The Case Of The Lamp That Went Out Part 16

"Never mind about that, Franz, but help me to pray that I may get there in time."

She almost pushed the old man out of the door with these last words and shut and locked it behind him.

She wanted to be alone with this hideous fear that was clutching at her heart. For it was not to Franz that she could tell the thoughts that came to her lips now as she sank down, wringing her hands, before a picture of the Madonna: "Oh Holy Virgin, Mother of our Lord, plead for me! let me be with my dear mistress when the terrible time comes and they take her husband away from her, or, if preferring death to disgrace, he ends his life by his own hand!"

CHAPTER XI. IN THE POLICE COURT

Commissioner Von Riedau sat at his desk late that evening, finis.h.i.+ng up some important papers. The quiet of an undisturbed night watch had settled down on the busy police station. An occasional low murmur of whispering voices floated up from the guardroom below, but otherwise the stillness was broken only by the scratching of the commissioner's pen and the rustle of the paper as he turned the leaves. It was a silence so complete that a light step on the stair outside and the gentle turning of the doork.n.o.b was heard distinctly and the commissioner looked up with almost a start to see who was coming to his room so late. Joseph Muller stood in the open door, awaiting his chief's official recognition.

"Oh! it's you, Muller. So late? Come in. Anything new?" asked the commissioner. "Have you succeeded in drawing a confession from that stubborn tramp yet? You've been interviewing him, I take it?"

"Yes, I had a long talk with Johann Knoll to-day."

"Well, that ought to help matters along. Has he confessed? What could you get out of him?"

"Nothing, or almost nothing more than he told us here in the station, sir.

"The man's incredibly stubborn," said the commissioner. "If he could only be made to understand that a free confession would benefit him more than any one else! Well, don't look so down-cast about it, Muller. This thing is going to take longer than we thought at first for such a simple affair. But it's only a question of time until the man comes to his senses. You'll get him to talk soon. You always do. And even if you should fail here, this matter is not so very important, when we think of all the other things you have done." Muller, standing front of the desk, shook his head sadly.

"But I haven't failed here, sir. More's the pity, I had almost said."

"What!" The commissioner looked up in surprise. "I thought you just said that you couldn't get anything more out of the accused."

"Knoll has told us all he knows, sir. He did not murder Leopold Winkler."

"Hmph!" The commissioner's exclamation had a touch of acidity in it.

"Then, if he didn't murder him, who did?"

"Herbert Thorne, painter, living in the Thorne mansion in B. Street, Hietzing, now in Venice, Hotel Danieli. I ask for a warrant for his arrest, sir, and orders to start for Venice on the early morning express to-morrow."

"Muller!... what the deuce does all this mean?" The commissioner sprang up, his face flus.h.i.+ng deeply as he leaned over the desk staring at the sad quiet face of the little man opposite. "What are you talking about?

What does all this mean?"

"It means, sir, that we now know who committed the murder in Hietzing.

Johann Knoll is innocent of anything more than the theft confessed by himself. He took the purse and watch from the senseless form of the just murdered man. The body was warm and still supple and the tramp supposed the victim to be merely intoxicated. His story was in every respect true, sir."

The commissioner flushed still deeper. "And who do you say murdered this man?"

"Herbert Thorne, sir.

"But Thome! I know of him... have even a slight personal acquaintance with him. Thorne is a rich man, of excellent family. Why should he murder and rob an obscure clerk like this Winkler?"

"He did not rob him sir, Knoll did that."

"Oh, yes. But why should Thorne commit murder on this man who scarcely touched his life at any point... It's incredible! Muller! Muller! are you sure you are not letting your imagination run away with you again?

It is a serious thing to make such an accusation against any man, much less against a man in Thorne's position. Are you sure of what you are saying?" The commissioner's excitement rendered him almost inarticulate.

The shock of the surprise occasioned by the detective's words produced a feeling of irritation... a phenomenon not unusual in the minds of worthy but pedantic men of affairs when confronted by a startling new thought.

"I am quite sure of what I am saying, sir. I have just heard the confession of one who might be called an accomplice of the murderer."

"It is incredible... incredible! An accomplice you say?... who is this accomplice? Might it not be some one who has a grudge against Thorne--some one who is trying to purposely mislead you?"

"I am not so easily deceived or misled, sir. Every evidence points to Thorne, and the confession I have just heard was made by a woman who loves him, who has loved and cared for him from his babyhood. There is not the slightest doubt of it, sir."

Muller moved a step nearer the desk, gazing firmly in the eyes of the excited commissioner. The sadness on the detective's face had given way to a gleam of pride that flushed his sallow cheek and brightened his grey eyes. It was one of those rare moments when Muller allowed himself a feeling of triumph in his own power, in spite of official subordination and years of habit. His slight frame seemed to grow taller and broader as he faced the Chief with an air of quiet determination that made him at once master of the situation. His voice was as low as ever but it took on a keen incisive note that compelled attention, as he continued: "Herbert Thorne is the murderer of Leopold Winkler. Now that he knows an innocent man is under accusation for his deed it is only a question of time before he will come himself to confess. He will doubtless make this confession to me, if I go to Venice to see him, and to bring him back to trial."

The commissioner could doubt no longer. Pedantic though he was, Commissioner von Riedau possessed sufficient insight to know the truth when it was presented to him with such conviction, and also sufficient insight to have recognised the gifts of the man before him. "But why...

why?" he murmured, sinking back into his chair, and shaking his head in bewilderment.

"Winkler was a miserable scoundrel, sir, a blackmailer. Thorne did only what any decent man would have felt like doing in his place. But justice must be done."

Muller's elation vanished and a deep sigh welled up from his heart. The commissioner nodded slowly, and glanced across the desk almost timidly.

This case had appeared to be so simple, and suddenly the hidden deeps of a dark mystery had opened before him, deeps already sounded by the little man here who had gone so quietly about his work while the official police, represented in this case by Commissioner von Riedau himself, had sat calmly waiting for an innocent man to confess to a crime he had not committed! It was humiliating. The commissioner flushed again and his eyes sank to the floor.

"Tell me what you know, Muller," he said finally.

Muller told the story of his experiences in the Thorne mansion, told of the slight clues which led him to take an interest in the house and its inmates, until finally the truth began to glimmer up out of the depths.

The commissioner listened with eager interest. "Then you believed this elaborate yarn told by the tramp?" he interrupted once, at the beginning of the narrative.

"Why, yes, sir, just because it was so elaborate. A man like Knoll would not have had the mind to invent such a story. It must have been true, on the face of it."

The commissioner's eyes sank again, and he did not speak until the detective had reached the end of his story. Then he opened a drawer in his desk and took out a bundle of official blank-forms.

"It is wonderful! Wonderful! Muller, this case will go on record as one of your finest achievements--and we thought it was so simple."

"Oh, indeed, sir, chance favoured me at every turn," replied Muller modestly.

"There is no such thing as chance," said the commissioner. "We might as well be honest with ourselves. Any one might have seen, doubtless did see, all the things you saw, but no one else had the insight to recognise their value, nor the skill to follow them up to such a conclusion. But it's a sad case, a sad case. I never wrote a warrant with a heavier heart. Thorne is a true-hearted gentleman, while the scoundrel he killed..."

"Yes, sir, I feel that way about it myself. I can confess now that there was one moment when I was ready to-well, just to say nothing.

"And let us blunder on in our official stupidity and blindness?"

interrupted the commissioner, a faint smile breaking the gravity of his face. "We certainly gave you every opportunity."

"But there's an innocent man accused--suffering fear of death--justice must be done. But, sir," Muller took the warrant the commissioner handed across the table to him. "May I not make it as easy as I can for Mr.

Thorne--I mean, bring him here with as little publicity as possible? His wife is with him in Venice."

"Poor little woman, it's terrible! Do whatever you think best, Muller.

You're a queer mixture. Here you've hounded this man down, followed hot on his trail when not a soul but yourself connected him in any way with the murder. And now you're sorry for him! A soft heart like yours is a dangerous possession for a police detective, Muller. It's no aid to our business."

"No, sir, I know that."

"Well take care it doesn't run away with you this time. Don't let Herbert Thorne escape, however much pity you may feel for him."

"I doubt if he'll want to sir, as long as another is in prison for his crime.