“He hasn’t grown rich at his work, either,” said Horn.
“No, there’s not much chance for a police detective to get rich. I’ve often wondered why Muller never had the energy to set up in business for himself. He might have won fame and fortune as a private detective. But he’s gone on plodding along as a police subordinate, and letting the department get all the credit for his most brilliant achievements. It’s a sort of incorrigible humbleness of nature—and then, you know, he had the misfortune to be unjustly sentenced to a term in prison in his early youth.”
“No, I did not know that.”
“The stigma stuck to his name, and finally drove him to take up this work. I don’t think Muller realised, when he began, just how greatly he is gifted. I don’t know that he really knows now. He seems to do it because he likes it—he’s a queer sort of man.”
While the commissioners drove through the streets to the police station the man of whom they were speaking sat in Johann’s little room in close consultation with the valet.
“How long is it since the Professor began to give you money to go to the theatre on Saturday evenings?”
“The first time it happened was on my name day.”
“What’s the rest of your name? There are so many Johanns on the calendar.”
“I am Johann Nepomuk.”
Muller took a little calendar from his pocket and turned its pages. “It was May sixteenth,” volunteered the valet.