“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.