The Murders in the Rue Morgue by Edgar Allan Poe (novels in english txt) 📖
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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
recaptured 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._
“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 -
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