The Case Of The Lamp That Went Out Part 17

"But he may make his confession and then try to escape the disgrace."

"Yes, sir, I've thought of that. That's why I want to go to Venice myself. And then, there's the poor young wife, he must think of her when the desire comes to end his own life..."

"Yes! Yes! This terrible thing has shaken us both up more than a little.

I feel exhausted. You look tired yourself, Muller. Go home now, and get some rest for your early start. Good-night."

"Good-night, sir."

CHAPTER XII. ON THE LIDO

A wonderfully beautiful night lay over the fair old city of Venice when the Northern Express thundered over the long bridge to the railway station. A pa.s.senger who was alone in a second-cla.s.s compartment stood up to collect his few belongings. Suddenly he looked up as he heard a voice, a voice which he had learned to know only very recently, calling to him from the door of the compartment.

"Why! you were in the train too? You have come to Venice?" exclaimed Joseph Muller in astonishment as he saw Mrs. Bernauer standing there before him.

"Yes, I have come to Venice too. I must be with my dear lady--when--when Herbert--" She had begun quite calmly, but she did not finish her sentence, for loud sobs drowned the words.

"You were in the next compartment? Why didn't you come in here with me?

It would have made this journey shorter for both of us."

"I had to be alone," said the pale woman and then she added: "I only came to you now to ask you where I must go."

"I think we two had better go to the Hotel Bauer. Let me arrange things for you. Mrs. Thorne must not see you until she has been prepared for your coming. I will arrange that with her husband."

The two took each other's hands. They had won respect and sympathy for each other, this quiet man who went so relentlessly and yet so pityingly about his duty in the interest of justice--and the devoted woman whose faithfulness had brought about such a tragedy.

The train had now entered the railway station. Muller and Mrs. Bernauer stood a few minutes later on the banks of the Grand Ca.n.a.l and entered one of the many gondolas waiting there. The moon glanced back from the surface of the water broken into ripples under the oars of the gondoliers; it shone with a magic charm on the old palaces that stood knee-deep in the lagoons, and threw heavy shadows over the narrow water-roads on which the little dark boats glided silently forward.

In most of the gondolas coming from the station excited voices and exclamations of delight broke the calm of the moonlit evening as the tourists rejoiced in the beauty that is Venice.

But in the gondola in which Muller and Mrs. Bernauer sat there was deep silence, silence broken only by a sobbing sigh that now and then burst from the heart of the haggard woman. There were few travellers entering Venice on one of its world-famous moonlit nights who were so sad at heart as were these two.

And there were few travellers in Venice as heavy hearted as was the man who next morning took one of the earliest boats out to the Lido.

Muller and Mrs. Bernauer were on the same boat watching him from a hidden corner. The woman's sad eyes gazed yearningly at the haggard face of the tall man who stood looking over the railing of the little steamer. Her own tears came as she saw the gloom in the once shining grey eyes she loved so well.

Muller stood beside Mrs. Bernauer. His eyes too, keen and quick, followed Herbert Thorne as he stood by the rail or paced restlessly up and down; his face too showed pity and concern. He also saw that Thorne held in his hand a bundle of newspapers which were still enclosed in their mailing wrappers. The papers were pressed in a convulsive grip of the artist's long slender fingers.

Muller knew then that Thorne had not yet learned of the arrest of Johann Knoll. At the very earliest, Thursday's papers, which brought the news, could not reach him before Friday morning. But these newspapers (Muller saw that they were German papers) were still in their wrappings. They were probably Viennese papers for which he had telegraphed and which had just arrived. His anxiety had not allowed him to read them in the presence of his wife. He had sought the solitude of early morning on the Lido, that he might learn, un.o.bserved, what terrors fate had in store for him.

It was doubtless Mrs. Bernauer's telegram which caused his present anxiety, a telegram which had reached him only the night before when he returned with his wife from an excursion to Torcello. It had caused him a sleepless night, for it had brought the realisation that his faithful nurse suspected the truth about the murder in the quiet lane. The telegram had read as follows: "Have drawn money and send it at once.

Further journey probably necessary, visitor in house to-day. Connected with occurrence in -- Street. Please read Viennese papers. News and orders for me please send to address A.B. General Postoffice."

This telegram told Herbert Thorne the truth. And the papers which arrived this morning were to tell him more--what he did not yet know.

But his heart was drawn with terrors which threw lines in his face and made him look ten years older than on that Tuesday morning when the detective saw him setting out on his journey with his wife.

When the boat landed at the Lido, Thorne walked off down the road which led to the ocean side. Muller and Mrs. Bernauer entered the waiting tramway that took them in the same direction. They dismounted in front of the bathing establishment, stepped behind a group of bushes and waited there for Thorne. In about ten minutes they saw his tall figure pa.s.sing on the other side of the road. He was walking down to the beach, holding the still unopened papers in his hand.

A narrow strip of park runs along parallel to the beach in the direction towards Mala Mocco. Muller and Mrs Bernauer walked along through this park on the path which was nearest the water. The detective watched the rapidly moving figure ahead of them, while the woman's tear-dimmed eyes veiled everything else to her but the path along which her weary feet hastened. Thorne halted about half way between the bathing establishment and the customs barracks, looked around to see if he were alone and threw himself down on the sand.

He had chosen a good place. To the right and to the left were high sand dunes, before him was the broad surface of the ocean, and at his back was rising ground, bare sand with here and there a scraggly bush or a group of high thistles. Herbert Thorne believed himself to be alone here... as far as a man can be alone over whom hangs the shadow of a crime. He groaned aloud and hid his pale face in his hands.

In his own distress he did not hear the deep sigh--which, just above him on the edge of the knoll, broke from the breast of a woman who was suffering scarcely less than he; he did not know that two pair of sad eyes looked down upon him. And now into the eyes of the watching woman there shot a gleam of terror. For Herbert Thorne had taken a revolver from his pocket and laid it quietly beside him. Then he took out a notebook and a pencil and placed them beside the weapon. Then slowly, reluctantly, he opened one of the papers.

A light breeze from the shining sea before him carried off the wrapping.

The paper which he opened shook in his trembling hands, as his eyes sought the reports of the murder. He gave a sudden start and a tremor ran through his frame. He had come to the spot which told of the arrest of another man, who was under shadow of punishment for the crime which he himself had committed. When he had read this report through, he turned to the other papers. He was quite calm now, outwardly calm at least.

When he had finished reading the papers he laid them in a heap beside him and reached out for his notebook. As he opened it the two watchers saw that between its first pages there was a sealed and addressed letter. Two other envelopes were contained in the notebook, envelopes which were also addressed although still open. Muller's sharp eyes could read the addresses as Thorne took them up in turn, looking long at each of them. One envelope was addressed in Italian to the Chief of Police of Venice, the other to the Chief of Police in Vienna.

The two watchers leaned forward, scarcely three yards above the man in whom they were interested. Thorne tore out two leaves of his notebook and wrote several lines on each of them. One note, he placed in the envelope addressed to the Viennese police and sealed it carefully. Then he put the sealed letter with the second note in the other envelope, the one addressed to the Italian police. He put all the letters back in his notebook, holding it together with a rubber strap, and replaced it in his pocket.

Then he stretched out his hand toward the revolver.

The sand came rattling down upon him, the thistles bent over creakingly and two figures appeared beside him.

"There's time enough for that yet, Mr. Thorne," said the man at whom the painter gazed up in bewilderment. And then this man took the revolver quietly from his hand and hid it in his own pocket.

Thorne pressed his teeth down on his lips until the blood came. He could not speak; he looked first at the stranger who had mastered him so completely, and then, in dazed astonishment, at the woman who had sunk down beside him in the sand, clasping his hand in both of hers.

"Adele! Adele! 'Why are you here?" he stammered finally.

"I want to be with you--in this hour," she answered, looking at him with eyes of worship. "I want to be with my dear lady--to comfort her--to protect her when--when--"

"When they arrest me?" Thorne finished the sentence himself. Then turning to Muller he continued: "And that is why you are here?"

"Yes, Mr. Thorne. I have a warrant for your arrest in my pocket. But I think it will be unnecessary to make use of it in the customary official way through the authorities here. I see that you have written to both police stations--confessing your deed. This will amount to a voluntary giving up of yourself to the authorities, therefore all that is necessary is that I return with you in the same train which takes you to Vienna. But I must ask you for those two letters, for until you yourself give them to the police authorities in my presence, it is my duty to keep them."

Muller had seldom found his official duty as difficult as it was now.

His words came haltingly and great drops stood out on his forehead.

The painter rose from the sand and he too wiped his face, which was drawn in agony.

"Herbert, Herbert!" cried Adele Bernauer suddenly. "Oh, Herbert, you will live, you will! Promise me, you will not think of suicide, it would kill your wife--"

She lay on her knees before him in the sand. He looked down at her gently and with a gesture which seemed to be a familiar one of days long past, he stroked the face that had grown old and worn in these hours of fear for him.

"Yes, you dear good soul, I will live on, I will take upon myself my punishment for killing a scoundrel. The poor man whom they have arrested in my place must not linger in the fear of death. I am ready, sir.

"My name is Muller--detective Muller."

"Joseph Muller, the famous detective Muller?" asked Thorne with a sad smile. "I have had little to do with the police but by chance I have heard of your fame. I might have known; they tell me you are one from whom the truth can never remain hidden."

"My duty is not always an easy one," said Muller.

"Thank you. Dispose of me as you will. I do not wish any privileges that others would not have, Mr. Muller. Here is my written confession and here am I myself. Shall we go now?" Herbert Thorne handed the detective his notebook with its important contents and then walked slowly back along the road he had come.