height, slender and lithe in figure. He looked about fifty years of age, and his dark hair was plentifully streaked with gray. He was clean-shaven with a long thin nose, and eyes set rather close together, and his skin was deeply bronzed, as that of a man who had spent most of his life beneath tropical skies. His lips were drawn back from his teeth and an expression of absolute amazement and terror was stamped on the livid features.
“One can see by his face that he was stabbed in the back,” remarked Poirot.
Very gently he turned the dead man over. There, between the shoulder blades, staining the light fawn overcoat, was a round dark patch. In the middle of it there was a slit in the cloth. Poirot examined it narrowly.
“Have you any idea with what weapon the crime was committed?”
“It was left in the wound.” The commissary took down a large glass jar. In it was a small object that looked to me more like a paper knife than anything else. It had a black handle, and a narrow, shining blade. The whole thing was not more than ten inches long. Poirot tested the discolored point gingerly with his finger tip.
“Ma foi! but it is sharp! A nice easy little tool for murder!”
“Unfortunately, we could find no trace of fingerprints on it,” remarked Bex regretfully. “The murderer must have worn gloves.”
“Of course he did,” said Poirot contemptuously. “Even in Santiago they know enough for that. All the same, it interests me very much that there were no fingerprints. It is so amazingly simple to leave the fingerprints of someone else! And then the police are happy.” He shook his head. “I very much fear our criminal is not a man of method—either that or he was pressed for time. But we shall see.”
He let the body fall back into its original position.
“He wore only underclothes under his overcoat, I see,” he remarked.
“Yes, the examining magistrate thinks that is rather a curious point.”
32
