The Murder of Roger Ackroyd. Агата Кристи

over to the still form in the armchair.

      “The weapon ought to give us a clue,” he remarked, looking up. “It’s something quite unique—a curio, I should think, by the look of it.”

      He bent down, surveying the handle attentively, and I heard him give a grunt of satisfaction. Then, very gingerly, he pressed his hands down below the hilt and drew the blade out from the wound. Still carrying it so as not to touch the handle, he placed it in a wide china mug which adorned the mantelpiece.

      “Yes,” he said, nodding at it. “Quite a work of art. There can’t be many of them about.”

      It was indeed a beautiful object. A narrow, tapering blade, and a hilt of elaborately intertwined metals of curious and careful workmanship. He touched the blade gingerly with his finger, testing its sharpness, and made an appreciative grimace.

      “Lord, what an edge,” he exclaimed. “A child could drive that into a man—as easy as cutting butter. A dangerous sort of toy to have about.”

      “May I examine the body properly now?” I asked.

      He nodded.

      “Go ahead.”

      I made a thorough examination.

      “Well?” said the inspector, when I had finished.

      “I’ll spare you the technical language,” I said. “We’ll keep that for the inquest. The blow was delivered by a right-handed man standing behind him, and death must have been instantaneous. By the expression on the dead man’s face, I should say that the blow was quite unexpected. He may have died without knowing who his assailant was.”

      “Butlers can creep about as soft-footed as cats,” said Inspector Davis. “There’s not going to be much mystery about this crime. Take a look at the hilt of that dagger.”

      I took the look.

      “I dare say they’re not apparent to you, but I can see them clearly enough.” He lowered his voice. “Fingerprints!”

      He stood off a few steps to judge of his effect.

      “Yes,” I said mildly. “I guessed that.”

      I do not see why I should be supposed to be totally devoid of intelligence. After all, I read detective stories, and the newspapers, and am a man of quite average ability. If there had been toe marks on the dagger handle, now, that would have been quite a different thing. I would then have registered any amount of surprise and awe.

      I think the inspector was annoyed with me for declining to get thrilled. He picked up the china mug and invited me to accompany him to the billiard room.

      “I want to see if Mr Raymond can tell us anything about this dagger,” he explained.

      Locking the outer door behind us again, we made our way to the billiard room, where we found Geoffrey Raymond. The inspector held up his exhibit.

      “Ever seen this before, Mr Raymond?”

      “Why—I believe—I’m almost sure that is a curio given to Mr Ackroyd by Major Blunt. It comes from Morocco—no, Tunis. So the crime was committed with that? What an extraordinary thing. It seems almost impossible, and yet there could hardly be two daggers the same. May I fetch Major Blunt?”

      Without waiting for an answer, he hurried off.

      “Nice young fellow that,” said the inspector. “Something honest and ingenuous about him.”

      I agreed. In the two years that Geoffrey Raymond has been secretary to Ackroyd, I have never seen him ruffled or out of temper. And he has been, I know, a most efficient secretary.

      In a minute or two Raymond returned, accompanied by Blunt.

      “I was right,” said Raymond excitedly. “It is