The terror runs on the ice cream cone
Was it really supposed to happen to me ? a room that was closed from the inside? Couldn't it be, I don't know, open from the inside? ".
This thought Hercule Potit, commissioner of the police department of Le Havre, France.
The case they had put him in the morning was truly terrible: a decrepit old man poisoned by a killer ice cream's cone (even ice cream can't be trusted these days), in a room locked from the inside. He, Potit, had seen a lot of detective movies about a murder in a room that was locked from the inside, only he didn't remember how the detectives solved that problem.
On the other hand, anyone could have killed that man, even if the main suspects were people no more than two millimeters tall, which is the space that was between the base of the door and the floor.
The old man didn't seem to have any enemies in his castle: the only people present in the castle at the time of his death were the Ice Cream butler, his granddaughter and skilled card player Peppa Tencia, and the maid Onophrie. He, a certain Francois Schiatt, was a very ordinary man, any person one looks at him would look like him, he didn't seem to have enemies in any field, apart from the tennis court, as no one could bear to play with him: the only obsession he had it was a deep hatred of England. He was a little crazy, like all old men. He had been poisoned with a cocktail of cyanide, curare, sodium sulfate and a pinch of salt to taste: serve at room temperature. We were saying, a cocktail of poisons inserted into the ice cream he was eating: ice cream that the butler had brought him, who however seemed to adore his master, to the point of having built a small temple in his honor in front of which he knelt every evening: therefore not it could have been him. Suddenly he rang the phone, and then Potit did something worthy of a great cop. He replied.
It was a phone call from the policeman who had stayed behind to search the castle. "Potit, I discovered something very important. The door was not locked."
"But don't be silly! I pulled, pulled, pulled, but it didn't open." "Indeed: we had to push". Potit, visibly irritated, didn't even answer and hung up.
"Well, now we don't have this problem anymore" he thought, "even if we really didn't have it before, because the butler would, at most, bring the ice cream, and then the old man could close the door himself".
Potit, very nervous, had not yet stopped smoking since he entered his office: by now he had already consumed a carton of cigarettes and was preparing to open another one. There was so much smoke in the office that it was like being in an exhaust pipe. When the secretary came in to greet the inspector she was violently banged about ten meters away, so much smoke had accumulated.
The inspector decided to go out to take a walk and de-smoke his ideas. The oppressive heat on the street made him buy an ice cream cone, hoping to have a better fate than the old man who had died a few hours earlier.
"Strawberry, banana, apple, trifle, cream, chocolate, anise, raspberry, ... Well, give me a cone of trifle." The inspector took the cone and suddenly had an illumination. "But yes, sure, sure, sure, sure, sure, there ... I was saying, sure !!! The trifle, how did I not think about it before: the trifle, Of course. It is logical, trifle, the soup they make in England, what they say backwards becomes elfirt! ". He threw the cone in the face of the ice cream maker, full of joy (Potit was overjoyed, the ice cream maker at that moment was a little less happy) and, getting into the car, headed at full speed to the castle.
There, he immediately stopped the butler: "Tell me: what taste was the offending ice cream like?" "Trifle ... why?" "As I suspected: follow me, you are accused of the murder of Francois Schiatt". But you are crazy, how it occurs to you to accuse me like this!" "Tell the truth, please, don't be naughty. I know everything: you poisoned your master's trifle because he knew about your hatred for England, which is the land where he was born, and he couldn't bear to see her mocked. Confess, or put it under a log!". "Press". " Eh, that stuff there. So, is it decided?". "Absolutely no. Why should I be the culprit?" "Well, the killer is always the butler. And then an English butler ... who disgusts England so much!". "Argh, argh, no, don't say that". "Ah, ah, ah. It was a trap to set her up". "Okay, I confess, it was me. I could no longer bear to hear those bad words against my dear England! So I poisoned the ice cream he asked me to get rid of her words". "Well, follow me. And remember that Potit doesn't give a damn !!!".
