Jay Waitkus

Excerpted from Jay Waitkus' Crime Chronicles: Golden Bullet by Augusta Groner and Grace Isabel Colbron

Part One: A Question of Murder

“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 humor 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 today!” 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. Goodbye. 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. 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 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 colored 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 to the heavy, carved and iron trimmed door of the study. He attempted to open the door, but it resisted all pressure.

The heavy key was in the inner side of the big lock with its medieval iron ornamentation. But the key was turned so that the lower part of the lock was free, a round opening of unusual size. Horn made sure of this by holding a lighted match to the door.

“You are right,” he said to the valet, “the door is locked from the inside. We’ll have to go through the bedroom. Johann, bring me a chisel or a hatchet. Muller, you stay here and open the door when the doctor comes.”

Muller nodded. Johann disappeared, returning in a few moments with a small hatchet, and followed the commissioner through the dining-room. It was an attractive apartment with its high wooden paneling and its dainty breakfast table. But a slight shiver ran through the commissioner’s frame as he realized that some misfortune, some crime even might be waiting for them on the other side of the closed door. The bedroom door also was locked on the inside, and after some moments of knocking and calling, Horn set the hatchet to the framework just as the bell of the house-door pealed out.

With a cracking and tearing of wood the bedroom door fell open, and in the same moment Muller and the physician passed through the dining-room. Johann hurried into the bedroom to open the window-shutters, and the others gathered in the doorway.

A single look showed each of the men that the bed was untouched, and they passed on through the room. The door from the bedroom to the study stood open. In the latter room the shutters were tightly closed, and the lamp had long since gone out. But sufficient light fell through the open bedroom door for the men to see the figure of the professor seated at his desk, and when Johann had opened the shutters, it was plain to all that the silent figure before them was that of a corpse.

“Heart disease, probably,” murmured the physician, as he touched the icy forehead. Then he felt the pulse of the stiffened hand from which the pen had fallen in the moment of death, raised the drooping head and lifted up the half-closed eyelids. The eyes were glazed.

The others looked on in silence. Horn was very pale, and his usually calm face showed great emotion. Johann seemed quite beside himself, the tears rolled down his cheeks unhindered.

Muller stood without a sign of life. His sallow face seemed made of bronze; he was watching and listening. He seemed to hear and see what no one else could see or hear. He smiled slightly when the doctor spoke of “heart disease,” and his eyes fell on the revolver that lay near the dead man’s hand on the desk.Then he shook his head, and then he started suddenly. Horn noticed the movement; it was in the moment when the physician raised up the sunken figure that had fallen half over the desk.

“He was killed by a bullet,” said Muller.

“Yes, that was it,” replied the doctor.

With the raising of the body the dead man’s waistcoat fell back into its usual position, and they could see a little round hole in his shirt. The doctor opened the shirt bosom and pointed to a little wound in the professor’s left breast. There were scarcely three or four drops of blood visible. The hemorrhage had been internal.

“He must have died at once, without suffering,” said the physician.

“He killed himself—he killed himself,” murmured Johann, as if bewildered.

“It’s strange that he should have found time to lay down the revolver before he died,” remarked Horn. Johann put out his hand and raised the weapon before Horn could prevent him.

“Leave that pistol where it was!” exclaimed the commissioner. “We have to look into this matter more closely.”

The doctor turned quickly.

“You think it was a murder?” he asked. “The doors were both locked on the inside—where could the murderer be?”

“I don’t pretend to see him myself yet. But our rule is to leave things as they are discovered, until the official examination. Muller, did you shut the outer door?”

“Yes, sir; here is the key.”

“Johann, are there any more keys for the outer door?”

“Yes, sir. One more, that is, for the third was lost some months ago. The professor’s own key ought to be in the drawer of the little table beside the bed.”

“Will you please look for it, Muller?”

Muller went into the bedroom and soon returned with the key, which he handed to the commissioner.
The detective had found something else in the little table drawer—a tortoise-shell hairpin, which he had carefully hidden in his own pocket before rejoining the others.

Horn turned to the servant again. “How many times have you been out of the apartment since last night?”

“Once only, sir, to go to the police station to fetch you.”

“And you locked the door behind you?”

“Why, yes, sir. You saw that I had to turn the key twice to let you in.”

Horn and Muller both looked the young man over very carefully. He seemed perfectly innocent, and their suspicion that he might have turned the key in pretense only soon vanished.

It would have been a foolish suspicion anyway. If he were in league with the murderer, he could have let the latter escape with much more safety during the night.

Horn let his eyes wander about the rooms again, and said slowly: “Then the murderer is still here—or else—”

“Or else?” asked the doctor.

“Or else we have a strange riddle to solve.”

Johann had laid the pistol down again. Muller stretched forth his hand and took it up. He looked at it a moment, then handed it to the commissioner.

“We have a murder here. There was not a shot fired from this revolver, for every chamber is still loaded. And there is no other weapon in sight,” said the detective quietly.

For a moment, the assemblage grew silent.

“Yes, he was murdered,” Muller reiterated. “This revolver is fully loaded. Let us begin the search at once.”

Horn was more ardent than he cared to show.

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Excerpt from Jay Waitkus' Crime Chronicles™ e-book series. Cover image by NZ Graphics.