正文
THE MURDERS IN THE RUE MORGUE
What song the Syrens sang, or what name Achilles assumed when he hid
himself among women, although puzzling questions, are not beyond
all conjecture.
—Sir Thomas Browne.
The mental features discoursed of as the analytical, are, in
themselves, but little susceptible of analysis. We appreciate
them only in their effects. We know of them, among other things,
that they are always to their possessor, when inordinately
possessed, a source of the liveliest enjoyment. As the strong man
exults in his physical ability, delighting in such exercises as
call his muscles into action, so glories the analyst in that
moral activity which _disentangles._ He derives pleasure from
even the most trivial occupations bringing his talent into play.
He is fond of enigmas, of conundrums, of hieroglyphics;
exhibiting in his solutions of each a degree of _acumen_ which
appears to the ordinary apprehension præternatural. His results,
brought about by the very soul and essence of method, have, in
truth, the whole air of intuition.
The faculty of re-solution is possibly much invigorated by
mathematical study, and especially by that highest branch of it
which, unjustly, and merely on account of its retrograde
operations, has been called, as if _par excellence_, analysis.
Yet to calculate is not in itself to analyse. A chess-player, for
example, does the one without effort at the other. It follows
that the game of chess, in its effects upon mental character, is
greatly misunderstood. I am not now writing a treatise, but
simply prefacing a somewhat peculiar narrative by observations
very much at random; I will, therefore, take occasion to assert
that the higher powers of the reflective intellect are more
decidedly and more usefully tasked by the unostentatious game of
draughts than by all the elaborate frivolity of chess. In this
latter, where the pieces have different and _bizarre_ motions,
with various and variable values, what is only complex is
mistaken (a not unusual error) for what is profound. The
_attention_ is here called powerfully into play. If it flag for
an instant, an oversight is committed resulting in injury or
defeat. The possible moves being not only manifold but involute,
the chances of such oversights are multiplied; and in nine cases
out of ten it is the more concentrative rather than the more
acute player who conquers. In draughts, on the contrary, where
the moves are _unique_ and have but little variation, the
probabilities of inadvertence are diminished, and the mere
attention being left comparatively unemployed, what advantages
are obtained by either party are obtained by superior _acumen_.
To be less abstract, let us suppose a game of draughts where the
pieces are reduced to four kings, and where, of course, no
oversight is to be expected. It is obvious that here the victory
can be decided (the players being at all equal) only by some
_recherché_ movement, the result of some strong exertion of the
intellect. Deprived of ordinary resources, the analyst throws
himself into the spirit of his opponent, identifies himself
therewith, and not unfrequently sees thus, at a glance, the sole
methods (sometime indeed absurdly simple ones) by which he may
seduce into error or hurry into miscalculation.
Whist has long been noted for its influence upon what is termed
the calculating power; and men of the highest order of intellect
have been known to take an apparently unaccountable delight in
it, while eschewing chess as frivolous. Beyond doubt there is
nothing of a similar nature so greatly tasking the faculty of
analysis. The best chess-player in Christendom _may_ be little
more than the best player of chess; but proficiency in whist
implies capacity for success in all those more important
undertakings where mind struggles with mind. When I say
proficiency, I mean that perfection in the game which includes a
comprehension of _all_ the sources whence legitimate advantage
may be derived. These are not only manifold but multiform, and
lie frequently among recesses of thought altogether inaccessible
to the ordinary understanding. To observe attentively is to
remember distinctly; and, so far, the concentrative chess-player
will do very well at whist; while the rules of Hoyle (themselves
based upon the mere mechanism of the game) are sufficiently and
generally comprehensible. Thus to have a retentive memory, and to
proceed by “the book,” are points commonly regarded as the sum
total of good playing. But it is in matters beyond the limits of
mere rule that the skill of the analyst is evinced. He makes, in
silence, a host of observations and inferences. So, perhaps, do
his companions; and the difference in the extent of the
information obtained, lies not so much in the validity of the
inference as in the quality of the observation. The necessary
knowledge is that of _what_ to observe. Our player confines
himself not at all; nor, because the game is the object, does he
reject deductions from things external to the game. He examines
the countenance of his partner, comparing it carefully with that
of each of his opponents. He considers the mode of assorting the
cards in each hand; often counting trump by trump, and honor by
honor, through the glances bestowed by their holders upon each.
He notes every variation of face as the play progresses,
gathering a fund of thought from the differences in the
expression of certainty, of surprise, of triumph, or of chagrin.
From the manner of gathering up a trick he judges whether the
person taking it can make another in the suit. He recognises what
is played through feint, by the manner with which it is thrown
upon the table. A casual or inadvertent word; the accidental
dropping or turning of a card, with the accompanying anxiety or
carelessness in regard to its concealment; the counting of the
tricks, with the order of their arrangement; embarrassment,
hesitation, eagerness or trepidation—all afford, to his
apparently intuitive perception, indications of the true state of
affairs. The first two or three rounds having been played, he is
in full possession of the contents of each hand, and
thenceforward puts down his cards with as absolute a precision of
purpose as if the rest of the party had turned outward the faces
of their own.
The analytical power should not be confounded with ample
ingenuity; for while the analyst is necessarily ingenious, the
ingenious man is often remarkably incapable of analysis. The
constructive or combining power, by which ingenuity is usually
manifested, and to which the phrenologists (I believe
erroneously) have assigned a separate organ, supposing it a
primitive faculty, has been so frequently seen in those whose
intellect bordered otherwise upon idiocy, as to have attracted
general observation among writers on morals. Between ingenuity
and the analytic ability there exists a difference far greater,
indeed, than that between the fancy and the imagination, but of a
character very strictly analogous. It will be found, in fact,
that the ingenious are always fanciful, and the _truly_
imaginative never otherwise than analytic.
The narrative which follows will appear to the reader somewhat in
the light of a commentary upon the propositions just advanced.
Residing in Paris during the spring and part of the summer of
18—, I there became acquainted with a Monsieur C. Auguste Dupin.
This young gentleman was of an excellent, indeed of an
illustrious family, but, by a variety of untoward events, had
been reduced to such poverty that the energy of his character
succumbed beneath it, and he ceased to bestir himself in the
world, or to care for the retrieval of his fortunes. By courtesy
of his creditors, there still remained in his possession a small
remnant of his patrimony; and, upon the income arising from this,
he managed, by means of a rigorous economy, to procure the
necessaries of life, without troubling himself about its
superfluities. Books, indeed, were his sole luxuries, and in
Paris these are easily obtained.
Our first meeting was at an obscure library in the Rue
Montmartre, where the accident of our both being in search of the
same very rare and very remarkable volume, brought us into closer
communion. We saw each other again and again. I was deeply
interested in the little family history which he detailed to me
with all that candor which a Frenchman indulges whenever mere
self is his theme. I was astonished, too, at the vast extent of
his reading; and, above all, I felt my soul enkindled within me
by the wild fervor, and the vivid freshness of his imagination.
Seeking in Paris the objects I then sought, I felt that the
society of such a man would be to me a treasure beyond price; and
this feeling I frankly confided to him. It was at length arranged
that we should live together during my stay in the city; and as
my worldly circumstances were somewhat less embarrassed than his
own, I was permitted to be at the expense of renting, and
furnishing in a style which suited the rather fantastic gloom of
our common temper, a time-eaten and grotesque mansion, long
deserted through superstitions into which we did not inquire, and
tottering to its fall in a retired and desolate portion of the
Faubourg St. Germain.
Had the routine of our life at this place been known to the
world, we should have been regarded as madmen—although, perhaps,
as madmen of a harmless nature. Our seclusion was perfect. We
admitted no visitors. Indeed the locality of our retirement had
been carefully kept a secret from my own former associates; and
it had been many years since Dupin had ceased to know or be known
in Paris. We existed within ourselves alone.
It was a freak of fancy in my friend (for what else shall I call
it?) to be enamored of the night for her own sake; and into this
_bizarrerie_, as into all his others, I quietly fell; giving
myself up to his wild whims with a perfect _abandon_. The sable
divinity would not herself dwell with us always; but we could
counterfeit her presence. At the first dawn of the morning we
closed all the messy shutters of our old building; lighting a
couple of tapers which, strongly perfumed, threw out only the
ghastliest and feeblest of rays. By the aid of these we then
busied our souls in dreams—reading, writing, or conversing, until
warned by the clock of the advent of the true Darkness. Then we
sallied forth into the streets arm in arm, continuing the topics
of the day, or roaming far and wide until a late hour, seeking,
amid the wild lights and shadows of the populous city, that
infinity of mental excitement which quiet observation can afford.
At such times I could not help remarking and admiring (although
from his rich ideality I had been prepared to expect it) a
peculiar analytic ability in Dupin. He seemed, too, to take an
eager delight in its exercise—if not exactly in its display—and
did not hesitate to confess the pleasure thus derived. He boasted
to me, with a low chuckling laugh, that most men, in respect to
himself, wore windows in their bosoms, and was wont to follow up
such assertions by direct and very startling proofs of his
intimate knowledge of my own. His manner at these moments was
frigid and abstract; his eyes were vacant in expression; while
his voice, usually a rich tenor, rose into a treble which would
have sounded petulantly but for the deliberateness and entire
distinctness of the enunciation. Observing him in these moods, I
often dwelt meditatively upon the old philosophy of the Bi-Part
Soul, and amused myself with the fancy of a double Dupin—the
creative and the resolvent.
Let it not be supposed, from what I have just said, that I am
detailing any mystery, or penning any romance. What I have
described in the Frenchman, was merely the result of an excited,
or perhaps of a diseased intelligence. But of the character of
his remarks at the periods in question an example will best
convey the idea.
We were strolling one night down a long dirty street in the
vicinity of the Palais Royal. Being both, apparently, occupied
with thought, neither of us had spoken a syllable for fifteen
minutes at least. All at once Dupin broke forth with these words:
“He is a very little fellow, that’s true, and would do better for
the _Théâtre des Variétés_.”
“There can be no doubt of that,” I replied unwittingly, and not
at first observing (so much had I been absorbed in reflection)
the extraordinary manner in which the speaker had chimed in with
my meditations. In an instant afterward I recollected myself, and
my astonishment was profound.
“Dupin,” said I, gravely, “this is beyond my comprehension. I do
not hesitate to say that I am amazed, and can scarcely credit my
senses. How was it possible you should know I was thinking of
——?” Here I paused, to ascertain beyond a doubt whether he really
knew of whom I thought.
“—— of Chantilly,” said he, “why do you pause? You were remarking
to yourself that his diminutive figure unfitted him for tragedy.”
This was precisely what had formed the subject of my reflections.
Chantilly was a _quondam_ cobbler of the Rue St. Denis, who,
becoming stage-mad, had attempted the _rôle_ of Xerxes, in
Crébillon’s tragedy so called, and been notoriously Pasquinaded
for his pains.
“Tell me, for Heaven’s sake,” I exclaimed, “the method—if method
there is—by which you have been enabled to fathom my soul in this
matter.” In fact I was even more startled than I would have been
willing to express.
“It was the fruiterer,” replied my friend, “who brought you to
the conclusion that the mender of soles was not of sufficient
height for Xerxes _et id genus omne_.”
“The fruiterer!—you astonish me—I know no fruiterer whomsoever.”
“The man who ran up against you as we entered the street—it may
have been fifteen minutes ago.”
I now remembered that, in fact, a fruiterer, carrying upon his
head a large basket of apples, had nearly thrown me down, by
accident, as we passed from the Rue C—— into the thoroughfare
where we stood; but what this had to do with Chantilly I could
not possibly understand.
There was not a particle of _charlatânerie_ about Dupin. “I will
explain,” he said, “and that you may comprehend all clearly, we
will first retrace the course of your meditations, from the
moment in which I spoke to you until that of the _rencontre_ with
the fruiterer in question. The larger links of the chain run
thus—Chantilly, Orion, Dr. Nichols, Epicurus, Stereotomy, the
street stones, the fruiterer.”
There are few persons who have not, at some period of their
lives, amused themselves in retracing the steps by which
particular conclusions of their own minds have been attained. The
occupation is often full of interest; and he who attempts it for
the first time is astonished by the apparently illimitable
distance and incoherence between the starting-point and the goal.
What, then, must have been my amazement when I heard the
Frenchman speak what he had just spoken, and when I could not
help acknowledging that he had spoken the truth. He continued:
“We had been talking of horses, if I remember aright, just before
leaving the Rue C——. This was the last subject we discussed. As
we crossed into this street, a fruiterer, with a large basket
upon his head, brushing quickly past us, thrust you upon a pile
of paving stones collected at a spot where the causeway is
undergoing repair. You stepped upon one of the loose fragments,
slipped, slightly strained your ankle, appeared vexed or sulky,
muttered a few words, turned to look at the pile, and then
proceeded in silence. I was not particularly attentive to what
you did; but observation has become with me, of late, a species
of necessity.
“You kept your eyes upon the ground—glancing, with a petulant
expression, at the holes and ruts in the pavement, (so that I saw
you were still thinking of the stones,) until we reached the
little alley called Lamartine, which has been paved, by way of
experiment, with the overlapping and riveted blocks. Here your
countenance brightened up, and, perceiving your lips move, I
could not doubt that you murmured the word ‘stereotomy,’ a term
very affectedly applied to this species of pavement. I knew that
you could not say to yourself ‘stereotomy’ without being brought
to think of atomies, and thus of the theories of Epicurus; and
since, when we discussed this subject not very long ago, I
mentioned to you how singularly, yet with how little notice, the
vague guesses of that noble Greek had met with confirmation in
the late nebular cosmogony, I felt that you could not avoid
casting your eyes upward to the great _nebula_ in Orion, and I
certainly expected that you would do so. You did look up; and I
was now assured that I had correctly followed your steps. But in
that bitter _tirade_ upon Chantilly, which appeared in
yesterday’s ‘_Musée_,’ the satirist, making some disgraceful
allusions to the cobbler’s change of name upon assuming the
buskin, quoted a Latin line about which we have often conversed.
I mean the line
Perdidit antiquum litera prima sonum.
“I had told you that this was in reference to Orion, formerly
written Urion; and, from certain pungencies connected with this
explanation, I was aware that you could not have forgotten it. It
was clear, therefore, that you would not fail to combine the two
ideas of Orion and Chantilly. That you did combine them I saw by
the character of the smile which passed over your lips. You
thought of the poor cobbler’s immolation. So far, you had been
stooping in your gait; but now I saw you draw yourself up to your
full height. I was then sure that you reflected upon the
diminutive figure of Chantilly. At this point I interrupted your
meditations to remark that as, in fact, he was a very little
fellow—that Chantilly—he would do better at the _Théâtre des
Variétés_.”
Not long after this, we were looking over an evening edition of
the “Gazette des Tribunaux,” when the following paragraphs
arrested our attention.
“_Extraordinary Murders_.—This morning, about three o’clock, the
inhabitants of the Quartier St. Roch were aroused from sleep by a
succession of terrific shrieks, issuing, apparently, from the
fourth story of a house in the Rue Morgue, known to be in the
sole occupancy of one Madame L’Espanaye, and her daughter,
Mademoiselle Camille L’Espanaye. After some delay, occasioned by
a fruitless attempt to procure admission in the usual manner, the
gateway was broken in with a crowbar, and eight or ten of the
neighbors entered accompanied by two _gendarmes_. By this time
the cries had ceased; but, as the party rushed up the first
flight of stairs, two or more rough voices in angry contention
were distinguished and seemed to proceed from the upper part of
the house. As the second landing was reached, these sounds, also,
had ceased and everything remained perfectly quiet. The party
spread themselves and hurried from room to room. Upon arriving at
a large back chamber in the fourth story, (the door of which,
being found locked, with the key inside, was forced open,) a
spectacle presented itself which struck every one present not
less with horror than with astonishment.
“The apartment was in the wildest disorder—the furniture broken
and thrown about in all directions. There was only one bedstead;
and from this the bed had been removed, and thrown into the
middle of the floor. On a chair lay a razor, besmeared with
blood. On the hearth were two or three long and thick tresses of
grey human hair, also dabbled in blood, and seeming to have been
pulled out by the roots. Upon the floor were found four
Napoleons, an ear-ring of topaz, three large silver spoons, three
smaller of _métal d’Alger_, and two bags, containing nearly four
thousand francs in gold. The drawers of a _bureau_, which stood
in one corner were open, and had been, apparently, rifled,
although many articles still remained in them. A small iron safe
was discovered under the _bed_ (not under the bedstead). It was
open, with the key still in the door. It had no contents beyond a
few old letters, and other papers of little consequence.
“Of Madame L’Espanaye no traces were here seen; but an unusual
quantity of soot being observed in the fire-place, a search was
made in the chimney, and (horrible to relate!) the corpse of the
daughter, head downward, was dragged therefrom; it having been
thus forced up the narrow aperture for a considerable distance.
The body was quite warm. Upon examining it, many excoriations
were perceived, no doubt occasioned by the violence with which it
had been thrust up and disengaged. Upon the face were many severe
scratches, and, upon the throat, dark bruises, and deep
indentations of finger nails, as if the deceased had been
throttled to death.
“After a thorough investigation of every portion of the house,
without farther discovery, the party made its way into a small
paved yard in the rear of the building, where lay the corpse of
the old lady, with her throat so entirely cut that, upon an
attempt to raise her, the head fell off. The body, as well as the
head, was fearfully mutilated—the former so much so as scarcely
to retain any semblance of humanity.
“To this horrible mystery there is not as yet, we believe, the
slightest clew.”
The next day’s paper had these additional particulars.
“_The Tragedy in the Rue Morgue._—Many individuals have been
examined in relation to this most extraordinary and frightful
affair” [The word ‘affaire’ has not yet, in France, that levity
of import which it conveys with us], “but nothing whatever has
transpired to throw light upon it. We give below all the material
testimony elicited.
“_Pauline Dubourg_, laundress, deposes that she has known both
the deceased for three years, having washed for them during that
period. The old lady and her daughter seemed on good terms—very
affectionate towards each other. They were excellent pay. Could
not speak in regard to their mode or means of living. Believed
that Madame L. told fortunes for a living. Was reputed to have
money put by. Never met any persons in the house when she called
for the clothes or took them home. Was sure that they had no
servant in employ. There appeared to be no furniture in any part
of the building except in the fourth story.
“_Pierre Moreau_, tobacconist, deposes that he has been in the
habit of selling small quantities of tobacco and snuff to Madame
L’Espanaye for nearly four years. Was born in the neighborhood,
and has always resided there. The deceased and her daughter had
occupied the house in which the corpses were found, for more than
six years. It was formerly occupied by a jeweller, who under-let
the upper rooms to various persons. The house was the property of
Madame L. She became dissatisfied with the abuse of the premises
by her tenant, and moved into them herself, refusing to let any
portion. The old lady was childish. Witness had seen the daughter
some five or six times during the six years. The two lived an
exceedingly retired life—were reputed to have money. Had heard it
said among the neighbors that Madame L. told fortunes—did not
believe it. Had never seen any person enter the door except the
old lady and her daughter, a porter once or twice, and a
physician some eight or ten times.
“Many other persons, neighbors, gave evidence to the same effect.
No one was spoken of as frequenting the house. It was not known
whether there were any living connexions of Madame L. and her
daughter. The shutters of the front windows were seldom opened.
Those in the rear were always closed, with the exception of the
large back room, fourth story. The house was a good house—not
very old.
“_Isidore Musèt_, _gendarme_, deposes that he was called to the
house about three o’clock in the morning, and found some twenty
or thirty persons at the gateway, endeavoring to gain admittance.
Forced it open, at length, with a bayonet—not with a crowbar. Had
but little difficulty in getting it open, on account of its being
a double or folding gate, and bolted neither at bottom not top.
The shrieks were continued until the gate was forced—and then
suddenly ceased. They seemed to be screams of some person (or
persons) in great agony—were loud and drawn out, not short and
quick. Witness led the way up stairs. Upon reaching the first
landing, heard two voices in loud and angry contention—the one a
gruff voice, the other much shriller—a very strange voice. Could
distinguish some words of the former, which was that of a
Frenchman. Was positive that it was not a woman’s voice. Could
distinguish the words ‘_sacré_’ and ‘_diable._’ The shrill voice
was that of a foreigner. Could not be sure whether it was the
voice of a man or of a woman. Could not make out what was said,
but believed the language to be Spanish. The state of the room
and of the bodies was described by this witness as we described
them yesterday.
“_Henri Duval_, a neighbor, and by trade a silver-smith, deposes
that he was one of the party who first entered the house.
Corroborates the testimony of Musèt in general. As soon as they
forced an entrance, they reclosed the door, to keep out the
crowd, which collected very fast, notwithstanding the lateness of
the hour. The shrill voice, this witness thinks, was that of an
Italian. Was certain it was not French. Could not be sure that it
was a man’s voice. It might have been a woman’s. Was not
acquainted with the Italian language. Could not distinguish the
words, but was convinced by the intonation that the speaker was
an Italian. Knew Madame L. and her daughter. Had conversed with
both frequently. Was sure that the shrill voice was not that of
either of the deceased.
“——_Odenheimer, restaurateur._ This witness volunteered his
testimony. Not speaking French, was examined through an
interpreter. Is a native of Amsterdam. Was passing the house at
the time of the shrieks. They lasted for several minutes—probably
ten. They were long and loud—very awful and distressing. Was one
of those who entered the building. Corroborated the previous
evidence in every respect but one. Was sure that the shrill voice
was that of a man—of a Frenchman. Could not distinguish the words
uttered. They were loud and quick—unequal—spoken apparently in
fear as well as in anger. The voice was harsh—not so much shrill
as harsh. Could not call it a shrill voice. The gruff voice said
repeatedly ‘_sacré_,’ ‘_diable_,’ and once ‘_mon Dieu._’
“_Jules Mignaud_, banker, of the firm of Mignaud et Fils, Rue
Deloraine. Is the elder Mignaud. Madame L’Espanaye had some
property. Had opened an account with his banking house in the
spring of the year—(eight years previously). Made frequent
deposits in small sums. Had checked for nothing until the third
day before her death, when she took out in person the sum of 4000
francs. This sum was paid in gold, and a clerk went home with the
money.
“_Adolphe Le Bon_, clerk to Mignaud et Fils, deposes that on the
day in question, about noon, he accompanied Madame L’Espanaye to
her residence with the 4000 francs, put up in two bags. Upon the
door being opened, Mademoiselle L. appeared and took from his
hands one of the bags, while the old lady relieved him of the
other. He then bowed and departed. Did not see any person in the
street at the time. It is a by-street—very lonely.
“_William Bird_, tailor deposes that he was one of the party who
entered the house. Is an Englishman. Has lived in Paris two
years. Was one of the first to ascend the stairs. Heard the
voices in contention. The gruff voice was that of a Frenchman.
Could make out several words, but cannot now remember all. Heard
distinctly ‘_sacré_’ and ‘_mon Dieu._’ There was a sound at the
moment as if of several persons struggling—a scraping and
scuffling sound. The shrill voice was very loud—louder than the
gruff one. Is sure that it was not the voice of an Englishman.
Appeared to be that of a German. Might have been a woman’s voice.
Does not understand German.
“Four of the above-named witnesses, being recalled, deposed that
the door of the chamber in which was found the body of
Mademoiselle L. was locked on the inside when the party reached
it. Every thing was perfectly silent—no groans or noises of any
kind. Upon forcing the door no person was seen. The windows, both
of the back and front room, were down and firmly fastened from
within. A door between the two rooms was closed, but not locked.
The door leading from the front room into the passage was locked,
with the key on the inside. A small room in the front of the
house, on the fourth story, at the head of the passage was open,
the door being ajar. This room was crowded with old beds, boxes,
and so forth. These were carefully removed and searched. There
was not an inch of any portion of the house which was not
carefully searched. Sweeps were sent up and down the chimneys.
The house was a four story one, with garrets (_mansardes._) A
trap-door on the roof was nailed down very securely—did not
appear to have been opened for years. The time elapsing between
the hearing of the voices in contention and the breaking open of
the room door, was variously stated by the witnesses. Some made
it as short as three minutes—some as long as five. The door was
opened with difficulty.
“_Alfonzo Garcio_, undertaker, deposes that he resides in the Rue
Morgue. Is a native of Spain. Was one of the party who entered
the house. Did not proceed up stairs. Is nervous, and was
apprehensive of the consequences of agitation. Heard the voices
in contention. The gruff voice was that of a Frenchman. Could not
distinguish what was said. The shrill voice was that of an
Englishman—is sure of this. Does not understand the English
language, but judges by the intonation.
“_Alberto Montani_, confectioner, deposes that he was among the
first to ascend the stairs. Heard the voices in question. The
gruff voice was that of a Frenchman. Distinguished several words.
The speaker appeared to be expostulating. Could not make out the
words of the shrill voice. Spoke quick and unevenly. Thinks it
the voice of a Russian. Corroborates the general testimony. Is an
Italian. Never conversed with a native of Russia.
“Several witnesses, recalled, here testified that the chimneys of
all the rooms on the fourth story were too narrow to admit the
passage of a human being. By ‘sweeps’ were meant cylindrical
sweeping brushes, such as are employed by those who clean
chimneys. These brushes were passed up and down every flue in the
house. There is no back passage by which any one could have
descended while the party proceeded up stairs. The body of
Mademoiselle L’Espanaye was so firmly wedged in the chimney that
it could not be got down until four or five of the party united
their strength.
“_Paul Dumas_, physician, deposes that he was called to view the
bodies about day-break. They were both then lying on the sacking
of the bedstead in the chamber where Mademoiselle L. was found.
The corpse of the young lady was much bruised and excoriated. The
fact that it had been thrust up the chimney would sufficiently
account for these appearances. The throat was greatly chafed.
There were several deep scratches just below the chin, together
with a series of livid spots which were evidently the impression
of fingers. The face was fearfully discolored, and the eye-balls
protruded. The tongue had been partially bitten through. A large
bruise was discovered upon the pit of the stomach, produced,
apparently, by the pressure of a knee. In the opinion of M.
Dumas, Mademoiselle L’Espanaye had been throttled to death by
some person or persons unknown. The corpse of the mother was
horribly mutilated. All the bones of the right leg and arm were
more or less shattered. The left _tibia_ much splintered, as well
as all the ribs of the left side. Whole body dreadfully bruised
and discolored. It was not possible to say how the injuries had
been inflicted. A heavy club of wood, or a broad bar of iron—a
chair—any large, heavy, and obtuse weapon would have produced
such results, if wielded by the hands of a very powerful man. No
woman could have inflicted the blows with any weapon. The head of
the deceased, when seen by witness, was entirely separated from
the body, and was also greatly shattered. The throat had
evidently been cut with some very sharp instrument—probably with
a razor.
“_Alexandre Etienne_, surgeon, was called with M. Dumas to view
the bodies. Corroborated the testimony, and the opinions of M.
Dumas.
“Nothing farther of importance was elicited, although several
other persons were examined. A murder so mysterious, and so
perplexing in all its particulars, was never before committed in
Paris—if indeed a murder has been committed at all. The police
are entirely at fault—an unusual occurrence in affairs of this
nature. There is not, however, the shadow of a clew apparent.”
The evening edition of the paper stated that the greatest
excitement still continued in the Quartier St. Roch—that the
premises in question had been carefully re-searched, and fresh
examinations of witnesses instituted, but all to no purpose. A
postscript, however, mentioned that Adolphe Le Bon had been
arrested and imprisoned—although nothing appeared to criminate
him, beyond the facts already detailed.
Dupin seemed singularly interested in the progress of this
affair—at least so I judged from his manner, for he made no
comments. It was only after the announcement that Le Bon had been
imprisoned, that he asked me my opinion respecting the murders.
I could merely agree with all Paris in considering them an
insoluble mystery. I saw no means by which it would be possible
to trace the murderer.
“We must not judge of the means,” said Dupin, “by this shell of
an examination. The Parisian police, so much extolled for
_acumen_, are cunning, but no more. There is no method in their
proceedings, beyond the method of the moment. They make a vast
parade of measures; but, not unfrequently, these are so ill
adapted to the objects proposed, as to put us in mind of Monsieur
Jourdain’s calling for his _robe-de-chambre—pour mieux entendre
la musique._ The results attained by them are not unfrequently
surprising, but, for the most part, are brought about by simple
diligence and activity. When these qualities are unavailing,
their schemes fail. Vidocq, for example, was a good guesser and a
persevering man. But, without educated thought, he erred
continually by the very intensity of his investigations. He
impaired his vision by holding the object too close. He might
see, perhaps, one or two points with unusual clearness, but in so
doing he, necessarily, lost sight of the matter as a whole. Thus
there is such a thing as being too profound. Truth is not always
in a well. In fact, as regards the more important knowledge, I do
believe that she is invariably superficial. The depth lies in the
valleys where we seek her, and not upon the mountain-tops where
she is found. The modes and sources of this kind of error are
well typified in the contemplation of the heavenly bodies. To
look at a star by glances—to view it in a side-long way, by
turning toward it the exterior portions of the _retina_ (more
susceptible of feeble impressions of light than the interior), is
to behold the star distinctly—is to have the best appreciation of
its lustre—a lustre which grows dim just in proportion as we turn
our vision _fully_ upon it. A greater number of rays actually
fall upon the eye in the latter case, but, in the former, there
is the more refined capacity for comprehension. By undue
profundity we perplex and enfeeble thought; and it is possible to
make even Venus herself vanish from the firmament by a scrutiny
too sustained, too concentrated, or too direct.
“As for these murders, let us enter into some examinations for
ourselves, before we make up an opinion respecting them. An
inquiry will afford us amusement,” [I thought this an odd term,
so applied, but said nothing] “and, besides, Le Bon once rendered
me a service for which I am not ungrateful. We will go and see
the premises with our own eyes. I know G——, the Prefect of
Police, and shall have no difficulty in obtaining the necessary
permission.”
The permission was obtained, and we proceeded at once to the Rue
Morgue. This is one of those miserable thoroughfares which
intervene between the Rue Richelieu and the Rue St. Roch. It was
late in the afternoon when we reached it, as this quarter is at a
great distance from that in which we resided. The house was
readily found; for there were still many persons gazing up at the
closed shutters, with an objectless curiosity, from the opposite
side of the way. It was an ordinary Parisian house, with a
gateway, on one side of which was a glazed watch-box, with a
sliding panel in the window, indicating a _loge de concierge._
Before going in we walked up the street, turned down an alley,
and then, again turning, passed in the rear of the
building—Dupin, meanwhile examining the whole neighborhood, as
well as the house, with a minuteness of attention for which I
could see no possible object.
Retracing our steps, we came again to the front of the dwelling,
rang, and, having shown our credentials, were admitted by the
agents in charge. We went up stairs—into the chamber where the
body of Mademoiselle L’Espanaye had been found, and where both
the deceased still lay. The disorders of the room had, as usual,
been suffered to exist. I saw nothing beyond what had been stated
in the “Gazette des Tribunaux.” Dupin scrutinized every thing—not
excepting the bodies of the victims. We then went into the other
rooms, and into the yard; a _gendarme_ accompanying us
throughout. The examination occupied us until dark, when we took
our departure. On our way home my companion stepped in for a
moment at the office of one of the daily papers.
I have said that the whims of my friend were manifold, and that
_Je les ménageais_:—for this phrase there is no English
equivalent. It was his humor, now, to decline all conversation on
the subject of the murder, until about noon the next day. He then
asked me, suddenly, if I had observed any thing _peculiar_ at the
scene of the atrocity.
There was something in his manner of emphasizing the word
“peculiar,” which caused me to shudder, without knowing why.
“No, nothing _peculiar_,” I said; “nothing more, at least, than
we both saw stated in the paper.”
“The ‘Gazette,’” he replied, “has not entered, I fear, into the
unusual horror of the thing. But dismiss the idle opinions of
this print. It appears to me that this mystery is considered
insoluble, for the very reason which should cause it to be
regarded as easy of solution—I mean for the _outré_ character of
its features. The police are confounded by the seeming absence of
motive—not for the murder itself—but for the atrocity of the
murder. They are puzzled, too, by the seeming impossibility of
reconciling the voices heard in contention, with the facts that
no one was discovered up stairs but the assassinated Mademoiselle
L’Espanaye, and that there were no means of egress without the
notice of the party ascending. The wild disorder of the room; the
corpse thrust, with the head downward, up the chimney; the
frightful mutilation of the body of the old lady; these
considerations, with those just mentioned, and others which I
need not mention, have sufficed to paralyze the powers, by
putting completely at fault the boasted _acumen_, of the
government agents. They have fallen into the gross but common
error of confounding the unusual with the abstruse. But it is by
these deviations from the plane of the ordinary, that reason
feels its way, if at all, in its search for the true. In
investigations such as we are now pursuing, it should not be so
much asked ‘what has occurred,’ as ‘what has occurred that has
never occurred before.’ In fact, the facility with which I shall
arrive, or have arrived, at the solution of this mystery, is in
the direct ratio of its apparent insolubility in the eyes of the
police.”
I stared at the speaker in mute astonishment.
“I am now awaiting,” continued he, looking toward the door of our
apartment—“I am now awaiting a person who, although perhaps not
the perpetrator of these butcheries, must have been in some
measure implicated in their perpetration. Of the worst portion of
the crimes committed, it is probable that he is innocent. I hope
that I am right in this supposition; for upon it I build my
expectation of reading the entire riddle. I look for the man
here—in this room—every moment. It is true that he may not
arrive; but the probability is that he will. Should he come, it
will be necessary to detain him. Here are pistols; and we both
know how to use them when occasion demands their use.”
I took the pistols, scarcely knowing what I did, or believing
what I heard, while Dupin went on, very much as if in a
soliloquy. I have already spoken of his abstract manner at such
times. His discourse was addressed to myself; but his voice,
although by no means loud, had that intonation which is commonly
employed in speaking to some one at a great distance. His eyes,
vacant in expression, regarded only the wall.
“That the voices heard in contention,” he said, “by the party
upon the stairs, were not the voices of the women themselves, was
fully proved by the evidence. This relieves us of all doubt upon
the question whether the old lady could have first destroyed the
daughter and afterward have committed suicide. I speak of this
point chiefly for the sake of method; for the strength of Madame
L’Espanaye would have been utterly unequal to the task of
thrusting her daughter’s corpse up the chimney as it was found;
and the nature of the wounds upon her own person entirely
preclude the idea of self-destruction. Murder, then, has been
committed by some third party; and the voices of this third party
were those heard in contention. Let me now advert—not to the
whole testimony respecting these voices—but to what was
_peculiar_ in that testimony. Did you observe any thing peculiar
about it?”
I remarked that, while all the witnesses agreed in supposing the
gruff voice to be that of a Frenchman, there was much
disagreement in regard to the shrill, or, as one individual
termed it, the harsh voice.
“That was the evidence itself,” said Dupin, “but it was not the
peculiarity of the evidence. You have observed nothing
distinctive. Yet there _was_ something to be observed. The
witnesses, as you remark, agreed about the gruff voice; they were
here unanimous. But in regard to the shrill voice, the
peculiarity is—not that they disagreed—but that, while an
Italian, an Englishman, a Spaniard, a Hollander, and a Frenchman
attempted to describe it, each one spoke of it as that _of a
foreigner_. Each is sure that it was not the voice of one of his
own countrymen. Each likens it—not to the voice of an individual
of any nation with whose language he is conversant—but the
converse. The Frenchman supposes it the voice of a Spaniard, and
‘might have distinguished some words _had he been acquainted with
the Spanish._’ The Dutchman maintains it to have been that of a
Frenchman; but we find it stated that ‘_not understanding French
this witness was examined through an interpreter._’ The
Englishman thinks it the voice of a German, and ‘_does not
understand German._’ The Spaniard ‘is sure’ that it was that of
an Englishman, but ‘judges by the intonation’ altogether, ‘_as he
has no knowledge of the English._’ The Italian believes it the
voice of a Russian, but ‘_has never conversed with a native of
Russia._’ A second Frenchman differs, moreover, with the first,
and is positive that the voice was that of an Italian; but, _not
being cognizant of that tongue_, is, like the Spaniard,
‘convinced by the intonation.’ Now, how strangely unusual must
that voice have really been, about which such testimony as this
_could_ have been elicited!—in whose _tones_, even, denizens of
the five great divisions of Europe could recognise nothing
familiar! You will say that it might have been the voice of an
Asiatic—of an African. Neither Asiatics nor Africans abound in
Paris; but, without denying the inference, I will now merely call
your attention to three points. The voice is termed by one
witness ‘harsh rather than shrill.’ It is represented by two
others to have been ‘quick and _unequal._’ No words—no sounds
resembling words—were by any witness mentioned as
distinguishable.
“I know not,” continued Dupin, “what impression I may have made,
so far, upon your own understanding; but I do not hesitate to say
that legitimate deductions even from this portion of the
testimony—the portion respecting the gruff and shrill voices—are
in themselves sufficient to engender a suspicion which should
give direction to all farther progress in the investigation of
the mystery. I said ‘legitimate deductions;’ but my meaning is
not thus fully expressed. I designed to imply that the deductions
are the _sole_ proper ones, and that the suspicion arises
_inevitably_ from them as the single result. What the suspicion
is, however, I will not say just yet. I merely wish you to bear
in mind that, with myself, it was sufficiently forcible to give a
definite form—a certain tendency—to my inquiries in the chamber.
“Let us now transport ourselves, in fancy, to this chamber. What
shall we first seek here? The means of egress employed by the
murderers. It is not too much to say that neither of us believe
in præternatural events. Madame and Mademoiselle L’Espanaye were
not destroyed by spirits. The doers of the deed were material,
and escaped materially. Then how? Fortunately, there is but one
mode of reasoning upon the point, and that mode _must_ lead us to
a definite decision. Let us examine, each by each, the possible
means of egress. It is clear that the assassins were in the room
where Mademoiselle L’Espanaye was found, or at least in the room
adjoining, when the party ascended the stairs. It is then only
from these two apartments that we have to seek issues. The police
have laid bare the floors, the ceilings, and the masonry of the
walls, in every direction. No _secret_ issues could have escaped
their vigilance. But, not trusting to _their_ eyes, I examined
with my own. There were, then, no secret issues. Both doors
leading from the rooms into the passage were securely locked,
with the keys inside. Let us turn to the chimneys. These,
although of ordinary width for some eight or ten feet above the
hearths, will not admit, throughout their extent, the body of a
large cat. The impossibility of egress, by means already stated,
being thus absolute, we are reduced to the windows. Through those
of the front room no one could have escaped without notice from
the crowd in the street. The murderers _must_ have passed, then,
through those of the back room. Now, brought to this conclusion
in so unequivocal a manner as we are, it is not our part, as
reasoners, to reject it on account of apparent impossibilities.
It is only left for us to prove that these apparent
‘impossibilities’ are, in reality, not such.
“There are two windows in the chamber. One of them is
unobstructed by furniture, and is wholly visible. The lower
portion of the other is hidden from view by the head of the
unwieldy bedstead which is thrust close up against it. The former
was found securely fastened from within. It resisted the utmost
force of those who endeavored to raise it. A large gimlet-hole
had been pierced in its frame to the left, and a very stout nail
was found fitted therein, nearly to the head. Upon examining the
other window, a similar nail was seen similarly fitted in it; and
a vigorous attempt to raise this sash, failed also. The police
were now entirely satisfied that egress had not been in these
directions. And, _therefore_, it was thought a matter of
supererogation to withdraw the nails and open the windows.
“My own examination was somewhat more particular, and was so for
the reason I have just given—because here it was, I knew, that
all apparent impossibilities _must_ be proved to be not such in
reality.
“I proceeded to think thus—_a posteriori_. The murderers did
escape from one of these windows. This being so, they could not
have refastened the sashes from the inside, as they were found
fastened;—the consideration which put a stop, through its
obviousness, to the scrutiny of the police in this quarter. Yet
the sashes _were_ fastened. They _must_, then, have the power of
fastening themselves. There was no escape from this conclusion. I
stepped to the unobstructed casement, withdrew the nail with some
difficulty and attempted to raise the sash. It resisted all my
efforts, as I had anticipated. A concealed spring must, I now
know, exist; and this corroboration of my idea convinced me that
my premises at least, were correct, however mysterious still
appeared the circumstances attending the nails. A careful search
soon brought to light the hidden spring. I pressed it, and,
satisfied with the discovery, forbore to upraise the sash.
“I now replaced the nail and regarded it attentively. A person
passing out through this window might have reclosed it, and the
spring would have caught—but the nail could not have been
replaced. The conclusion was plain, and again narrowed in the
field of my investigations. The assassins _must_ have escaped
through the other window. Supposing, then, the springs upon each
sash to be the same, as was probable, there _must_ be found a
difference between the nails, or at least between the modes of
their fixture. Getting upon the sacking of the bedstead, I looked
over the head-board minutely at the second casement. Passing my
hand down behind the board, I readily discovered and pressed the
spring, which was, as I had supposed, identical in character with
its neighbor. I now looked at the nail. It was as stout as the
other, and apparently fitted in the same manner—driven in nearly
up to the head.
“You will say that I was puzzled; but, if you think so, you must
have misunderstood the nature of the inductions. To use a
sporting phrase, I had not been once ‘at fault.’ The scent had
never for an instant been lost. There was no flaw in any link of
the chain. I had traced the secret to its ultimate result,—and
that result was _the nail._ It had, I say, in every respect, the
appearance of its fellow in the other window; but this fact was
an absolute nullity (conclusive as it might seem to be) when
compared with the consideration that here, at this point,
terminated the clew. ‘There _must_ be something wrong,’ I said,
‘about the nail.’ I touched it; and the head, with about a
quarter of an inch of the shank, came off in my fingers. The rest
of the shank was in the gimlet-hole where it had been broken off.
The fracture was an old one (for its edges were incrusted with
rust), and had apparently been accomplished by the blow of a
hammer, which had partially imbedded, in the top of the bottom
sash, the head portion of the nail. I now carefully replaced this
head portion in the indentation whence I had taken it, and the
resemblance to a perfect nail was complete—the fissure was
invisible. Pressing the spring, I gently raised the sash for a
few inches; the head went up with it, remaining firm in its bed.
I closed the window, and the semblance of the whole nail was
again perfect.
“The riddle, so far, was now unriddled. The assassin had escaped
through the window which looked upon the bed. Dropping of its own
accord upon his exit (or perhaps purposely closed), it had become
fastened by the spring; and it was the retention of this spring
which had been mistaken by the police for that of the
nail,—farther inquiry being thus considered unnecessary.
“The next question is that of the mode of descent. Upon this
point I had been satisfied in my walk with you around the
building. About five feet and a half from the casement in
question there runs a lightning-rod. From this rod it would have
been impossible for any one to reach the window itself, to say
nothing of entering it. I observed, however, that the shutters of
the fourth story were of the peculiar kind called by Parisian
carpenters _ferrades_—a kind rarely employed at the present day,
but frequently seen upon very old mansions at Lyons and Bordeaux.
They are in the form of an ordinary door (a single, not a folding
door), except that the lower half is latticed or worked in open
trellis—thus affording an excellent hold for the hands. In the
present instance these shutters are fully three feet and a half
broad. When we saw them from the rear of the house, they were
both about half open—that is to say, they stood off at right
angles from the wall. It is probable that the police, as well as
myself, examined the back of the tenement; but, if so, in looking
at these _ferrades_ in the line of their breadth (as they must
have done), they did not perceive this great breadth itself, or,
at all events, failed to take it into due consideration. In fact,
having once satisfied themselves that no egress could have been
made in this quarter, they would naturally bestow here a very
cursory examination. It was clear to me, however, that the
shutter belonging to the window at the head of the bed, would, if
swung fully back to the wall, reach to within two feet of the
lightning-rod. It was also evident that, by exertion of a very
unusual degree of activity and courage, an entrance into the
window, from the rod, might have been thus effected. By reaching
to the distance of two feet and a half (we now suppose the
shutter open to its whole extent) a robber might have taken a
firm grasp upon the trellis-work. Letting go, then, his hold upon
the rod, placing his feet securely against the wall, and
springing boldly from it, he might have swung the shutter so as
to close it, and, if we imagine the window open at the time,
might even have swung himself into the room.
“I wish you to bear especially in mind that I have spoken of a
_very_ unusual degree of activity as requisite to success in so
hazardous and so difficult a feat. It is my design to show you,
first, that the thing might possibly have been accomplished:—but,
secondly and _chiefly_, I wish to impress upon your understanding
the _very extraordinary_—the almost præternatural character of
that agility which could have accomplished it.
“You will say, no doubt, using the language of the law, that ‘to
make out my case,’ I should rather undervalue, than insist upon a
full estimation of the activity required in this matter. This may
be the practice in law, but it is not the usage of reason. My
ultimate object is only the truth. My immediate purpose is to
lead you to place in juxtaposition, that _very unusual_ activity
of which I have just spoken with that _very peculiar_ shrill (or
harsh) and _unequal_ voice, about whose nationality no two
persons could be found to agree, and in whose utterance no
syllabification could be detected.”
At these words a vague and half-formed conception of the meaning
of Dupin flitted over my mind. I seemed to be upon the verge of
comprehension without power to comprehend—as men, at times, find
themselves upon the brink of remembrance without being able, in
the end, to remember. My friend went on with his discourse.
“You will see,” he said, “that I have shifted the question from
the mode of egress to that of ingress. It was my design to convey
the idea that both were effected in the same manner, at the same
point. Let us now revert to the interior of the room. Let us
survey the appearances here. The drawers of the bureau, it is
said, had been rifled, although many articles of apparel still
remained within them. The conclusion here is absurd. It is a mere
guess—a very silly one—and no more. How are we to know that the
articles found in the drawers were not all these drawers had
originally contained? Madame L’Espanaye and her daughter lived an
exceedingly retired life—saw no company—seldom went out—had
little use for numerous changes of habiliment. Those found were
at least of as good quality as any likely to be possessed by
these ladies. If a thief had taken any, why did he not take the
best—why did he not take all? In a word, why did he abandon four
thousand francs in gold to encumber himself with a bundle of
linen? The gold _was_ abandoned. Nearly the whole sum mentioned
by Monsieur Mignaud, the banker, was discovered, in bags, upon
the floor. I wish you, therefore, to discard from your thoughts
the blundering idea of _motive_, engendered in the brains of the
police by that portion of the evidence which speaks of money
delivered at the door of the house. Coincidences ten times as
remarkable as this (the delivery of the money, and murder
committed within three days upon the party receiving it), happen
to all of us every hour of our lives, without attracting even
momentary notice. Coincidences, in general, are great
stumbling-blocks in the way of that class of thinkers who have
been educated to know nothing of the theory of probabilities—that
theory to which the most glorious objects of human research are
indebted for the most glorious of illustration. In the present
instance, had the gold been gone, the fact of its delivery three
days before would have formed something more than a coincidence.
It would have been corroborative of this idea of motive. But,
under the real circumstances of the case, if we are to suppose
gold the motive of this outrage, we must also imagine the
perpetrator so vacillating an idiot as to have abandoned his gold
and his motive together.
“Keeping now steadily in mind the points to which I have drawn
your attention—that peculiar voice, that unusual agility, and
that startling absence of motive in a murder so singularly
atrocious as this—let us glance at the butchery itself. Here is a
woman strangled to death by manual strength, and thrust up a
chimney, head downward. Ordinary assassins employ no such modes
of murder as this. Least of all, do they thus dispose of the
murdered. In the manner of thrusting the corpse up the chimney,
you will admit that there was something _excessively
outré_—something altogether irreconcilable with our common
notions of human action, even when we suppose the actors the most
depraved of men. Think, too, how great must have been that
strength which could have thrust the body _up_ such an aperture
so forcibly that the united vigor of several persons was found
barely sufficient to drag it _down!_
“Turn, now, to other indications of the employment of a vigor
most marvellous. On the hearth were thick tresses—very thick
tresses—of grey human hair. These had been torn out by the roots.
You are aware of the great force necessary in tearing thus from
the head even twenty or thirty hairs together. You saw the locks
in question as well as myself. Their roots (a hideous sight!)
were clotted with fragments of the flesh of the scalp—sure token
of the prodigious power which had been exerted in uprooting
perhaps half a million of hairs at a time. The throat of the old
lady was not merely cut, but the head absolutely severed from the
body: the instrument was a mere razor. I wish you also to look at
the _brutal_ ferocity of these deeds. Of the bruises upon the
body of Madame L’Espanaye I do not speak. Monsieur Dumas, and his
worthy coadjutor Monsieur Etienne, have pronounced that they were
inflicted by some obtuse instrument; and so far these gentlemen
are very correct. The obtuse instrument was clearly the stone
pavement in the yard, upon which the victim had fallen from the
window which looked in upon the bed. This idea, however simple it
may now seem, escaped the police for the same reason that the
breadth of the shutters escaped them—because, by the affair of
the nails, their perceptions had been hermetically sealed against
the possibility of the windows having ever been opened at all.
“If now, in addition to all these things, you have properly
reflected upon the odd disorder of the chamber, we have gone so
far as to combine the ideas of an agility astounding, a strength
superhuman, a ferocity brutal, a butchery without motive, a
_grotesquerie_ in horror absolutely alien from humanity, and a
voice foreign in tone to the ears of men of many nations, and
devoid of all distinct or intelligible syllabification. What
result, then, has ensued? What impression have I made upon your
fancy?”
I felt a creeping of the flesh as Dupin asked me the question. “A
madman,” I said, “has done this deed—some raving maniac, escaped
from a neighboring _Maison de Santé._”
“In some respects,” he replied, “your idea is not irrelevant. But
the voices of madmen, even in their wildest paroxysms, are never
found to tally with that peculiar voice heard upon the stairs.
Madmen are of some nation, and their language, however incoherent
in its words, has always the coherence of syllabification.
Besides, the hair of a madman is not such as I now hold in my
hand. I disentangled this little tuft from the rigidly clutched
fingers of Madame L’Espanaye. Tell me what you can make of it.”
“Dupin!” I said, completely unnerved; “this hair is most
unusual—this is no _human_ hair.”
“I have not asserted that it is,” said he; “but, before we decide
this point, I wish you to glance at the little sketch I have here
traced upon this paper. It is a _fac-simile_ drawing of what has
been described in one portion of the testimony as ‘dark bruises,
and deep indentations of finger nails,’ upon the throat of
Mademoiselle L’Espanaye, and in another (by Messrs. Dumas and
Etienne,) as a ‘series of livid spots, evidently the impression
of fingers.’
“You will perceive,” continued my friend, spreading out the paper
upon the table before us, “that this drawing gives the idea of a
firm and fixed hold. There is no _slipping_ apparent. Each finger
has retained—possibly until the death of the victim—the fearful
grasp by which it originally imbedded itself. Attempt, now, to
place all your fingers, at the same time, in the respective
impressions as you see them.”
I made the attempt in vain.
“We are possibly not giving this matter a fair trial,” he said.
“The paper is spread out upon a plane surface; but the human
throat is cylindrical. Here is a billet of wood, the
circumference of which is about that of the throat. Wrap the
drawing around it, and try the experiment again.”
I did so; but the difficulty was even more obvious than before.
“This,” I said, “is the mark of no human hand.”
“Read now,” replied Dupin, “this passage from Cuvier.”
It was a minute anatomical and generally descriptive account of
the large fulvous Ourang-Outang of the East Indian Islands. The
gigantic stature, the prodigious strength and activity, the wild
ferocity, and the imitative propensities of these mammalia are
sufficiently well known to all. I understood the full horrors of
the murder at once.
“The description of the digits,” said I, as I made an end of
reading, “is in exact accordance with this drawing. I see that no
animal but an Ourang-Outang, of the species here mentioned, could
have impressed the indentations as you have traced them. This
tuft of tawny hair, too, is identical in character with that of
the beast of Cuvier. But I cannot possibly comprehend the
particulars of this frightful mystery. Besides, there were _two_
voices heard in contention, and one of them was unquestionably
the voice of a Frenchman.”
“True; and you will remember an expression attributed almost
unanimously, by the evidence, to this voice,—the expression,
‘_mon Dieu!_’ This, under the circumstances, has been justly
characterized by one of the witnesses (Montani, the
confectioner,) as an expression of remonstrance or expostulation.
Upon these two words, therefore, I have mainly built my hopes of
a full solution of the riddle. A Frenchman was cognizant of the
murder. It is possible—indeed it is far more than probable—that
he was innocent of all participation in the bloody transactions
which took place. The Ourang-Outang may have escaped from him. He
may have traced it to the chamber; but, under the agitating
circumstances which ensued, he could never have re-captured it.
It is still at large. I will not pursue these guesses—for I have
no right to call them more—since the shades of reflection upon
which they are based are scarcely of sufficient depth to be
appreciable by my own intellect, and since I could not pretend to
make them intelligible to the understanding of another. We will
call them guesses then, and speak of them as such. If the
Frenchman in question is indeed, as I suppose, innocent of this
atrocity, this advertisement which I left last night, upon our
return home, at the office of ‘Le Monde’ (a paper devoted to the
shipping interest, and much sought by sailors), will bring him to
our residence.”
He handed me a paper, and I read thus:
CAUGHT—_In the Bois de Boulogne, early in the morning of the
——inst.,_ (the morning of the murder), _a very large, tawny
Ourang-Outang of the Bornese species. The owner (who is
ascertained to be a sailor, belonging to a Maltese vessel) may
have the animal again, upon identifying it satisfactorily, and
paying a few charges arising from its capture and keeping. Call
at No. ——, Rue ——, Faubourg St. Germain—au troisième._
“How was it possible,” I asked, “that you should know the man to
be a sailor, and belonging to a Maltese vessel?”
“I do _not_ know it,” said Dupin. “I am not _sure_ of it. Here,
however, is a small piece of ribbon, which from its form, and
from its greasy appearance, has evidently been used in tying the
hair in one of those long _queues_ of which sailors are so fond.
Moreover, this knot is one which few besides sailors can tie, and
is peculiar to the Maltese. I picked the ribbon up at the foot of
the lightning-rod. It could not have belonged to either of the
deceased. Now if, after all, I am wrong in my induction from this
ribbon, that the Frenchman was a sailor belonging to a Maltese
vessel, still I can have done no harm in saying what I did in the
advertisement. If I am in error, he will merely suppose that I
have been misled by some circumstance into which he will not take
the trouble to inquire. But if I am right, a great point is
gained. Cognizant although innocent of the murder, the Frenchman
will naturally hesitate about replying to the advertisement—about
demanding the Ourang-Outang. He will reason thus:—‘I am innocent;
I am poor; my Ourang-Outang is of great value—to one in my
circumstances a fortune of itself—why should I lose it through
idle apprehensions of danger? Here it is, within my grasp. It was
found in the Bois de Boulogne—at a vast distance from the scene
of that butchery. How can it ever be suspected that a brute beast
should have done the deed? The police are at fault—they have
failed to procure the slightest clew. Should they even trace the
animal, it would be impossible to prove me cognizant of the
murder, or to implicate me in guilt on account of that
cognizance. Above all, _I am known._ The advertiser designates me
as the possessor of the beast. I am not sure to what limit his
knowledge may extend. Should I avoid claiming a property of so
great value, which it is known that I possess, I will render the
animal at least, liable to suspicion. It is not my policy to
attract attention either to myself or to the beast. I will answer
the advertisement, get the Ourang-Outang, and keep it close until
this matter has blown over.’”
At this moment we heard a step upon the stairs.
“Be ready,” said Dupin, “with your pistols, but neither use them
nor show them until at a signal from myself.”
The front door of the house had been left open, and the visitor
had entered, without ringing, and advanced several steps upon the
staircase. Now, however, he seemed to hesitate. Presently we
heard him descending. Dupin was moving quickly to the door, when
we again heard him coming up. He did not turn back a second time,
but stepped up with decision, and rapped at the door of our
chamber.
“Come in,” said Dupin, in a cheerful and hearty tone.
A man entered. He was a sailor, evidently,—a tall, stout, and
muscular-looking person, with a certain dare-devil expression of
countenance, not altogether unprepossessing. His face, greatly
sunburnt, was more than half hidden by whisker and _mustachio._
He had with him a huge oaken cudgel, but appeared to be otherwise
unarmed. He bowed awkwardly, and bade us “good evening,” in
French accents, which, although somewhat Neufchatelish, were
still sufficiently indicative of a Parisian origin.
“Sit down, my friend,” said Dupin. “I suppose you have called
about the Ourang-Outang. Upon my word, I almost envy you the
possession of him; a remarkably fine, and no doubt a very
valuable animal. How old do you suppose him to be?”
The sailor drew a long breath, with the air of a man relieved of
some intolerable burden, and then replied, in an assured tone:
“I have no way of telling—but he can’t be more than four or five
years old. Have you got him here?”
“Oh no, we had no conveniences for keeping him here. He is at a
livery stable in the Rue Dubourg, just by. You can get him in the
morning. Of course you are prepared to identify the property?”
“To be sure I am, sir.”
“I shall be sorry to part with him,” said Dupin.
“I don’t mean that you should be at all this trouble for nothing,
sir,” said the man. “Couldn’t expect it. Am very willing to pay a
reward for the finding of the animal—that is to say, any thing in
reason.”
“Well,” replied my friend, “that is all very fair, to be sure.
Let me think!—what should I have? Oh! I will tell you. My reward
shall be this. You shall give me all the information in your
power about these murders in the Rue Morgue.”
Dupin said the last words in a very low tone, and very quietly.
Just as quietly, too, he walked toward the door, locked it and
put the key in his pocket. He then drew a pistol from his bosom
and placed it, without the least flurry, upon the table.
The sailor’s face flushed up as if he were struggling with
suffocation. He started to his feet and grasped his cudgel, but
the next moment he fell back into his seat, trembling violently,
and with the countenance of death itself. He spoke not a word. I
pitied him from the bottom of my heart.
“My friend,” said Dupin, in a kind tone, “you are alarming
yourself unnecessarily—you are indeed. We mean you no harm
whatever. I pledge you the honor of a gentleman, and of a
Frenchman, that we intend you no injury. I perfectly well know
that you are innocent of the atrocities in the Rue Morgue. It
will not do, however, to deny that you are in some measure
implicated in them. From what I have already said, you must know
that I have had means of information about this matter—means of
which you could never have dreamed. Now the thing stands thus.
You have done nothing which you could have avoided—nothing,
certainly, which renders you culpable. You were not even guilty
of robbery, when you might have robbed with impunity. You have
nothing to conceal. You have no reason for concealment. On the
other hand, you are bound by every principle of honor to confess
all you know. An innocent man is now imprisoned, charged with
that crime of which you can point out the perpetrator.”
The sailor had recovered his presence of mind, in a great
measure, while Dupin uttered these words; but his original
boldness of bearing was all gone.
“So help me God!” said he, after a brief pause, “I _will_ tell
you all I know about this affair;—but I do not expect you to
believe one half I say—I would be a fool indeed if I did. Still,
I _am_ innocent, and I will make a clean breast if I die for it.”
What he stated was, in substance, this. He had lately made a
voyage to the Indian Archipelago. A party, of which he formed
one, landed at Borneo, and passed into the interior on an
excursion of pleasure. Himself and a companion had captured the
Ourang-Outang. This companion dying, the animal fell into his own
exclusive possession. After great trouble, occasioned by the
intractable ferocity of his captive during the home voyage, he at
length succeeded in lodging it safely at his own residence in
Paris, where, not to attract toward himself the unpleasant
curiosity of his neighbors, he kept it carefully secluded, until
such time as it should recover from a wound in the foot, received
from a splinter on board ship. His ultimate design was to sell
it.
Returning home from some sailors’ frolic the night, or rather in
the morning of the murder, he found the beast occupying his own
bed-room, into which it had broken from a closet adjoining, where
it had been, as was thought, securely confined. Razor in hand,
and fully lathered, it was sitting before a looking-glass,
attempting the operation of shaving, in which it had no doubt
previously watched its master through the key-hole of the closet.
Terrified at the sight of so dangerous a weapon in the possession
of an animal so ferocious, and so well able to use it, the man,
for some moments, was at a loss what to do. He had been
accustomed, however, to quiet the creature, even in its fiercest
moods, by the use of a whip, and to this he now resorted. Upon
sight of it, the Ourang-Outang sprang at once through the door of
the chamber, down the stairs, and thence, through a window,
unfortunately open, into the street.
The Frenchman followed in despair; the ape, razor still in hand,
occasionally stopping to look back and gesticulate at its
pursuer, until the latter had nearly come up with it. It then
again made off. In this manner the chase continued for a long
time. The streets were profoundly quiet, as it was nearly three
o’clock in the morning. In passing down an alley in the rear of
the Rue Morgue, the fugitive’s attention was arrested by a light
gleaming from the open window of Madame L’Espanaye’s chamber, in
the fourth story of her house. Rushing to the building, it
perceived the lightning rod, clambered up with inconceivable
agility, grasped the shutter, which was thrown fully back against
the wall, and, by its means, swung itself directly upon the
headboard of the bed. The whole feat did not occupy a minute. The
shutter was kicked open again by the Ourang-Outang as it entered
the room.
The sailor, in the meantime, was both rejoiced and perplexed. He
had strong hopes of now recapturing the brute, as it could
scarcely escape from the trap into which it had ventured, except
by the rod, where it might be intercepted as it came down. On the
other hand, there was much cause for anxiety as to what it might
do in the house. This latter reflection urged the man still to
follow the fugitive. A lightning rod is ascended without
difficulty, especially by a sailor; but, when he had arrived as
high as the window, which lay far to his left, his career was
stopped; the most that he could accomplish was to reach over so
as to obtain a glimpse of the interior of the room. At this
glimpse he nearly fell from his hold through excess of horror.
Now it was that those hideous shrieks arose upon the night, which
had startled from slumber the inmates of the Rue Morgue. Madame
L’Espanaye and her daughter, habited in their night clothes, had
apparently been occupied in arranging some papers in the iron
chest already mentioned, which had been wheeled into the middle
of the room. It was open, and its contents lay beside it on the
floor. The victims must have been sitting with their backs toward
the window; and, from the time elapsing between the ingress of
the beast and the screams, it seems probable that it was not
immediately perceived. The flapping-to of the shutter would
naturally have been attributed to the wind.
As the sailor looked in, the gigantic animal had seized Madame
L’Espanaye by the hair, (which was loose, as she had been combing
it,) and was flourishing the razor about her face, in imitation
of the motions of a barber. The daughter lay prostrate and
motionless; she had swooned. The screams and struggles of the old
lady (during which the hair was torn from her head) had the
effect of changing the probably pacific purposes of the
Ourang-Outang into those of wrath. With one determined sweep of
its muscular arm it nearly severed her head from her body. The
sight of blood inflamed its anger into phrenzy. Gnashing its
teeth, and flashing fire from its eyes, it flew upon the body of
the girl, and imbedded its fearful talons in her throat,
retaining its grasp until she expired. Its wandering and wild
glances fell at this moment upon the head of the bed, over which
the face of its master, rigid with horror, was just discernible.
The fury of the beast, who no doubt bore still in mind the
dreaded whip, was instantly converted into fear. Conscious of
having deserved punishment, it seemed desirous of concealing its
bloody deeds, and skipped about the chamber in an agony of
nervous agitation; throwing down and breaking the furniture as it
moved, and dragging the bed from the bedstead. In conclusion, it
seized first the corpse of the daughter, and thrust it up the
chimney, as it was found; then that of the old lady, which it
immediately hurled through the window headlong.
As the ape approached the casement with its mutilated burden, the
sailor shrank aghast to the rod, and, rather gliding than
clambering down it, hurried at once home—dreading the
consequences of the butchery, and gladly abandoning, in his
terror, all solicitude about the fate of the Ourang-Outang. The
words heard by the party upon the staircase were the Frenchman’s
exclamations of horror and affright, commingled with the fiendish
jabberings of the brute.
I have scarcely anything to add. The Ourang-Outang must have
escaped from the chamber, by the rod, just before the breaking of
the door. It must have closed the window as it passed through it.
It was subsequently caught by the owner himself, who obtained for
it a very large sum at the _Jardin des Plantes._ Le Don was
instantly released, upon our narration of the circumstances (with
some comments from Dupin) at the bureau of the Prefect of Police.
This functionary, however well disposed to my friend, could not
altogether conceal his chagrin at the turn which affairs had
taken, and was fain to indulge in a sarcasm or two, about the
propriety of every person minding his own business.
“Let him talk,” said Dupin, who had not thought it necessary to
reply. “Let him discourse; it will ease his conscience, I am
satisfied with having defeated him in his own castle.
Nevertheless, that he failed in the solution of this mystery, is
by no means that matter for wonder which he supposes it; for, in
truth, our friend the Prefect is somewhat too cunning to be
profound. In his wisdom is no _stamen._ It is all head and no
body, like the pictures of the Goddess Laverna,—or, at best, all
head and shoulders, like a codfish. But he is a good creature
after all. I like him especially for one master stroke of cant,
by which he has attained his reputation for ingenuity. I mean the
way he has ‘_de nier ce qui est, et d’expliquer ce qui n’est
pas._’” (*)
(*) Rousseau—Nouvelle Heloïse.