The Case of the Lamp That Went Out

This was the notice which made Mrs. Klingmayer neglect the soup pot.

Finally the old woman stood up very slowly, threw a glance at the stove and opened the window mechanically. Then she lifted the pots from the fire and set them on the outer edge of the range. And then she did something that ordinarily would have shocked her economical soul—she poured water on the fire to put it out.

When she saw that there was not a spark left in the stove, she went into her own little room and prepared to go out. Her excitement caused her to forget her rheumatism entirely. One more look around her little kitchen, then she locked it up and set out for the centre of the city.

She went to the office of the importing house where her tenant, Leopold Winkler, was employed as bookkeeper. The clerk at the door noticed the woman’s excitement and asked her kindly what the trouble was.

“I’d like to speak to Mr. Winkler,” she said eagerly.

“Mr. Winkler hasn’t come in yet,” answered the young man. “Is anything the matter? You look so white! Winkler will probably show up soon, he’s never very punctual. But it’s after eleven o’clock now and he’s never been as late as this before.”

“I don’t believe he’ll ever come again,” said the old woman, sinking down on a bench beside the door.

“Why, what do you mean?” asked the clerk. “Why shouldn’t he come again?”

“Is the head of the firm here?” asked Mrs. Klingmayer, wiping her forehead with her handkerchief. The clerk nodded and hurried away to tell his employer about the woman with the white face who came to ask for a man who, as she expressed it, “would never come there again.”

“I don’t think she’s quite right in the head,” he volunteered. The head of the firm told him to bring the woman into the inner office.

“Who are you, my good woman?” he asked kindly, softened by the evident agitation of this poorly though neatly dressed woman.

“I am Mr. Winkler’s landlady,” she answered.

“Ah! and he wants you to tell me that he’s sick? I’m afraid I can’t believe all that this gentleman says. I hope he’s not asking your help to lie to me. Are you sure that his illness is anything else but a case of being up late?”

“I don’t think that he’ll ever be sick again—I didn’t come with any message from him, sir; please read this, sir.” And she handed him the newspaper, showing him the notice. While the gentleman was reading she added: “Mr. Winkler didn’t come home last night either.”

Winkler’s employer read the few lines, then laid the paper aside with a very serious face. “When did you see him last?” he asked of the woman.

“Day before yesterday in the morning. He went away about half-past eight as he usually does,” she replied. And then she added a question of her own: “Was he here day before yesterday?”

The merchant nodded and pressed an electric bell. Then he rose from his seat and pulled up a chair for his visitor. “Sit down here. This thing has frightened you and you are no longer young.” When the servant entered, the merchant told him to ask the head bookkeeper to come to the inner office.

When this official appeared, his employer inquired: “When did Winkler leave here day before yesterday?”

“At six o’clock, sir, as usual.”

“He was here all day without interruption?”

“Yes, sir, with the exception of the usual luncheon hour.”

“Did he have the handling of any money Monday?”

“No, sir.”

“Thank you, Mr. Pokorny,” said the merchant, handing his employee the evening paper and pointing to the notice which had so interested him.

Pokorny read it, his face, like his employer’s, growing more serious. “It looks almost as if it must be Winkler, sir,” he said, in a few moments.

“We will soon find that out. I should like to go to the police station myself with this woman; she is Winkler’s landlady—but I think it will be better for you to accompany her. They will ask questions about the man which you will be better able to answer than I.”

Pokorny bowed and left the room. Mrs. Klingmayer rose and was about to follow, when the merchant asked her to wait a moment and inquired whether Winkler owed her anything. “I am sorry that you should have had this shock and the annoyances and trouble which will come of it, but I don’t want you to be out of pocket by it.”

“No, he doesn’t owe me anything,” replied the honest old woman, shaking her head. A few big tears rolled down over her withered cheeks, possibly the only tears that were shed for the dead man under the elder-tree. But even this sympathetic soul could find nothing to say in his praise. She could feel pity for his dreadful death, but she could not assert that the world had lost anything by his going out of it. As if saddened by the impossibility of finding a single good word to say about the dead man, she left the office with drooping head and lagging step.

Pokorny helped her into the cab that was already waiting before the door. The office force had got wind of the fact that something unusual had occurred and were all at the windows to see them drive off. The three clerks who worked in the department to which Winkler belonged gathered together to talk the matter over. They were none of them particularly hit by it, but naturally they were interested in the discovery in Hietzing, and equally naturally, they tried to find a few good words to say about the man whose life had ended so suddenly.

The youngest of them, Fritz Bormann, said some kind words and was about to wax more enthusiastic, when Degenhart, the eldest clerk, cut in with the words: “Oh, don’t trouble yourself. Nobody ever liked Winkler here. He was not a good man—he was not even a good worker. This is the first time that he has a reasonable excuse for neglecting his duties.”

“Oh, come, see here! how can you talk about the poor man that way when he’s scarcely cold in death yet,” said Fritz indignantly.

Degenhart laughed harshly.

“Did I ever say anything else about him while he was warm and alive? Death is no reason for changing one’s opinion about a man who was good-for-nothing in life. And his death was a stroke of good luck that he scarcely deserved. He died without a moment’s pain, with a merry thought in his head, perhaps, while many another better man has to linger in torture for weeks. No, Bormann, the best I can say about Winkler is that his death makes one nonentity the less on earth.”

The older man turned to his desk again and the two younger clerks continued the conversation: “Degenhart appears to be a hard man,” said Fritz, “but he’s the best and kindest person I know, and he’s dead right in what he says. It was simply a case of conventional superstition. I never did like that Winkler.”

“No, you’re right,” said the other. “Neither did I and I don’t know why, for the matter of that. He seemed just like a thousand others. I never heard of anything particularly wrong that he did.”

“No, no more did I,” continued Bormann, “but I never heard of anything good about him either. And don’t you think that it’s worse for a man to seem to repel people by his very personality, rather than by any particular bad thing that he does?”

“Yes. I don’t know how to explain it, but that’s just how I feel about it. I had an instinctive feeling that there was something wrong about Winkler, the sort of a creepy, crawly feeling that a snake gives you.”

CHAPTER IV. SPEAK WELL OF THE DEAD

Meanwhile Pokorny and Mrs. Klingmayer had reached the police station and were going upstairs to the rooms of the commissioner on service for the day. Like all people of her class, Mrs. Klingmayer stood in great awe and terror of anything connected with the police or the law generally. She crept slowly and tremblingly up the stairs behind the head bookkeeper and was very glad when she was left alone for a few minutes while Pokorny went in to see the commissioner. But as soon as his errand was known, both the bookkeeper and his companion were led into the office of Head Commissioner Dr. von Riedau, who had charge of the Hietzing murder case.

When Dr. von Riedau heard the reason of their coming, his interest was immediately aroused, and he pulled a chair to his side for the little thin man with whom he had been talking when the two strangers were ushered in.

“Then you believe you could identify the murdered man?” asked the commissioner.

“From the general description and the initials on his linen, I believe it must be Leopold Winkler,” answered Pokorny. “Mrs. Klingmayer has not seen him since Monday morning, nor has she had any message from him. He left the office Monday afternoon at 6 o’clock and that was the last time that we saw him. The only thing that makes me doubt his identity is that the paper reports that three hundred gulden were found in his pocket. Winkler never seemed to have money, and I do not understand how he should have been in possession of such a sum.”

“The money was found in the dead man’s pockets,” said the commissioner. “And yet it may be Winkler, the man you know. Muller, will you order a cab, please?”

“I have a cab waiting for me. But it only holds two,” volunteered Pokorny.

“That doesn’t matter, I’ll sit on the box,” answered the man addressed as Muller.

“You are going with us?” asked Pokorny.

“Yes, he will accompany you,” replied the commissioner. “This is detective Muller, sir. By a mere chance, he happened to be on hand to take charge of this case and he will remain in charge, although it may be wasting his talents which we need for more difficult problems. If you or any one else have anything to tell us, it must be told only to me or to Muller. And before you leave to look at the body, I would like to know whether the dead man owned a watch, or rather whether he had it with him on the day of the murder.”

“Yes, sir; he did have a watch, a gold watch,” answered Mrs. Klingmayer.

Riedau looked at the bookkeeper, who nodded and said: “Yes, sir; Winkler had a watch, a gold watch with a double case. It was a large watch, very thick. I happen to have noticed it by chance and also I happen to know that he had not had the watch for very long.”

“Can you tell us anything more about the watch?” asked the commissioner of the landlady.

“Yes, sir; there was engraving on the outside cover, initials, and a crown on the other side.”

“What were the initials?”

“I don’t know that, sir; at least I’m not sure about it. There were so many twists and curves to them that I couldn’t make them out. I think one of them was a W though, sir.”

“The other was probably an L then.”

“That might be, sir.”

“The younger clerks in the office may be able to tell something more about the watch,” said Pokorny, “for they were quite interested in it for a while. It was a handsome watch and they were envious of Winkler’s possession of it. But he was so tactless in his boasting about it that they paid no further attention to him after the first excitement.”

“You say he didn’t have the watch long?”

“Since spring I think, sir.”

“He brought it home on the 19th of March,” interrupted Mrs. Klingmayer. “I remember the day because it was my birthday. I pretended that he had brought it home to me for a present.”

“Was he in the habit of making you presents?”

“Oh, no, sir; he was very close with his money, sir.

“Well, perhaps he didn’t have much money to be generous with. Now tell me about his watch chain. I suppose he had a watch chain?”

Both the bookkeeper and the landlady nodded and the latter exclaimed: “Oh, yes, sir; I could recognise it in a minute.”

“How?”

“It was broken once and Mr. Winkler mended it himself. I lent him my pliers and he bent the two links together with them. It didn’t look very nice after that, but it was strong again. You could see the mark of the pliers easily.”

“Why didn’t he take the chain to the jeweler’s to be fixed?” asked the commissioner.

The woman smiled. “It wouldn’t have been worth the money, sir; the chain wasn’t real gold.”

“But the watch was real, wasn’t it?”

“Oh, yes, sir; that was real gold. I pawned it once for Mr. Winkler and they gave me 24 gulden for it.”

“One question more, did he have a purse? And did he have it with him on the day of the murder?”

“Yes, sir; he had a purse, and he must have taken it with him because he didn’t leave it in his room.”

“What sort of a purse was it?”

“A brown leather purse, sir.”

“Was it a new one?”

“Oh, no, sir; it was well worn.”

“How big was it? About like mine?” Riedau took out his own pocketbook.

“No, sir; it was a little smaller. It had three pockets in it. I mended it for him once, so I know it well. I didn’t have any brown thread so I mended it with yellow.”

Dr. von Riedau nodded to Muller. The latter had been sitting at a little side-table writing down the questions and answers. When Riedau saw this he did not send for a clerk to do the work, for Muller preferred to attend to such matters himself as much as possible. The facts gained in the examination were impressed upon his mind while he was writing them, and he did not have to wade through pages of manuscript to get at what he needed. Now he handed his superior officer the paper.

“Thank you,” said Riedau, “I’ll send it out to the other police stations. I will attend to this myself. You go on with these people to see whether they can identify the corpse.”

Fifteen minutes later the three stood before the body in the morgue and both the bookkeeper and his companion identified the dead man positively as Leopold Winkler.

When the identification was made, a notice was sent out to all Austrian police stations and to all pawnshops with an exact description of the stolen watch and purse.

Muller led his companions back to the commissioner’s office and they made their report to Dr. von Riedau. Upon being questioned further, Pokorny stated: “I had very little to do with Winkler. We met only when he had a report to make to me or to show me his books, and we never met outside the office. The clerks who worked in the same room with him, may know him better. I know only that he was a very reserved man and very little liked.”

“Then I do not need to detain you any longer, nor to trouble you further in this affair. I thank you for coming to us so promptly. It has been of great assistance.”

The bookkeeper left the station, but Mrs. Klingmayer, who was now quite reassured as to the harmlessness of the police, was asked to remain and to tell what she knew of the private life of the murdered man. Her answers to the various questions put to her proved that she knew very little about her tenant. But this much was learned from her: that he was very close with his money at times, but that again at other times he seemed to have all he wanted to spend. At such times he paid all his debts, and when he stayed home for supper, he would send her out for all sorts of expensive delicacies. These extravagant days seemed to have nothing whatever to do with Winkler’s business pay day, but came at odd times.

Mrs. Klingmayer remembered two separate times when he had received a postal money order. But she did not know from whom the letters came, nor even whether they were sent from the city or from some other town. Winkler received other letters now and then, but his landlady was not of the prying kind, and she had paid very little attention to them.

He seemed to have few friends or even acquaintances. She did not know of any love affair, at least of nothing “regular.” He had remained away over night two or three times during the year that he had been her tenant. This was about all that Mrs. Klingmayer could say, and she returned to her home in a cab furnished her by the kind commissioner.

About two hours later, a police attendant announced that a gentleman would like to see Dr. von Riedan on business concerning the murder in Hietzing. “Friedrich Bormann” was the name on the card.

“Ask him to step in here,” said the commissioner. “And please ask Mr. Muller to join us.”

The good-looking young clerk entered the office bashfully and Muller slipped in behind him, seating himself inconspicuously by the door. At a sign from the commissioner the visitor began. “I am an employee of Braun & Co. I have the desk next to Leopold Winkler, during the year that he has been with us—the year and a quarter to be exact—”

“Ah, then you know him rather well?”

“Why, yes. At least we were together all day, although I never met him outside the office.”

“Then you cannot tell us much about his private life?”

“No, sir, but there was something happened on Monday, and in talking it over with Mr. Braun, he suggested that I should come to you and tell you about it. It wasn’t really very important, and it doesn’t seem as if it could have anything to do with this murder and robbery; still it may be of some use.”

“Everything that would throw light on the dead man’s life could be of use,” said Dr. von Riedau. “Please tell us what it is you know.”

Fritz Bormann began: “Winkler came to the office as usual on Monday morning and worked steadily at his desk. But I happened to notice that he spoiled several letters and had to rewrite them, which showed me that his thoughts were not on his work, a frequent occurrence with him. However, everything went along as usual until 11 o’clock. Then Winkler became very uneasy. He looked constantly toward the door, compared his watch with the office clock, and sprang up impatiently as the special letter carrier, who usually comes about 11 with money orders, finally appeared.”

“Then he was expecting money you think?”

“It must have been so. For as the letter carrier passed him, he called out: ‘Haven’t you anything for me?’ and as the man shook his head Winkler seemed greatly disappointed and depressed. Before he left to go to lunch, he wrote a hasty letter, which he put in his pocket.

“He came in half an hour later than the rest of us. He had often been reprimanded for his lack of punctuality, but it seemed to do no good. He was almost always late. Monday was no exception, although he was later than usual that day.”

“And what sort of a mood was he in when he came back?”

“He was irritable and depressed. He seemed to be awaiting a message which did not come. His excitement hindered him from working, he scarcely did anything the entire afternoon. Finally at five o’clock a messenger boy came with a letter for him. I saw that Winkler turned pale as he took the note in his hand. It seemed to be only a few words written hastily on a card, thrust into an envelope. Winkler’s teeth were set as he opened the letter. The messenger had already gone away.”

“Did you notice his number?” asked Dr. von Riedau.

“No, I scarcely noticed the man at all. I was looking at Winkler, whose behaviour was so peculiar. When he read the card his face brightened. He read it through once more, then he tore both card and envelope into little bits and threw the pieces out of the open window.

“Then he evidently did not want anybody to see the contents of this note,” said a voice from the corner of the room.

Fritz Bormann looked around astonished and rather doubtful at the little man who had risen from his chair and now came forward. Without waiting for an answer from the clerk, the other continued: “Did Winkler have money sent him frequently?”

Bormann looked inquiringly at the commissioner, who replied with a smile: “You may answer. Answer anything that Mr. Muller has to ask of you, as he is in charge of this case.”

“As far as I can remember, it happened three times,” was Bormann’s answer.

“How close together?”

“Why—about once in every three or four months, I think.”

“That looks almost like a regular income,” exclaimed Riedau. His eyes met Muller’s, which were lit up in sudden fire. “Well, what are you thinking of?” asked the commissioner.

“A woman,” answered Muller; and continued more as if thinking aloud than as if addressing the others: “Winkler was a good-looking man. Might he not have had a rich love somewhere? Might not the money have come from her, the money that was found in his pocket?” Muller’s voice trailed off into indistinctness at the last words, and the fire died out of his eyes. Then he laughed aloud.

The commissioner smiled also, a good-natured smile, such as one would give to a child who has been over-eager. “It doesn’t matter to us where the money came from. All that matters here is where the bullet came from—the bullet which prevented his enjoying this money. And it is of more interest to us to find out who robbed him of his life and his property, rather than the source from which this property came.”

The commissioner’s tone was friendly, but Muller’s face flushed red, and his head dropped. Riedau turned to Bormann and continued: “And because it is of no interest to us where his money came from—for it can have nothing whatever to do with his murder and the subsequent robbery—therefore what you noticed of his behaviour cannot be of any importance or bearing in the case in any way. Unless, indeed, you should find out anything more. But we appreciate the thoughtfulness of yourself and your employer and your readiness to help us.”

Bormann rose to leave, but the commissioner put out a hand to stop him. “A few moments more, please; you may know of something else that will be of assistance to us. We have heard that Winkler boasted of his belongings —did he talk about his private affairs in any way?”

“No, sir, I do not think he did.”

“You say that he destroyed the note at once, evidently realising that no one must see it—this note may have been a promise for the money which had not yet come. Did he, however, tell any one later that he expected a certain sum? Do you think he would have been likely to tell any one?”

“No, I do not think that he would tell any one. He never mentioned to any of us that he had received money, or even that he expected to receive it. None of us knew what outside resources he might have, or whence they came. If it had not been that the money was paid him by the carrier in the office two or three times—so, that we could see it—we would none of us have known of this income, except for the fact that he was freer in spending after the money came. He would dine at expensive restaurants, and this fact he would mention to us, whereas at other times he would go to the cheap cafe.”

“Do you know anything about the people he was acquainted with outside the office?”

“No, sir. I seldom met him outside of the office. One evening it did happen that I saw him at Ronacher’s. He was there with a lady—that is, a so-called ‘lady’—and it must have been one of the times that he had money, for they were enjoying an expensive supper. At other times, some of the other clerks met him at various resorts, always with the same sort of woman. But not always with the same woman, for they were different in appearance.”

“He was never seen anywhere with other men?”

“No, sir; at least not by any of us.”

“He was not liked in the office?”

“No.” Bormann’s answer was sharp.

“For what reason?”

“I don’t know; we just didn’t like him. We had very little to do with him at first because of this, and soon we noticed that he seemed just as anxious to avoid us as we were to avoid him.”

The commissioner rose and Bormann followed his example. “I am very sorry, sir, if I have taken up your time to no purpose,” said the latter modestly, as he took up his hat.

“I am not so sure that what you have said may not be of great value to us,” said a voice behind them. Muller stood there, looking at Riedau with a glance almost of defiance. His eyes were again lit up with the strange fire that shone in them when he was on the trail. The commissioner shrugged his shoulders, bowed to the departing visitor, and then turned without an answer to some documents on his desk. There was silence in the room for a few moments. Finally a gentle voice came from Muller’s corner again: “Dr. von Riedau?”

The commissioner raised his head and looked around. “Oh, are you still there?” he asked with a drawl.

Muller knew what this drawl meant. It was the manner adopted by the amiable commissioner when he was in a mood which was not amiable. And Muller knew also the cause of the mood. It was his own last remark, the words he addressed to Bormann. Muller himself recognised the fact that this remark was out of place, that it was almost an impertinence, because it was in direct contradiction to a statement made a few moments before by his superior officer. Also he realised that his remark had been quite unnecessary, because it was a matter of indifference to the young man, who was only obeying his employer’s orders in reporting what he had seen, whether his report was of value or not. Muller had simply uttered aloud the thought that came into his mind, a habit of his which years of official training had not yet succeeded in breaking. It was annoying to himself sometimes, for these half-formed thoughts were mere instinct—they were the workings of his own genius that made him catch a suspicion of the truth long before his conscious mind could reason it out or appreciate its value. But that sort of thing was not popular in official police life.

“Well,” asked the commissioner, as Muller did not continue, “your tongue is not usually so slow—as you have proved just a few moments back—what were you going to say now?”

“I was about to ask your pardon for my interruption. It was unnecessary, I should not have said it.”

“Well, I realise that you know better yourself,” said Riedau, now quite friendly again, “and now what else have you to say? Do you really think that what the young man has just told us is of any value at all for this case?”

“It seems to me as if it might be of value to us.”

“Oh, it seems to you, eh? Your imagination is working overtime again, Muller,” said the commissioner with a laugh. But the laugh turned to seriousness as he realised how many times Muller’s imagination had helped the clumsy official mind to its proudest triumphs. The commissioner was an intelligent man, as far as his lights went, and he was a good-hearted man. He rose from his chair and walked over to where the detective stood. “You needn’t look so embarrassed, Muller,” he said. “There is no cause for you to feel bad about it. And—I am quite willing to admit that my remark just now was unnecessary. You may give your imagination full rein, we can trust to your intelligence and your devotion to duty to keep it from unnecessary flights. So curbed, I know it will be of as much assistance to us this time as it always has been.”

Muller’s quiet face lit up, and his eyes shone in a happiness that made him appear ten years younger. That was one of the strange things about Joseph Muller. This genius in his profession was in all other ways a man of such simplicity of heart and bearing, that the slightest word of approval from one of the officials for whom he worked could make him as happy as praise from the teacher will make a schoolboy. The moments when he was in command of any difficult case, when these same superiors would wait for a word from him, when high officials would take his orders or would be obliged to acknowledge that without him they were helpless, these moments were forgotten as soon as the problem was solved and Muller became again the simple subordinate and the obscure member of the Imperial police force.

When Muller left the commissioner’s room and walked through the outer office, one of the clerks looked after him and whispered to his companion: “Do you think he’s found the Hietzing murderer yet?” The other answered: “I don’t think so, but he looks as if he had found a clue. He’ll find him sooner or later. He always does.”

Muller did not hear these words, although they also would have pleased him. He walked slowly down the stairs murmuring to himself: “I think I was right just the same. We are following a false trail.”

CHAPTER V. BY A THREAD

It was on Monday, the 27th of September, that Leopold Winkler was murdered and robbed, and early on Tuesday, the 28th, his body was found. That day the evening papers printed the report of the murder and the description of the dead man, and on Wednesday, the 29th, Mrs. Klingmayer read the news and went to see Winkler’s employer. By noon of that day the body was identified and a description of the stolen purse and watch telegraphed to police headquarters in various cities. A few hours later, these police stations had sent out notices by messenger to all pawnshops and dealers in second-hand clothing, and now the machinery of the law sat waiting for some news of an attempt on the part of the robber-and-murderer to get rid of his plunder.

On this same Wednesday, about the twilight hour, David Goldstamm, dealer in second-hand clothing, stood before the door of his shop in a side street of the old Hungarian city of Pressburg and watched his assistant take down the clothes which were hanging outside and carry them into the store. The old man’s eyes glanced carelessly up and down the street and caught sight of a man who turned the corner and came hurrying towards him. This man was a very seedy-looking individual. An old faded overcoat hung about his thin figure, and a torn and dusty hat fell over his left eye. He seemed also to be much the worse for liquor and very wobbly on his feet. And yet he seemed anxious to hurry onward in spite of the unevenness of his walk.

Then he slowed up suddenly, glanced across the street to Goldstamm’s store, and crossed over.

“Have you any boots for me?” he asked, sticking out his right foot that the dealer might see whether he had anything the requisite size.

“I think there’s something there,” answered the old man in his usual businesslike tone, leading the way into the store.

The stranger followed. Goldstamm lit the one light in the little place and groped about in an untidy heap of shoes of all kinds and sizes until he found several pairs that he thought might fit. These he brought out and put them in front of his customer. But in spite of his bleary eyes, the man caught sight of some patches on the uppers of one pair, and pushed them away from him.

“Give me something better than that. I can pay for it. I don’t have to wear patched shoes,” he grunted.

Goldstamm didn’t like the looks of the man, but he felt that he had better be careful and not make him angry. “Have patience, sir, I’ll find you something better,” he said gently, tossing the heap about again, but now keeping his face turned towards his customer.

“I want a coat also and a warm pair of trousers,” said the stranger in a rough voice. He bent down to loosen the shabby boot from his right foot, and as he did so something fell out of the pocket of his coat. An unconscious motion of his own raised foot struck this small object and tossed it into the middle of the heap of shoes close by Goldstamm’s hand. The old man reached out after it and caught it. It was just an ordinary brown leather pocketbook, of medium size, old and shabby, like a thousand others. But the eyes of the little old man widened as if in terror, his face turned pale and his hands trembled. For he had seen, hanging from one side of this worn brown leather pocketbook, the end of a yellow thread, the loosened end of the thread with which one side of the purse was mended. The thread told David Goldstamm who it was that had come into his shop.

He regained his control with a desperate effort of the will. It took him but a few seconds to do so, and, thanks to his partial intoxication, the customer had not noticed the shopkeeper’s start of alarm. But he appeared anxious and impatient to regain possession of his purse.

“Haven’t you found it yet?” he exclaimed.

Goldstamm hastened to give it back. The tramp put the purse in his pocket with a sigh of relief. Goldstamm had regained his calm and his mind was working eagerly. He put several pairs of shoes before his customer, with the remark: “You must try them on. We’ll find something to suit you. And meanwhile I will bring in several pairs of trousers from those outside. I have some fine coats to show you too.”

Goldstamm went out to the door, almost colliding there with his assistant who was coming in with his arm full of garments. The old man motioned to the boy, who retreated until they were both hidden from the view of the man within the store.

“Give me those blue trousers there,” said Goldstamm in a loud voice. Then in a whisper he said to the boy: “Run to the police station. The man with the watch and the purse is in there.”

The boy understood and set off at once at a fast pace, while the old man returned to his store with a heavy heart. He wondered whether he would be able to keep the murderer there until the police could come. And he also wondered what it might cost him, an old and feeble man, who would be as a weak reed in the hands of the strong tramp in there. But he knew it was his duty to do whatever he could to help in the arrest of one who had just taken the life of a fellow creature. The realisation of this gave the old man strength and calmness.

“A nice sort of an eye for size you have,” cried the tramp as the old man came up to him. “I suppose you’ve brought me in a boy’s suit? What do you take me for? Any girl could go to a ball in the shoes you brought me to try on here.”

“Are they so much too small?” asked the dealer in an innocent tone. “Well, there’s plenty more there. And perhaps you had better be trying on this suit behind the curtain here while I’m hunting up the shoes.”

This suggestion seemed to please the stranger, as he was evidently in a hurry. He passed in behind the curtain and began to undress. Goldstamm’s keen eyes watched him through a crack. There was not much to be seen except that the tramp seemed anxious to keep his overcoat within reach of his hand. He had carefully put the purse in one of its pockets.

“We’ll get the things all together pretty soon,” said the dealer. “I’ve found a pair of boots here, fine boots of good quality, and sure to fit.”

“Stop your talk,” growled the other, “and come here and help me so that I can get away.”

Goldstamm came forward, and though his heart was very heavy within him, he aided this man, this man about whom so many hundreds were now thinking in terror, as calmly as he had aided his other poor but honest customers.

With hands that did not tremble, the dealer busied himself about his customer, listening all the while to sounds in the street in the hope that his tete-e-tete with the murderer would soon be over. But in spite of all his natural anxiety, the old man’s sharp eyes took cognizance of various things, one of which was that the man whom he was helping to dress in his new clothes did not have the watch which was described in the police notice. This fact, however, did not make the old man’s heart any lighter, for the purse mended with yellow thread was too clearly the one stolen from the murdered man found in the quiet street in Hietzing.

“What’s the matter with you, you’re so slow? I can get along better myself,” growled the tramp, pushing the old man away from him. Goldstamm had really begun to tremble now in spite of his control, in the fear that the man would get away from him before the police came.

The tramp was already dressed in the new suit, into a pocket of which he put the old purse.

“There, now the boots and then we’re finished,” said the dealer with an attempt at a smile. In his heart he prayed that the pair he now held in his hand might not fit, that he might gain a few minutes more. But the shoes did fit. A little pushing and stamping and the man was ready to leave the store. He was evidently in a hurry, for he paid what was asked without any attempt to bargain. Had Goldstamm not known whom he had before him now, he would have been very much astonished at this, and might perhaps have been sorry that he had not named a higher sum. But under the circumstances he understood only too well the man’s desire to get away, and would much rather have had some talk as to the payment, anything that would keep his customer a little longer in his store.

“There, now we’re ready. I’ll pack up your old things for you. Or perhaps we can make a deal for them. I pay the highest prices in the city,” said Goldstamm, with an apparent eagerness which he hoped would deceive the customer.

But the man had already turned towards the door, and called hack over his shoulder: “You can keep the old things, I don’t want them.”

As he spoke he opened the door of the store and stood face to face with a policeman holding a revolver. He turned, with a curse, back into the room, but the dealer was nowhere to be seen. David Goldstamm had done his duty to the public, in spite of his fear. Now, seeing that the police had arrived, he could think of his duty to his family. This duty was plainly to save his own life, and when the tramp turned again to look for him, he had disappeared out of the back door.

“Not a move or I will shoot,” cried the policeman, and now two others appeared behind him, and came into the store. But the tramp made no attempt to escape. He stood pale and trembling while they put the handcuffs on him, and let them take him away without any resistance. He was put on the evening express for Vienna, and taken to Police Headquarters in that city. He made no protest nor any attempt to escape, but he refused to utter a word on the entire journey.