The Case of the Pocket Diary Found in the Snow

  CHAPTER ONE. THE DISCOVERY IN THE SNOW

  A quiet winter evening had sunk down upon the great city. The clock inthe old clumsy church steeple of the factory district had not yet struckeight, when the side door of one of the large buildings opened and a mancame out into the silent street.

  It was Ludwig Amster, one of the working-men in the factory, starting onhis homeward way. It was not a pleasant road, this street along theedge of the city. The town showed itself from its most disagreeableside here, with malodorous factories, rickety tenements, untidy openstretches and dumping grounds offensive both to eye and nostril.

  Even by day the street that Amster took was empty; by night it wasabsolutely quiet and dark, as dark as were the thoughts of the solitaryman. He walked along, brooding over his troubles. Scarcely an hourbefore he had been discharged from the factory because of his refusal tosubmit to the injustice of his foreman.

  The yellow light of the few lanterns show nothing but high boardwalls and snow drifts, stone heaps, and now and then the remains of aneglected garden. Here and there a stunted tree or a wild shrub benttheir twigs under the white burden which the winter had laid upon them.Ludwig Amster, who had walked this street for several years, knew hispath so well that he could take it blindfolded. The darkness did notworry him, but he walked somewhat more slowly than usual, for he knewthat under the thin covering of fresh-fallen snow there lay the ice ofthe night before. He walked carefully, watching for the slippery places.

  He had been walking about half an hour, perhaps, when he came to a crossstreet. Here he noticed the tracks of a wagon, the trace still quitefresh, as the slowly falling flakes did not yet cover it. The tracks ledout towards the north, out on to the hilly, open fields.

  Amster was somewhat astonished. It was very seldom that a carriage cameinto this neighbourhood, and yet these narrow wheel-tracks could havebeen made only by an equipage of that character. The heavy trucks whichpassed these roads occasionally had much wider wheels. But Amster was tofind still more to astonish him.

  In one corner near the cross-roads stood a solitary lamp-post. Thelight of the lamp fell sharply on the snow, on the wagon tracks, and--onsomething else besides.

  Amster halted, bent down to look at it, and shook his head as if indoubt.

  A number of small pieces of glass gleamed up at him and between them,like tiny roses, red drops of blood shone on the white snow. All thiswas a few steps to one side of the wagon tracks.

  "What can have happened here--here in this weird spot, where a cry forhelp would never be heard? where there would be no one to bring help?"

  So Amster asked himself, but his discovery gave him no answer. Hiscuriosity was aroused, however, and he wished to know more. He followedup the tracks and saw that the drops of blood led further on, althoughthere was no more glass. The drops could still be seen for a yardfurther, reaching out almost to the board fence that edged the sidewalk.Through the broken planks of this fence the rough bare twigs of athorn bush stretched their brown fingers. On the upper side of the fewscattered leaves there was snow, and blood.

  Amster's wide serious eyes soon found something else. Beside the bushthere lay a tiny package. He lifted it up. It was a small, light, squarepackage, wrapped in ordinary brown paper. Where the paper came togetherit was fastened by two little lumps of black bread, which were stillmoist. He turned the package over and shook his head again. On the otherside was written, in pencil, the lettering uncertain, as if scribbledin great haste and in agitation, the sentence, "Please take this to thenearest police station."

  The words were like a cry for help, frozen on to the ugly paper. Amstershivered; he had a feeling that this was a matter of life and death.

  The wagon tracks in the lonely street, the broken pieces of glass andthe drops of blood, showing that some occupant of the vehicle had brokenthe window, in the hope of escape, perhaps, or to throw out the packagewhich should bring assistance--all these facts grouped themselvestogether in the brain of the intelligent working-man to form someterrible tragedy where his assistance, if given at once, might be ofgreat use. He had a warm heart besides, a heart that reached out to thisunknown who was in distress, and who threw out the call for help whichhad fallen into his hands.

  He waited no longer to ponder over the matter, but started off at a fullrun for the nearest police station. He rushed into the room and told hisstory breathlessly.

  They took him into the next room, the office of the commissioner forthe day. The official in charge, who had been engaged in earnestconversation with a small, frail-looking, middle-aged man, turned toAmster with a question as to what brought him there.

  "I found this package in the snow."

  "Let me see it."

  Amster laid it on the table. The older man looked at it, and as thecommissioner was about to open it, he handed him a paper-knife with thewords: "You had better cut it open, sir."

  "Why?"

  "It is best not to injure the seals that fasten a package."

  "Just as you say, Muller," answered the young commissioner, smiling. Hewas still very young to hold such an office, but then he was the son ofa Cabinet Minister, and family connections had obtained this responsibleposition for him so soon. Kurt von Mayringen was his name, and he wasa very good-looking young man, apparently a very good-natured young manalso, for he took this advice from a subordinate with a most charmingsmile. He knew, however, that this quiet, pale-faced little man in theshabby clothes was greater than he, and that it was mere accident ofbirth that put him, Kurt von Mayringen, instead of Joseph Muller, in theposition of superior.

  The young commissioner had had most careful advice from headquarters asto Muller, and he treated the secret service detective, who was one ofthe most expert and best known men in the profession, with the greatestdeference, for he knew that anything Muller might say could be only ofvalue to him with his very slight knowledge of his business. He took theknife, therefore, and carefully cut open the paper, taking out a tinylittle notebook, on the outer side of which a handsome monogram gleamedup at him in golden letters.

  "A woman made this package," said Muller, who had been looking at thecovering very carefully; "a blond woman."

  The other two looked at him in astonishment. He showed them a singleblond hair which had been in one of the bread seals.

  "How I was murdered." Those were the words that Commissioner vonMayringen read aloud after he had hastily turned the first few pagesof the notebook, and had come to a place where the writing was heavilyunderscored.

  The commissioner and Amster were much astonished at these words, but thedetective still gazed quietly at the seals of the wrapping.

  "This heading reads like insanity," said the commissioner. Mullershrugged his shoulders, then turned to Amster. "Where did you find thepackage?"

  "In Garden street."

  "When?"

  "About twenty minutes ago."

  Amster gave a short and lucid account of his discovery. His intelligentface and well-chosen words showed that he had observation and the powerto describe correctly what he had observed. His honest eyes inspiredconfidence.

  "Where could they have been taking the woman?" asked the detective, moreof himself than of the others.

  The commissioner searched hastily through the notebook for a signature,but without success. "Why do you think it is a woman? This writing looksmore like a man's hand to me. The letters are so heavy and--"

  "That is only because they are written with broad pen," interruptedMuller, showing him the writing on the package; "here is the same hand,but it is written with a fine hard pencil, and you can see distinctlythat this is a woman's handwriting. And besides, the skin on a man'sthumb does not show the fine markings that you can see here on thesebits of bread that have been used for seals."

  The commissioner rose from his seat. "You may be right, Muller. We willtake for granted, then, that there is a woman in trouble. It remains tobe seen whether she is insane or not."

  "Yes, that remains to be seen," s
aid Muller dryly, as he reached for hisovercoat.

  "You are going before you read what is in the notebook?" askedCommissioner von Mayringen.

  Muller nodded. "I want to see the wagon tracks before they are lost; itmay help me to discover something else. You can read the book and makeany arrangements you find necessary after that."

  Muller was already wrapped in his overcoat. "Is it snowing now?" Heturned to Arnster.

  "Some flakes were falling as I came here."

  "All right. Come with me and show me the way." Muller nodded carelesslyto his superior officer, his mind evidently already engrossed inthoughts of the interesting case, and hurried out with Amster. Thecommissioner was quite satisfied with the state of affairs. He knew thecase was in safe hands. He seated himself at his desk again and beganto read the little book which had come into his hands so strangely. Hiseyes ran more and more rapidly over the closely written pages, as hisinterest grew and grew.

  When, half an hour later, he had finished the reading, he pacedrestlessly up and down the room, trying to bring order into the thoughtsthat rushed through his brain. And one thought came again and again, andwould not be denied in spite of many improbabilities, and many strangethings with which the book was full; in spite, also, of the varying,uncertain handwriting and style of the message. This one thought was,"This woman is not insane."

  While the young official was pondering over the problem, Muller enteredas quietly as ever, bowed, put his hat and cane in their places,and shook the snow off his clothing. He was evidently pleased aboutsomething. Kurt von Mayringen did not notice his entrance. He was againat the desk with the open book before him, staring at the mysteriouswords, "How I was murdered."

  "It is a woman, a lady of position. And if she is mad, then her madnesscertainly has method." Muller said these words in his usual quiet way,almost indifferently. The young commissioner started up and snatchedfor the fine white handkerchief which the detective handed him. A strongsweet perfume filled the room. "It is hers?" he murmured.

  "It is hers," said Muller. "At least we can take that much for granted,for the handkerchief bears the same monogram, A. L., which is on thenotebook."

  Commissioner von Mayringen rose from his chair in evident excitement."Well?" he asked.

  It was a short question, but full of meaning, and one could see that hewas waiting in great excitement for the answer. Muller reported what hehad discovered. The commissioner thought it little enough, and shruggedhis shoulders impatiently when the other had finished.

  Muller noticed his chief's dissatisfaction and smiled at it. He himselfwas quite content with what he had found.

  "Is that all?" murmured the commissioner, as if disappointed.

  "That is all," repeated the detective calmly, and added, "That is a gooddeal. We have here a closely written notebook, the contents of which,judging by your excitement, are evidently important. We have also ahandkerchief with an unusual perfume on it. I repeat that this is quiteconsiderable. Besides this, we have the seals, and we know several otherthings. I believe that we can save this lady, or if it be too late, wecan avenge her at least."

  The commissioner looked at Muller in surprise. "We are in a city of morethan a million inhabitants," he said, almost timidly.

  "I have hunted criminals in two hemispheres, and I have found them,"said Muller simply. The young commissioner smiled and held out his hand."Ah, yes, Muller--I keep forgetting the great things you have done. Youare so quiet about it."

  "What I have done is only what any one could do who has that particularfaculty. I do only what is in human power to do, and the cleverestcriminal can do no more. Besides which, we all know that every criminalcommits some stupidity, and leaves some trace behind him. If it isreally a crime which we have found the trace of here, we will soondiscover it." Muller's editorial "we" was a matter of formality. Hemight with more truth have used the singular pronoun.

  "Very well, then, do what you can," said the commissioner with afriendly smile.

  The older man nodded, took the book and its wrappings from the desk, andwent into a small adjoining room.

  The commissioner sent for an attendant and gave him the order to fetch apot of tea from a neighbouring saloon. When the tray arrived, he placedseveral good cigars upon it, and sent it in to Muller. Taking a cigarhimself, the commissioner leaned back in his sofa corner to think overthis first interesting case of his short professional experience. Thatit concerned a lady in distress made it all the more romantic.

  In his little room the detective, put in good humour by the thoughtfulattention of his chief, sat down to read the book carefully. While hestudied its contents his mind went back over his search in the silentstreet outside.

  He and Amster had hurried out into the raw chill of the night, reachingthe spot of the first discovery in about ten or fifteen minutes. Mullerfound nothing new there. But he was able to discover in which directionthe carriage had been going. The hoof marks of the single horse whichhad drawn it were still plainly to be seen in the snow.

  "Will you follow these tracks in the direction from which they havecome?" he asked of Amster. "Then meet me at the station and report whatyou have seen."

  "Very well, sir," answered the workman. The two men parted with a handshake.

  Before Muller started on to follow up the tracks in the other direction,he took up one of the larger pieces' of glass. "Cheap glass," he said,looking at it carefully. "It was only a hired cab, therefore, and aone-horse cab at that."

  He walked on slowly, following the marks of the wheels. His eyessearched the road from side to side, looking for any other signs thatmight have been left by the hand which had thrown the package out of thewindow. The snow, which had been falling softly thus far, began to comedown in heavier flakes, and Muller quickened his pace. The tracks wouldsoon be covered, but they could still be plainly seen. They led outinto the open country, but when the first little hill had been climbed adrift heaped itself up, cutting off the trail completely.

  Muller stood on the top of this knoll at a spot where the streetdivided. Towards the right it led down into a factory suburb; towardsthe left the road led on to a residence colony, and straight ahead theway was open, between fields, pastures and farms, over moors, to anothertown of considerable size lying beside a river. Muller knew all this,but his knowledge of the locality was of little avail, for all traces ofthe carriage wheels were lost.

  He followed each one of the streets for a little distance, but to nopurpose. The wind blew the snow up in such heaps that it was quiteimpossible to follow any trail under such conditions.

  With an expression of impatience Muller gave up his search and turned togo back again. He was hoping that Amster might have had better luck. Itwas not possible to find the goal towards which the wagon had taken itsprisoner--if prisoner she was--as soon as they had hoped. Perhaps thesearch must be made in the direction from which she had been brought.

  Muller turned back towards the city again. He walked more quickly now,but his eyes took in everything to the right and to the left of hispath. Near the place where the street divided a bush waved its baretwigs in the wind. The snow which had settled upon it early in the dayhad been blown away by the freshening wind, and just as Muller nearedthe bush he saw something white fluttering from one twig. It was ahandkerchief, which had probably hung heavy and lifeless when he hadpassed that way before. Now when the wind held it out straight, he sawit at once. He loosened it carefully from the thorny twigs. A delicateand rather unusual perfume wafted up to his face. There was more of theodour on the little cloth than is commonly used by people of good taste.And yet this handkerchief was far too fine and delicate in texture tobelong to the sort of people who habitually passed along this street.It must have something to do with the mysterious carriage. It was stillquite dry, and in spite of the fact that the wind had been playing withit, it had been but slightly torn. It could therefore have been in thatposition for a short time only. At the nearest lantern Muller saw thatthe monogram on the handker
chief was the same in style and initials asthat on the notebook. It was the letters A. L.