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[page 116:]
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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; [page 117:] 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 (sometimes 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 [page 118:]
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 air 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
simple ingenuity; for while the analyst is necessarily ingenious, the
ingenious [page
119:] 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 [page
120:] 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 [page 121:]
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, [page
122:] 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 charlâtanerie
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 [page 123:]
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 [page 124:] 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 [page 125:] 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 [page 126:]
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 nor top. The
shrieks
were continued until the gate was forced — and then suddenly ceased.
They
seemed to be screams of some person [page 127:]
(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.' [page
128:]
"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 bye-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 [page 129:] 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. [page
130:]
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 [page 131:] 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 [page 132:]
capacity for comprehension. By undue profundity we perplex and enfeeble
thought; and it is possible to make even Venus herself vanish from the
firmanent 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 [page 133:]
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 ménagais: — 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." [page 134:]
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. [page
135:]
"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 [page
136:]
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 [page 137:] 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 — à
posteriori.
The murderers did escape from one of these windows. This being
so,
they could not have re-fastened 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 knew, 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 [page 138:]
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. Droping
[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 [page
139:]
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 Bourdeaux. 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 [page 140:] 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
juxta-position,
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. [page 141:]
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 [page
142:]
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 [page 143:] 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. [page 144:]
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 troisiême. [page
145:]
"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." [page
146:]
The front door of the house had been left
open, and the
visiter 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 freind [[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." [page 147:]
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 [page 148:] 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
on 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 [page
149:] 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, [page
150:] 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 Bon 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.' "* |
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