Meanwhile Pokorny and Mrs. Klingmayer had reached the police station and were going upstairs to the rooms of the commissioner on service for the day. Like all people of her class, Mrs. Klingmayer stood in great awe and terror of anything connected with the police or the law generally. She crept slowly and tremblingly up the stairs behind the head bookkeeper and was very glad when she was left alone for a few minutes while Pokorny went in to see the commissioner. But as soon as his errand was known, both the bookkeeper and his companion were led into the office of Head Commissioner Dr. von Riedau, who had charge of the Hietzing murder case.
When Dr. von Riedau heard the reason of their coming, his interest was immediately aroused, and he pulled a chair to his side for the little thin man with whom he had been talking when the two strangers were ushered in.
“Then you believe you could identify the murdered man?” asked the commissioner.
“From the general description and the initials on his linen, I believe it must be Leopold Winkler,” answered Pokorny. “Mrs. Klingmayer has not seen him since Monday morning, nor has she had any message from him. He left the office Monday afternoon at 6 o’clock and that was the last time that we saw him. The only thing that makes me doubt his identity is that the paper reports that three hundred gulden were found in his pocket. Winkler never seemed to have money, and I do not understand how he should have been in possession of such a sum.”
“The money was found in the dead man’s pockets,” said the commissioner. “And yet it may be Winkler, the man you know. Muller, will you order a cab, please?”
“I have a cab waiting for me. But it only holds two,” volunteered Pokorny.
“That doesn’t matter, I’ll sit on the box,” answered the man addressed as Muller.
“You are going with us?” asked Pokorny.
“Yes, he will accompany you,” replied the commissioner. “This is detective Muller, sir. By a mere chance, he happened to be on hand to take charge of this case and he will remain in charge, although it may be wasting his talents which we need for more difficult problems. If you or any one else have anything to tell us, it must be told only to me or to Muller. And before you leave to look at the body, I would like to know whether the dead man owned a watch, or rather whether he had it with him on the day of the murder.”
“Yes, sir; he did have a watch, a gold watch,” answered Mrs. Klingmayer.
Riedau looked at the bookkeeper, who nodded and said: “Yes, sir; Winkler had a watch, a gold watch with a double case. It was a large watch, very thick. I happen to have noticed it by chance and also I happen to know that he had not had the watch for very long.”
“Can you tell us anything more about the watch?” asked the commissioner of the landlady.
“Yes, sir; there was engraving on the outside cover, initials, and a crown on the other side.”
“What were the initials?”
“I don’t know that, sir; at least I’m not sure about it. There were so many twists and curves to them that I couldn’t make them out. I think one of them was a W though, sir.”
“The other was probably an L then.”
“That might be, sir.”
“The younger clerks in the office may be able to tell something more about the watch,” said Pokorny, “for they were quite interested in it for a while. It was a handsome watch and they were envious of Winkler’s possession of it. But he was so tactless in his boasting about it that they paid no further attention to him after the first excitement.”
“You say he didn’t have the watch long?”
“Since spring I think, sir.”
“He brought it home on the 19th of March,” interrupted Mrs. Klingmayer. “I remember the day because it was my birthday. I pretended that he had brought it home to me for a present.”
“Was he in the habit of making you presents?”
“Oh, no, sir; he was very close with his money, sir.
“Well, perhaps he didn’t have much money to be generous with. Now tell me about his watch chain. I suppose he had a watch chain?”
Both the bookkeeper and the landlady nodded and the latter exclaimed: “Oh, yes, sir; I could recognise it in a minute.”
“How?”
“It was broken once and Mr. Winkler mended it himself. I lent him my pliers and he bent the two links together with them. It didn’t look very nice after that, but it was strong again. You could see the mark of the pliers easily.”
“Why didn’t he take the chain to the jeweler’s to be fixed?” asked the commissioner.
The woman smiled. “It wouldn’t have been worth the money, sir; the chain wasn’t real gold.”
“But the watch was real, wasn’t it?”
“Oh, yes, sir; that was real gold. I pawned it once for Mr. Winkler and they gave me 24 gulden for it.”
“One question more, did he have a purse? And did he have it with him on the day of the murder?”
“Yes, sir; he had a purse, and he must have taken it with him because he didn’t leave it in his room.”
“What sort of a purse was it?”
“A brown leather purse, sir.”
“Was it a new one?”
“Oh, no, sir; it was well worn.”
“How big was it? About like mine?” Riedau took out his own pocketbook.
“No, sir; it was a little smaller. It had three pockets in it. I mended it for him once, so I know it well. I didn’t have any brown thread so I mended it with yellow.”
Dr. von Riedau nodded to Muller. The latter had been sitting at a little side-table writing down the questions and answers. When Riedau saw this he did not send for a clerk to do the work, for Muller preferred to attend to such matters himself as much as possible. The facts gained in the examination were impressed upon his mind while he was writing them, and he did not have to wade through pages of manuscript to get at what he needed. Now he handed his superior officer the paper.
“Thank you,” said Riedau, “I’ll send it out to the other police stations. I will attend to this myself. You go on with these people to see whether they can identify the corpse.”
Fifteen minutes later the three stood before the body in the morgue and both the bookkeeper and his companion identified the dead man positively as Leopold Winkler.
When the identification was made, a notice was sent out to all Austrian police stations and to all pawnshops with an exact description of the stolen watch and purse.
Muller led his companions back to the commissioner’s office and they made their report to Dr. von Riedau. Upon being questioned further, Pokorny stated: “I had very little to do with Winkler. We met only when he had a report to make to me or to show me his books, and we never met outside the office. The clerks who worked in the same room with him, may know him better. I know only that he was a very reserved man and very little liked.”
“Then I do not need to detain you any longer, nor to trouble you further in this affair. I thank you for coming to us so promptly. It has been of great assistance.”
The bookkeeper left the station, but Mrs. Klingmayer, who was now quite reassured as to the harmlessness of the police, was asked to remain and to tell what she knew of the private life of the murdered man. Her answers to the various questions put to her proved that she knew very little about her tenant. But this much was learned from her: that he was very close with his money at times, but that again at other times he seemed to have all he wanted to spend. At such times he paid all his debts, and when he stayed home for supper, he would send her out for all sorts of expensive delicacies. These extravagant days seemed to have nothing whatever to do with Winkler’s business pay day, but came at odd times.
Mrs. Klingmayer remembered two separate times when he had received a postal money order. But she did not know from whom the letters came, nor even whether they were sent from the city or from some other town. Winkler received other letters now and then, but his landlady was not of the prying kind, and she had paid very little attention to them.
He seemed to have few friends or even acquaintances. She did not know of any love affair, at least of nothing “regular.” He had remained away over night two or three times during the year that he had been her tenant. This was about all that Mrs. Klingmayer could say, and she returned to her home in a cab furnished her by the kind commissioner.
About two hours later, a police attendant announced that a gentleman would like to see Dr. von Riedan on business concerning the murder in Hietzing. “Friedrich Bormann” was the name on the card.
“Ask him to step in here,” said the commissioner. “And please ask Mr. Muller to join us.”
The good-looking young clerk entered the office bashfully and Muller slipped in behind him, seating himself inconspicuously by the door. At a sign from the commissioner the visitor began. “I am an employee of Braun & Co. I have the desk next to Leopold Winkler, during the year that he has been with us—the year and a quarter to be exact—”
“Ah, then you know him rather well?”
“Why, yes. At least we were together all day, although I never met him outside the office.”
“Then you cannot tell us much about his private life?”
“No, sir, but there was something happened on Monday, and in talking it over with Mr. Braun, he suggested that I should come to you and tell you about it. It wasn’t really very important, and it doesn’t seem as if it could have anything to do with this murder and robbery; still it may be of some use.”
“Everything that would throw light on the dead man’s life could be of use,” said Dr. von Riedau. “Please tell us what it is you know.”
Fritz Bormann began: “Winkler came to the office as usual on Monday morning and worked steadily at his desk. But I happened to notice that he spoiled several letters and had to rewrite them, which showed me that his thoughts were not on his work, a frequent occurrence with him. However, everything went along as usual until 11 o’clock. Then Winkler became very uneasy. He looked constantly toward the door, compared his watch with the office clock, and sprang up impatiently as the special letter carrier, who usually comes about 11 with money orders, finally appeared.”
“Then he was expecting money you think?”
“It must have been so. For as the letter carrier passed him, he called out: ‘Haven’t you anything for me?’ and as the man shook his head Winkler seemed greatly disappointed and depressed. Before he left to go to lunch, he wrote a hasty letter, which he put in his pocket.
“He came in half an hour later than the rest of us. He had often been reprimanded for his lack of punctuality, but it seemed to do no good. He was almost always late. Monday was no exception, although he was later than usual that day.”
“And what sort of a mood was he in when he came back?”
“He was irritable and depressed. He seemed to be awaiting a message which did not come. His excitement hindered him from working, he scarcely did anything the entire afternoon. Finally at five o’clock a messenger boy came with a letter for him. I saw that Winkler turned pale as he took the note in his hand. It seemed to be only a few words written hastily on a card, thrust into an envelope. Winkler’s teeth were set as he opened the letter. The messenger had already gone away.”
“Did you notice his number?” asked Dr. von Riedau.
“No, I scarcely noticed the man at all. I was looking at Winkler, whose behaviour was so peculiar. When he read the card his face brightened. He read it through once more, then he tore both card and envelope into little bits and threw the pieces out of the open window.
“Then he evidently did not want anybody to see the contents of this note,” said a voice from the corner of the room.
Fritz Bormann looked around astonished and rather doubtful at the little man who had risen from his chair and now came forward. Without waiting for an answer from the clerk, the other continued: “Did Winkler have money sent him frequently?”
Bormann looked inquiringly at the commissioner, who replied with a smile: “You may answer. Answer anything that Mr. Muller has to ask of you, as he is in charge of this case.”
“As far as I can remember, it happened three times,” was Bormann’s answer.
“How close together?”
“Why—about once in every three or four months, I think.”
“That looks almost like a regular income,” exclaimed Riedau. His eyes met Muller’s, which were lit up in sudden fire. “Well, what are you thinking of?” asked the commissioner.
“A woman,” answered Muller; and continued more as if thinking aloud than as if addressing the others: “Winkler was a good-looking man. Might he not have had a rich love somewhere? Might not the money have come from her, the money that was found in his pocket?” Muller’s voice trailed off into indistinctness at the last words, and the fire died out of his eyes. Then he laughed aloud.
The commissioner smiled also, a good-natured smile, such as one would give to a child who has been over-eager. “It doesn’t matter to us where the money came from. All that matters here is where the bullet came from—the bullet which prevented his enjoying this money. And it is of more interest to us to find out who robbed him of his life and his property, rather than the source from which this property came.”
The commissioner’s tone was friendly, but Muller’s face flushed red, and his head dropped. Riedau turned to Bormann and continued: “And because it is of no interest to us where his money came from—for it can have nothing whatever to do with his murder and the subsequent robbery—therefore what you noticed of his behaviour cannot be of any importance or bearing in the case in any way. Unless, indeed, you should find out anything more. But we appreciate the thoughtfulness of yourself and your employer and your readiness to help us.”
Bormann rose to leave, but the commissioner put out a hand to stop him. “A few moments more, please; you may know of something else that will be of assistance to us. We have heard that Winkler boasted of his belongings —did he talk about his private affairs in any way?”
“No, sir, I do not think he did.”
“You say that he destroyed the note at once, evidently realising that no one must see it—this note may have been a promise for the money which had not yet come. Did he, however, tell any one later that he expected a certain sum? Do you think he would have been likely to tell any one?”
“No, I do not think that he would tell any one. He never mentioned to any of us that he had received money, or even that he expected to receive it. None of us knew what outside resources he might have, or whence they came. If it had not been that the money was paid him by the carrier in the office two or three times—so, that we could see it—we would none of us have known of this income, except for the fact that he was freer in spending after the money came. He would dine at expensive restaurants, and this fact he would mention to us, whereas at other times he would go to the cheap cafe.”
“Do you know anything about the people he was acquainted with outside the office?”
“No, sir. I seldom met him outside of the office. One evening it did happen that I saw him at Ronacher’s. He was there with a lady—that is, a so-called ‘lady’—and it must have been one of the times that he had money, for they were enjoying an expensive supper. At other times, some of the other clerks met him at various resorts, always with the same sort of woman. But not always with the same woman, for they were different in appearance.”
“He was never seen anywhere with other men?”
“No, sir; at least not by any of us.”
“He was not liked in the office?”
“No.” Bormann’s answer was sharp.
“For what reason?”
“I don’t know; we just didn’t like him. We had very little to do with him at first because of this, and soon we noticed that he seemed just as anxious to avoid us as we were to avoid him.”
The commissioner rose and Bormann followed his example. “I am very sorry, sir, if I have taken up your time to no purpose,” said the latter modestly, as he took up his hat.
“I am not so sure that what you have said may not be of great value to us,” said a voice behind them. Muller stood there, looking at Riedau with a glance almost of defiance. His eyes were again lit up with the strange fire that shone in them when he was on the trail. The commissioner shrugged his shoulders, bowed to the departing visitor, and then turned without an answer to some documents on his desk. There was silence in the room for a few moments. Finally a gentle voice came from Muller’s corner again: “Dr. von Riedau?”
The commissioner raised his head and looked around. “Oh, are you still there?” he asked with a drawl.
Muller knew what this drawl meant. It was the manner adopted by the amiable commissioner when he was in a mood which was not amiable. And Muller knew also the cause of the mood. It was his own last remark, the words he addressed to Bormann. Muller himself recognised the fact that this remark was out of place, that it was almost an impertinence, because it was in direct contradiction to a statement made a few moments before by his superior officer. Also he realised that his remark had been quite unnecessary, because it was a matter of indifference to the young man, who was only obeying his employer’s orders in reporting what he had seen, whether his report was of value or not. Muller had simply uttered aloud the thought that came into his mind, a habit of his which years of official training had not yet succeeded in breaking. It was annoying to himself sometimes, for these half-formed thoughts were mere instinct—they were the workings of his own genius that made him catch a suspicion of the truth long before his conscious mind could reason it out or appreciate its value. But that sort of thing was not popular in official police life.
“Well,” asked the commissioner, as Muller did not continue, “your tongue is not usually so slow—as you have proved just a few moments back—what were you going to say now?”
“I was about to ask your pardon for my interruption. It was unnecessary, I should not have said it.”
“Well, I realise that you know better yourself,” said Riedau, now quite friendly again, “and now what else have you to say? Do you really think that what the young man has just told us is of any value at all for this case?”
“It seems to me as if it might be of value to us.”
“Oh, it seems to you, eh? Your imagination is working overtime again, Muller,” said the commissioner with a laugh. But the laugh turned to seriousness as he realised how many times Muller’s imagination had helped the clumsy official mind to its proudest triumphs. The commissioner was an intelligent man, as far as his lights went, and he was a good-hearted man. He rose from his chair and walked over to where the detective stood. “You needn’t look so embarrassed, Muller,” he said. “There is no cause for you to feel bad about it. And—I am quite willing to admit that my remark just now was unnecessary. You may give your imagination full rein, we can trust to your intelligence and your devotion to duty to keep it from unnecessary flights. So curbed, I know it will be of as much assistance to us this time as it always has been.”
Muller’s quiet face lit up, and his eyes shone in a happiness that made him appear ten years younger. That was one of the strange things about Joseph Muller. This genius in his profession was in all other ways a man of such simplicity of heart and bearing, that the slightest word of approval from one of the officials for whom he worked could make him as happy as praise from the teacher will make a schoolboy. The moments when he was in command of any difficult case, when these same superiors would wait for a word from him, when high officials would take his orders or would be obliged to acknowledge that without him they were helpless, these moments were forgotten as soon as the problem was solved and Muller became again the simple subordinate and the obscure member of the Imperial police force.
When Muller left the commissioner’s room and walked through the outer office, one of the clerks looked after him and whispered to his companion: “Do you think he’s found the Hietzing murderer yet?” The other answered: “I don’t think so, but he looks as if he had found a clue. He’ll find him sooner or later. He always does.”
Muller did not hear these words, although they also would have pleased him. He walked slowly down the stairs murmuring to himself: “I think I was right just the same. We are following a false trail.”
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