LITMIR.BIZ

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He examined every foot of the ground, but there was nothing to be seen that was of any interest to him—not a footprint, or anything to prove that some one else had passed that way a short time before. And yet it would have been impossible to pass that way without leaving some trace, for the ground was cut up in all directions by mole hills.

      Next the detective scrutinised as much of the surroundings as would come into immediate connection with the spot where the corpse had been found. There was nothing to be seen there either, and Muller was obliged to acknowledge that he had discovered nothing that would lead to an understanding of the crime, unless, indeed, the broken willow twig should prove to be a clue. He sprang back across the ditch, turned up the edges of his trousers where they had been moistened by the dew and walked slowly along the dusty street. He was no longer alone in the lane. An old man, accompanied by a large dog, came out from one of the new houses and walked towards the detective, he was very evidently going in the direction of the elder-tree, which had already been such a centre of interest that morning. When he met Muller, the old man halted, touched his cap and asked in a confidential tone: “I suppose you’ve been to see the place already?”

      “Which place?” was Muller’s reserved answer.

      “Why, I mean the place where they found the man who was murdered. They found him under that elder-tree. My wife just heard of it and told me. I suppose everybody round here will know it soon.”

      “Was there a man murdered here?” asked Muller, as if surprised by the news.

      “Yes, he was shot last night. Only I don’t understand why I didn’t hear the shot. I couldn’t sleep a wink all night for the pain in my bones.”

      “You live near here, then?”

      “Yes, I live in No.1. Didn’t you see me coming out?”

      “I didn’t notice it. I came across the wet meadows and I stooped to turn up my trousers so that they wouldn’t get dusty—it must have been then you came out.”

      “Why, then you must have been right near the place I was talking about. Do you see that elder tree there? It’s the only one in the street, and the girl who brings the milk found the man under it. The police have been here already and have taken him away. They discovered him about six o’clock and now it’s just seven.”

      “And you hadn’t any suspicion that this dreadful thing was happening so near you?” asked the detective casually.

      “I didn’t know a thing, sir, not a thing. There couldn’t have been a fight or I would have heard it. But I don’t know why I didn’t hear the shot.”

      “Why, then you must have been asleep after all, in spite of your pain,” said Muller with a smile, as he walked along beside the man back to the place from which he had just come.

      The old man shook his head. “No, I tell you I didn’t close an eye all night. I went to bed at half-past nine and I smoked two pipes before I put out the light, and then I heard every hour strike all night long and it wasn’t until nearly five o’clock, when it was almost dawn, that I dozed off a bit.”

      “Then it is astonishing that you didn’t hear anything!”

      “Sure it’s astonishing! But it’s still more astonishing that my dog Sultan didn’t hear anything. Sultan is a famous watchdog, I’d have you know. He’ll growl if anybody passes through the street after dark, and I don’t see why he didn’t notice what was going on over there last night. If a man’s attacked, he generally calls for help; it’s a queer business all right.”

      “Well, Sultan, why didn’t you make a noise?” asked Muller, patting the dog’s broad head. Sultan growled and walked on indifferently, after he had shaken off the strange hand.

      “He must have slept more soundly than usual. He went off into the country with me yesterday. We had an errand to do there and on the way back we stopped in for a drink. Sultan takes a drop or two himself occasionally, and that usually makes him sleep. I had hard work to bring him home. We got here just a few minutes before half-past nine and I tell you we were both good and tired.”

      By this time they had come to the elder-tree and the old man’s stream of talk ceased as he stood before the spot where the mysterious crime had occurred. He looked down thoughtfully at the grass, now trampled by many feet. “Who could have done it?” he murmured finally, with a sigh that expressed his pity for the victim.

      “Hietzing is known to be one of the safest spots in Vienna,” remarked Muller.

      “Indeed it is, sir; indeed it is. As it would well have to be with the royal castles right here in the neighbourhood! Indeed it would have to be safe with the Court coming here all the time.”

      “Why, yes, you see more police here than anywhere else in the city.”

      “Yes, they’re always sticking their nose in where they’re not necessary,” remarked the old man, not realising to whom he was speaking. “They fuss about everything you do or don’t do, and yet a man can be shot down right under our very noses here and the police can’t help it.”

      “But, my dear sir, it isn’t always possible for the police to prevent a criminal carrying out his evil intention,” said Muller good-naturedly.

      “Well, why not? if they watch out sharp enough?”

      “The police watch out sharper than most people think. But they can’t catch a man until he has committed his crime, can they?”

      “No, I suppose not,” said the old man, with another glance at the elder-tree. He bowed to Muller and turned and walked away.

      Muller followed him slowly, very much pleased with this meeting, for it had given him a new clue. There was no reason to doubt the old man’s story. And if this story was true, then the crime had been committed before half-past nine of the evening previous. For the old man—he was evidently the janitor in No.1—had not heard the shot.

      Muller left the scene of the crime and walked towards the four houses. Before he reached them he had to pass the garden which belonged to the house with the mansard roof. Right and left of this garden were vacant lots, as well as on the opposite side of the street. Then came to the right and left the four new houses which stood at the beginning of the quiet lane. Muller passed them, turned up a cross street and then down again, into the street running parallel, to the lane, a quiet aristocratic street on which fronted the house with the mansard roof.

      A carriage stood in front of this house, two great trunks piled up on the box beside the driver. A young girl and an old man in livery were placing bags and bundles of rugs inside the carriage. Muller walked slowly toward the carriage. Just as he reached the open gate of the garden he was obliged to halt, to his own great satisfaction. For at this moment a group of people came out from the house, the owners of it evidently, prepared for a journey and surrounded by their servants.

      Beside the old man and the young girl, there were two other women, one evidently the housekeeper, the other possibly the cook. The latter was weeping openly and devoutly kissing the hand of her mistress. The housekeeper discovered that a rug was missing and sent the maid back for it, while the old servant helped the lady into the carriage. The door of the carriage was wide open and Muller had a good glimpse of the pale, sweet-faced and delicate-looking young woman who leaned back in her corner, shivering and evidently ill. The servants bustled about, making her comfortable, while her husband superintended the work with anxious tenderness. He was a tall, fine-looking man with deep-set grey eyes and a rich, sympathetic voice. He gave his orders to his servants with calm authority, but he also was evidently suffering from the disease of our century—nervousness, for Muller saw that the man’s hands clenched feverishly and that his lips were trembling under his drooping moustache.

      The maid hastened down with the rug and spread it over her mistress’s knees, as the gentleman exclaimed nervously: “Do hurry with that! Do you want us to miss the train?”

      The butler closed the door of the carriage, the coachman gathered up the reins and

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