite unimportant letter to its envelopeor not.
Franz brought a lighted candle with him, and Muller, who really didpossess a creditable knowledge of electricity, saw that the wires inthe room were all in good condition. As he had seen at first, there wasreally nothing the matter except with the position of the button. But itdid not suit his purpose to enlighten Franz on the matter just yet.
"Now I'd better look at the wires in the gentleman's room," he said,when he had returned plate and button to their place.
"Just as you say," replied Franz, taking up his candle and leading theway out into the hall and down the winding stair. They crossed the lowercorridor, mounted another staircase and entered a large, handsomelyfurnished room, half studio, half library. The wall was covered withpictures and sketches, several easels stood piled up in the corner, anda broad table beside them held paint boxes, colour tubes, brushes, allthe paraphernalia of the painter, now carefully ordered and covered fora term of idleness. Great bookcases towered to the ceiling, and a hugeflat top desk, a costly piece of furniture, was covered with books andpapers. It was the room of a man of brains and breeding, a man of talentand ability, possessing, furthermore, the means to indulge his tastesfreely. Even now, with its master absent, the handsome apartment borethe impress of his personality. The detective's quick imagination calledup the attractive, sympathetic figure of the man he had seen at thegate, as his quick eye took in the details of the room. All the charm ofHerbert Thorne's personality, which the keen-sensed Muller had felt sostrongly even in that fleeting glimpse of him, came back again herein the room which was his own little kingdom and the expression of hismentality.
"Well, what's the trouble here? Where are the wires?" asked thedetective, after the momentary pause which had followed his entranceinto the room. Franz led him to a spot on the wall hidden by a marquetrycabinet. "Here's the bell, it rings for several minutes before itstops."
The light of the candle which the butler held fell upon a portraithanging above the cabinet. It was a sketch in water-colours, thelife-sized head of a man who may have been about thirty years old,perhaps, but who had none of the freshness and vigour of youth. Thescanty hair, the sunken temples, and the faded skin, emphasised the lookof dissipation given by the lines about the sensual mouth and the shiftyeyes.
"Well, say, can't your master find anything better to paint than a facelike that?" Muller asked with a laugh.
"Goodness me! you mustn't say such things!" exclaimed Franz in alarm;"that's the Madam's brother. He's an officer, I'd have you know. It'strue, he doesn't look like much there, but that's because he's not inuniform. It makes such a difference."
"Is the lady anything like her brother?" asked the detectiveindifferently, bending to examine the wiring.
"Oh, dear, no, not a bit; they're as different as day and night. He'sonly her half-brother anyway. She was the daughter of the Colonel'ssecond wife. Our Madam is the sweetest, gentlest lady you can imagine,an angel of goodness. But the Lieutenant here has always been a careto his family, they say. I guess he's quieted down a bit now, for hisfather--he's Colonel Leining, retired--made him get exchanged from thecity to a small garrison town. There's nothing much to do in Marburg,I dare say--well! you are a merry sort, aren't you?" These last words,spoken in a tone of surprise, were called forth by a sudden sharpwhistle from the detective, a whistle which went off into a few merrybars.
A sudden whistle like that from Muller's lips was something that madethe Imperial Police Force sit up and take notice, for it meant thatthings were happening, and that the happenings were likely to becomeexciting. It w
as a habit he could control only by the severest effort ofthe will, an effort which he kept for occasions when it was absolutelynecessary. Here, alone with the harmless old man, he was not so muchon his guard, and the sudden vibrating of every nerve at the word"Marburg," found vent in the whistle which surprised old Franz. Oneyoung police commissioner with a fancy for metaphor had likened thissudden involuntary whistle of Muller's to the bay of the hound when hestrikes the trail; which was about what it was.
"Yes, I am merry sometimes," he said with a laugh. "It's a habit I have.Something occurred to me just then, something I had forgotten. Hope youdon't mind."
"Oh, no, there's no one here now, whistle all you like."
But Muller's whistle was not a continuous performance, and he had nowcompletely mastered the excitation of his nerves which had called itforth. He threw another sharp look at the picture of the man who livedin Marburg, and then asked: "And now where is the button?"
"By the window there, beside the desk." Franz led the way with hiscandle.
"Why, how funny! What are those mirrors there for?" asked theelectrician in a tone of surprise, pointing to two small mirrors hangingin the window niche. They were placed at a height and at such a peculiarangle that no one could possibly see his face in them.
"Something the master is experimenting with, I guess. He's always makingqueer experiments; he knows a lot about scientific things."
Muller shook his head as if in wonderment, and bent to investigate thebutton which was fastened into the wall beneath the window sill. Hisquick ear heard a carriage stopping in front of the house, and heard theclosing of the front door a moment later. To facilitate his examinationof the button, the detective had seated himself in the armchair whichstood beside the desk. He half raised himself now to let the lightof the candle fall more clearly on the wiring--then he started upaltogether and threw a hasty glance at the mirrors above his head. A rayof light had suddenly flashed down upon him--a ray of red light, and itcame reflected from the mirrors. Muller bit his lips to keep back thebetraying whistle.
"What's the matter?" asked the butler. "Did you drop anything?"
"Yes, the wooden rim of the button," replied Muller, telling the truththis time. For he had held the little wooden circlet in his hands at themoment when the red light, reflected down from the mirrors, struck fullupon his eyes. He had dropped it in his surprise and excitement. Franzfound the little ring in the centre of the room where it had rolled,and the supposed electrician replaced it and rose to his feet, saying:"There, I've finished now."
Franz did not recognise the double meaning in the words. "Yes, it's allright! I've finished here now," Muller repeated to himself. For now heknew beyond a doubt that the red light was a signal--and he knewalso for whom this signal was intended. It was a signal for HerbertThorne!--Herbert Thorne, whom no single thought or suspicion of Muller'shad yet connected with the murder of Leopold Winkler.
The detective was very much surprised and greatly excited. But Franz didnot notice it, and indeed a far keener observer than the slow-witted oldbutler might have failed to see the sudden gleam which shot up in thegrey eyes behind the heavy spectacles, might have failed to notice thetightening of the lips beneath the blond moustache, or the tenseness ofthe slight frame under the assumed embonpoint. Muller's every nerve wastingling, but he had himself completely in hand.
"What do we owe you?" asked Franz.
"They'll send you a bill from the office. It won't amount to much. Imust be getting on now."
Muller hastened out of the door and down the street to the nearest cabstand. There were not very many cab stands in this vicinity, and thedetective reasoned that Mrs. Bernauer would naturally have taken hercab from the nearest station. He had heard her return in her carriage,presumably the same in which she had started out.
There was but one cab at the stand. Muller walked to it and laid hishand on the door.
"Oh, Jimmy! must I go out again?" asked the driver hoarsely. "Can't yousee the poor beast is all wet from the last ride? We've just come in."He pointed with his whip to the tired-looking animal under his blanket.
"Why, he does look warm. You must have been making a tour out into thecountry," said the blond gentleman in a friendly tone.
"No, sir, not quite so far as that. I've just taken a woman to the maintelegraph office in the city and back again. But she was in a hurry andhe's not a young horse, sir."
"Well, never mind, then; I can get another cab across the bridge,"replied the stout blond man, turning away and strolling off leisurelyin the direction of the bridge. It was now quite dark, and a fewsteps further on Muller could safely turn and take the road to his ownlodging. No one saw him go in, and in a few moments the real Muller,slight, smooth-shaven, sat down at his desk, looking at the papers thatlay before him. They were three letters and an empty envelope.
He took up the last, and compared it carefully with the envelope of oneof the letters found in Winkler's room--the unsigned letter postmarkedHietzing, September 24th. The two envelopes were exactly alike. Theywere of the same size and shape, made of the same cream-tinted, heavy,glossy paper, and the address was written by the same hand. This anykeen observer, who need not necessarily be an expert, could see. Thesame hand which had addressed the envelope to Mrs. Adele Bernauer onthe letter which was postmarked "Venice," about thirty-six hoursprevious--this hand had, in an awkward and childish attempt at disguise,written Winkler's address on the envelope which bore the date ofSeptember 24th.
The writer of the harmless letter to Mrs. Bernauer, a letter whichchatted of household topics and touched lightly on the beauties ofVenice, was Mrs. Thorne. It was Mrs. Thorne, therefore, who, reluctantlyand in anger and distaste, had called Leopold Winkler to Hietzing, tohis death.
And whose hand had fired the shot that caused his death? The question,at this stage in Muller's meditation, could hardly be called a questionany more. It was all too sadly clear to him now. Winkler met his deathat the hand of the husband, who, discovering the planned rendezvous, hadmisunderstood its motive.
For truly this had been no lovers' meeting. It had been a meeting towhich the woman was driven by fear and hate; the man by greed of gain.This was clearly proved by the 300 guldens found in the dead man'spocket, money enclosed in a delicate little envelope, sealed hastily,and crumpled as if it had been carried in a hot and trembling hand.
It was already known that Winkler never had any money except at certainirregular intervals, when he appeared to have come into possessionof considerable sums. During these days he indulged in extravagantpleasures and spent his money with a recklessness which proved that hehad not earned it by honest work.
Leopold Winkler was a blackmailer.
Colonel Leining, retired, the father of two such widely differentchildren, was doubtless a man of stern principles, and an army officeras well, therefore a man with a doubly sensitive code of honour and asocial position to maintain; and this man, morbidly sensitive probably,had a daughter who had inherited his sensitiveness and his high idealsof honour, a daughter married to a rich husband. But he had anotherchild, a son without any sense of honour at all, who, although also anofficer, failed to live in a manner worthy his position. This son wasnow in Marburg, where there were no expensive pleasures, no all-nightcafes and gambling dens, for a man to lose his time in, his money, andhis honour also.
For such must have been the case with Colonel Leining's son before hisexile to Marburg. The old butler had hinted at the truth. The portraitdrawn by Herbert Thorne, a picture of such technical excellence that itwas doubtless a good likeness also, had given an ugly illustration toFranz's remarks. And there was something even more tangible to prove it:"Theo's" letter from Marburg pleading with Winkler for "discretion andsilence," not knowing ("let us hope he did not know!" murmured Mullerbetween set teeth) that the man who held him in his power because ofsome rascality, was being paid for his silence by the Lieutenant'ssister.
It is easy to frighten a sensitive woman, so easy to make her believethe wor
st! And there is little such a tender-hearted woman will not doto save her aging father from pain and sorrow, perhaps even disgrace!
It must have been in this way that Mrs. Thorne came into the power ofthe scoundrel who paid with his life for his last attempt at blackmail.
When Muller reached this point in his chain of thought, he closed hiseyes and covered his face with his hands, letting two pictures stand outclear before his mental vision.
He saw the little anxious group around the carriage in front of theThorne mansion. He saw the pale, frail woman leaning back on thecushions, and the husband bending over her in tender care. And then hesaw Johann Knoll in his cell, a man with little manhood left in him, aman sunk to the level of the brutes, a man who had already committedone crime against society, and who could never rise to the mental orspiritual standard of even the most mediocre of decent citizens.
If Herbert Thorne were to suffer the just punishment for his deed ofdoubly blind jealousy, then it was not only his own life, a life fullof gracious promise, that would be ruined, but the happiness of hisdelicate, sweet-faced wife, who was doubtless still in blessed ignoranceof what had happened. And still one other would be dragged down by thistragedy; a respected, upright man would bow his white hairs in disgrace.Thorne's father-in-law could not escape the scandal and his own sharein the responsibility for it. And to a veteran officer, bred in theexaggerated social ethics of his profession, such a disgrace means ruin,sometimes even voluntary death.
"Oh, dear, if it had only been Knoll who did it," said Muller with asigh that was almost a groan.
Then he rose slowly and heavily, and slowly and heavily, as if bornedown by the weight of great weariness, he reached for his hat and coatand left the house.
Whether he wished it or not, he knew it was his duty to go on to thebitter end on this trail he had followed up all day from the moment thathe caught that fleeting glimpse of Mrs. Bernauer's haggard face at thegarden gate. He was almost angry with the woman, because she chanced tolook out of the gate at just that moment, showing him her face distortedwith anxiety. For it was her face that had drawn Muller to the trail, atrail at the end of which misery awaited those for whom this woman hadworked for years, those whom she loved and who treated her as one of thefamily.
Muller knew now that the one-time nurse was in league with her formercharge; that Thorne and Adele Bernauer were in each other's confidence;that the man sat waiting for the signal which she was to give him, asignal bringing so much disgrace and sorrow in its train.
If the woman had not spied upon and betrayed her mistress, this terribleevent, which now weighed upon her own soul, would not have happened.
"A faithful servant, indeed," said Muller, with a harsh laugh.
Then maturer consideration came and forced him to acknowledge that itwas indeed devotion that had swayed Adele Bernauer, devotion to hermaster more than to her mistress. This was hardly to be wondered at. Butshe had not thought what might come from her revelations, what had comeof them. For now her pet, the baby who had once lain in her arms, thehandsome, gifted man whom she adored with more than the love of many amother for the child of her own blood, was under the shadow of hideousdisgrace and doom, was the just prey of the law for open trial andcondemnation as a murderer.
Muller sighed deeply once more and then came one of those momentswhich he had spoken of to the unhappy woman that very day. He felt likecursing the fatal gift that was his, the gift to see what was hiddenfrom others, this something within him that forced him relentlesslyonward until he had uncovered the truth, and brought misery to many.
Muller need not do anything, he need simply do nothing. Not a soulbesides himself suspected the dwellers in the Thorne mansion of anyconnection with the murder. If he were silent, nothing could be provenagainst Knoll after all, except the robbery which he himself hadconfessed. Then the memory of the terror in the tramp's little reddenedeyes came back to the detective's mind.
"A human soul after all, and a soul trembling in the shadow of a greatfear. And even he's a better man than the blackmailer who was killed. Amiscarriage of justice will often make a criminal of a poor fellow whoseworst fault is idleness." Muller's face darkened as the things of thepast, shut down in the depths of his own soul, rose up again. "No;that's why I took up this work. Justice must be done--but it's bitterhard sometimes. I could almost wish now that I hadn't seen that face atthe gate."