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