The Case of the Golden Bullet by Auguste Groner (book club recommendations TXT) 📖

The Project Gutenberg EBook of The Case of the Golden Bullet, by
Grace Isabel Colbron, and Augusta Groner

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Title: The Case of the Golden Bullet

Author: Grace Isabel Colbron, and Augusta Groner

Release Date: September 26, 2008 [EBook #1836]
Last Updated: October 14, 2016

Language: English


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THE CASE OF THE GOLDEN BULLET

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 GOLDEN BULLET

“Please, sir, there is a man outside who asks to see you.”

“What does he want?” asked Commissioner Horn, looking up.

“He says he has something to report, sir.”

“Send him in, then.”

The attendant disappeared, and the commissioner looked up at the clock. It was just striking eleven, but the fellow official who was to relieve him at that hour had not yet appeared. And if this should chance to be a new case, he would probably be obliged to take it himself. The commissioner was not in a very good humour as he sat back to receive the young man who entered the room in the wake of the attendant. The stranger was a sturdy youth, with an unintelligent, good-natured face. He twisted his soft hat in his hands in evident embarrassment, and his eyes wandered helplessly about the great bare room.

“Who are you?” demanded the commissioner.

“My name is Dummel, sir, Johann Dummel.”

“And your occupation?”

“My occupation? Oh, yes, I—I am a valet, valet to Professor Fellner.”

The commissioner sat up and looked interested. He knew Fellner personally and liked him. “What have you to report to me?” he asked eagerly.

“I—I don’t know whether I ought to have come here, but at home—”

“Well, is anything the matter?” insisted Horn.

“Why, sir, I don’t know; but the Professor—he is so still—he doesn’t answer.”

Horn sprang from his chair. “Is he ill?” he asked.

“I don’t know, sir. His room is locked—he never locked it before.”

“And you are certain he is at home?”

“Yes, sir. I saw him during the night—and the key is in the lock on the inside.”

The commissioner had his hat in his hand when the colleague who was to relieve him appeared. “Good and cold out to-day!” was the latter’s greeting. Horn answered with an ironical: “Then I suppose you’ll be glad if I relieve you of this case. But I assure you I wouldn’t do it if it wasn’t Fellner. Good-bye. Oh, and one thing more. Please send a physician at once to Fellner’s house, No. 7 Field Street.”

Horn opened the door and passed on into the adjoining room, accompanied by Johann. The commissioner halted a moment as his eyes fell upon a little man who sat in the corner reading a newspaper. “Hello, Muller; you there? Suppose I take you with me? You aren’t doing anything now, are you?”

“No, sir.

“Well, come with me, then. If this should turn out to be anything serious, we may need you.”

The three men entered one of the cabs waiting outside the police station. As they rattled through the streets, Commissioner Horn continued his examination of the valet. “When did you see your master last?”

“About eleven o’clock last evening.”

“Did you speak with him then?

“No, I looked through the keyhole.”

“Oh, indeed; is that a habit of yours?”

Dummel blushed deeply, but his eyes flashed, and he looked angry.

“No, it is not, sir,” he growled. “I only did it this time because I was anxious about the master. He’s been so worked up and nervous the last few days. Last night I went to the theatre, as I always do Saturday evenings. When I returned, about half-past ten it was, I knocked at the door of his bedroom. He didn’t answer, and I walked away softly, so as not to disturb him in case he’d gone to sleep already. The hall was dark, and as I went through it I saw a ray of light coming from the keyhole of the Professor’s study. That surprised me, because he never worked as late as that before. I thought it over a moment, then I crept up and looked through the keyhole.”

“And what did you see?”

“He sat at his desk, quite quiet. So I felt easy again, and went off to bed.”

“Why didn’t you go into the room?”

“I didn’t dare, sir. The Professor never wanted to be disturbed when he was writing.”

“Well, and this morning?”

“I got up at the usual time this morning, set the breakfast table, and then knocked at the Professor’s bedroom door to waken him. He didn’t answer, and I thought he might want to sleep, seeing as it was Sunday, and he was up late last night. So I waited until ten o’clock. Then I knocked again and tried the door, but it was locked. That made me uneasy, because he never locked his bedroom door before. I banged at the door and called out, but there wasn’t a sound. Then I ran to the police station.”

Horn was evidently as alarmed as was the young valet. But Muller’s cheeks were flushed and a flash of secret joy, of pleasurable expectation, brightened his deep-set, grey eyes. He sat quite motionless, but every nerve in his body was alive and tingling. The humble-looking little man had become quite another and a decidedly interesting person. He laid his thin, nervous hand on the carriage door.

“We are not there yet,” said the commissioner.

“No, but it’s the third house from here,” replied Muller.

“You know where everybody lives, don’t you?” smiled Horn.

“Nearly everybody,” answered Muller gently, as the cab stopped before an attractive little villa surrounded by its own garden, as were most of the houses in this quiet, aristocratic part of the town.

The house was two stories high, but the upper windows were closed and tightly curtained. This upper story was the apartment occupied by the owner of the house, who was now in Italy with his invalid wife. Otherwise the dainty little villa, built in the fashionable Nuremberg style, with heavy wooden doors and lozenged-paned windows, had no occupants except Professor Fellner and his servant. With its graceful outlines and well-planned garden, the dwelling had a most attractive appearance. Opposite it was the broad avenue known as the Promenade, and beyond this were open fields. To the right and to the left were similar villas in their gardens.

Dummel opened the door and the three men entered the house. The commissioner and the valet went in first, Muller following them more slowly. His sharp eyes glanced quickly over the coloured tiles of the flooring, over the white steps and the carpeted hallway beyond. Once he bent quickly and picked up something, then he walked on with his usual quiet manner, out of which every trace of excitement had now vanished.

The dull winter sun seemed only to make the gloom of the dark vestibule more visible. Johann turned up the light, and Horn, who had visited the Professor several times and knew the situation of the rooms, went at once