The Second Victorian Mystery Megapack, page 52
“Thursday. They brought me back my travelling bag. My attendant is uneasy. She was longer in cleaning up the room than usual today. She seemed to want to say something to me, and yet she did not dare to speak. Is something to happen today then? I did not close my eyes all night. Can one be made insane from a distance? Hypnotised into it, as it were? I will not allow fear alone to make me mad. My enemy shall not find it too easy. He may kill my body, but that is all—”
These were the last words which Asta Langen had written in her notebook, the little book which was the only confidant of her terrible need. When the detective had finished reading it, he closed his eyes for a few minutes to let the impression made by the story sink into his mind.
Then he rose and put on his overcoat. He entered the commissioner’s room and took up his hat and cane.
“Where are you going, Muller?” asked Herr Von Mayringen.
“To Cathedral Lane, if you will permit it.”
“At this hour? It is quarter past eleven! Is there any such hurry, do you think? There is no train from any of our stations until morning. And I have already sent a policeman to watch the house. Besides, I know that Fellner is a highly respected man.”
“There is many a man who is highly respected until he is found out,” remarked the detective.
“And you are going to find out about Fellner?” smiled the commissioner. “And this evening, too?”
“This very evening. If he is asleep I shall wake him up. That is the best time to get at the truth about a man.”
The commissioner sat down at his desk and wrote out the necessary credentials for the detective.
* * * *
A few moments later, Muller was in the street. He had left the notebook with the commissioner. It was snowing heavily, and an icy north wind was howling through the streets. Muller turned up the collar of his coat and walked on quickly. It was just striking a quarter to twelve when he reached Cathedral Lane. As he walked slowly along the moonlit side of the pavement, a man stepped out of the shadow to meet him. It was the policeman who had been sent to watch the house. Like Muller, he wore plain clothes.
“Well?” the latter asked.
“Nothing new. Mr. Fellner has been ill in bed several days, quite seriously ill, they tell me. The janitor seems very fond of him.”
“Hm—we’ll see what sort of a man he is. You can go back to the station now; you must be nearly frozen standing here.”
Muller looked carefully at the house which bore the number 14. It was a handsome, old-fashioned building, a true patrician mansion which looked worthy of all confidence. But Muller knew that the outside of a house has very little to do with the honesty of the people who live in it. He rang the bell carefully, as he wished no one but the janitor to hear him.
The latter did not seem at all surprised to find a stranger asking for the owner of the house at so late an hour. “You come with a telegram, I suppose? Come right up stairs then, I have orders to let you in.”
These were the words with which the old janitor greeted Muller. The detective could see from this that Mr. Theodore Fellner’s conscience must be perfectly clear. The expected telegram probably had something to do with the non-appearance of Asta Langen, of whose terrible fate her guardian evidently as yet knew nothing. The janitor knocked on one of the doors, which was opened in a few moments by an old woman.
“Is it the telegram?” she asked sleepily.
“Yes” said the janitor.
“No,” said Muller, “but I want to speak to Mr. Fellner.”
The two old people stared at him in surprise.
“To speak to him?” said the woman, and shook her head as if in doubt. “Is it about Miss Langen?”
“Yes, please wake him.”
“But he is ill, and the doctor—”
“Please wake him up. I will take the responsibility.”
“But who are you?” asked the janitor.
Muller smiled a little at this belated caution on the part of the old man, and answered. “I will tell Mr. Fellner who I am. But please announce me at once. It concerns the young lady.” His expression was so grave that the woman waited no longer, but let him in and then disappeared through another door. The janitor stood and looked at Muller with half distrustful, half anxious glances.
“It’s no good news you bring,” he said after a few minutes.
“You may be right.”
“Has anything happened to our dear young lady?”
“Then you know Miss Asta Langen and her family?”
“Why, of course. I was in service on the estate when all the dreadful things happened.”
“What things?”
“Why the divorce—and—but you are a stranger and I shouldn’t talk about these family affairs to you. You had better tell me what has happened to our young lady.”
“I must tell that to your master first.”
The woman came back at this moment and said to Muller, “Come with me, please. Berner, you are to stay here until the gentleman goes out again.”
Muller followed her through several rooms into a large bed-chamber where he found an elderly man, very evidently ill, lying in bed.
“Who are you?” asked the sick man, raising his head from the pillow. The woman had gone out and closed the door behind her.
“My name is Muller, police detective. Here are my credentials.”
Fellner glanced hastily at the paper. “Why does the police send to me?”
“It concerns your ward.”
Fellner sat upright in bed now. He leaned over towards his visitor as he said, pointing to a letter on the table beside his bed, “Asta’s overseer writes me from her estate that she left home on the 18th of November to visit me. She should have reached here on the evening of the 18th, and she has not arrived yet. I did not receive this letter until today.”
“Did you expect the young lady?”
“I knew only that she would arrive sometime before the third of December. That date is her twenty-fourth birthday and she was to celebrate it here.”
“Did she not usually announce her coming to you?”
“No, she liked to surprise me. Three days ago I sent her a telegram asking her to bring certain necessary papers with her. This brought the answer from the overseer of her estate, an answer which has caused me great anxiety. Your coming makes it worse, for I fear—” The sick man broke off and turned his eyes on Muller; eyes so full of fear and grief that the detective’s heart grew soft. He felt Fellner’s icy hand on his as the sick man murmured: “Tell me the truth! Is Asta dead?”
The detective shrugged his shoulders. “We do not know yet. She was alive and able to send a message at half past eight this evening.”
“A message? To whom?”
“To the nearest police station.” Muller told the story as it had come to him.
The old man listened with an expression of such utter dazed terror that the detective dropped all suspicion of him at once.
“What a terrible riddle,” stammered the sick man as the other finished the story.
“Would you answer me several questions?” asked Muller.
The old gentleman answered quickly, “Any one, every one.”
“Miss Langen is rich?”
“She has a fortune of over three hundred thousand guldens, and considerable land.”
“Has she any relatives?”
“No,” replied Fellner harshly. But a thought must have flashed through his brain for he started suddenly and murmured, “Yes, she has one relative, a step-brother.”
The detective gave an exclamation of surprise.
“Why are you astonished at this?” asked Fellner.
“According to her notebook, the young lady does not seem to know of this step-brother.”
“She does not know, sir. There was an ugly scandal in her family before her birth. Her father turned his first wife and their son out of his house on one and the same day. He had discovered that she was deceiving him, and also that her son, who was studying medicine at the time, had stolen money from his safe. What he had discovered about his wife made Langen doubt whether the boy was his son at all. There was a terrible scene, and the two disappeared from their home forever. The woman died soon after. The young man went to Australia. He has never been heard of since and has probably come to no good.”
“Might he not possibly be here in Europe again, watching for an opportunity to make a fortune?”
Fellner’s hand grasped that of his visitor. The eyes of the two men gazed steadily at each other. The old man’s glance was full of sudden helpless horror, the detective’s eyes shone brilliantly. Muller spoke calmly: “This is one clue. Is there no one else who could have an interest in the young lady’s death?”
“No one but Egon Langen, if he bear this name by right, and if he is still alive.”
“How old would he be now?”
“He must be nearly forty. It was many years before Langen married again.”
“Do you know him personally?”
“Have you a picture of Miss Langen?”
Fellner rang a bell and Berner appeared. “Give this gentleman Miss Asta’s picture. Take the one in the silver frame on my desk”; the old gentleman’s voice was friendly but faint with fatigue. His old servant looked at him in deep anxiety. Fellner smiled weakly and nodded to the man. “Sad news, Berner! Sad news and bad news. Our poor Asta is being held a prisoner by some unknown villain who threatens her with death.”
“My God, is it possible? Can’t we help the poor young lady?”
“We will try to help her, or if it is—too late, we will at least avenge her. My entire fortune shall be given up for it. But bring her picture now.”
Berner brought the picture of a very pretty girl with a bright intelligent face. Muller took the picture out of the frame and put it in his pocket.
“You will come again? Soon? And remember, I will give ten thousand guldens to the man who saves Asta, or avenges her. Tell the police to spare no expense—I will go to headquarters myself tomorrow.”
Fellner was a little surprised that Muller, although he had already taken up his hat, did not go. The sick man had seen the light flash up in the eyes of the other as he named the sum. He thought he understood this excitement, but it touched him unpleasantly and he sank back, almost frightened, in his cushions as the detective bent over him with the words “Good. Do not forget your promise, for I will save Miss Langen or avenge her. But I do not want the money for myself. It is to go to those who have been unjustly convicted and thus ruined for life. It may give the one or the other of them a better chance for the future.”
“And you? What good do you get from that?” asked the old gentleman, astonished. A soft smile illumined the detective’s plain features and he answered gently, “I know then that there will be some poor fellow who will have an easier time of it than I have had.”
He nodded to Fellner, who had already grasped his hand and pressed it hard. A tear ran down his grey beard, and long after Muller had gone the old gentleman lay pondering over his last words.
Berner led the visitor to the door. As he was opening it, Muller asked: “Has Egon Langen a bad scar on his right cheek?”
Berner’s eyes looked his astonishment. How did the stranger know this? And how did he come to mention this forgotten name.
“Yes, he has, but how did you know it?” he murmured in surprise. He received no answer, for Muller was already walking quickly down the street. The old man stared after him for some few minutes, then suddenly his knees began to tremble. He closed the door with difficulty, and sank down on a bench beside it. The wind had blown out the light of his lantern; Berner was sitting in the dark without knowing it, for a sudden terrible light had burst upon his soul, burst upon it so sharply that he hid his eyes with his hands, and his old lips murmured, “Horrible! Horrible! The brother against the sister.”
* * * *
The next morning was clear and bright. Muller was up early, for he had taken but a few hours sleep in one of the rooms of the station, before he set out into the cold winter morning. At the next corner he found Amster waiting for him. “What are you doing here?” he asked in astonishment.
“I have been thinking over what you said to me yesterday. Your profession is as good and perhaps better than many another.”
“And you come out here so early to tell me that?”
Amster smiled. “I have something else to say.”
“Well?”
“The commissioner asked me yesterday if I knew of a church in the city that had a slender spire with a green top and two poplars in front of it.”
Muller looked his interest.
“I thought it might possibly be the Convent Church of the Grey Sisters, but I wasn’t quite sure, so I went there an hour ago. It’s all right, just as I thought. And I suppose it has something to do with the case of last night, so I thought I had better report at once. I was on my way to the station.”
“That will do very well. You have saved us much time and you have shown that you are eminently fitted for this business.”
“If you really will try me, then—”
“We’ll see. You can begin on this. Come to the church with me now.” Muller was no talker, particularly not when, as now, his brain was busy on a problem.
The two men walked on quickly. In about half an hour they found themselves in a little square in the middle of which stood an old church. In front of the church, like giant sentinels, stood a pair of tall poplars. One of them looked sickly and was a good deal shorter than its neighbour. Muller nodded as if content.
“Is this the church the commissioner was talking about?” queried Amster.
“It is,” was the answer. Muller walked on toward a little house built up against the church, which was evidently the dwelling of the sexton.
The detective introduced himself to this official, who did not look over-intelligent, as a stranger in the city who had been told that the view from the tower of the church was particularly interesting. A bright silver piece banished all distrust from the soul of the worthy man. With great friendliness he inquired when the gentlemen would like to ascend the tower. “At once,” was the answer.
The sexton took a bunch of keys and told the strangers to follow him. A few moments later Muller and his companion stood in the tiny belfry room of the slender spire. The fat sexton, to his own great satisfaction, had yielded to their request not to undertake the steep ascent. The cloudless sky lay crystal clear over the still sleeping city and the wide spread snow-covered fields which lay close at hand, beyond the church. On the one side were gardens and the low rambling buildings of the convent, and on the other were huddled high-piled dwellings of poverty.
Muller looked out of each of the four windows in turn. He spent some time at each window, but evidently without discovering what he looked for, for he shook his head in discontent. But when he went once more to the opening in the East, into which the sun was just beginning to pour its light, something seemed to attract his attention. He called Amster and pointed from the window. “Your eyes are younger than mine, lend them to me. What do you see over there to the right, below the tall factory chimney?” Muller’s voice was calm, but there was something in his manner that revealed excitement. Amster caught the infection without knowing why. He looked sharply in the direction towards which Muller pointed, and began: “There is a tall house near the chimney, to the right of it, one wall touching it. The house is crowded in between other newer buildings, and looks to be very old and of a much better sort than its neighbours. The other houses are plain stone, but this house has carvings and statues on it, which are white with snow. But the house is in bad condition, one can see cracks in the wall.”
“And its windows?”
“I cannot see them. They must be on the other side of the house, towards the courtyard which seems to be hemmed in by the blank walls of the other houses.”
“And at the front of the house?”
“There is a low wall in front which shuts off the courtyard from a narrow, ill-kept street.”
“Yes, I see it myself now. The street is bordered mainly by gardens and vacant lots.”
“Yes, sir, that is it.” Muller nodded as if satisfied. Amster looked at him in surprise, still more surprised, however, at the excitement he felt himself. He did not understand it, but Muller understood it. He knew that he had found in Amster a talent akin to his own, one of those natures who once having taken up a trail cannot rest until they reach their goal. He looked for a few moments in satisfaction at the assistant he had found by such chance, then he turned and hastened down the stairs again.
“We’re going to that house?” asked Amster when they were down in the street. Muller nodded.
Without hesitation the two men made their way through a tangle of dingy, uninteresting alleys, between modern tenements, until about ten minutes later they stood before an old three-storied building, which had a frontage of four windows on the street. “This is our place,” said the detective, looking up at the tall, handsome gateway and the rococo carvings that ornamented the front of this decaying dwelling. It was very evidently of a different age and class from those about it.
Muller had already raised his hand to pull the bell, when he stopped and let it sink again. His eye caught sight of a placard pasted up on the wall of the next house, and already half torn off by the wind. The detective walked over, and raising the placard with his cane, read the words on it. “That’s right,” he said to himself. Amster gave a look on the paper. But he could not connect the contents of the notice with the case of the kidnapped lady, and he shook his head in surprise when Muller turned to him with the words: “The lady we are looking for is not insane.” On the paper was announced in large letters that a reward would be offered to the finder of a red and green parrot which had escaped from a neighbouring house.
