A quiet winter evening had sunk down upon the great city. The clock in
the old clumsy church steeple of the factory district had not yet struck
eight, when the side door of one of the large buildings opened and a man
came out into the silent street.
It was Ludwig Amster, one of the working-men in the factory, starting on
his homeward way. It was not a pleasant road, this street along the
edge of the city. The town showed itself from its most disagreeable
side here, with malodorous factories, rickety tenements, untidy open
stretches and dumping grounds offensive both to eye and nostril.
Even by day the street that Amster took was empty; by night it was
absolutely quiet and dark, as dark as were the thoughts of the solitary
man. He walked along, brooding over his troubles. Scarcely an hour
before he had been discharged from the factory because of his refusal to
submit to the injustice of his foreman.
The yellow light of the few lanterns show nothing but high board
walls and snow drifts, stone heaps, and now and then the remains of a
neglected garden. Here and there a stunted tree or a wild shrub bent
their twigs under the white burden which the winter had laid upon them.
Ludwig Amster, who had walked this street for several years, knew his
path so well that he could take it blindfolded. The darkness did not
worry him, but he walked somewhat more slowly than usual, for he knew
that under the thin covering of fresh-fallen snow there lay the ice of
the night before. He walked carefully, watching for the slippery places.
He had been walking about half an hour, perhaps, when he came to a cross
street. Here he noticed the tracks of a wagon, the trace still quite
fresh, as the slowly falling flakes did not yet cover it. The tracks led
out towards the north, out on to the hilly, open fields.
Amster was somewhat astonished. It was very seldom that a carriage came
into this neighbourhood, and yet these narrow wheel-tracks could have
been made only by an equipage of that character. The heavy trucks which
passed these roads occasionally had much wider wheels. But Amster was to
find still more to astonish 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.”
The other two looked at him in astonishment. He showed them a single
blond hair which had been in one of the bread seals.
“How I was murdered.” Those were the words that Commissioner von
Mayringen read aloud after he had hastily turned the first few pages
of the notebook, and had come to a place where the writing was heavily
underscored.
The commissioner and Amster were much astonished at these words, but the
detective still gazed quietly at the seals of the wrapping.
“This heading reads like insanity,” said the commissioner. Muller
shrugged his shoulders, then turned to Amster. “Where did you find the
package?”
“In Garden street.”
“When?”
“About twenty minutes ago.”
Amster gave a short and lucid account of his discovery. His intelligent
face and well-chosen words showed that he had observation and the power
to describe correctly what he had observed. His honest eyes inspired
confidence.
“Where could they have been taking the woman?” asked the detective, more
of 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 looks
more like a man’s hand to me. The letters are so heavy and--”
“That is only because they are written with broad pen,” interrupted
Muller, 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 distinctly
that this is a woman’s handwriting. And besides, the skin on a man’s
thumb does not show the fine markings that you can see here on these
bits of bread that have been used for seals.”
The commissioner rose from his seat. “You may be right, Muller. We will
take for granted, then, that there is a woman in trouble. It remains to
be seen whether she is insane or not.”
“Yes, that remains to be seen,” said Muller dryly, as he reached for his
overcoat.
“You are going before you read what is in the notebook?” asked
Commissioner von Mayringen.
Muller nodded. “I want to see the wagon tracks before they are lost; it
may help me to discover something else. You can read the book and make
any arrangements you find necessary after that.”
Muller was already wrapped in his overcoat. “Is it snowing now?” He
turned to Arnster.
“Some flakes were falling as I came here.”
“All right. Come with me and show me the way.” Muller nodded carelessly
to his superior officer, his mind evidently already engrossed in
thoughts of the interesting case, and hurried out with Amster. The
commissioner was quite satisfied with the state of affairs. He knew the
case was in safe hands. He seated himself at his desk again and began
to read the little book which had come into his hands so strangely. His
eyes ran more and more rapidly over the closely written pages, as his
interest grew and grew.
When, half an hour later, he had finished the reading, he paced
restlessly up and down the room, trying to bring order into the thoughts
that rushed through his brain. And one thought came again and again, and
would not be denied in spite of many improbabilities, and many strange
things 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 entered
as quietly as ever, bowed, put his hat and cane in their places,
and shook the snow off his clothing. He was evidently pleased about
something. Kurt von Mayringen did not notice his entrance. He was again
at the desk with the open book before him, staring at the mysterious
words, “How I was murdered.”
“It is a woman, a lady of position. And if she is mad, then her madness
certainly has method.” Muller said these words in his usual quiet way,
almost indifferently. The young commissioner started up and snatched
for the fine white handkerchief which the detective handed him. A strong
sweet 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 the
notebook.”
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 he
was waiting in great excitement for the answer. Muller reported what he
had discovered. The commissioner thought it little enough, and shrugged
his shoulders impatiently when the other had finished.
Muller noticed his chief’s dissatisfaction and smiled at it. He himself
was 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 good
deal. We have here a closely written notebook, the contents of which,
judging by your excitement, are evidently important. We have also a
handkerchief with an unusual perfume on it. I repeat that this is quite
considerable. Besides this, we have the seals, and we know several other
things. I believe that we can save this lady, or if it be too late, we
can avenge her at least.”
The commissioner looked at Muller in surprise. “We are in a city of more
than 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. You
are so quiet about it.”
“What I have done is only what any one could do who has that particular
faculty. I do only what is in human power to do, and the cleverest
criminal can do no more. Besides which, we all know that every criminal
commits some stupidity, and leaves some trace behind him. If it is
really a crime which we have found the trace of here, we will soon
discover it.” Muller’s editorial “we” was a matter of formality. He
might with more truth have used the singular pronoun.
“Very well, then, do what you can,” said the commissioner with a
friendly smile.
The older man nodded, took the book and its wrappings from the desk, and
went into a small adjoining room.
The commissioner sent for an attendant and gave him the order to fetch a
pot of tea from a neighbouring saloon. When the tray arrived, he placed
several good cigars upon it, and sent it in to Muller. Taking a cigar
himself, the commissioner leaned back in his sofa corner to think over
this first interesting case of his short professional experience. That
it concerned a lady in distress made it all the more romantic.
In his little room the detective, put in good humour by the thoughtful
attention of his chief, sat down to read the book carefully. While he
studied its contents his mind went back over his search in the silent
street outside.
He and Amster had hurried out into the raw chill of the night, reaching
the spot of the first discovery in about ten or fifteen minutes. Muller
found nothing new there. But he was able to discover in which direction
the carriage had been going. The hoof marks of the single horse which
had drawn it were still plainly to be seen in the snow.
“Will you follow these tracks in the direction from which they have
come?” he asked of Amster. “Then meet me at the station and report what
you have seen.”
“Very well, sir,” answered the workman. The two men parted with a hand
shake.
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 a
one-horse cab at that.”
He walked on slowly, following the marks of the wheels. His eyes
searched the road from side to side, looking for any other signs that
might have been left by the hand which had thrown the package out of the
window. The snow, which had been falling softly thus far, began to come
down in heavier flakes, and Muller quickened his pace. The tracks would
soon be covered, but they could still be plainly seen. They led out
into the open country, but when the first little hill had been climbed a
drift heaped itself up, cutting off the trail completely.
Muller stood on the top of this knoll at a spot where the street
divided. Towards the right it led down into a factory suburb; towards
the left the road led on to a residence colony, and straight ahead the
way was open, between fields, pastures and farms, over moors, to another
town of considerable size lying beside a river. Muller knew all this,
but his knowledge of the locality was of little avail, for all traces of
the carriage wheels were lost.
He followed each one of the streets for a little distance, but to no
purpose. The wind blew the snow up in such heaps that it was quite
impossible to follow any trail under such conditions.
With an expression of impatience Muller gave up his search and turned to
go back again. He was hoping that Amster might have had better luck. It
was not possible to find the goal towards which the wagon had taken its
prisoner--if prisoner she was--as soon as they had hoped. Perhaps the
search 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 his
path. Near the place where the street divided a bush waved its bare
twigs in the wind. The snow which had settled upon it early in the day
had been blown away by the freshening wind, and just as Muller neared
the bush he saw something white fluttering from one twig. It was a
handkerchief, which had probably hung heavy and lifeless when he had
passed that way before. Now when the wind held it out straight, he saw
it at once. He loosened it carefully from the thorny twigs. A delicate
and rather unusual perfume wafted up to his face. There was more of the
odour 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 to
belong to the sort of people who habitually passed along this street.
It must have something to do with the mysterious carriage. It was still
quite dry, and in spite of the fact that the wind had been playing with
it, it had been but slightly torn. It could therefore have been in that
position for a short time only. At the nearest lantern Muller saw that
the monogram on the handkerchief was the same in style and initials as
that on the notebook. It was the letters A. L.