“Addressed to my father?” The emotion and indignation in his tones were evident.
“Yes. We found it in the pocket of his coat.”
“Does—” He hesitated, throwing the merest fraction of a glance toward his mother. The magistrate understood.
"As yet—no. Can you give us any clue as to the writer?”
"I have no idea whatsoever.”
M. Hautet sighed.
“A most mysterious case. Ah, well, I suppose we can now rule out the letter altogether. What do you think, M. Giraud? It does not seem to lead us anywhere.”
“It certainly does not,” agreed the detective with emphasis.
“And yet,” sighed the magistrate, “it promised at the beginning to be such a beautiful and simple case!” He caught Mrs. Renauld’s eve, and blushed in immediate confusion. “Ah, yes,” he coughed, turning over the papers on the table. “Let me see, where were we? Oh, the weapon. I fear this may give you pain, M. Renauld. I understand it was a present from you to your mother. Very sad—very distressing—”
Jack Renauld leaned forward. His face, which had flushed during the perusal of the letter, was now deadly white.
“Do you mean—that it was with an airplane-wire paper cutter that my father was—was killed? But it’s impossible! A little thing like that!”
“Alas, M. Renauld, it is only too true! An ideal little tool, I fear. Sharp and easy to handle.”
“Where is it? Can I see it? Is it still in the—the body?”
“Oh, no, it had been removed. You would like to see it? To make sure? It would be as well, perhaps, though madame has already identified it. Still—M. Bex, might I trouble you?”
“Certainly, M. le juge. I will fetch it immediately.”
“Would it not be better to take M. Renauld to the shed?” suggested Giraud smoothly. “Without doubt he would wish to see his father’s body.”
The boy made a shivering gesture of negation, and the magistrate, always disposed to cross Giraud whenever possible, replied:
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