Chapter VII: Part 7

“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.

THE MYSTERY OF MARIE ROGET.(*1)

A SEQUEL TO “THE MURDERS IN THE RUE MORGUE.”

Es giebt eine Reihe idealischer Begebenheiten, die der Wirklichkeit
parallel lauft. Selten fallen sie zusammen. Menschen und zufalle
modificiren gewohulich die idealische Begebenheit, so dass sie
unvollkommen erscheint, und ihre Folgen gleichfalls unvollkommen
sind. So bei der Reformation; statt des Protestantismus kam das
Lutherthum hervor.
There are ideal series of events which run parallel with the real
ones. They rarely coincide. Men and circumstances generally
modify the ideal train of events, so that it seems imperfect, and
its consequences are equally imperfect. Thus with the
Reformation; instead of Protestantism came
Lutheranism.—_Novalis_.(*2) _Moral Ansichten_.

There are few persons, even among the calmest thinkers, who have
not occasionally been startled into a vague yet thrilling
half-credence in the supernatural, by coincidences of so
seemingly marvellous a character that, as mere coincidences, the
intellect has been unable to receive them. Such sentiments—for
the half-credences of which I speak have never the full force of
thought—such sentiments are seldom thoroughly stifled unless by
reference to the doctrine of chance, or, as it is technically
termed, the Calculus of Probabilities. Now this Calculus is, in
its essence, purely mathematical; and thus we have the anomaly of
the most rigidly exact in science applied to the shadow and
spirituality of the most intangible in speculation.

The extraordinary details which I am now called upon to make
public, will be found to form, as regards sequence of time, the
primary branch of a series of scarcely intelligible coincidences,
whose secondary or concluding branch will be recognized by all
readers in the late murder of Mary Cecila Rogers, at New York.

When, in an article entitled “The Murders in the Rue Morgue,” I
endeavored, about a year ago, to depict some very remarkable
features in the mental character of my friend, the Chevalier C.
Auguste Dupin, it did not occur to me that I should ever resume
the subject. This depicting of character constituted my design;
and this design was thoroughly fulfilled in the wild train of
circumstances brought to instance Dupin’s idiosyncrasy. I might
have adduced other examples, but I should have proven no more.
Late events, however, in their surprising development, have
startled me into some farther details, which will carry with them
the air of extorted confession. Hearing what I have lately heard,
it would be indeed strange should I remain silent in regard to
what I both heard and saw so long ago.

Upon the winding up of the tragedy involved in the deaths of
Madame L’Espanaye and her daughter, the Chevalier dismissed the
affair at once from his attention, and relapsed into his old
habits of moody reverie. Prone, at all times, to abstraction, I
readily fell in with his humor; and, continuing to occupy our
chambers in the Faubourg Saint Germain, we gave the Future to the
winds, and slumbered tranquilly in the Present, weaving the dull
world around us into dreams.

But these dreams were not altogether uninterrupted. It may
readily be supposed that the part played by my friend, in the
drama at the Rue Morgue, had not failed of its impression upon
the fancies of the Parisian police. With its emissaries, the name
of Dupin had grown into a household word. The simple character of
those inductions by which he had disentangled the mystery never
having been explained even to the Prefect, or to any other
individual than myself, of course it is not surprising that the
affair was regarded as little less than miraculous, or that the
Chevalier’s analytical abilities acquired for him the credit of
intuition. His frankness would have led him to disabuse every
inquirer of such prejudice; but his indolent humor forbade all
farther agitation of a topic whose interest to himself had long
ceased. It thus happened that he found himself the cynosure of
the political eyes; and the cases were not few in which attempt
was made to engage his services at the Prefecture. One of the
most remarkable instances was that of the murder of a young girl
named Marie Rogêt.

This event occurred about two years after the atrocity in the Rue
Morgue. Marie, whose Christian and family name will at once
arrest attention from their resemblance to those of the
unfortunate “cigar girl,” was the only daughter of the widow
Estelle Rogêt. The father had died during the child’s infancy,
and from the period of his death, until within eighteen months
before the assassination which forms the subject of our
narrative, the mother and daughter had dwelt together in the Rue
Pavée Saint Andrée; (*3) Madame there keeping a pension, assisted
by Marie. Affairs went on thus until the latter had attained her
twenty-second year, when her great beauty attracted the notice of
a perfumer, who occupied one of the shops in the basement of the
Palais Royal, and whose custom lay chiefly among the desperate
adventurers infesting that neighborhood. Monsieur Le Blanc (*4)
was not unaware of the advantages to be derived from the
attendance of the fair Marie in his perfumery; and his liberal
proposals were accepted eagerly by the girl, although with
somewhat more of hesitation by Madame.

The anticipations of the shopkeeper were realized, and his rooms
soon became notorious through the charms of the sprightly
grisette. She had been in his employ about a year, when her
admirers were thrown info confusion by her sudden disappearance
from the shop. Monsieur Le Blanc was unable to account for her
absence, and Madame Rogêt was distracted with anxiety and terror.
The public papers immediately took up the theme, and the police
were upon the point of making serious investigations, when, one
fine morning, after the lapse of a week, Marie, in good health,
but with a somewhat saddened air, made her re-appearance at her
usual counter in the perfumery. All inquiry, except that of a
private character, was of course immediately hushed. Monsieur Le
Blanc professed total ignorance, as before. Marie, with Madame,
replied to all questions, that the last week had been spent at
the house of a relation in the country. Thus the affair died
away, and was generally forgotten; for the girl, ostensibly to
relieve herself from the impertinence of curiosity, soon bade a
final adieu to the perfumer, and sought the shelter of her
mother’s residence in the Rue Pavée Saint Andrée.

It was about five months after this return home, that her friends
were alarmed by her sudden disappearance for the second time.
Three days elapsed, and nothing was heard of her. On the fourth
her corpse was found floating in the Seine, * near the shore
which is opposite the Quartier of the Rue Saint Andrée, and at a
point not very far distant from the secluded neighborhood of the
Barrière du Roule. (*6)

The atrocity of this murder, (for it was at once evident that
murder had been committed,) the youth and beauty of the victim,
and, above all, her previous notoriety, conspired to produce
intense excitement in the minds of the sensitive Parisians. I can
call to mind no similar occurrence producing so general and so
intense an effect. For several weeks, in the discussion of this
one absorbing theme, even the momentous political topics of the
day were forgotten. The Prefect made unusual exertions; and the
powers of the whole Parisian police were, of course, tasked to
the utmost extent.

Upon the first discovery of the corpse, it was not supposed that
the murderer would be able to elude, for more than a very brief
period, the inquisition which was immediately set on foot. It was
not until the expiration of a week that it was deemed necessary
to offer a reward; and even then this reward was limited to a
thousand francs. In the mean time the investigation proceeded
with vigor, if not always with judgment, and numerous individuals
were examined to no purpose; while, owing to the continual
absence of all clue to the mystery, the popular excitement
greatly increased. At the end of the tenth day it was thought
advisable to double the sum originally proposed; and, at length,
the second week having elapsed without leading to any
discoveries, and the prejudice which always exists in Paris
against the Police having given vent to itself in several serious
émeutes, the Prefect took it upon himself to offer the sum of
twenty thousand francs “for the conviction of the assassin,” or,
if more than one should prove to have been implicated, “for the
conviction of any one of the assassins.” In the proclamation
setting forth this reward, a full pardon was promised to any
accomplice who should come forward in evidence against his
fellow; and to the whole was appended, wherever it appeared, the
private placard of a committee of citizens, offering ten thousand
francs, in addition to the amount proposed by the Prefecture. The
entire reward thus stood at no less than thirty thousand francs,
which will be regarded as an extraordinary sum when we consider
the humble condition of the girl, and the great frequency, in
large cities, of such atrocities as the one described.

No one doubted now that the mystery of this murder would be
immediately brought to light. But although, in one or two
instances, arrests were made which promised elucidation, yet
nothing was elicited which could implicate the parties suspected;
and they were discharged forthwith. Strange as it may appear, the
third week from the discovery of the body had passed, and passed
without any light being thrown upon the subject, before even a
rumor of the events which had so agitated the public mind,
reached the ears of Dupin and myself. Engaged in researches which
absorbed our whole attention, it had been nearly a month since
either of us had gone abroad, or received a visitor, or more than
glanced at the leading political articles in one of the daily
papers. The first intelligence of the murder was brought us by
G——, in person. He called upon us early in the afternoon of the
thirteenth of July, 18—, and remained with us until late in the
night. He had been piqued by the failure of all his endeavors to
ferret out the assassins. His reputation—so he said with a
peculiarly Parisian air—was at stake. Even his honor was
concerned. The eyes of the public were upon him; and there was
really no sacrifice which he would not be willing to make for the
development of the mystery. He concluded a somewhat droll speech
with a compliment upon what he was pleased to term the tact of
Dupin, and made him a direct, and certainly a liberal
proposition, the precise nature of which I do not feel myself at
liberty to disclose, but which has no bearing upon the proper
subject of my narrative.

The compliment my friend rebutted as best he could, but the
proposition he accepted at once, although its advantages were
altogether provisional. This point being settled, the Prefect
broke forth at once into explanations of his own views,
interspersing them with long comments upon the evidence; of which
latter we were not yet in possession. He discoursed much, and
beyond doubt, learnedly; while I hazarded an occasional
suggestion as the night wore drowsily away. Dupin, sitting
steadily in his accustomed arm-chair, was the embodiment of
respectful attention. He wore spectacles, during the whole
interview; and an occasional signal glance beneath their green
glasses, sufficed to convince me that he slept not the less
soundly, because silently, throughout the seven or eight
leaden-footed hours which immediately preceded the departure of
the Prefect.

In the morning, I procured, at the Prefecture, a full report of
all the evidence elicited, and, at the various newspaper offices,
a copy of every paper in which, from first to last, had been
published any decisive information in regard to this sad affair.
Freed from all that was positively disproved, this mass of
information stood thus:

Marie Rogêt left the residence of her mother, in the Rue Pavée
St. Andrée, about nine o’clock in the morning of Sunday, June the
twenty-second, 18—. In going out, she gave notice to a Monsieur
Jacques St. Eustache, (*7) and to him only, of her intention to
spend the day with an aunt who resided in the Rue des Drômes. The
Rue des Drômes is a short and narrow but populous thoroughfare,
not far from the banks of the river, and at a distance of some
two miles, in the most direct course possible, from the pension
of Madame Rogêt. St. Eustache was the accepted suitor of Marie,
and lodged, as well as took his meals, at the pension. He was to
have gone for his betrothed at dusk, and to have escorted her
home. In the afternoon, however, it came on to rain heavily; and,
supposing that she would remain all night at her aunt’s, (as she
had done under similar circumstances before,) he did not think
it necessary to keep his promise. As night drew on, Madame Rogêt
(who was an infirm old lady, seventy years of age,) was heard to
express a fear “that she should never see Marie again;” but this
observation attracted little attention at the time.

On Monday, it was ascertained that the girl had not been to the
Rue des Drômes; and when the day elapsed without tidings of her,
a tardy search was instituted at several points in the city, and
its environs. It was not, however until the fourth day from the
period of disappearance that any thing satisfactory was
ascertained respecting her. On this day, (Wednesday, the
twenty-fifth of June,) a Monsieur Beauvais, (*8) who, with a
friend, had been making inquiries for Marie near the Barrière du
Roule, on the shore of the Seine which is opposite the Rue Pavée
St. Andrée, was informed that a corpse had just been towed ashore
by some fishermen, who had found it floating in the river. Upon
seeing the body, Beauvais, after some hesitation, identified it
as that of the perfumery-girl. His friend recognized it more
promptly.

The face was suffused with dark blood, some of which issued from
the mouth. No foam was seen, as in the case of the merely
drowned. There was no discoloration in the cellular tissue. About
the throat were bruises and impressions of fingers. The arms were
bent over on the chest and were rigid. The right hand was
clenched; the left partially open. On the left wrist were two
circular excoriations, apparently the effect of ropes, or of a
rope in more than one volution. A part of the right wrist, also,
was much chafed, as well as the back throughout its extent, but
more especially at the shoulder-blades. In bringing the body to
the shore the fishermen had attached to it a rope; but none of
the excoriations had been effected by this. The flesh of the neck
was much swollen. There were no cuts apparent, or bruises which
appeared the effect of blows. A piece of lace was found tied so
tightly around the neck as to be hidden from sight; it was
completely buried in the flesh, and was fastened by a knot which
lay just under the left ear. This alone would have sufficed to
produce death. The medical testimony spoke confidently of the
virtuous character of the deceased. She had been subjected, it
said, to brutal violence. The corpse was in such condition when
found, that there could have been no difficulty in its
recognition by friends.

The dress was much torn and otherwise disordered. In the outer
garment, a slip, about a foot wide, had been torn upward from the
bottom hem to the waist, but not torn off. It was wound three
times around the waist, and secured by a sort of hitch in the
back. The dress immediately beneath the frock was of fine muslin;
and from this a slip eighteen inches wide had been torn entirely
out—torn very evenly and with great care. It was found around her
neck, fitting loosely, and secured with a hard knot. Over this
muslin slip and the slip of lace, the strings of a bonnet were
attached; the bonnet being appended. The knot by which the
strings of the bonnet were fastened, was not a lady’s, but a slip
or sailor’s knot.

After the recognition of the corpse, it was not, as usual, taken
to the Morgue, (this formality being superfluous,) but hastily
interred not far from the spot at which it was brought ashore.
Through the exertions of Beauvais, the matter was industriously
hushed up, as far as possible; and several days had elapsed
before any public emotion resulted. A weekly paper, (*9) however,
at length took up the theme; the corpse was disinterred, and a
re-examination instituted; but nothing was elicited beyond what
has been already noted. The clothes, however, were now submitted
to the mother and friends of the deceased, and fully identified
as those worn by the girl upon leaving home.