The Lamp That Went Out
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Grace Isabel Colbron and Augusta Groner >> The Lamp That Went Out
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10 The Case of The Lamp That Went Out
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 LAMP THAT WENT OUT
by Grace Isabel Colbron and Augusta Groner
CHAPTER I
THE DISCOVERY
The radiance of a clear September morning lay over Vienna. The
air was so pure that the sky shone in brightest azure even where
the city's buildings clustered thickest. On the outskirts of the
town the rays of the awakening sun danced in crystalline ether
and struck answering gleams from the dew on grass and shrub in
the myriad gardens of the suburban streets.
It was still very early. The old-fashioned steeple clock on the
church of the Holy Virgin in Hietzing had boomed out six slow
strokes but a short time back. Anna, the pretty blonde girl who
carried out the milk for the dwellers in several streets of this
aristocratic residential suburb, was just coming around the corner
of the main street into a quiet lane. This lane could hardly be
dignified by the name of street as yet, it was so very quiet. It
had been opened and named scarcely a year back and it was bordered
mostly by open gardens or fenced-in building lots. There were four
houses in this street, two by two opposite each other, and another,
an old-fashioned manor house, lying almost hidden in its great
garden. But the quiet street could not presume to ownership of
this last house, for the front of it opened on a parallel street,
which gave it its number. Only the garden had a gate as outlet
onto our quiet lane.
Anna stopped in front of this gate and pulled the bell. She had
to wait for some little time until the gardener's wife, who acted
as janitress, could open the door. But Anna was not impatient,
for she knew that it was quite a distance from the gardener's
house in the centre of the great stretch of park to the little
gate where she waited. In a few moments, however, the door was
opened and a pleasant-faced woman exchanged a friendly greeting
with the girl and took the cans from her.
Anna hastened onward with her usual energetic step. The four houses
in that street were already served and she was now bound for the
homes of customers several squares away. Then her step slowed just
a bit. She was a quiet, thoughtful girl and the lovely peace of
this bright morning sank into her heart and made her rejoice in
its beauty. All around her the foliage was turning gently to its
autumn glory of colouring and the dewdrops on the rich-hued leaves
sparkled with an unusual radiance. A thrush looked down at her
from a bough and began its morning song. Anna smiled up at the
little bird and began herself to sing a merry tune.
But suddenly her voice died away, the colour faded from her flushed
cheeks, her eyes opened wide and she stood as if riveted to the
ground. With a deep breath as of unconscious terror she let the
burden of the milk cans drop gently from her shoulder to the ground.
In following the bird's flight her eyes had wandered to the side of
the street, to the edge of one of the vacant lots, there where a
shallow ditch separated it from the roadway. An elder-tree, the
great size of which attested its age, hung its berry-laden branches
over the ditch. And in front of this tree the bird had stopped
suddenly, then fluttered off with the quick movement of the wild
creature surprised by fright. What the bird had seen was the same
vision that halted the song on Anna's lips and arrested her foot.
It was the body of a man - a young and well-dressed man, who lay
there with his face turned toward the street. And his face was the
white frozen face of a corpse.
Anna stood still, looking down at him for a few moments, in
wide-eyed terror: then she walked on slowly as if trying to pull
herself together again. A few steps and then she turned and broke
into a run. When she reached the end of the street, breathless
from haste and excitement, she found herself in one of the main
arteries of traffic of the suburb, but owing to the early hour
this street was almost as quiet as the lane she had just left.
Finally the frightened girl's eyes caught sight of the figure of
a policeman coming around the next corner. She flew to meet him
and recognised him as the officer of that beat.
"Why, what is the matter?" he asked. "Why are you so excited?"
"Down there-in the lane, there's a dead man," answered the girl,
gasping for breath.
"A dead man?" repeated the policeman gravely, looking at the girl.
"Are you sure he's dead?"
Anna nodded. "His eyes are all glassy and I saw blood on his back."
"Well, you're evidently very much frightened, and I suppose you
don't want to go down there again. I'll look into the matter, if
you will go to the police station and make the announcement. Will
you do it?"
"Yes, sir."
"All right, then, that will gain time for us. Good-bye, Miss Anna."
The man walked quickly down the street, while the girl hurried off
in the opposite direction, to the nearest police station, where she
told what she had seen.
The policeman reached his goal even earlier. The first glance told
him that the man lying there by the wayside was indeed lifeless.
And the icy stiffness of the hand which he touched showed him that
life must have fled many hours back. Anna had been right about the
blood also. The dead man lay on the farther side of the ditch, half
down into it. His right arm was bent under his body, his left arm
was stretched out, and the stiffened fingers ... they were slender
white fingers ... had sought for something to break his fall. All
they had found was a tall stem of wild aster with its purple blossoms,
which they were holding fast in the death grip. On the dead man's
back was a small bullet-wound and around the edges of it his light
grey coat was stained with blood. His face was distorted in pain
and terror. It was a nice face, or would have been, did it not show
all too plainly the marks of dissipation in spite of the fact that
the man could not have been much past thirty years old. He was a
stranger to the policeman, although the latter had been on this
beat for over three years.
When the guardian of the law had convinced himself that there was
nothing more to do for the man who lay there, he rose from his
stooping position and stepped back. His gaze wandered up and down
the quiet lane, which was still absolutely empty of human life.
He stood there quietly waiting, watching over the ghastly discovery.
In about ten minutes the police commissioner and the coroner,
followed by two roundsmen with a litter, joined the solitary watcher,
and the latter could return to his post.
The policemen set down their litter and waited for orders, while
the coroner and the commissioner bent over the corpse. There was
nothing for the physician to do but to declare that the unfortunate
man had been dead for many hours. The bullet which struck him in
the back had killed him at once. The commissioner examined the
ground immediately around the corpse, but could find nothing that
pointed to a struggle. There remained only to prove whether there
had been a robbery as well as a murder.
"Judging from the man's position the bullet must have come from
that direction," said the commissioner, pointing towards the
cottages down the lane.
"People who are killed by bullets may turn several times before
they fall," said a gentle voice behind the police officer. The
voice seemed to suit the thin little man who stood there meekly,
his hat in his hand.
The commissioner turned quickly. "Ah, are you there already,
Muller?" he said, as if greatly pleased, while the physician broke
in with the remark:
"That's just what I was about to observe. This man did not die
so quickly that he could not have made a voluntary or involuntary
movement before life fled. The shot that killed him might have
come from any direction."
The commissioner nodded thoughtfully and there was silence for a
few moments. Muller - for the little thin man was none other
than the celebrated Joseph Muller, one of the most brilliant
detectives in the service of the Austrian police - looked down at
the corpse carefully.. He took plenty of time to do it and
nobody hurried him. For nobody ever hurried Muller; his well-known
and almost laughable thoroughness and pedantry were too valuable in
their results. It was a tradition in the police that Muller was to
have all the time he wanted for everything. It paid in the end,
for Muller made few mistakes. Therefore, his superior the police
commissioner, and the coroner waited quietly while the little man
made his inspection of the corpse.
"Thank you," said Muller finally, with a polite bow to the
commissioner, before he bent to brush away the dust on his knees.
"Well?" asked Commissioner Holzer.
Muller smiled an embarrassed smile as he replied:
"Well ... I haven't found out anything yet except that he is dead,
and that he has been shot in the back. His pockets may tell us
something more."
"Yes, we can examine them at once," said the commissioner. "I
have been delaying that for I wanted you here; but I had no idea
that you would come so soon. I told them to fetch you if you were
awake, but doubted you would be, for I know you have had no sleep
for forty-eight hours."
"Oh, I can sleep, at least with one eye, when I'm on the chase,"
answered the detective. "So it's really only twenty-four hours,
you see." Muller had just returned from tracking down an
aristocratic swindler whom he had found finally in a little French
city and had brought back to a Viennese prison. He had returned
well along in the past night and Holzer knew that the tired man
would need his rest. Still he had sent for Muller, who lived near
the police station, for the girl's report had warned him that this
was a serious case. And in serious cases the police did not like
to do without Muller's help.
And as usual when his work called him, Muller was as wide awake as
if he had had a good night's sleep behind him. The interest of a
new case robbed him of every trace of fatigue. It was he alone - at
his own request - who raised the body and laid it on its back before
he stepped aside to make way for the doctor.
The physician opened the dead man's vest to see whether the bullet
had passed completely through the body. But it had not; there was
not the slightest trace of blood upon the shirt.
"There's nothing more for me to do here, Muller," said the
physician, as he bowed to the commissioner and left the place.
Muller examined the pockets of the dead man.
"It's probably a case of robbery, too," remarked the commissioner.
"A man as well-dressed as this one is would be likely to have a
watch."
"And a purse," added the detective. "But this man has neither - or
at least he has them no longer."
In the various pockets of the dead man's clothes Muller found the
following articles: a handkerchief, several tramway tickets, a
penknife, a tiny mirror, and comb, and a little book, a cheap
novel. He wrapped them all in the handkerchief and put them in his
own pocket. The dead man's coat had fallen back from his body
during the examination, and as Muller turned the stiffened limbs
a little he saw the opening of another pocket high up over the
right hip of the trousers. The detective passed his hand over the
pocket and heard something rattle. Then he put his hand in the
pocket and drew out a thin narrow envelope which he handed to the
commissioner. Holzer looked at it carefully. It was made of very
thin expensive paper and bore no address. But it was sealed,
although not very carefully, for the gummed edges were open in
spots. It must have been hastily closed and was slightly crushed
as if it had been carried in a clenched hand. The commissioner
cut open the envelope with his penknife. He gave an exclamation
of surprise as he showed Muller the contents. In the envelope
there were three hundred-gulden notes.
The commissioner looked at Muller without a word, but the detective
understood and shook his head. "No," he said calmly, "it may be a
case of robbery just the same. This pocket was not very easy to
find, and the money in it was safer than the dead man's watch and
purse would be. That is, if he had a watch and purse - and he very
probably had a watch," he added more quickly.
For Muller had made a little discovery. On the lower hem of the
left side of the dead man's waistcoat he saw a little lump, and
feeling of it he discovered that it was a watch key which had
slipped down out of the torn pocket between the lining and the
material of the vest. A sure proof that the dead man had had a
watch, which in all probability had been taken from him by his
murderer. There was no loose change or small bills to be found
in any of the pockets, so that it was more than likely that the
dead man had had his money in a purse. It seemed to be a case
of murder for the sake of robbery. At least Muller and the
commissioner believed it to be one, from what they had discovered
thus far.
The police officer gave his men orders to raise the body and to
take it to the morgue. An hour later the unknown man lay in the
bare room in which the only spot of brightness were the rays of
the sun that crept through the high barred windows and touched his
cold face and stiffened form as with a pitying caress. But no,
there was one other little spot of brightness in the silent place.
It was the wild aster which the dead man's hand still held tightly
clasped. The little purple flowers were quite fresh yet, and the
dewdrops clinging to them greeted the kiss of the sun's rays with
an answering smile.
CHAPTER II
THE BROKEN WILLOW TWIG
As soon as the corpse had been taken away, the police commissioner
returned to the station. But Muller remained there all alone to
make a thorough examination of the entire vicinity.
It was not a very attractive spot, this particular part of the
street. There must have been a nursery there at one time, for
there were still several ordered rows of small trees to be seen.
There were traces of flower cultivation as well, for several
trailing vines and overgrown bushes showed where shrubs had been
grown which do not usually grow without man's assistance.
Immediately back of the old elder tree Muller found several fine
examples of rare flowers, or rather he found the shrubs which his
experienced eye recognised as having once borne these unusual
blossoms. One or two blooms still hung to the bushes and the
detective, who was a great lover of flowers, picked them and put
them in his buttonhole. While he did this, his keen eyes were
darting about the place taking in all the details. This vacant
lot had evidently been used as an unlicensed dumping ground for
some time, for all sorts of odds and ends, old boots, bits of
stuff, silk and rags, broken bottles and empty tin cans, lay about
between the bushes or half buried in the earth. What had once
been an orderly garden was now an untidy receptacle for waste.
The pedantically neat detective looked about him in disgust, then
suddenly he forgot his displeasure and a gleam shot up in his eye.
It was very little, the thing this man had seen, this man who saw
so much more than others.
About ten paces from where he stood a high wooden fence hemmed in
the lot. The fence belonged to the neighbouring property, as the
lot in which he stood was not protected in any way. To the back
it was closed off by a corn field where the tall stalks rustled
gently in the faint morning breeze. All this could be seen by
anybody and Muller had seen it all at his first glance. But now
he had seen something else. Something that excited him because
it might possibly have some connection with the newly discovered
crime. His keen eyes, in glancing along the wooden fence at his
right hand, had caught sight of a little twig which had worked its
way through the fence. This twig belonged to a willow tree which
grew on the other side, and which spread its grey-green foliage
over the fence or through its wide openings. One of the little
twigs which had crept in between the planks was broken, and it
had been broken very recently, for the leaves were still fresh
and the sap was oozing from the crushed stem. Muller walked over
to the fence and examined the twig carefully. He soon saw how
it came to be broken. The broken part was about the height of a
man's knee from the ground. And just at this height there was
quite a space between two of the planks of the fence, heavy
planks which were laid cross-ways and nailed to thick posts. It
would have been very easy for anybody to get a foothold in this
open space between the planks.
It was very evidently some foot thrust in between the planks which
had broken the little willow twig, and its soft rind had left a
green mark on the lower plank. "I wonder if that has anything to
do with the murder," thought Muller, looking over the fence
into the lot on the other side.
This neighbouring plot was evidently a neglected garden. It had
once worn an aristocratic air, with stone statues and artistic
arrangement of flower beds and shrubs. It was still attractive
even in its neglected condition. Beyond it, through the foliage
of its heavy trees, glass windows caught the sunlight. Muller
remembered that there was a handsome old house in this direction,
a house with a mansard roof and wide-reaching wings. He did not
now know to whom this handsome old house belonged, a house that
must have been built in the time of Maria Theresa, ... but he was
sure of one thing, and that was that he would soon find out to
whom it belonged. At present it was the garden which interested
him, and he was anxious to see where it ended. A few moments'
further inspection showed him what he wanted to know. The garden
extended to the beginning of the park-like grounds which surrounded
the old house with the mansard roof. A tall iron railing separated
the garden from the park, but this railing did not extend down as
far as the quiet lane. Where it ended there was a light, well-built
wooden fence. Along the street side of the fence there was a high
thick hedge. Muller walked along this hedge until he came to a
little gate. Then crossing the street, he saw that the house whose
windows glistened in the sunlight was a house which he knew well
from its other side, its front facade.
Now he went back to the elder tree and then walked slowly away from
this to the spot where he found the broken willow twig. He examined
every foot of the ground, but there was nothing to be seen that
was of any interest to him-not a footprint, or anything to prove
that some one else had passed that way a short time before. And
yet it would have been impossible to pass that way without leaving
some trace, for the ground was cut up in all directions by mole
hills.
Next the detective scrutinised as much of the surroundings as would
come into immediate connection with the spot where the corpse had
been found. There was nothing to be seen there either, and Muller
was obliged to acknowledge that he had discovered nothing that
would lead to an understanding of the crime, unless, indeed, the
broken willow twig should prove to be a clue. He sprang back
across the ditch, turned up the edges of his trousers where they
had been moistened by the dew and walked slowly along the dusty
street. He was no longer alone in the lane. An old man, accompanied
by a large dog, came out from one of the new houses and walked
towards the detective, he was very evidently going in the direction
of the elder-tree, which had already been such a centre of interest
that morning. When he met Muller, the old man halted, touched his
cap and asked in a confidential tone: "I suppose you've been to
see the place already?"
"Which place?" was Muller's reserved answer.
Why, I mean the place where they found the man who was murdered.
They found him under that elder-tree. My wife just heard of it and
told me. I suppose everybody round here will know it soon."
"Was there a man murdered here?" asked Muller, as if surprised by
the news.
"Yes, he was shot last night. Only I don't understand why I didn't
hear the shot. I couldn't sleep a wink all night for the pain in
my bones."
"You live near here, then?"
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