One night we were strolling down one of the long dirty streets of Paris. Both of us were silent, each thinking our own thoughts. Suddenly Dupin broke the silence:
“He is a very little fellow, that’s true, and would do better for less serious acting.”
“Absolutely, no doubts about that!” I answered unwittingly.
For a few seconds I continued walking, and thinking; but suddenly I realized that Dupin agreed with something which was only a thought.
“Dupin,” I said, “this is beyond my understanding. How could you know that I was thinking of…”
“How did I know you were thinking of Chantilly? You were thinking that Chantilly is too small for the plays in which he acts.”
These were exactly my thoughts.
“Tell me, for Heaven’s sake,” I exclaimed, “the method-if method there is-by which you are able to look through my soul in this matter.”
“It was the fruit-seller.”
“Fruit-seller!? I know no fruit-seller.”
“He ran up against you as we entered the street – it was fifteen minutes ago.”
I now remembered that. A fruit-seller was carrying a large basket of apples; he almost threw me down. But I still didn’t understand what it had to do with Chantilly.
“I will explain,” he said, “listen to me carefully.”
“First, the fruit-seller ran into you. You stepped into one of the loose fragments of the pavement. The uneven stones hurt your ankle and you muttered a few words; then you proceeded in silence. You kept looking at the stones, and, when we entered the little alley Lamartine, you noticed it was paved with the overlapping and riveted blocks. I read your lips saying ‘stereotomy’. I knew you couldn’t say that without thinking of Epicurus. Not long ago you and I were talking about his ideas about the earth and the stars and the sky. You then looked up in the sky which confirmed my guess. I too looked up and saw the group of stars, that we call Orion, is very bright and clear tonight. I knew you would notice this too.”
“Now, the most interesting part. Yesterday, in the newspaper, there was an article about the actor Chantilly. The satirist made some unflattering commentary on the actor’s name in reference to Orion, formerly written Urion. It was clear you would combine the two ideas of Orion and Chantilly. Your smile, again, confirmed my guess.”
“Then I saw you stand straighter, making yourself taller. By that I knew you were thinking of Chantilly’s size and then I finally made my commentary.”
Not long after this, we were looking over an evening edition of a paper. A paragraph caught our attention:
Extraordinary Murders
This morning, about three o’clock, the inhabitants of the Quartier St. Roch were waken up by horrifying screams. The screams were coming from a house in the Rue Morgue, where Madame L’Espanaye, and her daughter, Mademoiselle Camille L’Espanaye lived. Some neighbors called the policemen, then ran altogether toward the house. By the time they reached the house the screams ceased. They couldn’t get inside the house the usual way as no one responded to their calls, so they forced the door open. As they rushed in, they heard voices that came from above. They hurried from room to room but found nothing. Then they reached the fourth floor and found a door. It was firmly closed and locked with the key inside. They forced the door open and a scene of horror appeared before them.
The room was in the wildest possible order. All chairs and tables were broken and lying all over the place. On a chair lay a razor covered with blood. On the hearth were two or three long and thick tresses of grey human hair, also in blood. It seemed like someone pulled them out of the roots. Upon the floor were two bags with almost four thousand francs in gold inside. There was no trace of Madame L’Espanaye. After searching in the chimney, the police found the corpse of her daughter. There were many severe scratches upon her face; dark bruises and deep indentations of finger nails were on her throat, as if someone strangled her to death.
Finally, they found the body of Madame L’Espanaye outside. It lay behind the house; her neck was almost cut through. When they tried to pull her up, her head fell off.
To this horrible mystery there is not as yet, we believe, the slightest clew.
The next day’s paper had these additional particulars.
The Tragedy in the Rue Morgue
The police questioned many people about the extraordinary and frightful killing but still has no answer who is the killer or killers.
Pauline Dubourg, washwoman, claims she knew both women for at least three years. She was washing their clothes during that period. The old lady and her daughter seemed to be on good terms[1] – very affectionate towards each other. She did not know where their money came from but they paid her well. She also never met anyone in the house except these two women who lived on the fourth floor.
Pierre Moreau, tobacconist, claims he sold small quantities of tobacco and snuff to Madame L’Espanaye for nearly four years. She and her daughter occupied the house in which the corpses were found, for more than six years. People say they had money. The house was the property of Madame L. He never saw anyone enter the house except Madame L. and her daughter and a doctor eight or ten times, perhaps.
Other 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, banker, claims Madame L. had money in his bank; she put small sums in her account for eight years. Three days before her death she took out of the bank a large amount of money, in gold. A clerk went home with the money.
Isidore Musèt, a policeman, says he was called to the house about three o’clock in the morning. He was the one who forced the gateway. While opening the gate, he heard shrieks. They suddenly ceased when the gate was open. They were loud and drawn out, not short and quick. When he entered the house, he heard two voices in loud and angry contention-the one a gruff voice, the other much shriller. He was not sure whether it was the voice of a man or of a woman but he was sure the gruff voice was of a Frenchman and the shrill voice was speaking Spanish. He does not speak Spanish himself.
Henri Duval, a neighbor, claims he was one of the party who first entered the house. He, too, heard the voices speaking. He could not distinguish the words, but was convinced by intonation that the shrill voice was of an Italian. He does not speak Italian himself.
Alfonzo Garcio, a native of Spain, was also one of the party who entered the house. He thinks the gruff voice was of a Frenchman and the shrill voice of an Englishman. He does not understand the English language, but judges by the intonation.
William Bird, another foreigner, an Englishman, also entered the house first. He claims the shrill voice was speaking Italian. He does not understand Italian himself.
Mr. Alberto Montani, an Italian, was passing the house at that time and heard voices too. He thinks the shrill voice belongs to a Russian. He never conversed with a native of Russia.
All witnesses agreed that the chimneys of all the rooms on the fourth floor were too narrow for anyone to escape.
Paul Dumas, a doctor, was called to see the bodies soon after they were found. They were in a horrible condition. Such results could not come from a woman’s hands, only from those of a very strong man. The daughter was strangled by strong hands around her neck.
That’s all the police knew. This was the strangest killing in Paris of all time.
Later, we read in the paper that the police arrested and imprisoned Adolphe Le Bon, although nothing appeared to criminate him. I could tell that Dupin was interested in the progress