“Moreover, twenty minutes was an incredibly short time in which to walk from Hanover Square to Regent’s Park without the chance of cutting across the squares, to look for a man, whose whereabouts you could not determine to within twenty yards or so, to have an argument with him, murder him, and ransack his pockets. And then there was the total absence of motive.”
“But,” said Polly meditatively, for she remembered now that the Regent’s Park murder, as it had been popularly called, was one of those which had remained as impenetrable a mystery as any other crime had ever been in the annals of the police.
The man in the corner cocked his funny birdlike head well on one side and looked at her, highly amused evidently at her perplexity.
“You do not see how that murder was committed?” he asked with a grin.
Polly was bound to admit that she did not.
“If you had happened to have been in Mr. John Ashley’s predicament,” he persisted, “you do not see how you could conveniently have done away with Mr. Aaron Cohen, pocketed his winnings, and then led the police of your country entirely by the nose, by proving an indisputable alibi?”
“I could not arrange conveniently,” she retorted, “to be in two different places half a mile apart at one and the same time.”
“No! I quite admit that you could not do this unless you also had a friend—”
“A friend? But you say—”
“I say that I admired Mr. John Ashley, for his was the head which planned the whole thing, but he could not have accomplished the fascinating and terrible drama without the help of willing and able hands.”
“Even then—” she protested.
“Point number one,” he began excitedly, fidgeting with his inevitable piece of string. “John Ashley and his friend Walter Hatherell leave the club together, and together decide on the plan of campaign. Hatherell returns to the club, and Ashley goes to fetch the revolver—the revolver which played such an important part in the drama, but not the part assigned to it by the police. Now try to follow Ashley closely, as he dogs Aaron Cohen’s footsteps. Do you believe that he entered into conversation with him? That he walked by his side? That he asked for delay? No! He sneaked behind him and caught him by the throat, as the garroters used to do in the fog. Cohen was apoplectic, and Ashley is young and powerful. Moreover, he meant to kill—”
“But the two men talked together outside the Square gates,” protested Polly, “one of whom was Cohen, and the other Ashley.”
“Pardon me,” he said, jumping up in his seat like a monkey on a stick, “there were not two men talking outside the Square gates. According to the testimony of James Funnell, the constable, two men were leaning arm in arm against the railings and one man was talking.”
“Then you think that—”
“At the hour when James Funnell heard Holy Trinity clock striking half-past two Aaron Cohen was already dead. Look how simple the whole thing is,” he added eagerly, “and how easy after that—easy, but oh, dear me! how wonderfully, how stupendously clever. As soon as James Funnell has passed on, John Ashley, having opened the gate, lifts the body of Aaron Cohen in his arms and carries him across the Square. The Square is deserted, of course, but the way is easy enough, and we must presume that Ashley had been in it before. Anyway, there was no fear of meeting any one.
“In the meantime Hatherell has left the club: as fast as his athletic legs can carry him he rushes along Oxford Street and Portland Place. It had been arranged between the two miscreants that the Square gate should be left on the latch.
“Close on Ashley’s heels now, Hatherell too cuts across the Square, and reaches the further gate in good time to give his confederate a hand in disposing the body against the railings. Then, without another instant’s delay, Ashley runs back across the gardens, straight to the Ashton Club, throwing away the keys of the dead man, on the very spot where he had made it a point of being seen and heard by a passerby.
“Hatherell gives his friend six or seven minutes’ start, then he begins the altercation which lasts two or three minutes, and finally rouses the neighbourhood with cries of ‘Murder’ and report of pistol in order to establish that the crime was committed at the hour when its perpetrator has already made out an indisputable alibi.”
“I don’t know what you think of it all, of course,” added the funny creature as he fumbled for his coat and his gloves, “but I call the planning of that murder—on the part of novices, mind you—one of the cleverest pieces of strategy I have ever come across. It is one of those cases where there is no possibility whatever now of bringing the crime home to its perpetrator or his abettor. They have not left a single proof behind them; they foresaw everything, and each acted his part with a coolness and courage which, applied to a great and good cause, would have made fine statesmen of them both.
“As it is, I fear, they are just a pair of young blackguards, who have escaped human justice, and have only deserved the full and ungrudging admiration of yours very sincerely.”
He had gone. Polly wanted to call him back, but his meagre person was no longer visible through the glass door. There were many things she would have wished to ask of him—what were his proofs, his facts? His were theories, after all, and yet, somehow, she felt that he had solved once again one of the darkest mysteries of great criminal London.
* Literally, “face-to-face,” here meaning a person sitting across from Miss Burton.
† Master of Fox Hounds.
‡ £25.
§ Pledge of honor—borrowing on one’s mere promise to repay.
Augusta Groner (1850–1929), who also wrote under several masculine pseudonyms, including August or Auguste Groner and Olaf Björnson, is known as the “mother” of Austrian crime writing. She wrote an extensive series of stories that appeared from 1890 to 1922 about an Austrian police detective, Inspector Joseph Muller, many of which have appeared in English and Scandinavian translations. Yet Groner’s contribution to crime writing is little known outside Austria (where “The Golden Augusta” award is presented to outstanding female mystery writers), perhaps as a result of the aftermath of the first World War. Neither Groner nor Muller is listed in any of the encyclopedias of crime writing. Muller was in many ways an antidote to Sherlock Holmes. The New York Times observed in its review of the first collection, Joe Muller: Detective, “He differs so much, in personality and endowments, from other famous detectives of fiction that Frau Groner must be credited with the creation of a new character. Unlike Sherlock Holmes, he does not reason out his conclusions, but seems rather to be forced into them by instinct, to be impelled along his course from one discovery to another by inspiration. Unlike Monsieur Lecocq, in his methods he is neither brilliant, startling or melodramatic.”
THE CASE OF THE REGISTERED LETTER
AUGUSTA GRONER*
Oh, sir, save him if you can—save my poor nephew! I know he is innocent!”
The little old lady sank back in her chair, gazing up at Commissioner von Riedau with tear-dimmed eyes full of helpless appeal. The commissioner looked thoughtful. “But the case is in the hands of the local authorities, Madam,” he answered gently, a strain of pity in his voice. “I don’t exactly see how we could interfere.”
“But they believe Albert guilty! They haven’t given him a chance!”
“He cannot be sentenced without sufficient proof of his guilt.”
“But the trial, the horrible trial—it will kill him—his heart is weak. I thought—I thought you might send some one some one of your detectives—to find out the truth of the case. You must have the best people here in Vienna. Oh, my poor Albert—”
Her voice died away in a suppressed sob, and she covered her face to keep back the tears.
The commissioner pressed a bell on his desk. “Is Detective Joseph Muller anywhere about the building?” he asked of the attendant who appeared at the door.
“I think he is, sir. I saw him come in not long ago.”
“Ask him to come up to this room.
Say I would like to speak to him.” The attendant went out.
“I have sent for one of the best men on our force, Madam,” continued the commissioner, turning back to the pathetic little figure in the chair. “We will go into this matter a little more in detail and see if it is possible for us to interfere with the work of the local, authorities in G—.”
The little old lady gave her eyes a last hasty dab with a dainty handkerchief and raised her head again, fighting for self-control. She was a quaint little figure, with soft grey hair drawn back smoothly from a gentle-featured face in which each wrinkle seemed the seal of some loving thought for others. Her bonnet and gown were of excellent material in delicate soft colours, but cut in the style of an earlier decade. The capable lines of her thin little hands showed through the fabric of her grey gloves. Her whole attitude bore the impress of one who had adventured far beyond the customary routine of her home circle, adventured out into the world in fear and trembling, impelled by the stress of a great love.
A knock was heard at the door, and a small, slight man, with a kind, smooth-shaven face, entered at the commissioner’s call. “You sent for me, sir?” he asked.
“Yes, Muller, there is a matter here in which I need your advice, your assistance, perhaps. This is Detective Muller, Miss—” (the commissioner picked up the card on his desk) “Miss Graumann. If you will tell us now, more in detail, all that you can tell us about this case, we may be able to help you.”
“Oh, if you would,” murmured Miss Graumann, with something more of hope in her voice. The expression of sympathetic interest on the face of the newcomer had already won her confidence for him. Her slight figure straightened up in the chair, and the two men sat down opposite her, prepared to listen to her story.
“I will tell you all I know and understand about this matter, gentlemen,” she began. “My name is Babette Graumann, and I live with my nephew, Albert Graumann, engineering expert, in the village of Grunau, which is not far from the city of G—. My nephew Albert, the dearest, truest—” sobs threatened to overcome her again, but she mastered them bravely. “Albert is now in prison, accused of the murder of his friend, John Siders, in the latter’s lodgings in G—.”
“Yes, that is the gist of what you have already told me,” said the commissioner. “Muller, Miss Graumann believes her nephew innocent, contrary to the opinion of the local authorities in G—. She has come to ask for some one from here who could ferret out the truth of this matter. You are free now, and if we find that it can be done without offending the local authorities—”
“Who is the commissioner in charge of the case in G—?” asked Muller.
“Commissioner Lange is his name, I believe,” replied Miss Graumann.
“H’m!” Muller and the commissioner exchanged glances.
“I think we can venture to hear more of this,” said the commissioner, as if in answer to their unspoken thought. “Can you give us the details now, Madam? Who is, or rather who was, this John Siders?”
“John Siders came to our village a little over a year ago,” continued Miss Graumann. “He came from Chicago; he told us, although he was evidently a German by birth. He bought a nice little piece of property, not far from our home, and settled down there. He was a quiet man and made few friends, but he seemed to take to Albert and came to see us frequently. Albert had spent some years in America, in Chicago, and Siders liked to talk to him about things and people there. But one day Siders suddenly sold his property and moved to G—. Two weeks later he was found dead in his lodgings in the city, murdered, and now—now they have accused Albert of the crime.”
“On what grounds?—Oh, I beg your pardon, sir; I did not mean—”
“That’s all right, Muller,” said the commissioner. “As you may have to undertake the case, you might as well begin to do the questioning now.”
“They say”—Miss Graumann’s voice quavered—“they say that Albert was the last person known to have been in Siders’ room; they say that it was his revolver, found in the room. That is the dreadful part of it—it was his revolver. He acknowledges it, but he did not know, until the police showed it to him, that the weapon was not in its usual place in his study. They tell me that everything speaks for his guilt, but I cannot believe it—I cannot. He says he is innocent in spite of everything. I believe him. I brought him up, sir; I was like his own mother to him. He never knew any other mother. He never lied to me, not once, when he was a little boy, and I don’t believe he’d lie to me now, now that he’s a man of forty-five. He says he did not kill John Siders. Oh, I know, even without his saying it, that he would not do such a thing.”
“Can you tell us anything more about the murder itself?” questioned Muller gently. “Is there any possibility of suicide? Or was there a robbery?”
“They say it was no suicide, sir, and that there was a large sum of money missing. But why should Albert take any one else’s money? He has money of his own, and he earns a good income besides—we have all that we need. Oh, it is some dreadful mistake! There is the newspaper account of the discovery of the body. Perhaps Mr. Muller might like to read that.” She pointed to a sheet of newspaper on the desk. The commissioner handed it to Muller. It was an evening paper, dated G—, September 24th, and it gave an elaborate account, in provincial journalese, of the discovery that morning of the body of John Siders, evidently murdered, in his lodgings. The main facts to be gathered from the long-winded story were as follows:
John Siders had rented the rooms in which he met his death about ten days before, paying a month’s rent in advance. The lodgings consisted of two rooms in a little house in a quiet street. It was a street of simple two-story, one and two family dwellings, occupied by artisans and small tradespeople. There were many open spaces, gardens and vacant lots in the street. The house in which Siders lodged belonged to a travelling salesman by the name of Winter. The man was away from home a great deal, and his wife, with her child and an old servant, lived in the lower part of the house, while the rooms occupied by Siders were in the upper story. Siders lived very quietly, going out frequently in the afternoon, but returning early in the evening. He had said to his landlady that he had many friends in G—. But during the time of his stay in the house he had had but one caller, a gentleman who came on the evening of the 23rd of September. The old maid had opened the door for him and showed him to Mr. Siders’ rooms. She described this visitor as having a full black beard, and wearing a broad-brimmed grey felt hat. Nobody saw the man go out, for the old maid, the only person in the house at the time, had retired early. Mrs. Winter and her little girl were spending the night with the former’s mother in a distant part of the city. The next morning the old servant, taking the lodger’s coffee up to him at the usual hour, found him dead on the floor of his sitting-room, shot through the heart. The woman ran screaming from the house and alarmed the neighbours. A policeman at the corner heard the noise, and led the crowd up to the room where the dead man lay. It was plain to be seen that this was not a case of suicide. Everywhere were signs of a terrible struggle. The furniture was overturned, the dressing-table and the cupboard were open and their contents scattered on the floor, one of the window curtains was torn into strips, as if the victim had been trying to escape by way of the window, but had been dragged back into the room by his murderer. An overturned ink bottle on the table had spattered wide, and added to the general confusion. In the midst of the disorder lay the body of the murdered man, now cold in the rigour of death.
The police commissioner arrived soon, took possession of the rooms, and made a thorough examination of the premises. A letter found on the desk gave another proof, if such were needed, that this was not a case of suicide. This letter was in the handwriting of the dead man, and read as follows:
Dear Friend:
I appreciate greatly all the kindness shown me by yourself and your good wife. I have been more successful than I thought possible in overcoming the obstacles you know of. Therefore, I shall be very glad to join you
day after tomorrow, Sunday, in the proposed excursion. I will call for you at 8 A.M.—the cab and the champagne will be my share of the trip. We’ll have a jolly day and drink a glass or two to our plans for the future.
With best greetings for both of you,
Your old friend,
John
G—, Friday, Sept. 23rd.
An envelope, not yet addressed, lay beside this letter. It was clear that the man who penned these words had no thought of suicide. On the contrary, he was looking forward to a day of pleasure in the near future, and laying plans for the time to come. The murderer’s bullet had pierced a heart pulsing with the joy of life.
This was the gist of the account in the evening paper. Muller read it through carefully, lingering over several points which seemed to interest him particularly. Then he turned to Miss Babette Graumann. “And then what happened?” he asked.
“Then the Police Commissioner came to Grunau and questioned my nephew. They had found out that Albert was Mr. Siders’ only friend here. And late that evening the Mayor and the Commissioner came to our house with the revolver they had found in the room in G—, and they—they—” her voice trembled again, “they arrested my dear boy and took him away.”
“Have you visited him in prison? What does he say about it himself?”
“He seems quite hopeless. He says that he is innocent—oh, I know he is—but everything is against him. He acknowledges that it was he who was in Mr. Siders’ room the evening before the murder. He went there because Siders wrote him to come. He says he left early, and that John acted queerly. He knows they will not believe his story. This worry and anxiety will kill him. He has a serious heart trouble; he has suffered from it for years, and it has been growing steadily worse. I dare not think what this excitement may do for him.” Miss Graumann broke down again and sobbed aloud. Muller laid his hands soothingly on the little old fingers that gripped the arm of the chair.
In the Shadow of Agatha Christie Page 22