Capítulo 1: Paris! In Paris it was, in the summer of 1840.
There I first
met that strange and interesting
young fellow, August Dupin.
Dupin was the last member
of a well-known family, a family which had once been rich
and famous; he himself, however,
was far from rich. He cared little
about money. He had enough to
buy the most necessary things of
life — and a few books; he did
not trouble himself about the
rest. Just books. With books he
was happy.
We first met when we were both trying to find the same book.
As it was a book which few had ever heard of, this chance brought us
together in an old bookstore. Later we met again in the same store.
Then again in another bookstore. Soon we began to talk.
I was deeply interested in the family history he told me. I was surprised, too, at how much and how widely he had read; more important, the force of his busy mind was like a bright light in my soul. I
felt that the friendship of such a man would be for me riches without
price. I therefore told him of my feelings toward him, and he agreed to come and live with me. He would have, I thought, the joy of using my
many fine books. And I would have the pleasure of having someone
with me, for I was not happy alone.
We passed the days reading, writing and talking. But Dupin was a
lover of the night, and at night, often with only the light of the stars
to show us the way, we walked the streets of Paris, sometimes talking,
sometimes quiet, always thinking.
I soon noticed a special reasoning power he had, an unusual
reasoning power. Using it gave him great pleasure. He told me once,
with a soft and quiet laugh, that most men have windows over their
hearts; through these he could see into their souls. Then, he surprised
me by telling what he knew about my own soul; and I found that he
knew things about me that I had thought only I could possibly know.
His manner at these moments was cold and distant. His eyes looked
empty and far away, and his voice became high and nervous. At such
times it seemed to me that I saw not just Dupin, but two Dupins —
one who coldly put things together, and another who just as coldly
took them apart.
One night we were walking down one of Paris's long and dirty
streets. Both of us were busy with our thoughts. Neither had spoken
for perhaps fifteen minutes. It seemed as if we had each forgotten that
the other was there, at his side. I soon learned that Dupin had not
forgotten me, however. Suddenly he said:
"You're right. He is a very little fellow, that's true, and he would
be more successful if he acted in lighter, less serious plays."
"Yes, there can be no doubt of that!" I said.
At first I saw nothing strange in this. Dupin had agreed with me,
with my own thoughts. This, of course, seemed to me quite natural.
For a few seconds I continued walking, and thinking; but suddenly
I realized that Dupin had agreed with something which was only a
thought. I had not spoken a single word. I stopped walking and turned
to my friend. "Dupin," I said, "Dupin, this is beyond my understanding. How could you know that I was thinking of…." Here I stopped, in
order to test him, to learn if he really did know my unspoken thoughts.
"How did I know you were thinking of Chantilly? Why do you
stop? You were thinking that Chantilly is too small for the plays in which he acts."
"That is indeed what I was thinking. But, tell me, in Heaven's
name, the method — if method there is — by which you have been
able to see into my soul in this matter."
"It was the fruit-seller."
"Fruit-seller!? I know no fruit-seller."
"I mean the man who ran into you as we entered this street — it
may have been ten or fifteen minutes ago, perhaps less."
"Yes; yes, that's true, I remember now. A fruit-seller, carrying a
large basket of apples on his head, almost threw me down. But I don't
understand why the fruit-seller should make me think of Chantilly —
or, if he did, how you can know that."
"I will explain. Listen closely now:
"Let us follow your thoughts from the fruit-seller to the play-actor, Chantilly. Those thoughts must have gone like this: from the
fruit-seller to the cobblestones, from the cobblestones to stereotomy,
and from stereotomy to Epicurus, to Orion, and then to Chantilly.
"As we turned into this street the fruit-seller, walking very quickly past us, ran against you and made you step on some cobblestones
which had not been put down evenly, and I could see that the stones
had hurt your foot. You spoke a few angry words to yourself, and continued walking. But you kept looking down, down at the cobblestones
in the street, so I knew you were still thinking of stones.
"Then we came to a small street where they are putting down
street stones which they have cut in a new and very special way. Here
your face became brighter and I saw your lips move. I could not doubt
that you were saying the word stereotomy, the name for this new way
of cutting stones. It is a strange word, isn't it? But you will remember
that we read about it in the newspaper only yesterday. I thought that
the word stereotomy must make you think of that old Greek writer
named Epicurus, who wrote of something he called atoms; he believed
that the world and everything in the heavens above are made of these
atoms.
"Not long ago you and I were talking about Epicurus and his
ideas, his atoms, ideas which Epicurus wrote about more than 2,000
years ago. We were talking about how much those old ideas are like
today's ideas about the earth and the stars and the sky. I felt sure that
you would look up to the sky. You did look up. I had been following your thoughts as they had in fact come into your
mind. I too looked up, and saw that the group of stars we call Orion is
very bright and clear tonight. I knew you would notice this, and think
about the name Orion.
"Now follow my thoughts carefully. Only yesterday, in the newspaper, there was an article about the actor Chantilly, an article which
was not friendly to Chantilly, not friendly at all. We noticed that the
writer of the article had used some words taken from a book we both
had read. These words were about Orion. So I knew you would put
together the two ideas of Orion and Chantilly. I saw you smile, remembering that article and the hard words in it.
"Then I saw you stand straighter, as tall as you could make yourself. I was sure you were thinking of Chantilly's size, and especially his
height. He is small; he is short. And so I spoke, saying that he is indeed
a very little fellow, this Chantilly, and he would be more successful if
he acted in lighter, less serious plays."
I will not say that I was surprised. I was more than surprised; I
was astonished. Dupin was right, as right as he could be. Those were
in fact my thoughts, my unspoken thoughts, as my mind moved from
one thought to the next. But if I was astonished by this, I would soon
be more than astonished.
One morning this strangely interesting man showed me once
again his unusual reasoning power. We heard that an old woman had
been killed by unknown persons. The killer, or the killers, had cut
her head off — and escaped into the night. Who was this killer, this
murderer? The police had no answer. They had looked everywhere
and found nothing that helped them. They did not know what to do
next. And so — they did nothing.
But not Dupin. He knew what to do.
Capítulo 2: It was in Paris in the summer of 1840 Part 2
that I met August Dupin.
He was an unusually interesting
young man with a busy, forceful
mind. This mind could, it seemed,
look right through a man's body
into his soul, and uncover his
deepest thoughts. Sometimes he
seemed to be not one, but two
people — one who coldly put
things together, and another who
just as coldly took them apart.
One morning, in the heat of
the summer, Dupin showed me once again his special reasoning power.
We read in the newspaper about a terrible killing. An old woman and
her daughter, living alone in an old house in the Rue Morgue, had
been killed in the middle of the night:
Paris, July 7, 1840. In the early morning today the people in the
western part of the city were awakened from their sleep by cries of
terror, which came, it seemed, from a house in the street called the
Rue Morgue. The only persons living in the house were an old woman,
Mrs. L'Espanaye, and her daughter. Several neighbors and a policeman ran toward the house, but by the time they reached it the cries had
stopped. When no one answered their calls, they forced the door open.
As they rushed in they heard voices, two voices; they seemed to come
from above. The group hurried from room to room, but they found
nothing until they reached the fourth floor. There they found a door
that was firmly closed, locked, with the key inside. Quickly they forced
the door open, and they saw spread before them a bloody sickening
scene — a scene of horror!
The room was in the wildest possible order — broken chairs and tables
were lying all around the room. There was only one bed, and from it
everything had been taken and thrown into the middle of the floor.
There was blood everywhere, on the floor, on the bed, on the walls. A
sharp knife covered with blood was lying on the floor. In front of the
fireplace there was some long gray hair, also bloody; it seemed to have
been pulled from a human head. On the floor were four pieces of gold,
an earring, several objects made of silver, and two bags containing a
large amount of money in gold. Clothes had been thrown around the
room. A box was found under the bed covers. It was open, and held
only a few old letters and papers.
There was no one there — or so it seemed. Above the fireplace they
found the dead body of the daughter; it had been put up into the
opening where the smoke escapes to the sky. The body was still warm.
There was blood on the face, and on the neck there were dark, deep
marks which seemed to have been made by strong fingers. These marks
surely show how the daughter was killed.
After hunting in every part of the house without finding anything
more, the group went outside. Behind the building they found the body
of the old woman. Her neck was almost cut through, and when they
tried to lift her up, her head fell off.
The next day the newspaper offered to its readers these new facts:
The Murders in the Rue Morgue. —Paris, July 8, 1840. The police
have talked with many people about the terrible killings in the old
house on the Rue Morgue but nothing has been learned to answer the question of who the killers were.
Pauline Dubourg, a washwoman, says she has known both of the
dead women for more than three years, and has washed their clothes
during that period. The old lady and her daughter seemed to love each
other dearly. They always paid her well. She did not know where their
money came from, she said. She never met anyone in the house. Only
the two women lived on the fourth floor.
Pierre Moreau, a shopkeeper, says Mrs. L'Espanaye had bought food
at his shop for nearly four years. She owned the house and had lived
in it for more than six years. People said they had money. He never
saw anyone enter the door except the old lady and her daughter, and
a doctor eight or ten times, perhaps.
Many other persons, neighbors, said the same thing. Almost no one
ever went into the house and Mrs. L'Espanaye and her daughter were
not often seen.
Jules Mignaud, a banker, says that Mrs. L'Espanaye had put money in
his bank, beginning eight years before. Three days before her death she
took out of the bank a large amount of money, in gold. A man from
the bank carried it for her to her house.
Isidore Muset, a policeman, says that he was with the group that first
entered the house. While he was going up the stairs he heard two voices, one low and soft, and one hard, high, and very strange — the voice
of someone who was certainly not French, the voice of a foreigner.
Spanish perhaps. It was not a woman's voice. He could not understand
what it said. But the low voice, the softer voice, said, in French, "My
God!"
Alfonso Garcia, who is Spanish and lives on the Rue Morgue, says he
entered the house but did not go up the stairs; he is nervous and he was
afraid he might be ill. He heard the voices. He believes the high voice
was not that of a Frenchman. Perhaps it was English; but he doesn't
understand English, so he is not sure.
William Bird, another foreigner, an Englishman, says he was one of
the persons who entered the house. He has lived in Paris for two years.
He heard the voices. The low voice was that of a Frenchman, he was
sure, because he heard it say, in French, "My God!" The high voice
was very loud. He is sure it was not the voice of an Englishman, nor
the voice of a Frenchman. It seemed to be that of an Italian. It might
have been a woman's voice. He does not understand Italian.
Mr. Alberto Montani, an Italian, was passing the house at the time
of the cries. He says that they lasted for about two minutes. They
were screams, long and loud, terrible, fearful sounds. Montani, who
speaks Spanish but not French, says that he also heard two voices. He
thought both voices were French. But he could not understand any of
the words spoken.
The persons who first entered the house all agree that the door of the
room where the daughter's body was found was locked on the inside.
When they reached the door everything was quiet. When they forced
the door open they saw no one. The windows were closed and firmly
locked on the inside. There are no steps that someone could have gone
down while they were going up. They say that the openings over the
fireplace are too small for anyone to have escaped through them. It
took four or five people to pull the daughter's body out of the opening over the fireplace. A careful search was made through the whole
house. It was four or five minutes from the time they heard the voices
to the moment they forced open the door of the room.
Paul Dumas, a doctor, says that he was called to see the bodies soon
after they were found. They were in a horrible condition, badly marked
and broken. Such results could not have come from a woman's hands,
only from those of a very powerful man. The daughter had been killed
by strong hands around her neck.
The police have learned nothing more than this. A killing as strange as
this has never before happened in Paris. The police do not know where
to begin to look for the answer.
When we had finished reading the newspaper's account of the murders neither Dupin nor myself said anything for a while. But I
could see in his eyes that cold, empty look which told me that his
mind was working busily. When he asked me what I thought of all
this, I could only agree with all Paris. I told him I considered it a very
difficult problem — a mystery, to which it was not possible to find an
answer. No, no, said Dupin.
"No, I think you are wrong. A mystery it is, yes. But there must
be an answer. Let us go to the house and see what we can see. There
must be an answer. There must!"
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