_Bucholz grows Skeptical and Doubtful._--_A Fruitless Search._--_The Murderer Involuntarily Reveals Himself._

The days sped on, and the trial of William Bucholz, for the murder of Henry Schulte, his employer, was fast approaching. Regularly Edward Sommers had visited the imprisoned man, and upon the occasion of each visit had endeavored to a.s.sure him of the possibility of escaping from the charge against him.

The mind of Bucholz was in a chaotic state of worriment and unrest.

Between his confidences to Edward Sommers and the repeated warnings of his counsel he scarcely knew what to do or what to say. At times he would bitterly regret having informed Sommers of anything about himself, and at others he would hug him to his breast as the only human being upon whom he could rely.

To Sommers this experience had been a trying one indeed. He had been compelled to endure the various moods of Bucholz with patience and equanimity and to endeavor to disabuse his mind of frequent-recurring doubts. Many times during his visits he would be vexed beyond endurance at the doubtful questionings of his companion, which he frequently found very difficult to parry or explain. Then, too, he became extravagant in his demands, and required the choicest delicacies that could be procured. He wanted new clothing, and even expressed a desire that Sommers should procure for him a uniform dress of the regiment of hussars of which he was formerly a member--in fact, became so importunate in his demands and so ridiculous in his fancied wants, that Sommers, fearful of affording grounds for suspicion in the minds both of the inmates of the prison and of the counsel for Bucholz, was compelled to emphatically refuse to gratify his wishes.

These denials of course were productive of differences of opinion and angry altercations. Fresh doubts would be engendered, which would require the exercise of all the ingenuity of the detective to allay.

Bucholz seemed to have no idea that a liberal expenditure of money at this time would be very injurious to his case, and that as Mr.

Bollman had sole charge of the money received from Germany, he would naturally become suspicious of his client should he discover that Sommers was supplying his wants from a source which his counsel was ignorant of.

He thirsted also for a glance at the money which had been found, especially the gold-piece with a hole in it, and besought Sommers to bring it with him, so that he might feast his eyes upon the wealth that was soon to be his. So frequent and imperious became these demands that Sommers had the greatest difficulty in convincing him of the danger to both of them which would be attendant upon any such proceeding.

He had informed Bucholz that the money had been securely placed in the vaults of a safe deposit company in New York City, but he did not tell him that the German Consul carried the key.

Upon the occasion of almost every visit he would be compelled to wrestle with this doubtfulness of his companion before he could induce him to converse upon the matters that would naturally be considered of the utmost importance to him, but after long and arduous labor, he usually left him more cheerful and hopeful than he found him.

The time drew near for the anonymous letters to arrive from San Francisco, and Sommers went to South Norwalk, and, locating the spot mentioned in the letter, he dug up the solid earth in such a manner as to convince whoever came to look for the hidden articles mentioned in the communication, that some one else had antic.i.p.ated them, and that the articles had been removed.

The letters were duly received, and Mr. Olmstead, who, of course, had been informed of their manufacture, upon receiving his paid no attention to the important information it was supposed to convey. The attorneys for Bucholz, however, visited the spot, and to their dismay and disappointment they found the earth broken, and every indication that the articles, if any existed, had been removed in advance of their arrival.

When Bucholz heard of the disappointment of his counsel, he was much chagrined, and accused Sommers of having arranged it so that Mr.

Olmstead received his before the other was delivered. This, however, was proven to the contrary, and the fact was that even had there been anything hidden under the ground, Bucholz's defenders were too dilatory in going in search of them.

It was at the visit after the information had reached them of this fruitless search for important testimony, that Bucholz related to Sommers another dream, in which his former prison companion was said to have appeared to him as a detective, and as he finished the recital, he turned to his companion, and said:

"If you are a detective, and if you do take the stand against me, it is all over. I will tell my lawyers to stop the trial--that will be the end of it--and me."

Sommers laughed at this and turned the drift of the conversation to the question of the approaching trial and the evidence that would soon be produced against him.

He asked him in a quiet manner, if he had thrown the two old pistols where they had been found on the night of the murder, and Bucholz, with a smile, answered him:

"Oh, my dear fellow, you make a mistake; the murderers threw them there."

Sommers looked incredulously at him for a moment, and then replied:

"I did not ask you whether you killed the old man or not; but you must not think me such a fool as not to know it."

Bucholz laughed, a hard, bitter laugh, and the glitter of the serpent's came into the wicked blue eyes, but he made no denial.

"I never thought when I first became acquainted with you," continued Sommers, "that you knew anything about this murder, but rather thought you an innocent, harmless-looking fellow. Indeed I never imagined that you had nerve enough to do anything like that."

Again that diabolical laugh, and Bucholz, holding out his right arm without a tremor of the muscles, replied, ironically:

"Oh, no; I have got no nerve at all."

The next day they referred again to the finding of the articles hidden in the ground, and Sommers informed his companion that Mr.

Olmstead had secured the axe that was in the barn, and regretted very much that he had not taken it when he was there.

Bucholz looked troubled at this information, but, rousing himself, he inquired:

"What kind of an axe did you get?"

"Why, I got one as nearly like that in the barn as I could--about as thick as the iron bars on the door of the cell there."

"Yes, that is right," said Bucholz, eagerly, while a glow of satisfaction dashed across his face.

"I don't know about that," replied Sommers. "How large were the wounds upon the head of Mr. Schulte?"

"One was about three inches long."

"Was that the wound that was made by the sharp edge of the axe?"

"Yes! yes!" replied Bucholz, eagerly.

"Well, how large was the other wound?"

"Well," said Bucholz, musingly, and making a circle of his thumb and forefinger, he held it up before the detective; "I should think it was a hole about this large."

No tremor of the voice, no shaking of the hand, as he held it up, but, with a cold, unfeeling look, he made this explanation.

"I am afraid that the axe I bought was too large, because the back of it was as broad as the bar upon this door--about two inches."

"That is right enough," quickly replied Bucholz, "because if you would take the axe and strike the blow upwards behind the ear, where that wound was, you would strike the head with the edge of the back, and that would crush in the bones of the skull and produce just such a hole as that was in Schulte's head."

He ill.u.s.trated this by starting to his feet and raising his hands as if he was about to strike the blow himself. The murderous glitter came again into those flashing eyes. His words came thick and fast--the demon smile was upon his lips. He was acting again the scene of that dreadful night, and, oblivious of his listener, or the impressions he was creating, he lived again that frightful moment when he had inflicted the blows that laid the old man dead at his feet.

There was a realism about his manner that was awfully impressive, and the detective involuntarily shuddered as he looked into those gleaming eyes, in which murder was clearly reflected. All doubts were removed from his mind--the murderer of Henry Schulte stood before him--and if the judges and the jury that were to hear his case in a few days could have witnessed this scene, conviction would have been carried to the minds of the most skeptical.

No confession seemed necessary now. If ever murder was depicted upon a human face it was expressed in every lineament of the face of the man who stood before the detective in that prison cell.

The wicked gleam had not died out from his eyes, as, unconscious of the effect his manner had produced, he resumed his position, and added, in a tone of entire satisfaction:

"Yes, yes, that axe is all right!"

Edward Sommers shuddered as he gazed at the man before him--the man who had become as putty in his hands, and yet who possessed a heart so black as to be capable of the d.a.m.ning deed for which he was so soon to be tried for committing.

He thought of the tears this man had shed in the darkness of the lonely nights; of the accusing voices that had rung in his ears during his uneasy slumbers; of the conscience that would not down at the command of the resolute will--and then of the incidents of this afternoon, when the murderer stood revealed before him in all the hideous deformity of his brutal pa.s.sion and his self confessed crime.

Of a truth events and not men are alone worthy of consideration in the life of a detective.

THE JUDGMENT.