However, all readers - sooner or later - find for themselves a literary genre that is fundamentally different from all others. The Case of the Golden Bullet by Auguste Groner (book club recommendations TXT) đź“–
- Author: Auguste Groner
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“Marie. That’s all I know about it.”
“Was she beautiful?”
“I never saw her. The only way I knew about her was when the Professor’s friends spoke of her.”
“Did he have many friends?”
“There were ever so many gentlemen whom he called his friends.”
“Take me into the garden now.”
“Yes, sir.” Muller took his hat and coat and followed the valet into the garden. It was of considerable size, carefully and attractively planned, and pleasing even now when the bare twigs bent under their load of snow.
“Now think carefully, Johann. We had a full moon last night. Don’t you remember seeing any footsteps in the garden, leading away from the house?” asked Muller, as they stood on the snow-covered paths.
Johann thought it over carefully, then said decidedly, “No. At least I don’t remember anything of the kind. There was a strong wind yesterday anyway, and the snow drifts easily out here. No tracks could remain clear for long.”
The men walked down the straight path which led to the little gate in the high wall. This gate had a secret lock, which, however, was neither hard to find nor hard to open. Muller managed it with ease, and looked out through the gate on the street beyond. The broad promenade, deserted now in its winter snowiness, led away in one direction to the heart of the city. In the other it ended in the main county high-road. This was a broad, well-made turnpike, with footpath and rows of trees. A half-hour’s walk along it would bring one to the little village clustering about the Archduke’s favourite hunting castle. There was a little railway station near the castle, but it was used only by suburban trains or for the royal private car.
Muller did not intend to burden his brain with unnecessary facts, so with his usual thoroughness he left the further investigation of what lay beyond the gate, until he had searched the garden thoroughly. But even for his sharp eyes there was no trace to be found that would tell of the night visit of the murderer.
“In which of the pails did you put the key to the side door?” he asked.
“In the first pail on the right hand side. But be careful, sir; there’s a nail sticking out of the post there. The wind tore off a piece of wood yesterday.”
The warning came too late. Muller’s sleeve tore apart with a sharp sound just as Johann spoke, for the detective had already plunged his hand into the pail. The bottom of the bucket was easy to reach, as this one hung much lower than the others. Looking regretfully at the rent in his coat, Muller asked for needle and thread that he might repair it sufficiently to get home.
“Oh, don’t bother about sewing it; I’ll lend you one of mine,” exclaimed Johann. “I’ll carry this one home for you, for I’m not going to stay here alone—I’d be afraid. I’m going to a friend’s house. You can find me there any time you need me. You’d better take the key of the apartment and give it to the police.”
The detective had no particular fondness for the task of sewing, and he was glad to accept the valet’s friendly offering. He was rather astonished at the evident costliness of the garment the young man handed him, and when he spoke of it, the valet could not say enough in praise of the kindness of his late master. He pulled out several other articles of clothing, which, like the overcoat, had been given to him by Fellner. Then he packed up a few necessities and announced himself as ready to start. He insisted on carrying the torn coat, and Muller permitted it after some protest. They carefully closed the apartment and the house, and walked toward the centre of the city to the police station, where Muller lived.
As they crossed the square, it suddenly occurred to Johann that he had no tobacco. He was a great smoker, and as he had many days of enforced idleness ahead of him, he ran into a tobacco shop to purchase a sufficiency of this necessity of life.
Muller waited outside, and his attention was attracted by a large grey Ulmer hound which was evidently waiting for some one within the shop. The dog came up to him in a most friendly manner, allowed him to pat its head, rubbed up against him with every sign of pleasure, and would not leave him even when he turned to go after Johann came out of the shop. Still accompanied by the dog, the two men walked on quite a distance, when a sharp whistle was heard behind them, and the dog became uneasy. He would not leave them, however, until a powerful voice called “Tristan!” several times. Muller turned and saw that Tristan’s master was a tall, stately man wearing a handsome fur overcoat.
It was impossible to recognise his face at this distance, for the snowflakes were whirling thickly in the air. But Muller was not particularly anxious to recognise the stranger, as he had his head full of more important thoughts.
When Johann had given his new address and remarked that he would call for his coat soon, the men parted, and Muller returned to the police station.
The next day the principal newspaper of the town printed the following notice:
It is but a few days since we announced to our readers the sad
news of the death of a beautiful woman, whose leap from her
window, while suffering from the agonies of fever, destroyed
the happiness of an unusually harmonious marriage. And now we
are compelled to print the news of another equally sad as well
as mysterious occurrence. This time, Fate has demanded the
sacrifice of the life of a capable and promising young man.
Professor Paul Fellner, a member of the faculty of our college,
was found dead at his desk yesterday morning. It was thought at
first that it was a case of suicide, for doors and windows were
carefully closed from within and those who discovered the corpse
were obliged to break open one of the doors to get to it. And
a revolver was found lying close at hand, upon the desk. But
this revolver was loaded in every chamber and there was no other
weapon to be seen in the room. There was a bullet wound in the
left breast of the corpse, and the bullet had penetrated the
heart. Death must have been instantaneous.
The most mysterious thing about this strange affair was
discovered during the autopsy. It is incredible, but it is
absolutely true, as it is vouched for under oath by the
authorities who were present, that the bullet which was found
in the heart of the dead man was made of solid gold. And yet,
strange as is this circumstance, it is still more a riddle how
the murderer could have escaped from the room where he had shot
down his victim, for the keys in both doors were in the locks
from the inside. We have evidently to do here with a criminal
of very unusual cleverness and it is therefore not surprising
that there has been no clue discovered thus far. The only
thing that is known is that this murder was an act of revenge.
The entire city was in excitement over the mystery, even the police station was shaken out of its usual business-like indifference. There was no other topic of conversation in any of the rooms but the mystery of the golden bullet and the doors closed from the inside. The attendants and the policeman gathered whispering in the corners, and strangers who came in on their own business forgot it in their excitement over this new and fascinating mystery.
That afternoon Muller passed through Horn’s office with a bundle of papers, on his way to the inner office occupied by his patron, Chief of Police Bauer. Horn, who had avoided Muller since yesterday although he was conscious of a freshened interest in the man, raised his head and watched the little detective as he walked across the room with his usual quiet tread. The commissioner saw nothing but the usual humble business-like manner to which he was accustomed—then suddenly something happened that came to him like a distinct shock. Muller stopped in his walk so suddenly that one foot was poised in the air. His bowed head was thrown back, his face flushed to his forehead, and the papers trembled in his hands. He ran the fingers of his unoccupied hand through his hair and murmured audibly, “That dog! that dog!” It was evident that some thought had struck him with such insistence as to render him oblivious of his surroundings. Then he finally realised where he was, and walked on quickly to Bauer’s room, his face still flushed, his hands trembling. When he came out from the office again, he was his usual quiet, humble self.
But the commissioner, with his now greater knowledge of the little man’s gifts and past, could not forget the incident. During the afternoon he found himself repeating mechanically, “That dog—that dog.” But the words meant nothing to him, hard as he might try to find the connection.
When the commissioner left for his home late that afternoon, Muller re-entered the office to lay some papers on the desk. His duties over, he was about to turn out the gas, when his eye fell on the blotter on Horn’s desk. He looked at it more closely, then burst into a loud laugh. The same two words were scribbled again and again over the white surface, but it was not the name of any fair maiden, or even the title of a love poem; it was only the words, “That dog—”
Several days had passed since the discovery of the murder. Fellner had been buried and his possessions taken into custody by the authorities until his heirs should appear. The dead man’s papers and affairs were in excellent condition and the arranging of the inheritance had been quickly done. Until the heirs should take possession, the apartment was sealed by the police. There was nothing else to do in the matter, and the commission appointed to make researches had discovered nothing of value. The murderer might easily feel that he was absolutely safe by this time.
The day after the publication of the article we have quoted, Muller appeared in Bauer’s office and asked for a few days’ leave.
“In the Fellner case?” asked the Chief with his usual calm, and Muller replied in the affirmative.
Two days later he returned, bringing with him nothing but a single little notice.
“Marie Dorn, now Mrs. Kniepp,” was one line in his notebook, and beside it some dates. The latter showed that Marie Dorn had for two years past been the wife of the Archducal Forest-Councillor, Leo Kniepp.
And for one year now Professor Paul Fellner had been in the town, after having applied for his transference from the university in the capital to this place, which was scarce half an hour’s walk distant from the home of the beautiful young woman who had been the love of his youth.
And Fellner had made his home in the quietest quarter of the city, in that quarter which was nearest the Archducal hunting castle. He had lived very quietly, had not cultivated the acquaintance of the ladies of the town, but was a great walker and bicycle rider; and every Saturday evening since he had been alone in the house, he had sent his servant to the theatre. And it was on Saturday evenings that Forest-Councillor Kniepp went to his Bowling Club at the other end of the city, and did not return until the last train at midnight.
And during these evening hours Fellner’s apartment was a convenient place for pleasant meetings; and nothing prevented the Professor from accompanying his beautiful friend home through the quiet Promenade, along the turnpike to the hunting castle. And Johann had once found
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