The Case Of The Lamp That Went Out Part 14

"Why, how funny! What are those mirrors there for?" asked the electrician in a tone of surprise, pointing to two small mirrors hanging in the window niche. They were placed at a height and at such a peculiar angle that no one could possibly see his face in them.

"Something the master is experimenting with, I guess. He's always making queer experiments; he knows a lot about scientific things."

Muller shook his head as if in wonderment, and bent to investigate the b.u.t.ton which was fastened into the wall beneath the window sill. His quick ear heard a carriage stopping in front of the house, and heard the closing of the front door a moment later. To facilitate his examination of the b.u.t.ton, the detective had seated himself in the armchair which stood beside the desk. He half raised himself now to let the light of the candle fall more clearly on the wiring--then he started up altogether and threw a hasty glance at the mirrors above his head. A ray of light had suddenly flashed down upon him--a ray of red light, and it came reflected from the mirrors. Muller bit his lips to keep back the betraying whistle.

"What's the matter?" asked the butler. "Did you drop anything?"

"Yes, the wooden rim of the b.u.t.ton," replied Muller, telling the truth this time. For he had held the little wooden circlet in his hands at the moment when the red light, reflected down from the mirrors, struck full upon his eyes. He had dropped it in his surprise and excitement. Franz found 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 all right! I've finished here now," Muller repeated to himself. For now he knew beyond a doubt that the red light was a signal--and he knew also for whom this signal was intended. It was a signal for Herbert Thorne!--Herbert Thorne, whom no single thought or suspicion of Muller's had yet connected with the murder of Leopold Winkler.

The detective was very much surprised and greatly excited. But Franz did not notice it, and indeed a far keener observer than the slow-witted old butler might have failed to see the sudden gleam which shot up in the grey eyes behind the heavy spectacles, might have failed to notice the tightening of the lips beneath the blond moustache, or the tenseness of the slight frame under the a.s.sumed embonpoint. Muller's every nerve was tingling, 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. I must be getting on now."

Muller hastened out of the door and down the street to the nearest cab stand. There were not very many cab stands in this vicinity, and the detective reasoned that Mrs. Bernauer would naturally have taken her cab 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 his hand on the door.

"Oh, Jimmy! must I go out again?" asked the driver hoa.r.s.ely. "Can't you see 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 the country," said the blond gentleman in a friendly tone.

"No, sir, not quite so far as that. I've just taken a woman to the main telegraph office in the city and back again. But she was in a hurry and he'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 leisurely in the direction of the bridge. It was now quite dark, and a few steps further on Muller could safely turn and take the road to his own lodging. 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 that lay before him. They were three letters and an empty envelope.

He took up the last, and compared it carefully with the envelope of one of the letters found in Winkler's room--the unsigned letter postmarked Hietzing, September 24th. The two envelopes were exactly alike. They were 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 any keen observer, who need not necessarily be an expert, could see. The same hand which had addressed the envelope to Mrs. Adele Bernauer on the letter which was postmarked "Venice," about thirty-six hours previous--this hand had, in an awkward and childish attempt at disguise, written Winkler's address on the envelope which bore the date of September 24th.

The writer of the harmless letter to Mrs. Bernauer, a letter which chatted of household topics and touched lightly on the beauties of Venice, was Mrs. Thorne. It was Mrs. Thorne, therefore, who, reluctantly and in anger and distaste, had called Leopold Winkler to Hietzing, to his 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 question any more. It was all too sadly clear to him now. Winkler met his death at the hand of the husband, who, discovering the planned rendezvous, had misunderstood its motive.

For truly this had been no lovers' meeting. It had been a meeting to which 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's pocket, 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 certain irregular intervals, when he appeared to have come into possession of considerable sums. During these days he indulged in extravagant pleasures and spent his money with a recklessness which proved that he had not earned it by honest work.

Leopold Winkler was a blackmailer.

Colonel Leining, retired, the father of two such widely different children, was doubtless a man of stern principles, and an army officer as well, therefore a man with a doubly sensitive code of honour and a social position to maintain; and this man, morbidly sensitive probably, had a daughter who had inherited his sensitiveness and his high ideals of honour, a daughter married to a rich husband. But he had another child, a son without any sense of honour at all, who, although also an officer, failed to live in a manner worthy his position. This son was now in Marburg, where there were no expensive pleasures, no all-night cafes and gambling dens, for a man to lose his time in, his money, and his honour also.

For such must have been the case with Colonel Leining's son before his exile to Marburg. The old butler had hinted at the truth. The portrait drawn by Herbert Thorne, a picture of such technical excellence that it was doubtless a good likeness also, had given an ugly ill.u.s.tration to Franz's remarks. And there was something even more tangible to prove it: "Theo's" letter from Marburg pleading with Winkler for "discretion and silence," not knowing ("let us hope he did not know!" murmured Muller between set teeth) that the man who held him in his power because of some rascality, was being paid for his silence by the Lieutenant's sister.

It is easy to frighten a sensitive woman, so easy to make her believe the worst! And there is little such a tender-hearted woman will not do to 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 of the scoundrel who paid with his life for his last attempt at blackmail.

When Muller reached this point in his chain of thought, he closed his eyes and covered his face with his hands, letting two pictures stand out clear before his mental vision.

He saw the little anxious group around the carriage in front of the Thorne mansion. He saw the pale, frail woman leaning back on the cushions, and the husband bending over her in tender care. And then he saw Johann Knoll in his cell, a man with little manhood left in him, a man sunk to the level of the brutes, a man who had already committed one crime against society, and who could never rise to the mental or spiritual standard of even the most mediocre of decent citizens.

If Herbert Thorne were to suffer the just punishment for his deed of doubly blind jealousy, then it was not only his own life, a life full of gracious promise, that would be ruined, but the happiness of his delicate, sweet-faced wife, who was doubtless still in blessed ignorance of what had happened. And still one other would be dragged down by this tragedy; a respected, upright man would bow his white hairs in disgrace.

Thorne's father-in-law could not escape the scandal and his own share in the responsibility for it. And to a veteran officer, bred in the exaggerated 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 a sigh that was almost a groan.

Then he rose slowly and heavily, and slowly and heavily, as if borne down by the weight of great weariness, he reached for his hat and coat and left the house.

Whether he wished it or not, he knew it was his duty to go on to the bitter end on this trail he had followed up all day from the moment that he caught that fleeting glimpse of Mrs. Bernauer's haggard face at the garden gate. He was almost angry with the woman, because she chanced to look out of the gate at just that moment, showing him her face distorted with anxiety. For it was her face that had drawn Muller to the trail, a trail at the end of which misery awaited those for whom this woman had worked for years, those whom she loved and who treated her as one of the family.

Muller knew now that the one-time nurse was in league with her former charge; 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, a signal bringing so much disgrace and sorrow in its train.

If the woman had not spied upon and betrayed her mistress, this terrible event, 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 it was indeed devotion that had swayed Adele Bernauer, devotion to her master more than to her mistress. This was hardly to be wondered at. But she had not thought what might come from her revelations, what had come of them. For now her pet, the baby who had once lain in her arms, the handsome, gifted man whom she adored with more than the love of many a mother for the child of her own blood, was under the shadow of hideous disgrace and doom, was the just prey of the law for open trial and condemnation as a murderer.

Muller sighed deeply once more and then came one of those moments which he had spoken of to the unhappy woman that very day. He felt like cursing the fatal gift that was his, the gift to see what was hidden from others, this something within him that forced him relentlessly onward until he had uncovered the truth, and brought misery to many.

Muller need not do anything, he need simply do nothing. Not a soul besides himself suspected the dwellers in the Thorne mansion of any connection with the murder. If he were silent, nothing could be proven against Knoll after all, except the robbery which he himself had confessed. Then the memory of the terror in the tramp's little reddened eyes came back to the detective's mind.

"A human soul after all, and a soul trembling in the shadow of a great fear. And even he's a better man than the blackmailer who was killed. A miscarriage of justice will often make a criminal of a poor fellow whose worst fault is idleness." Muller's face darkened as the things of the past, 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 bitter hard sometimes. I could almost wish now that I hadn't seen that face at the gate."

CHAPTER X. MULLER RETURNS TO THE THORNE MANSION

It was striking eight as Muller came out of a cafe in the heart of the city. He had been in there but a few moments, for his purpose was merely to look through the Army lists of the current year. The result of his search proved the correctness of his conclusions.

There was a Lieutenant Theobald Leining in the single infantry regiment stationed at Marburg.

Muller took a cab and drove to the main telegraph office. He asked for the original of the telegram which had been sent that afternoon to the address; "Herbert Thorne, Hotel Danieli, Venice." This closed the circle of the chain.

The detective re-entered his waiting cab and drove back to Hietzing. He told the driver to halt at the corner of the street on which fronted the Thorne mansion and to wait for him there. He himself walked slowly down the quiet Street and rang the bell at the iron gate.

"You come to this house again?" asked Franz, starting back in alarm when he saw who it was that had called him to the door.

"Yes, my good friend; I want to get into this house again. But not on false pretenses this time. And before you let me in you can go upstairs and ask Mrs. Bernauer if she will receive me in her own room--in her own room, mind. But make haste; I am in a hurry." The detective's tone was calm and he strolled slowly up and down in front of the gate when he had finished speaking.

The old butler hesitated a moment, then walked into the house. When he returned, rather more quickly, he looked alarmed and his tone was very humble as he asked Muller to follow him.