the case of the pocket diary found in the snow-第3部分

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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。

And　then　the　weird　title！

Was　it　written　at　the　dictation　of　insanity？　or　did　A。　L。　know；
while　she　wrote　it；　that　it　was　too　late　for　any　help　to　reach　her？
Did　she　see　her　doom　approaching　so　clearly　that　she　knew　there　was
no　escape？

Muller　breathed　a　deep　breath　before　he　continued　his　reading。
Later　on　his　breath　came　more　quickly　still；　and　he　clinched　his
fist　several　times；　as　if　deeply　moved。　　He　was　not　a　cold　man；
only　thoroughly　self…controlled。　　In　his　breast　there　lived　an
unquenchable　hatred　of　all　evil。　　It　was　this　that　awakened　the
talents　which　made　him　the　celebrated　detective　he　had　become。

〃I　fear　that　it　will　be　impossible　for　any　one　to　save　me　now；　but
perhaps　I　may　be　avenged。　　Therefore　I　will　write　down　here　all
that　has　happened　to　me　since　I　set　out　on　my　journey。〃　　These　were
the　first　words　that　were　written　under　the　mysterious　title。　　Muller
had　just　read　them　when　the　commissioner　entered。

〃Will　you　speak　to　Amster；　he　has　just　returned？〃　he　asked。

Muller　rose　at　once。　　〃Certainly。　　Did　you　telegraph　to　all　the
railway　stations？〃

〃Yes；〃　answered　the　commissioner；　〃and　also　to　the　other　police
stations。〃

〃And　to　the　hospitals？　　…　asylums？〃

〃No；　I　did　not　do　that。〃　Commissioner　von　Mayringen　blushed；　a
blush　that　was　as　becoming　to　him　as　was　his　frank　acknowledgment
of　his　mistake。　　He　went　out　to　remedy　it　at　once；　while　Muller
heard　Amster's　short　and　not　particularly　important　report。　　The
workingman　was　evidently　shivering；　and　the　detective　handed　him　a
glass　of　tea　with　a　good　portion　of　rum　in　it。

〃Here；　drink　this；　you　are　cold。　　Are　you　ill？〃　　Amster　smiled　sadly。
〃No；　I　am　not　ill；　but　I　was　discharged　to…day　and　am　out　of　work
now　…　that's　almost　as　bad。〃

〃Are　you　married？〃

〃No；　but　I　have　an　old　mother　to　support。〃

〃Leave　your　address　with　the　commissioner。　　He　may　be　able　to　find
work　for　you；　we　can　always　use　good　men　here。　　But　now　drink　your
tea。〃　　Amster　drank　the　glass　in　one　gulp。　　〃Well；　now　we　have　lost
the　trail　in　both　directions；〃　said　Muller　calmly。　　〃But　we　will
find　it　again。　　You　can　help；　as　you　are　free　now　anyway。　　If　you
have　the　talent　for　that　sort　of　thing；　you　may　find　permanent　work
here。〃

A　gesture　and　a　look　from　the　workingman　showed　the　detective　that
the　former　did　not　think　very　highly　of　such　occupation。　　Muller
laid　his　hand　on　the　other's　shoulder　and　said　gravely：　〃You　wouldn't
care　to　take　service　with　us？　　This　sort　of　thing　doesn't　rate　very
high；　I　know。　　But　I　tell　you　that　if　we　have　our　hearts　in　the　right
place；　and　our　brains　are　worth　anything；　we　are　of　more　good　to
humanity　than　many　an　honest　citizen　who　wouldn't　shake　hands　with　us。
There　…　and　now　I　am　busy。　　Goodnight。〃

With　these　words　Muller　pushed　the　astonished　man　out　of　the　room；
shut　the　door；　and　sat　down　again　with　his　little　book。　　This　is
what　he　read：

〃Wednesday　…　is　it　Wednesday？　　They　brought　me　a　newspaper　to…day
which　had　the　date　of　Wednesday；　the　20th　of　November。　　The　ink
still　smells　fresh；　but　it　is　so　damp　here；　the　paper　may　have
been　older。　　I　do　not　know　surely　on　what　day　it　is　that　I　begin
to　write　this　narrative。　　I　do　not　know　either　whether　I　may　not
have　been　ill　for　days　and　weeks；　I　do　not　know　what　may　have　been
the　matter　with　me　…　I　know　only　that　I　was　unconscious；　and　that
when　I　came　to　myself　again；　I　was　here　in　this　gloomy　room。　　Did
any　physician　see　me？　　I　have　seen　no　one　until　to…day　except　the
old　woman；　whose　name　I　do　not　know　and　who　has　so　little　to　say。
She　is　kind　to　me　otherwise；　but　I　am　afraid　of　her　hard　face　and
of　the　smile　with　which　she　answers　all　my　questions　and　entreaties。
〃You　are　ill。〃　　These　are　the　only　words　that　she　has　ever　said
to　me；　and　she　pointed　to　her　forehead　as　she　spoke　them。　　She
thinks　I　am　insane；　therefore；　or　pretends　to　think　so。

〃What　a　hoarse　voice　she　has。　　She　must　be　ill　herself；　for　she
coughs　all　night　long。　　I　can　hear　it　through　the　wall　…　she　sleeps
in　the　next　room。　　But　I　am　not　ill；　that　is　I　am　not　ill　in　the
way　she　says。　　I　have　no　fever　now；　my　pulse　is　calm　and　regular。
I　can　remember　everything；　until　I　took　that　drink　of　tea　in　the
railway　station。　　What　could　there　have　been　in　that　tea？　　I　suppose
I　should　have　noticed　how　anxious　my　travelling　companion　was　t