THE TUNISIAN DAGGER
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 probably 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
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