Dr. Mabuse, master of mystery a novel
savagery. He confessed that he did not know what he was doing when
he pressed his fingers deep into the girl’s throat. Something seemed
to seize upon him in the dark when he came round that corner by the
Jägerstrasse, and drove him to do it.
The town was enveloped as in a misty fog, impressionable and passionate
as the human heart, and the spring beyond it was obscured. The lights
thrown on life became glaring, its shadows of a wild and overwhelming
blackness. Men’s hearts were torn in two, and everywhere there was
internal conflict.
IX
At four o’clock there was a telephone call from Frankfurt. “George
Strümpfli, artist, was born in Basle in 1885, and lived at the address
indicated from January 1st to December 10th last year. He has now gone
abroad, his whereabouts being unknown. In the records he is entered as
of Swiss nationality, and he is a married man.”
From the register of the town inhabitants Wenk learnt that Cara Carozza
was described as follows: “Maria Strümpfli, formerly Essert, known as
Cara Carozza, dancer, born in Brunn, May 1, 1892, arrived in Munich
from Copenhagen.”
Wenk wondered how the pronunciation of “Georsh” instead of George could
have arisen, for both these people were South Germans by speech, and
“Georsh” was only heard in North Germany.
He went again to see the dancer, who was now in a prison cell.
“I don’t want anything to do with you,” she said in a harsh voice to
Wenk. “You say you are going to help me, and yet you put me in prison.”
“It was not I: that is a mistake on your part. It is the examining
counsel, as I told you at once. I am only here to clear up one
difficulty in the case, and that is the name you called out. That is
the point at issue.”
“Indeed! you seem rather concerned about the verdict.”
“Yes, of course we are. If you were prepared to help us we might get
over the difficulty. Let me see, you said your husband’s name was Carl
... Carl Strümpfli, wasn’t it?”
“In case you forget it again, his name is George.”
“He is a Swiss?”
“You have evidently been inquiring about him.”
“Certainly,” said Wenk. “And so he is called George. Now tell me,
although you may think it a foolish question, had you any special name
for him?”
“No.”
“You never called him anything but....”
“George. No, only George. When can I get away from here?”
“Ah, that depends upon the examining counsel.”
“Well then, he ought to be here. It is shameful that a well-known
artiste like me should....”
“You see, unfortunately everything must take its prescribed course.
‘Without respect of individuals,’ as the legal phrase runs. I cannot
promise you any more than my own help.”
“You are going away again? And without me?”
“For the moment I cannot do anything else.”
The dancer turned away.
Wenk went to the scene of the crime. He had previously studied the
list of those living in its vicinity, and especially those in the
Finkenstrasse. He took two plain-clothes policemen with him, one of
them being the constable who had pursued the criminals as far as the
park wall. They examined the wall by daylight; it showed scratches
from the tips of shoes, and on the top was a trace of blood. Possibly
someone had been lifted up who grasped the top with his hands. In the
clear February day the light fell pitilessly on that trace of the
murdered Hull.
Wenk entered the houses, many of which, he perceived, led at the back
to the park. He spoke to all their occupants separately. Some had heard
a noise in the night, but they did not consider that anything unusual,
and in the houses themselves, as they told Wenk, they had heard nothing.
He examined the park on the other side of the wall. There was nothing
to be seen there beyond a trace of many footprints in one spot,
where they had apparently jumped down, for some of the impressions
were fairly deep. But this spot had been raked, and carbolic acid
thrown upon it. There was an empty tin near, which from its smell had
evidently contained carbolic. This precaution was doubtless taken in
case the police hounds should be requisitioned, and it might have been
put there beforehand, but he did not quite understand the reason, and
decided to test it by means of a hound. It took up the scent in the
Jägerstrasse, ran to the wall and jumped up on it, but when they lifted
it on the other side it went no further. It turned away in disgust
at the smell of the carbolic, ran up and down the wall and then back
again, always in the same direction, and yet always as if irresolute.
It tried to spring into the air.
Wenk had it lifted over the wall again, but when the hound was on the
top, and the man on the other side ready to receive it, it escaped from
him and ran, barking furiously, along the top. It did not run far, but
remained in one spot, barking, with its head downwards, towards the
yard of one of the houses, trying to jump down there. Then with one
spring the hound was over, running towards the house, where it stood
still at the outer wall. This Wenk examined closely, perceiving marks
of scratches occurring at regular intervals upwards. Here undoubtedly
people had climbed up by means of a ladder, and the tracks led to a
window on the first floor. The room it belonged to was empty, and he
asked the people of the house how long it had been so. Then all the
other lodgers were astonished, for they said it was occupied. One of
them exclaimed, “But Georsh is living there!”
Wenk’s heart gave a sudden leap.
“Who?” he said quickly. “What was his name?”
Again the answer was “Georsh.”
“Did you know him?” he asked of one woman.
“Certainly I knew Georsh!” she replied.
“Was that his surname?”
“I don’t know.”
“Who used to call him that?”
“The fellows who were always coming to see him.”
“So his name was George?” went on Wenk, desirous of being quite
certain.
“No, he was called Georsh,” answered one of them.
“Has he lived here long?”
Nobody knew exactly; some thought it was about a year, but he was
hardly ever at home. He tried to get a description of the man, but then
a curious fact came to light. Even about the colour of his hair they
could not agree. One said he was blue-eyed, another declared his eyes
were dark. He was rather tall and thin, and dressed like a sailor.
Again, he looked rather like an athlete.
“What was he then? What was his calling?”
“They said he was a commercial traveller.”
It was curious that there was no mention of this Georsh as an occupant
of the house; he was not on the list given to Wenk.
Wenk went to the Town Register Office, and with the help of the
officials he ascertained that one occupant of the house had been a
George Hinrichsen from the Elbe district. He had left the place about a
month before, and said he was going to Ravensburg, and after that the
room had been taken by a commercial traveller named Poldringer.
It was quite clear to Wenk that Hinrichsen and Poldringer the traveller
were one and the same person. It was just a month ago that Hull
had had that memorable conversation with Wenk. And Hinrichsen and
Poldringer were the same individual as the murderer of Hull, or at
least the person who directed the murder, and it was his name that the
dancer had called out. Possibly the direction Hinrichsen had taken in
departure also agreed with this, for Constance lay near Ravensburg,
and Switzerland could be reached from there.
Wenk telegraphed to the Constance head-office, with special reference
to the passport stations. A few hours later the police officials there
telegraphed back that a man named Poldringer had notified his arrival
there. He gave Bavaria as his native State, and this had struck the
registering official as curious, because the man used a dialect that
was unmistakably North German. On that account the police kept him
under surveillance. They ascertained that he frequented the society of
people who were suspected of smuggling goods across the Swiss frontier.
He often travelled by the steamer to Lindau. “Expect me to-day in
Constance,” telephoned Wenk finally.
Wenk immediately prepared for a journey. He could reach Constance
before night if the little monoplane belonging to a friend of his,
which was always at his service, were ready for a flight. He telephoned
to him and ascertained that it was.
At four o’clock he departed, and in the deepening twilight he descended
at the Petershaus aerodrome near Constance. The police described the
locality in which these profiteers and smugglers were to be found.
He disguised himself as a chauffeur and went to one of their inns to
get some supper. He addressed one man whom he thought to be of their
party, saying that he could get hold of two cars, and also some sort of
export licence, as long as it wasn’t looked at too closely, but if he
had the help of one or, better still, of two bold fellows it could be
done quite easily. There would be a profit of about ten thousand in
it, for the cars were bought in the autumn of 1918 and had been kept
hidden ever since. They were first-class cars that had belonged to two
generals.
The other did not take long to consider. He would broach the matter
to a friend of his, and the three of them would soon pull it off.
They went together later to another tavern, which the friend often
frequented, but he did not appear.
“What is his name?” asked Wenk. “Perhaps I know him.”
“He is called Ball, but you may have known him under some other name.
Most of us find it convenient to have one or two different names here;
you know all about that, don’t you?”
“Of course I do,” said Wenk.
Then he grew suddenly pale, for just then a man entered, in whom he
thought he recognized the chauffeur who had driven him to Schleissheim
in the car filled with poison gas. Everything was at stake. Wenk’s
disguise was rather a sketchy one. Supposing this man were the Ball
they were expecting! If he came to their table and sat down, he
would probably recognize Wenk, and the whole story would come out.
He employed all his powers to regain his self-control, and tried to
disguise his features by contracting his facial muscles. He had already
taken the precaution of seating himself in a dark corner.
But the new-comer sat down at some distance from him at a large table
where several young fellows were already sitting. He had his back
to Wenk, but the lawyer felt he must not venture any further, and
promising a rendezvous for the next evening, he hastily took his leave.
He went to the police-station, stated where he had been, and described
the suspected man. The sergeant of police sent for a constable, who
said that according to the description the man must be Poldringer.
“Could we be certain of that? I should like the fact established during
the night. But I beg of you to proceed cautiously in the matter, for
this man is armed at all points!” urged Wenk.
Then he thought it would be better not to go there, said the constable.
It was but a small town, and all the police officials, even the
plain-clothes men, knew these profiteers. His sudden appearance might
give the alarm.
“Well then, I must manage without that. Do you know where he lives?”
“Certainly.”
“Then take me there at once.”
The sergeant took Wenk to a byway where stood a shabby old inn, which
was divided into many courtyards at the back. Wenk at once recognized
that it would be extremely difficult to carry through any arrest here
without a large body of police, and so many constables could not be
quickly and easily procured in a small town like this.
Opposite the house was an iron-foundry. Here Wenk spent the next
forenoon in company with a constable who knew Poldringer, the two
concealing themselves behind a dust-begrimed window.
When, about eleven o’clock, the man whom Wenk knew as the sandy-bearded