The Case of The Pocket Diary Found in the Snow
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Grace Isabel Colbron and Augusta Groner >> The Case of The Pocket Diary Found in the Snow
The Case of The Pocket Diary Found in the Snow
by Grace Isabel Colbron and Augusta Groner
INTRODUCTION TO JOE MULLER
Joseph Muller, Secret Service detective of the Imperial Austrian
police, is one of the great experts in his profession. In
personality he differs greatly from other famous detectives. He
has neither the impressive authority of Sherlock Holmes, nor the
keen brilliancy of Monsieur Lecoq. Muller is a small, slight,
plain-looking man, of indefinite age, and of much humbleness of
mien. A naturally retiring, modest disposition, and two external
causes are the reasons for Muller's humbleness of manner, which
is his chief characteristic. One cause is the fact that in early
youth a miscarriage of justice gave him several years in prison,
an experience which cast a stigma on his name and which made it
impossible for him, for many years after, to obtain honest
employment. But the world is richer, and safer, by Muller's
early misfortune. For it was this experience which threw him
back on his own peculiar talents for a livelihood, and drove him
into the police force. Had he been able to enter any other
profession, his genius might have been stunted to a mere pastime,
instead of being, as now, utilised for the public good.
Then, the red tape and bureaucratic etiquette which attaches to
every governmental department, puts the secret service men of the
Imperial police on a par with the lower ranks of the subordinates.
Muller's official rank is scarcely much higher than that of a
policeman, although kings and councillors consult him and the
Police Department realises to the full what a treasure it has in
him. But official red tape, and his early misfortune ... prevent
the giving of any higher official standing to even such a genius.
Born and bred to such conditions, Muller understands them, and
his natural modesty of disposition asks for no outward honours,
asks for nothing but an income sufficient for his simple needs,
and for aid and opportunity to occupy himself in the way he most
enjoys.
Joseph Muller's character is a strange mixture. The
kindest-hearted man in the world, he is a human bloodhound when
once the lure of the trail has caught him. He scarcely eats or
sleeps when the chase is on, he does not seem to know human
weakness nor fatigue, in spite of his frail body. Once put on
a case his mind delves and delves until it finds a clue, then
something awakes within him, a spirit akin to that which holds
the bloodhound nose to trail, and he will accomplish the apparently
impossible, he will track down his victim when the entire machinery
of a great police department seems helpless to discover anything.
The high chiefs and commissioners grant a condescending permission
when Muller asks, "May I do this? ... or may I handle this case
this way?" both parties knowing all the while that it is a farce,
and that the department waits helpless until this humble little
man saves its honour by solving some problem before which its
intricate machinery has stood dazed and puzzled.
This call of the trail is something that is stronger than anything
else in Muller's mentality, and now and then it brings him into
conflict with the department, ... or with his own better nature.
Sometimes his unerring instinct discovers secrets in high places,
secrets which the Police Department is bidden to hush up and leave
untouched. Muller is then taken off the case, and left idle for
a while if he persists in his opinion as to the true facts. And
at other times, Muller's own warm heart gets him into trouble. He
will track down his victim, driven by the power in his soul which
is stronger than all volition; but when he has this victim in the
net, he will sometimes discover him to be a much finer, better man
than the other individual, whose wrong at this particular criminal's
hand set in motion the machinery of justice. Several times that
has happened to Muller, and each time his heart got the better of
his professional instincts, of his practical common-sense, too,
perhaps, ... at least as far as his own advancement was concerned,
and he warned the victim, defeating his own work. This peculiarity
of Muller's character caused his undoing at last, his official
undoing that is, and compelled his retirement from the force. But
his advice is often sought unofficially by the Department, and to
those who know, Muller's hand can be seen in the unravelling of
many a famous case.
The following stories are but a few of the many interesting cases
that have come within the experience of this great detective.
But they give a fair portrayal of Muller's peculiar method of
working, his looking on himself as merely an humble member of the
Department, and the comedy of his acting under "official orders"
when the Department is in reality following out his directions.
THE CASE OF THE POCKET DIARY FOUND IN THE SNOW
by Grace Isabel Colbron and Augusta Groner
CHAPTER I
THE DISCOVERY IN THE SNOW
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 bad 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, of 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.
CHAPTER II
THE STORY OF THE NOTEBOOK
It was warm and comfortable in the little room where Muller sat.
He closed the windows, lit the gas, took off his overcoat - Muller
was a pedantically careful person - smoothed his hair and sat down
comfortably at the table. Just as he took up the little book, the
attendant brought the tea, which he proceeded at once to enjoy. He
did not take up his little book again until he had lit himself a
cigar. He looked at the cover of the dainty little notebook for
many minutes before he opened it. It was a couple of inches long,
of the usual form, and had a cover of brown leather. In the left
upper corner were the letters A. L. in gold. The leaves of the
book, about fifty in all, were of a fine quality of paper and
covered with close writing. On the first leaves the writing was
fine and delicate, calm and orderly, but later on it was irregular
and uncertain, as if penned by a trembling hand under stress of
terror. This change came in the leaves of the book which followed
the strange and terrible title, "How I was murdered."
Before Muller began to read he felt the covers of the book carefully.
In one of them there was a tiny pocket, in which he found a little
piece of wall paper of a noticeable and distinctly ugly pattern.
The paper had a dark blue ground with clumsy lines of gold on it.
In the pocket he found also a tramway ticket, which had been crushed
and then carefully smoothed out again. After looking at these
papers, Muller replaced them in the cover of the notebook. The book
itself was strongly perfumed with the same odour which had exhaled
from the handkerchief.
The detective did not begin his reading in that part of the book
which followed the mysterious title, as the commissioner had done.
He began instead at the very first words.
"Ah! she is still young," he murmured, when he had read the first
lines. "Young, in easy circumstances, happy and contented."
These first pages told of pleasure trips, of visits from and to good
friends, of many little events of every-day life. Then came some
accounts, written in pencil, of shopping expeditions to the city.
Costly laces and jewels had been bought, and linen garments for
children by the dozen. "She is rich, generous, and charitable,"
thought the detective, for the book showed that the considerable
sums which had been spent here had not been for the writer herself.
The laces bore the mark, "For our church"; behind the account for
the linen stood the words, "For the charity school."
Muller began to feel a strong sympathy for the writer of these
notices. She showed an orderly, almost pedantic, character,
mingled with generosity of heart. He turned leaf after leaf until
he finally came to the words, written in intentionally heavy letters,
"How I was murdered."
Muller's head sank down lower over these mysterious words, and his
eyes flew through the writing that followed. It was quite a
different writing here. The hand that penned these words must have
trembled in deadly terror. Was it terror of coming death, foreseen
and not to be escaped? or was it the trembling and the terror of an
overthrown brain? It was undoubtedly, in spite of the difference,
the same hand that had penned the first pages of the book. A few
characteristic turns of the writing were plainly to be seen in both
parts of the story. But the ink was quite different also. The
first pages had been written with a delicate violet ink, the later
leaves were penned with a black ink of uneven quality, of the kind
used by poor people who write very seldom. The words of this later
portion of the book were blurred in many places, as if the writer
had not been able to dry them properly before she turned the leaves.
She therefore had had neither blotting paper nor sand at her disposal.