Part 14 (1/2)

”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.