The Case of the Golden Bullet [5]
in a hurry now, for there is a good deal of packing to do. If anything should happen to me, you will know who it is who is responsible for my death. His name is - "
Here the letter came to an abrupt close.
Muller and Horn looked at each other in silence, then they turned their eyes again toward the dead man.
"He was a coward," said the detective coldly, and turned away. Horn repeated mechanically, "A coward!" and his eyes also looked down with a changed expression upon the handsome, soft-featured face, framed in curly blond hair, that lay so silent against the chair-back. Many women had loved this dead man, and many men had been fond of him, for they had believed him capable and manly.
The commissioner and Muller continued their researches in silence and with less interest than before. They found a heap of loose ashes in the bedroom stove. Letters and other trifles had been burned there. Muller raked out the heap very carefully, but the writing on the few pieces of paper still left whole was quite illegible. There were several envelopes in the waste-basket, but all of them were dated several months back. There was nothing that could give the slightest clue.
The letter written by the murdered man was sufficient proof that his death had been an act of vengeance. But who was it who had carried out this secret, terrible deed? The victim had not been allowed the time to write down the name of his murderer.
Horn took the letter into his keeping. Then he left the room, followed by Muller and the valet, to look about the rest of the house as far as possible. This was not very far, for the second story was closed off by a tall iron grating.
"Is the house door locked during the daytime?" asked Horn of the servant.
"The front door is, but the side door into the garden is usually open."
"Has it ever happened that any one got into the house from this side door without your knowing it?"
"No, sir. The garden has a high wall around it. And there is extra protection on the side toward the Promenade."
"But there's a little gate there?"
"Yes, sir."
"Is that usually closed?"
"We never use the key for that, sir. It has a trick lock that you can't open unless you know how."
"You said you went to the theatre yesterday evening. Did your master give you permission to go?"
"Yes, sir. It's about a year now that he gave me money for a theatre ticket every Saturday evening. He was very kind."
"Did you come into the house last night by the front door, or through the garden?"
"Through the garden, sir. I walked down the Promenade from the theatre."
"And you didn't notice anything - you saw no traces of footsteps?"
"No, sir. I didn't notice anything unusual. We shut the side door, the garden door, every evening, also. It was closed yesterday and I found the key - we've only got one key to the garden door - in the same place where I was told to hide it when I went out in the evening."
"What place was that?"
"In one of the pails by the well."
"You say you were told to hide it there?"
"Yes, sir; the Professor told me. He'd go out in the evening sometimes, too, I suppose, and he wanted to be able to come in that way if necessary."
"And no one else knew where the key was hidden?"
"No one else, sir. It's nearly a year now that we've been alone in the house. Who else should know of it?"
"When you looked through the keyhole last night, are you sure that the Professor was still alive?"
"Why, yes, sir; of course I couldn't say so surely. I thought he was reading or writing, but oh, dear Lord! there he was this morning, nearly twelve hours later, in just the same position." Johann shivered at the thought that he might have seen his master sitting at his desk, already a corpse.
"He must have been dead when you came home. Don't you think the sound of that shot would have wakened you?"
"Yes, sir, I think likely, sir," murmured Johann. "But if the murderer could get into the house, how could he get into the apartment?"
"There must have been a third
Here the letter came to an abrupt close.
Muller and Horn looked at each other in silence, then they turned their eyes again toward the dead man.
"He was a coward," said the detective coldly, and turned away. Horn repeated mechanically, "A coward!" and his eyes also looked down with a changed expression upon the handsome, soft-featured face, framed in curly blond hair, that lay so silent against the chair-back. Many women had loved this dead man, and many men had been fond of him, for they had believed him capable and manly.
The commissioner and Muller continued their researches in silence and with less interest than before. They found a heap of loose ashes in the bedroom stove. Letters and other trifles had been burned there. Muller raked out the heap very carefully, but the writing on the few pieces of paper still left whole was quite illegible. There were several envelopes in the waste-basket, but all of them were dated several months back. There was nothing that could give the slightest clue.
The letter written by the murdered man was sufficient proof that his death had been an act of vengeance. But who was it who had carried out this secret, terrible deed? The victim had not been allowed the time to write down the name of his murderer.
Horn took the letter into his keeping. Then he left the room, followed by Muller and the valet, to look about the rest of the house as far as possible. This was not very far, for the second story was closed off by a tall iron grating.
"Is the house door locked during the daytime?" asked Horn of the servant.
"The front door is, but the side door into the garden is usually open."
"Has it ever happened that any one got into the house from this side door without your knowing it?"
"No, sir. The garden has a high wall around it. And there is extra protection on the side toward the Promenade."
"But there's a little gate there?"
"Yes, sir."
"Is that usually closed?"
"We never use the key for that, sir. It has a trick lock that you can't open unless you know how."
"You said you went to the theatre yesterday evening. Did your master give you permission to go?"
"Yes, sir. It's about a year now that he gave me money for a theatre ticket every Saturday evening. He was very kind."
"Did you come into the house last night by the front door, or through the garden?"
"Through the garden, sir. I walked down the Promenade from the theatre."
"And you didn't notice anything - you saw no traces of footsteps?"
"No, sir. I didn't notice anything unusual. We shut the side door, the garden door, every evening, also. It was closed yesterday and I found the key - we've only got one key to the garden door - in the same place where I was told to hide it when I went out in the evening."
"What place was that?"
"In one of the pails by the well."
"You say you were told to hide it there?"
"Yes, sir; the Professor told me. He'd go out in the evening sometimes, too, I suppose, and he wanted to be able to come in that way if necessary."
"And no one else knew where the key was hidden?"
"No one else, sir. It's nearly a year now that we've been alone in the house. Who else should know of it?"
"When you looked through the keyhole last night, are you sure that the Professor was still alive?"
"Why, yes, sir; of course I couldn't say so surely. I thought he was reading or writing, but oh, dear Lord! there he was this morning, nearly twelve hours later, in just the same position." Johann shivered at the thought that he might have seen his master sitting at his desk, already a corpse.
"He must have been dead when you came home. Don't you think the sound of that shot would have wakened you?"
"Yes, sir, I think likely, sir," murmured Johann. "But if the murderer could get into the house, how could he get into the apartment?"
"There must have been a third