The Pocket Diary Found in the Snow | Page 5

him.
In one corner near the cross-roads stood a solitary lamp-post. The light
of the lamp fell sharply on the snow, on the wagon tracks, and - on
something else besides.
Amster halted, bent down to look at it, and shook his head as if in
doubt.

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
this was a few steps to one side of the wagon tracks.
"What can have happened here - here in this weird spot, where a cry for
help would never be heard? where there would be no one to bring
help?"
So Amster asked himself, but his discovery gave him no answer. His
curiosity was aroused, however, and he wished to know more. He
followed up the tracks and saw that the drops of blood led further on,
although there was no more glass. The drops could still be seen for a
yard further, reaching out almost to the board fence that edged the
sidewalk. Through the broken planks of this fence the rough bare twigs
of a thorn bush stretched their brown fingers. On the upper side of the
few scattered leaves there was snow, and blood.
Amster's wide serious eyes soon found something else. Beside the bush
there lay a tiny package. He lifted it up. It was a small, light, square
package, wrapped in ordinary brown paper. Where the paper came
together it was fastened by two little lumps of black bread, which were
still moist. He turned the package over and shook his head again. On
the other side was written, in pencil, the lettering uncertain, as if
scribbled in great haste and in agitation, the sentence, "Please take this
to the nearest police station."
The words were like a cry for help, frozen on to the ugly paper. Amster
shivered; 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 and the
drops of blood, showing that some occupant of the vehicle had broken
the window, in the hope of escape, perhaps, or to throw out the package
which should bring assistance - all these facts grouped themselves
together in the brain of the intelligent working-man to form some
terrible tragedy where his assistance, if given at once, might be of great
use. He had a warm heart besides, a heart that reached out to this
unknown who was in distress, and who threw out the call for help
which had fallen into his hands.

He waited no longer to ponder over the matter, but started off at a full
run for the nearest police station. He rushed into the room and told his
story breathlessly.
They took him into the next room, the office of the commissioner for
the day. The official in charge, who had been engaged in earnest
conversation with a small, frail-looking, middle-aged man, turned to
Amster 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 the
commissioner was about to open it, he handed him a paper-knife with
the words: "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.
He was still very young to hold such an office, but then he was the son
of a Cabinet Minister, and family connections had obtained this
responsible position for him so soon. Kurt von Mayringen was his
name, and he was a very good-looking young man, apparently a very
good-natured young man also, for he took this advice from a
subordinate with a most charming smile. He knew, however, that this
quiet, pale-faced little man in the shabby clothes was greater than he,
and that it was mere accident of birth that put him, Kurt von Mayringen,
instead of Joseph Muller, in the position of superior.
The young commissioner had had most careful advice from
headquarters as to Muller, and he treated the secret service detective,
who was one of the most expert and best known men in the profession,
with the greatest deference, for he knew that anything Muller might say
could be only of value to him with his very slight knowledge of his
business. He took the knife, therefore, and carefully cut open the paper,

taking out a tiny little notebook, on the outer side of which a handsome
monogram gleamed up at him in golden letters.
"A woman made this package," said Muller, who had been looking at
the covering very carefully; "a blond woman."