The Case of the Registered Letter
G >>
Grace Isabel Colbron and Augusta Groner >> The Case of the Registered Letter
The Case of the Registered Letter
by Grace Isabel Colbron and Augusta Groner
INTRODUCTION TO JOE MULLER
Joseph Muller, Secret Service detective of the Imperial Austrian
police, is one of the great experts in his profession. In
personality he differs greatly from other famous detectives. He
has neither the impressive authority of Sherlock Holmes, nor the
keen brilliancy of Monsieur Lecoq. Muller is a small, slight,
plain-looking man, of indefinite age, and of much humbleness of
mien. A naturally retiring, modest disposition, and two external
causes are the reasons for Muller's humbleness of manner, which
is his chief characteristic. One cause is the fact that in early
youth a miscarriage of justice gave him several years in prison,
an experience which cast a stigma on his name and which made it
impossible for him, for many years after, to obtain honest
employment. But the world is richer, and safer, by Muller's
early misfortune. For it was this experience which threw him
back on his own peculiar talents for a livelihood, and drove him
into the police force. Had he been able to enter any other
profession, his genius might have been stunted to a mere pastime,
instead of being, as now, utilised for the public good.
Then, the red tape and bureaucratic etiquette which attaches to
every governmental department, puts the secret service men of the
Imperial police on a par with the lower ranks of the subordinates.
Muller's official rank is scarcely much higher than that of a
policeman, although kings and councillors consult him and the
Police Department realises to the full what a treasure it has in
him. But official red tape, and his early misfortune ... prevent
the giving of any higher official standing to even such a genius.
Born and bred to such conditions, Muller understands them, and
his natural modesty of disposition asks for no outward honours,
asks for nothing but an income sufficient for his simple needs,
and for aid and opportunity to occupy himself in the way he most
enjoys.
Joseph Muller's character is a strange mixture. The
kindest-hearted man in the world, he is a human bloodhound when
once the lure of the trail has caught him. He scarcely eats or
sleeps when the chase is on, he does not seem to know human
weakness nor fatigue, in spite of his frail body. Once put on
a case his mind delves and delves until it finds a clue, then
something awakes within him, a spirit akin to that which holds
the bloodhound nose to trail, and he will accomplish the apparently
impossible, he will track down his victim when the entire machinery
of a great police department seems helpless to discover anything.
The high chiefs and commissioners grant a condescending permission
when Muller asks, "May I do this? ... or may I handle this case
this way?" both parties knowing all the while that it is a farce,
and that the department waits helpless until this humble little
man saves its honour by solving some problem before which its
intricate machinery has stood dazed and puzzled.
This call of the trail is something that is stronger than anything
else in Muller's mentality, and now and then it brings him into
conflict with the department, ... or with his own better nature.
Sometimes his unerring instinct discovers secrets in high places,
secrets which the Police Department is bidden to hush up and leave
untouched. Muller is then taken off the case, and left idle for
a while if he persists in his opinion as to the true facts. And
at other times, Muller's own warm heart gets him into trouble. He
will track down his victim, driven by the power in his soul which
is stronger than all volition; but when he has this victim in the
net, he will sometimes discover him to be a much finer, better man
than the other individual, whose wrong at this particular criminal's
hand set in motion the machinery of justice. Several times that
has happened to Muller, and each time his heart got the better of
his professional instincts, of his practical common-sense, too,
perhaps, ... at least as far as his own advancement was concerned,
and he warned the victim, defeating his own work. This peculiarity
of Muller's character caused his undoing at last, his official
undoing that is, and compelled his retirement from the force. But
his advice is often sought unofficially by the Department, and to
those who know, Muller's hand can be seen in the unravelling of
many a famous case.
The following stories are but a few of the many interesting cases
that have come within the experience of this great detective.
But they give a fair portrayal of Muller's peculiar method of
working, his looking on himself as merely an humble member of the
Department, and the comedy of his acting under "official orders"
when the Department is in reality following out his directions.
THE CASE OF THE REGISTERED LETTER
by Grace Isabel Colbron and Augusta Groner
"Oh, sir, save him if you can--save my poor nephew! I know he is
innocent!"
The little old lady sank back in her chair, gazing up at Commissioner
von Riedau with tear-dimmed eyes full of helpless appeal. The
commissioner looked thoughtful. "But the case is in the hands of
the local authorities, Madam," he answered gently, a strain of pity
in his voice. "I don't exactly see how we could interfere."
"But they believe Albert guilty! They haven't given him a chance!"
"He cannot be sentenced without sufficient proof of his guilt."
"But the trial, the horrible trial--it will kill him--his heart
is weak. I thought--I thought you might send some one--some one
of your detectives--to find out the truth of the case. You must
have the best people here in Vienna. Oh, my poor Albert--"
Her voice died away in a suppressed sob, and she covered her face
to keep back the tears.
The commissioner pressed a bell on his desk. "Is Detective Joseph
Muller anywhere about the building?" he asked of the attendant who
appeared at the door.
"I think he is, sir. I saw him come in not long ago."
"Ask him to come up to this room. Say I would like to speak to him."
The attendant went out.
"I have sent for one of the best men on our force, Madam," continued
the commissioner, turning back to the pathetic little figure in the
chair. "We will go into this matter a little more in detail and see
if it is possible for us to interfere with the work of the local,
authorities in G--."
The little old lady gave her eyes a last hasty dab with a dainty
handkerchief and raised her head again, fighting for self-control.
She was a quaint little figure, with soft grey hair drawn back
smoothly from a gentle-featured face in which each wrinkle seemed
the seal of some loving thought for others. Her bonnet and gown
were of excellent material in delicate soft colours, but cut in the
style of an earlier decade. The capable lines of her thin little
hands showed through the fabric of her grey gloves. Her whole
attitude bore the impress of one who had adventured far beyond the
customary routine of her home circle, adventured out into the world
in fear and trembling, impelled by the stress of a great love.
A knock was heard at the door, and a small, slight man, with a kind,
smooth-shaven face, entered at the commissioner's call. "You sent
for me, sir?" he asked.
"Yes, Muller, there is a matter here in which I need your advice,
your assistance, perhaps. This is Detective Muller, Miss--" (the
commissioner picked up the card on his desk) "Miss Graumann. If
you will tell us now, more in detail, all that you can tell us about
this case, we may be able to help you."
"Oh, if you would," murmured Miss Graumann, with something more of
hope in her voice. The expression of sympathetic interest on the
face of the newcomer had already won her confidence for him. Her
slight figure straightened up in the chair, and the two men sat down
opposite her, prepared to listen to her story.
"I will tell you all I know and understand about this matter,
gentlemen," she began. "My name is Babette Graumann, and I live
with my nephew, Albert Graumann, engineering expert, in the village
of Grunau, which is not far from the city of G--. My nephew Albert,
the dearest, truest--" sobs threatened to overcome her again, but
she mastered them bravely. "Albert is now in prison, accused of
the murder of his friend, John Siders, in the latter's lodgings
in G--."
"Yes, that is the gist of what you have already told me," said the
commissioner. "Muller, Miss Graumann believes her nephew innocent,
contrary to the opinion of the local authorities in G--. She has
come to ask for some one from here who could ferret out the truth
of this matter. You are free now, and if we find that it can be
done without offending the local authorities--"
"Who is the commissioner in charge of the case in G--?" asked Muller.
"Commissioner Lange is his name, I believe," replied Miss Graumann.
"H'm!" Muller and the commissioner exchanged glances.
"I think we can venture to hear more of this," said the commissioner,
as if in answer to their unspoken thought. "Can you give us the
details now, Madam? Who is, or rather who was, this John Siders?"
"John Siders came to our village a little over a year ago," continued
Miss Graumann. "He came from Chicago; he told us, although he was
evidently a German by birth. He bought a nice little piece of
property, not far from our home, and settled down there. He was a
quiet man and made few friends, but he seemed to take to Albert and
came to see us frequently. Albert had spent some years in America,
in Chicago, and Siders liked to talk to him about things and people
there. But one day Siders suddenly sold his property and moved to G--.
Two weeks later he was found dead in his lodgings in the city,
murdered, and now--now they have accused Albert of the crime."
"On what grounds?--oh, I beg your pardon, sir; I did not mean--"
"That's all right, Muller," said the commissioner. "As you may
have to undertake the case, you might as well begin to do the
questioning now."
"They say"--Miss Graumann's voice quavered--"they say that Albert
was the last person known to have been in Siders' room; they say that
it was his revolver, found in the room. That is the dreadful part
of it--it was his revolver. He acknowledges it, but he did not
know, until the police showed it to him, that the weapon was not in
its usual place in his study. They tell me that everything speaks
for his guilt, but I cannot believe it--I cannot. He says he is
innocent in spite of everything. I believe him. I brought him up,
sir; I was like his own mother to him. He never knew any other
mother. He never lied to me, not once, when he was a little boy,
and I don't believe he'd lie to me now, now that he's a man of
forty-five. He says he did not kill John Siders. Oh, I know, even
without his saying it, that he would not do such a thing."
"Can you tell us anything more about the murder itself?" questioned
Muller gently. "Is there any possibility of suicide? Or was there
a robbery?"
"They say it was no suicide, sir, and that there was a large sum of
money missing. But why should Albert take any one else's money?
He has money of his own, and he earns a good income besides--we
have all that we need. Oh, it is some dreadful mistake! There is
the newspaper account of the discovery of the body. Perhaps Mr.
Muller might like to read that." She pointed to a sheet of newspaper
on the desk. The commissioner handed it to Muller. It was an
evening paper, dated G--, September 24th, and it gave an elaborate
account, in provincial journalese, of the discovery that morning of
the body of John Siders, evidently murdered, in his lodgings. The
main facts to be gathered from the long-winded story were as follows:
John Siders had rented the rooms in which he met his death about
ten days before, paying a month's rent in advance. The lodgings
consisted of two rooms in a little house in a quiet street. It was
a street of simple two-story, one and two family dwellings, occupied
by artisans and small tradespeople. There were many open spaces,
gardens and vacant lots in the street. The house in which Siders
lodged belonged to a travelling salesman by the name of Winter. The
man was away from home a great deal, and his wife, with her child
and an old servant, lived in the lower part of the house, while the
rooms occupied by Siders were in the upper story. Siders lived
very quietly, going out frequently in the afternoon, but returning
early in the evening. He had said to his landlady that he had many
friends in G--. But during the time of his stay in the house he had
had but one caller, a gentleman who came on the evening of the 23rd
of September. The old maid had opened the door for him and showed
him to Mr. Siders' rooms. She described this visitor as having a
full black beard, and wearing a broad-brimmed grey felt hat. Nobody
saw the man go out, for the old maid, the only person in the house
at the time, had retired early. Mrs. Winter and her little girl
were spending the night with the former's mother in a distant part
of the city. The next morning the old servant, taking the lodger's
coffee up to him at the usual hour, found him dead on the floor of
his sitting-room, shot through the heart. The woman ran screaming
from the house and alarmed the neighbours. A policeman at the
corner heard the noise, and led the crowd up to the room where the
dead man lay. It was plain to be seen that this was not a case of
suicide. Everywhere were signs of a terrible struggle. The
furniture was overturned, the dressing-table and the cupboard were
open and their contents scattered on the floor, one of the window
curtains was torn into strips, as if the victim had been trying to
escape by way of the window, but had been dragged back into the
room by his murderer. An overturned ink bottle on the table had
spattered wide, and added to the general confusion. In the midst
of the disorder lay the body of the murdered man, now cold in the
rigour of death.
The police commissioner arrived soon, took possession of the rooms,
and made a thorough examination of the premises. A letter found
on the desk gave another proof, if such were needed, that this was
not a case of suicide. This letter was in the handwriting of the
dead man, and read as follows:
Dear Friend:
I appreciate greatly all the kindness shown me by yourself and your
good wife. I have been more successful than I thought possible in
overcoming the obstacles you know of. Therefore, I shall be very
glad to join you day after to-morrow, Sunday, in the proposed
excursion. I will call for you at 8 A.M.--the cab and the
champagne will be my share of the trip. We'll have a jolly day
and drink a glass or two to our plans for the future.
With best greetings for both of you,
Your old friend,
John
G--, Friday, Sept. 23rd.
An envelope, not yet addressed, lay beside this letter. It was
clear that the man who penned these words had no thought of suicide.
On the contrary, he was looking forward to a day of pleasure in the
near future, and laying plans for the time to come. The murderer's
bullet had pierced a heart pulsing with the joy of life.
This was the gist of the account in the evening paper. Muller
read it through carefully, lingering over several points which
seemed to interest him particularly. Then he turned to Miss Babette
Graumann. "And then what happened?" he asked.
"Then the Police Commissioner came to Grunau and questioned my
nephew. They had found out that Albert was Mr. Siders' only friend
here. And late that evening the Mayor and the Commissioner came
to our house with the revolver they had found in the room in G--,
and they--they--" her voice trembled again, "they arrested my dear
boy and took him away."
"Have you visited him in prison? What does he say about it himself?"
"He seems quite hopeless. He says that he is innocent--oh, I know
he is--but everything is against him. He acknowledges that it was
he who was in Mr. Siders' room the evening before the murder. He
went there because Siders wrote him to come. He says he left early,
and that John acted queerly. He knows they will not believe his
story. This worry and anxiety will kill him. He has a serious heart
trouble; he has suffered from it for years, and it has been growing
steadily worse. I dare not think what this excitement may do for
him." Miss Graumann broke down again and sobbed aloud. Muller laid
his hands soothingly on the little old fingers that gripped the arm
of the chair.
"Did your nephew send you here to ask for help?" he inquired very
gently.
"Oh, no" The old lady looked up at him through her tears. "No, he
would not have done that. I'm afraid that he'll be angry if he
knows that I have come. He seemed so hopeless, so dazed. I just
couldn't stand it. It seemed to me that the police in G-- were
taking things for granted, and just sitting there waiting for an
innocent man to confess, instead of looking for the real murderer,
who may be gone, the Lord knows where, by now!" Miss Graumann's
faded cheeks flushed a delicate pink, and she straightened up in
her chair again, while her eyes snapped defiance through the tears
that hung on their lashes.
A faint gleam twinkled up in Muller's eyes, and he did not look at
his chief. Doctor von Riedau's own face glowed in a slowly mounting
flush, and his eyes drooped in a moment of conscious embarrassment
at some recollection, the sting of which was evidently made worse
by Muller's presence. But Commissioner von Riedau had brains enough
to acknowledge his mistakes and to learn from them. He looked across
the desk at Miss Graumann. "You are right, Madam, the police have
made that mistake more than once. And a man with a clear record
deserves the benefit of the doubt. We will take up this case.
Detective Muller will be put in charge of it. And that means, Madam,
that we are giving you the very best assistance the Imperial Police
Force affords."
Miss Babette Graumann did not attempt to speak. In a wave of
emotion she stretched out both little hands to the detective and
clasped his warmly. "Oh, thank you," she said at last. "I thank
you. He's just like my own boy to me; he's all the child I ever
had, you know."
"But there are difficulties in the way," continued the commissioner
in a business-like tone. "The local authorities in G-- have not
asked for our assistance, and we are taking up the case over their
heads, as it were. I shall have to leave that to Muller's diplomacy.
He will come to G-- and have an interview with your nephew. Then he
will have to use his own judgment as to the next steps, and as to
how far he may go in opposition to what has been done by the police
there."
"And then I may go back home?" asked Miss Graumann. "Go home with
the assurance that you will help my poor boy?"
"Yes, you may depend on us, Madam. Is there anything we can do for
you here? Are you alone in the city?"
"No, thank you. There is a friend here who will take care of me.
She will put me on the afternoon express back to G--."
"It is very likely that I will take that train myself," said Muller.
"If there is anything that you need on the journey, call on me."
"Oh, thank you, I will indeed! Thank you both, gentlemen. And now
good-bye, and God bless you!"
The commissioner bowed and Muller held the door open for Miss
Graumann to pass out. There was silence in the room, as the two men
looked after the quaint little figure slowly descending the stairs.
"A brave little woman," murmured the commissioner.
"It is not only the mother in the flesh who knows what a mother's
love is," added Muller.
Next morning Joseph Muller stood in the cell of the prison in G--
confronting Albert Graumann, accused of the murder of John Siders.
The detective had just come from a rather difficult interview with
Commissioner Lange. But the latter, though not a brilliant man, was
at least good-natured. He acknowledged the right of the accused and
his family to ask for outside assistance, and agreed with Muller
that it was better to have some one in the official service brought
in, rather than a private detective whose work, in its eventual
results, might bring shame on the police. Muller explained that
Miss Graumann did not want her nephew to know that it was she who
had asked for aid in his behalf, and that it could only redound to
his, Lange's, credit if it were understood that he had sent to
Vienna for expert assistance in this case. It would be a proof of
his conscientious attention to duty, and would insure praise for
him, whichever way the case turned out. Commissioner Lange saw the
force of this argument, and finally gave Muller permission to handle
the case as he thought best, rather relieved than otherwise for his
own part. The detective's next errand was to the prison, where he
now stood looking up into the deep-set, dark eyes of a tall,
broad-shouldered, black-bearded man, who had arisen from the cot at
his entrance. Albert Graumann had a strong, self-reliant face and
bearing. His natural expression was somewhat hard and stern, but it
was the expression of a man of integrity and responsibility. Muller
had already made some inquiries as to the prisoner's reputation and
business standing in the community, and all that he had heard was
favourable. A certain hardness and lack of amiability in Graumann's
nature made it difficult for him to win the hearts of others, but
although he was not generally loved, he was universally respected.
Through the signs of nagging fear, sorrow, and ill-health, printed
clearly on the face before him, Muller's keen eyes looked down into
the soul of a man who might be overbearing, pitiless even, if
occasion demanded, but who would not murder--at least not for the
sake of gain. This last possibility Muller had dismissed from
his mind, even before he saw the prisoner. The man's reputation
was sufficient to make the thought ridiculous. But he had not made
up his mind whether it might not be a case of a murder after a
quarrel. Now he began to doubt even this when he looked into the
intelligent, harsh-featured face of the man in the cell. But Muller
had the gift of putting aside his own convictions, when he wanted
his mind clear to consider evidence before him.
Graumann had risen from his sitting position when he saw a stranger.
His heavy brows drew down over his, eyes, but he waited for the
other to speak.
"I am Detective Joseph Muller, from Vienna," began the newcomer,
when he had seen that the prisoner did not intend to start the
conversation.
"Have you come to question me again?" asked Graumann wearily. "I
can say no more than I have already said to the Police Commissioner.
And no amount of cross-examination can make me confess a crime of
which I am not guilty--no matter what evidence there may be against
me." The prisoner's voice was hard and determined in spite of its
note of physical and mental weariness.
"I have not come to extort a confession from you, Mr. Graumann,"
Muller replied gently, "but to help you establish your innocence,
if it be possible."
A wave of colour flooded the prisoner's cheek. He gasped, pressed
his hand to his heart, and dropped down on his cot. "Pardon me,"
he said finally, hesitating like a man who is fighting for breath.
"My heart is weak; any excitement upsets me. You mean that the
authorities are not convinced of my guilt, in spite of the evidence?
You mean that they will give me the benefit of the doubt--that they
will give me a chance for life?"
"Yes, that is the reason for my coming here. I am to take this
case in hand. If you will talk freely to me, Mr. Graumann, I may
be able to help you. I have seen too many mistakes of justice
because of circumstantial evidence to lay any too great stress
upon it. I have waited to hear your side of the story from
yourself. I did not want to hear it from others. Will you tell it
to me now? No, do not move, I will get the stool myself."
Graumaun sat back on the cot, his head resting against the wall.
His eyes had closed while Muller was speaking, but his quieter
breathing showed that he was mastering the physical attack which
had so shaken him at the first glimpse of hope. He opened his eyes
now and looked at Muller steadily for a moment. Then he said: "Yes,
I will tell you: my life and my work have taught me to gauge men.
I will tell you everything I know about this sad affair. I will
tell you the absolute truth, and I think you will believe me."
"I will believe you," said Muller simply.
"You know the details of the murder, of course, and why I was
arrested?"
"You were arrested because you were the last person seen in the
company of the murdered man?"
"Exactly. Then I may go back and tell you something of my
connection with John Siders?"
"It would be the very best thing to do."
"I live in Grunau, as you doubtless know, and am the engineering
expert of large machine works there. My father before me held an
important position in the factory, and my family have always lived
in Grunau. I have traveled a great deal myself. I am forty-five
years old, a childless widower, and live with my old aunt, Miss
Babette Graumann, and my ward, Miss Eleonora Roemer, a young lady
of twenty-two." Muller looked up with a slight start of surprise,
but did not say anything. Graumann continued: