The Case of The Pool of Blood in the Pastor\'s Study
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Grace Isabel Colbron and Augusta Groner >> The Case of The Pool of Blood in the Pastor\'s Study
Muller pondered the matter for a little while longer. Then he
placed his discovery carefully in the pastor's emptied tobacco-box,
and dropped the box in his own pocket. He closed the window and the
door to the dining-room, lit a lamp, and entered the passageway
leading to the vestry. It was a short passageway, scarcely more
than a dozen paces long.
The walls were whitewashed, the floor tiled and the entire passage
shone in neatness. Muller held the light of his lamp to every inch
of it, but there was nothing to show that the criminal had gone
through here with the body of his victim.
"The criminal"--Muller still thought of only one. His long
experience had taught him that the most intricate crimes were
usually committed by one man only. The strength necessary for such
a crime as this did not deceive him either. He knew that in
extraordinary moments extraordinary strength will come to the one
who needs it.
He now passed down the steps leading into the vestry. There was no
trace of any kind here either. The door into the vestry was not
locked. It was seldom locked, they had told him, for the vestry
itself was closed by a huge carved portal with a heavy ornamented
iron lock that could be opened only with the greatest noise and
trouble. This door was locked and closed as it had been since
yesterday morning. Everything in the vestry was in perfect order;
the priest's garments and the censers all in their places. Muller
assured himself of this before he left the little room. He then
opened the glass door that led down by a few steps into the church.
It was a beautiful old church, and it was a rich church also. It
was built in the older Gothic style, and its heavy, broad-arched
walls, its massive columns would have made it look cold and bare
had not handsome tapestries, the gift of the lady of the manor,
covered the walls. Fine old pictures hung here and there above the
altars, and handsome stained glass windows broke the light that fell
into the high vaulted interior. There were three great altars in
the church, all of them richly decorated. The main altar stood
isolated in the choir. In the open space behind it was the
entrance to the crypt, now veiled in a mysterious twilight. Heavy
silver candlesticks, three on a side, stood on the altar. The pale
gold of the tabernacle door gleamed between them.
Muller walked through the silent church, in which even his light
steps resounded uncannily. He looked into each of the pews, into
the confessionals, he walked around all the columns, he climbed up
into the pulpit, he did everything that the others had done before
him yesterday. And as with them, he found nothing that would
indicate that the murderer had spent any time in the church.
Finally he turned back once more to the main altar on his way out.
But he did not leave the church as he intended. His last look at
the altar had showed him something that attracted his attention and
he walked up the three steps to examine it more closely.
What he had seen was something unusual about one of the silver
candlesticks. These candlesticks had three feet, and five of them
were placed in such a way that the two front feet were turned toward
the spectator. But on the end candlestick nearest Muller the single
foot projected out to the front of the altar. This candlestick
therefore had been set down hastily, not placed carefully in the
order of things as were the others.
And not only this. The heavy wax candle which was in the candlestick
was burned down about a finger's breadth more than the others, for
these were all exactly of a height. Muller bent still nearer to
the candlestick, but he saw that the dim light in the church was not
sufficient. He went to one of the smaller side altars, took a candle
from there, lit it with one of the matches that he found in his own
pocket and returned with the burning candle to the main altar. The
steps leading up to this altar were covered by a large rug with a
white ground and a pattern of flowers. Looking carefully at it the
detective saw a tiny brown spot, the mark of a burn, upon one of the
white surfaces. Beside it lay a half used match.
Walking around this carefully, Muller approached the candlestick
that interested him and holding up his light he examined every inch
of its surface. He found what he was looking for. There were dark
red spots between the rough edges of the silver ornamentation.
"Then the body is somewhere around here," thought the detective and
came down from the steps, still holding the burning candle.
He walked slowly to the back of the altar. There was a little table
there such as held the sacred dishes for the communion service, and
the little carpet-covered steps which the sexton put out for the
pastor when he took the monstrance from the high-built tabernacle.
That was all that was to be seen in the dark corner behind the altar.
Holding his candle close to the floor Muller discovered an iron ring
fastened to one of the big stone flags. This must be the entrance
to the crypt.
Muller tried to raise the flag and was astonished to find how easily
it came up. It was a square of reddish marble, the same with which
the entire floor of the church was tiled. This flag was very thin
and could easily be raised and placed back against the wall. Muller
took up his candle, too greatly excited to stop to get a stick for
it. He felt assured that now he would soon be able to solve at
least a part of the mystery. He climbed down the steps carefully
and found that they led into the crypt as he supposed. They were
kept spotlessly clean, as was the entire crypt as far as he could
see it by the light of his flickering candle. He was not surprised
to discover that the air was perfectly pure here. There must be
windows or ventilators somewhere, this he knew from the way his
candle behaved.
The ancient vault had a high arched ceiling and heavy massive
pillars. It was a subterranean repetition of the church above.
There had evidently been a convent attached to this church at one
time; for here stood a row of simple wooden coffins all exactly
alike, bearing each one upon its lid a roughly painted cross
surrounded by a wreath. Thus were buried the monks of days long past.
Muller walked slowly through the rows of coffins looking eagerly to
each side. Suddenly he stopped and stood still. His hand did not
tremble but his thin face was pale--pale as that face which looked
up at him out of one of the coffins. The lid of the coffin stood
up against the wall and Muller saw that there were several other
empty ones further on, waiting for their silent occupants.
The body in the open coffin before which Muller stood was the body
of the man who had been missing since the day previous. He lay
there quite peacefully, his hands crossed over his breast, his eyes
closed, a line of pain about his lips. In the crossed fingers was
a little bunch of dark yellow roses. At the first glance one might
almost have thought that loving hands had laid the old pastor in his
coffin. But the red stain on the white cloth about his throat, and
the bloody disorder of his snow-white hair contrasted sadly with the
look of peace on the dead face. Under his head was a white silk
cushion, one of the cushions from the altar.
Muller stood looking down for some time at this poor victim of a
strange crime, then he turned to go.
He wanted to know one thing more: how the murderer had left the
crypt. The flame of his candle told him, for it nearly went out
in a gust of wind that came down the opening right above him. This
was a window about three or four feet from the floor, protected by
rusty iron bars which had been sawed through, leaving the opening
free. It was a small window, but it was large enough to allow a man
of much greater size than Muller to pass through it. The detective
blew out his candle and climbed up onto the window sill. He found
himself outside, in a corner of the churchyard. A thicket of heavy
bushes grown up over neglected graves completely hid the opening
through which he had come. There were thorns on these bushes and
also a few scattered roses, dark yellow roses.
Muller walked thoughtfully through the churchyard. The sexton sat
huddled in an unhappy heap at the gate. He looked up in alarm as he
saw the detective walking towards him. Something in the stranger's
face told the little hunchback that he had made a discovery. The
sexton sprang up, his lips did not dare utter the question that his
eyes asked.
"I have found him," said the detective gravely.
The hunchback sexton staggered, then recovered himself, and hurried
away to fetch the magistrate and the doctor.
An hour later the murdered pastor lay in state in the chief apartment
of his home, surrounded by burning candles and high-heaped masses of
flowers. But he still lay in the simple convent coffin and the little
bunch of roses which his murderer had placed between his stiffening
fingers had not been touched.
Two days later the pastor was buried. The Count and his family led
the train of numerous mourners and among the last was Muller.
A day or two after the funeral the detective sauntered slowly through
the main street of the village. He was not in a very good humour,
his answer to the greeting of those who passed him was short. The
children avoided him, for with the keenness of their kind they
recognised the fact that this usually gentle little man was not in
possession of his habitual calm temper. One group of boys, playing
with a top, did not notice his coming and Muller stopped behind
them to look on. Suddenly a sharp whistle was heard and the boys
looked up from their play, surprised at seeing the stranger behind
them. His eyes were gleaming, and his cheeks were flushed, and a
few bars of a merry tune came in a keen whistle from his lips as
he watched the spirals made by the spinning top.
Before the boys could stop their play the detective had left the
group and hastened onward to the little shop. He left it again
in eager haste after having made his purchase, and hurried back to
the rectory. The shop-keeper stood in the doorway looking in
surprise at this grown man who came to buy a top. And at home in
the rectory the old housekeeper listened in equal surprise to the
humming noise over her head. She thought at first it might be a
bee that had got in somehow. Then she realised that it was not
quite the same noise, and having already concluded that it was of
no use to be surprised at anything this strange guest might do, she
continued reading her scriptures.
Upstairs in the pastor's study, Muller sat in the armchair
attentively watching the gyrations of a spinning top. The little
toy, started at a certain point, drew a line exactly parallel to
the scratch on the floor that had excited his thoughts and absorbed
them day and night.
"It was a top--a top" repeated the detective to himself again and
again. "I don't see why I didn't think of that right away. Why,
of course, nothing else could have drawn such a perfect curve around
the room, unhindered by the legs of the desk. Only I don't see how
a toy like that could have any connection with this cruel and
purposeless murder. Why, only a fool--or a madman--"
Muller sprang up from his chair and again a sharp shrill whistle
came from his lips. "A madman!--" he repeated, beating his own
forehead. "It could only have been a madman who committed this
murder! And the pastor was not the first, there were two other
murders here within a comparatively short time. I think I will take
advantage of Dr. Orszay's invitation."
Half an hour later Muller and the doctor sat together in a
summer-house, from the windows of which one could see the park
surrounding the asylum to almost its entire extent. The park was
arranged with due regard to its purpose. The eye could sweep
through it unhindered. There were no bushes except immediately
along the high wall. Otherwise there were beautiful lawns, flower
beds and groups of fine old trees with tall trunks.
As would be natural in visiting such a place Muller had induced the
doctor to talk about his patients. Dr. Orszay was an excellent
talker and possessed the power of painting a personality for his
listeners. He was pleased and flattered by the evident interest
with which the detective listened to his remarks.
"Then your patients are all quite harmless?" asked Muller
thoughtfully, when the doctor came to a pause.
"Yes, all quite harmless. Of course, there is the man who strangely
enough considers himself the reincarnation of the famous French
murderer, the goldsmith Cardillac, who, as you remember, kept all
Paris in a fervour of excitement by his crimes during the reign of
Louis XIV. But in spite of his weird mania this man is the most
good-natured of any. He has been shut up in his room for several
days now. He was a mechanician by trade, living in Budapest, and
an unsuccessful invention turned his mind."
"Is he a large, powerful man?" asked Muller.
Dr. Orszay looked a bit surprised. "Why do you ask that? He does
happen to be a large man of considerable strength, but in spite of
it I have no fear of him. I have an attendant who is invaluable to
me, a man of such strength that even the fiercest of them cannot
overcome him, and yet with a mind and a personal magnetism which
they cannot resist. He can always master our patients mentally and
physically--most of them are afraid of him and they know that they
must do as he says. There is something in his very glance which
has the power to paralyse even healthy nerves, for it shows the
strength of will possessed by this man."
"And what is the name of this invaluable attendant?" asked Muller
with a strange smile which the doctor took to be slightly ironical.
"Gyuri Kovacz. You are amused at my enthusiasm? But consider my
position here. I am an old man and have never been a strong man.
At my age I would not have strength enough to force that little
woman there--she thinks herself possessed and is quite cranky at
times--to go to her own room when she doesn't want to. And do you
see that man over there in the blue blouse? He is an excellent
gardener but he believes himself to be Napoleon, and when he has
his acute attacks I would be helpless to control him were it not
for Gyuri."
"And you are not afraid of Cardillac?" interrupted Muller.
"Not in the least. He is as good-natured as a child and as
confiding. I can let him walk around here as much as he likes. If
it were not for the absurd nonsense that he talks when he has one
of his attacks, and which frightens those who do not understand him,
I could let him go free altogether."
"Then you never let him leave the asylum grounds?
"Oh, yes. I take him out with me very frequently. He is a man of
considerable education and a very clever talker. It is quite a
pleasure to be with him. That was the opinion of my poor friend
also, my poor murdered friend."
"The pastor?"
"The pastor. He often invited Cardillac to come to the rectory
with me."
"Indeed. Then Cardillac knew the inside of the rectory?"
"Yes. The pastor used to lend him books and let him choose them
himself from the library shelves. The people in the village are
very kind to my poor patients here. I have long since had the
habit of taking some of the quieter ones with me down into the
village and letting the people become acquainted with them. It is
good for both parties. It gives the patients some little diversion,
and it takes away the worst of the senseless fear these peasants
had at first of the asylum and its inmates. Cardillac in particular
is always welcome when he comes, for he brings the children all
sorts of toys that he makes in his cell."
The detective had listened attentively and once his eyes flashed
and his lips shut tight as if to keep in the betraying whistle.
Then he asked calmly: "But the patients are only allowed to go out
when you accompany them, I suppose?"
"Oh, no; the attendants take them out sometimes. I prefer, however,
to let them go only with Gyuri, for I can depend upon him more than
upon any of the others."
"Then he and Cardillac have been out together occasionally?"
"Oh, yes, quite frequently. But--pardon me--this is almost like
a cross-examination."
"I beg your pardon, doctor, it's a bad habit of mine. One gets so
accustomed to it in my profession."
"What is it you want?" asked Doctor Orszay, turning to a
fine-looking young man of superb build, who entered just then and
stood by the door.
"I just wanted to announce, sir, that No. 302 is quiet again!
"302 is Cardillac himself, Mr. Muller, or to give him his right
name, Lajos Varna," explained the doctor turning to his guest. "He
is the 302nd patient who has been received here in these twenty
years. Then Cardillac is quiet again?" he asked, looking up at the
young giant. "I am glad of that. You can announce our visit to
him. This gentleman wants to inspect the asylum."
Muller realised that this was the attendant Gyuri, and he looked at
him attentively. He was soon clear in his own mind that this
remarkably handsome man did not please him, in fact awoke in him a
feeling of repulsion. The attendant's quiet, almost cat-like
movements were in strange contrast to the massivity of his superb
frame, and his large round eyes, shaped for open, honest glances,
were shifty and cunning. They seemed to be asking "Are you trying
to discover anything about me?" coupled with a threat. "For your own
sake you had better not do it."
When the young man had left the room Muller rose hastily and walked
up and down several times. His face was flushed and his lips tight
set. Suddenly he exclaimed: "I do not like this Gyuri."
Dr. Orszay looked up astonished. "There are many others who do not
like him--most of his fellow-warders for instance, and all of the
patients. I think there must be something in the contrast of such
quiet movements with such a big body that gets on people's nerves.
But consider, Mr. Muller, that the man's work would naturally make
him a little different from other people. I have known Gyuri for
five years as a faithful and unassuming servant, always willing and
ready for any duty, however difficult or dangerous. He has but one
fault--if I may call it such--that is that he has a mistress who
is known to be mercenary and hard-hearted. She lives in a
neighbouring village."
"For five years, you say? And how long has Cardillac been here?"
"Cardillac? He has been here for almost three years."
"For almost three years, and is it not almost three years--"
Muller interrupted himself. "Are we quite alone? Is no one
listening?" The doctor nodded, greatly surprised, and the detective
continued almost in a whisper, "and it is just about three years now
that there have been committed, at intervals, three terrible crimes
notable from the cleverness with which they were carried out, and
from the utter impossibility, apparently, of discovering the
perpetrator."
Orszay sprang up. His face flushed and then grew livid, and he put
his hand to his forehead. Then he forced a smile and said in a
voice that trembled in spite of himself: "Mr. Muller, your
imagination is wonderful. And which of these two do you think it is
that has committed these crimes--the perpetrator of which you have
come here to find?"
"I will tell you that later. I must speak to No. 302 first, and I
must speak to him in the presence of yourself and Gyuri."
The detective's deep gravity was contagious. Dr. Orszay had
sufficiently controlled himself to remember what he had heard in
former days, and just now recently from the district judge about
this man's marvelous deeds. He realised that when Muller said
a thing, no matter how extravagant it might sound, it was worth
taking seriously. This realisation brought great uneasiness and
grief to the doctor's heart, for he had grown fond of both of the
men on whom terrible suspicion was cast by such an authority.
Muller himself was uneasy, but the gloom that had hung over him for
the past day or two had vanished. The impenetrable darkness that
had surrounded the mystery of the pastor's murder had gotten on his
nerves. He was not accustomed to work so long over a problem without
getting some light on it. But now, since the chance watching of the
spinning top in the street had given him his first inkling of the
trail, he was following it up to a clear issue. The eagerness, the
blissful vibrating of every nerve that he always felt at this stage
of the game, was on him again. He knew that from now on what was
still to be done would be easy. Hitherto his mind had been made up
on one point; that one man alone was concerned in the crime. Now he
understood the possibility that there might have been two, the
harmless mechanician who fancied himself a dangerous murderer, and
the handsome young giant with the evil eyes.
The two men stood looking at each other in a silence that was almost
hostile. Had this stranger come to disturb the peace of the refuge
for the unfortunate and to prove that Dr. Orszay, the friend of all
the village, had unwittingly been giving shelter to such criminals?
"Shall we go now?" asked the detective finally.
"If you wish it, sir," answered the doctor in a tone that was
decidedly cool.
Muller held out his hand. "Don't let us be foolish, doctor. If
you should find yourself terribly deceived, and I should have been
the means of proving it, promise me that you will not be angry with
me."
Orszay pressed the offered hand with a deep sigh. He realised the
other's position and knew it was his duty to give him every possible
assistance. "What is there for me to do now?" he asked sadly.
"You must see that all the patients are shut up in their cells so
that the other attendants are at our disposal if we need them.
Varna's room has barred windows, I suppose?"
"Yes."
"And I suppose also that it has but one door. I believe you told
me that your asylum was built on the cell system."
"Yes, there is but one door to the room."
"Let the four other attendants stand outside this door. Gyuri will
be inside with us. Tell the men outside that they are to seize and
hold whomever I shall designate to them. I will call them in by a
whistle. You can trust your people?"
"Yes, I think I can."
"Well, I have my revolver," said Muller calmly, "and now we can go."
They left the room together, and found Gyuri waiting for them a
little further along the corridor. "Aren't you well, sir?" the
attendant asked the doctor, with an anxious note in his voice.
The man's anxiety was not feigned. He was really a faithful servant
in his devotion to the old doctor, although Muller had not misjudged
him when he decided that this young giant was capable of anything.
Good and evil often lie so close together in the human heart.
The doctor's emotion prevented him from speaking, and the detective
answered in his place. "It is a sudden indisposition," he said.
"Lead me to No. 302, who is waiting for us, I suppose. The doctor
wants to lie down a moment in his own room."
Gyuri glanced distrustfully at this man whom he had met for the
first time to-day, but who was no stranger to him--for he had
already learned the identity of the guest in the rectory. Then
he turned his eyes on his master. The latter nodded and said:
"Take the gentleman to Varna's room. I will follow shortly."
The cell to which they went was the first one at the head of the
staircase. "Extremely convenient," thought Muller to himself. It
was a large room, comfortably furnished and filled now with the red
glow of the setting sun. A turning-lathe stood by the window and
an elderly man was at work at it. Gyuri called to him and he turned
and rose when he saw a stranger.
Lajos Varna was a tall, loose-jointed man with sallow skin and
tired eyes. He gave only a hasty glance at his visitor, then looked
at Gyuri. The expression in his eyes as he turned them on those of
the warder was like the look in the eyes of a well-trained dog when
it watches its master's face. Gyuri's brows were drawn close
together and his mouth set tight to a narrow line. His eyes fairly
bored themselves into the patient's eyes with an expression like
that of a hypnotiser.
Muller knew now what he wanted to know. This young man understood
how to bend the will of others, even the will of a sick mind, to
his own desires. The little silent scene he had watched had lasted
just the length of time it had taken the detective to walk through
the room and hold out his hand to the patient.
"I don't want to disturb you, Mr. Varna," he said in a friendly
tone, with a motion towards the bench from which the mechanician
had just arisen. Varna sat down again, obedient as a child. He
was not always so apparently, for Muller saw a red mark over the
fingers of one hand that was evidently the mark of a blow. Gyuri
was not very choice in the methods by which he controlled the
patients confided to his care.