The Case of the Pool of Blood in the Pastor's Study
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theday's sermon lay on top of the desk. In the drawers, none of which werelocked, were official papers, books, manuscripts of former sermons, anda few unimportant personal notes.
The flame of the lamp flickered in the breeze that came from the openwindow. But Muller did not close the casement. He wanted to leaveeverything just as he had found it until daylight. When he saw that itwas impossible to leave the lamp there he took it up again and left theroom.
"What is the use of being impatient?" he said to himself. "If I moveabout in this poor light I will be sure to ruin some possible clue. Forthere must be some clue left here. It is impossible for even the mostpracticed criminal not to leave some trace of his presence."
The detective returned to the dining-room, locking the study doorcarefully behind him. The maid and the coachman returned, bringing inan abundant supper, and Muller sat down to do justice to the many goodthings on the tray. When the maid returned to take away the dishesshe inquired whether she should put the guest chamber in order for thedetective. He told her not to go to any trouble for his sake, that hewould sleep in the bed in the neighbouring room.
"You going to sleep in there?" said the girl, horrified.
"Yes, my child, and I think I will sleep well to-night. I feel verytired." Liska carried the things out, shaking her head in surprise atthis thin little man who did not seem to know what it was to be afraid.Half an hour later the rectory was in darkness. Before he retired,Muller had made a careful examination of the pastor's bedroom. Nothingwas disturbed anywhere, and it was evident that the priest had not madeany preparations for the night, but was still at work at his desk inthe study when death overtook him. When he came to this conclusion, thedetective went to bed and soon fell asleep.
In his little hut near the asylum gates, shepherd Janci slept as soundas usual. But he was dreaming and he spoke in his sleep. There was noone to hear him, for his faithful Margit was snoring loudly. Snatchesof sentences and broken words came from Janci's lips: "The hand--the bighand--I see it--at his throat--the face--the yellow face--it laughs--"
Next morning the children on their way to school crept past the rectorywith wide eyes and open mouths. And the grown people spoke in lowertones when their work led them past the handsome old house. It had oncebeen their pride, but now it was a place of horror to them. The oldhousekeeper had succumbed to her fright and was very ill. Liska wentabout her work silently, and the farm servants walked more heavily andchattered less than they had before. The hump-backed sexton, who had notbeen allowed to enter the church and therefore had nothing to do, madean early start for the inn, where he spent most of the day telling whatlittle he knew to the many who made an excuse to follow him there.
The only calm and undisturbed person in the rectory household wasMuller. He had made a thorough examination of the entire scene of themurder, but had not found anything at all. Of one thing alone was hecertain: the murderer had come through the hidden passageway from thechurch. There were two reasons to believe this, one of which mightpossibly not be sufficient, but the other was conclusive.
The heavy armchair before the desk, the chair on which the pastor waspresumably sitting when the murderer entered, was half turned around,turned in just such a way as it would have been had the man who wassitting there suddenly sprung up in excitement or surprise. The chairwas pushed back a step from the desk and turned towards the entranceto the passageway. Those who had been in the room during the day hadreported that they had not touched any one of the articles of furniture,therefore the position of the chair was the same that had been given itby the man who had sat in it, by the murdered pastor himself.
Of course there was always the possibility that some one had moved thechair without realising it. This clue, therefore, could not be lookedupon as an absolutely certain one had it stood alone. But there wasother evidence far more important. The great pool of blood was justhalf-way between the door of the passage and the armchair. It was here,therefore, that the attack had taken place. The pastor could not haveturned in this direction in the hope of flight, for there was nothinghere to give him shelter, no weapon that he could grasp, not evena cane. He must have turned in this direction to meet and greet theinvader who had entered his room in this unusual manner. Turned to meethim as a brave man would, with no other weapon than the sacredness ofhis calling and his age.
But this had not been enough to protect the venerable priest. Themurderer must have made his thrust at once and his victim had sunk downdying on the floor of the room in which he had spent so many hours ofquiet study, in which he had brought comfort and given advice to so manyanxious hearts; for dying he must have been--it would be impossible fora man to lose so much blood and live.
"The struggle," thought the detective, "but was there a struggle?" Helooked about the room again, but could see nothing that showed disorderanywhere in its immaculate neatness. No, there could have been nostruggle. It must have been a quick knife thrust and death at once. "Nota shot?" No, a shot would have been heard by the night watchman walkingthe streets near the church. The night was quiet, the window open. Someone in the village would have heard the noise of a shot. And it was notlikely that the old housekeeper who slept in the room immediately below,slept the light sleep of the aged would have failed to have heard thefiring of a pistol.
Muller took a chair and sat down directly in front of the pool of blood,looking at it carefully. Suddenly he bowed his head deeper. He hadcaught sight of a fine thread of the red fluid which had been drawnout for about a foot or two in the direction towards the door to thedining-room. What did that mean? Did it mean that the murderer went outthrough that door, dragging something after him that made this delicateline? Muller bent down still deeper. The sun shone brightly on thefloor, sending its clear rays obliquely through the window. The sharpeyes which now covered every inch of the yellow-painted floor discoveredsomething else. They discovered that this red thread curved slightly andhad a continuation in a fine scratch in the paint of the floor. Mullerfollowed up this scratch and it led him over towards the window and thenback again in wide curves, then out again under the desk and finally,growing weaker and weaker, it came back to the neighbourhood of the poolof blood, but on the opposite side of it. Muller got down on his handsand knees to follow up the scratch. He did not notice the discomfort ofhis position, his eyes shone in excitement and a deep flush glowed inhis cheeks. Also, he began to whistle softly.
Joseph Muller, the bloodhound of the Austrian police, had found a clue,a clue that soon would bring him to the trail he was seeking. He did notknow yet what he could do with his clue. But this much he knew; sooneror later this scratch in the floor would lead him to the murderer. Thetrail might be long and devious; but he would follow it and at its endwould be success. He knew that this scratch had been made after themurder was committed; this was proved by the blood that marked itsbeginning. And it could not have been made by any of those who enteredthe room during the day because by that time the blood had dried. Thisstrange streak in the floor, with its weird curves and spirals, couldhave been made only by the murderer. But how? With what instrument?There was the riddle which must be solved.
And now Muller, making another careful examination of the floor, foundsomething else. It was something that might be utterly unimportant ormight be of great value. It was a tiny bit of hardened lacquer which hefound on the floor beside one of the legs of the desk. It was roundedout, with sharp edges, and coloured grey with a tiny zigzag of yellowon its surface. Muller lifted it carefully and looked at it keenly.This tiny bit of lacquer had evidently been knocked off from some convexobject, but it was impossible to tell at the moment just what sort of anobject it might have been. There are so many different things which arecustomarily covered with lacquer. However, further examination broughthim down to a narrower range of subjects. For on the inside of thelacquer he found a shred of reddish wood fibre. It must have been awooden object, therefore, from which the lacquer came, and the wood hadbeen of reddish tinge.
Muller pondered the
matter for a little while longer. Then he placed hisdiscovery carefully in the pastor's emptied tobacco-box, and droppedthe box in his own pocket. He closed the window and the door to thedining-room, lit a lamp, and entered the passageway leading to thevestry. It was a short passageway, scarcely more than a dozen paceslong.
The walls were whitewashed, the floor tiled and the entire passage shonein neatness. Muller held the light of his lamp to every inch of it, butthere was nothing to show that the criminal had gone through here withthe body of his victim.
"The criminal"--Muller still thought of only one. His long experiencehad taught him that the most intricate crimes were usually committed byone man only. The strength necessary for such a crime as this did notdeceive him either. He knew that in extraordinary moments extraordinarystrength will come to the one who needs it.
He now passed down the steps leading into the vestry. There