The Unopened Letter

The hall of the hotel had been cleared of people. At the entrance
from the corridor a porter barred the way.

"No one can pass," said he.

"I think that I can," said Hanaud, and he produced his card. "From
the Surete at Paris."

He was allowed to enter, with Ricardo at his heels. On the ground
lay Marthe Gobin; the manager of the hotel stood at her side; a
doctor was on his knees. Hanaud gave his card to the manager.

"You have sent word to the police?"

"Yes," said the manager.

"And the wound?" asked Hanaud, kneeling on the ground beside the
doctor. It was a very small wound, round and neat and clean, and
there was very little blood. "It was made by a bullet," said
Hanaud--"some tiny bullet from an air-pistol."

"No," answered the doctor.

"No knife made it," Hanaud asserted.

"That is true," said the doctor. "Look!" and he took up from the
floor by his knee the weapon which had caused Marthe Gobin's
death. It was nothing but an ordinary skewer with a ring at one
end and a sharp point at the other, and a piece of common white
firewood for a handle. The wood had been split, the ring inserted
and spliced in position with strong twine. It was a rough enough
weapon, but an effective one. The proof of its effectiveness lay
stretched upon the floor beside them.

Hanaud gave it to the manager of the hotel.

"You must be very careful of this, and give it as it is to the
police."