At seven o’clock that morning, the discovery of the dead body of the Minister of Justice lying lifeless on his bed had thrown the personnel of the Ministry into the wildest commotion. The domestics, well trained servants, had immediately advised the police, and M. Havard, hurrying with all speed to the Ministry of Justice, had passed on the intelligence to M. Casamajols’
private residence and sent an urgent summons to Professor Ardell. The three men, when they arrived almost simultaneously at the Place Vendôme, had been forced to abandon any false hopes they might have entertained the instant they set eyes on the unfortunate man. Désiré Ferrand was dead! For the tenth time the professor confirmed the fact to M. Casamajols, who could not believe his own eyes and ears.
M. Havard, pale and haggard, intervened:
“Dead!” he exclaimed, “you mean murdered, do you not, Professor?”
“Why, yes, I do mean murdered; the fact is obvious. M. Désiré Ferrand, awakened suddenly in the night, was struck with an instrument which evidently stunned him without leaving any wound—perhaps one of those cudgels murderers sometimes use.”
“I see what you mean,” broke in M. Havard, “a sandbag, a sack, that is, filled with sand; it makes the most deadly weapon you can imagine when wielded like a sling.”
The professor signified his agreement with the Chief’s version of the affair, and went on:
“The victim, thus incapacitated, nothing easier than to pierce his heart with a needle; as a matter of fact, we have discovered one driven in under the left breast of the unfortunate man.”
Noting the disordered state of the room, M. Casamajols observed:
“Before the end there was evidently a struggle, a desperate struggle,” and the professor agreed.