“No,” I said at last. “I should put him down as a Frenchman most
decidedly.”
Giraud gave a grunt of dissatisfaction.
“Same here.”
He stood there for a moment, then with an imperative gesture he waved
me aside, and once more, on hands and knees, he continued his search of
the floor of the shed. He was marvellous. Nothing escaped him. Inch by
inch he went over the floor, turning over pots, examining old sacks. He
pounced on a bundle by the door, but it proved to be only a ragged coat
and trousers, and he flung it down again with a snarl. Two pairs of old
gloves interested him, but in the end he shook his head and laid them
aside. Then he went back to the pots, methodically turning them over
one by one. In the end, he rose to his feet, and shook his head
thoughtfully. He seemed baffled and perplexed. I think he had forgotten
my presence.
But, at that moment, a stir and bustle was heard outside, and our old
friend, the examining magistrate, accompanied by his clerk and M. Bex,
with the doctor behind him, came bustling in.
“But this is extraordinary, Mr. Giraud,” cried M. Hautet. “Another
crime! Ah, we have not got to the bottom of this case. There is some
deep mystery here. But who is the victim this time?”
“That is just what nobody can tell us, M. le juge. He has not been
identified.”
“Where is the body?” asked the doctor.
Giraud moved aside a little.
“There in the corner. He has been stabbed to the heart, as you see. And
with the dagger that was stolen yesterday morning. I fancy that the
murder followed hard upon the theft—but that is for you to say. You can
handle the dagger freely—there are no finger-prints on it.”
The doctor knelt down by the dead man, and Giraud turned to the
examining magistrate.
“A pretty little problem, is it not? But I shall solve it.”
“And so no one can identify him,” mused the magistrate. “Could it
possibly be one of the assassins? They may have fallen out among
themselves.”
Giraud shook his head.
“The man is a Frenchman—I would take my oath of that—”
But at that moment they were interrupted by the doctor who was sitting
back on his heels with a perplexed expression.
“You say he was killed yesterday morning?”
“I fix it by the theft of the dagger,” explained Giraud. “He may, of
course, have been killed later in the day.”
“Later in the day? Fiddlesticks! This man has been dead at least
forty-eight hours, and probably longer.”
We stared at each other in blank amazement.