The Case of the Golden Bullet | Page 3

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 carriage 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 coloured 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 realised 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