The murders in the rue Morgue
I met Dupin in France in the summer of 18-. His family was once rich and famous. Now, due to some unfortunate events, he was poor. He had so little money he only could buy the most necessary things. But it bothered him little as well. He could afford a few books – fortunately, these were easy to buy in Paris – and that was enough for him to be happy.
We first met each other at an obscure library in the Rue Montmartre. We were searching for the same very rare and remarkable book. We saw each other again and again. Soon we began to talk. He told me the history of his family which I found very interesting. I was also surprised how well-read he was. I felt that the society of such a man would be to me a treasure beyond price. Eventually we decided to live together while I’m in the city as it was beneficial to both of us.
We never had visitors and spent our time reading, writing or talking. One could call us madmen because of our hermit lifestyle. But we enjoyed our loneliness. When it was nighttime, we used to go for a walk, arm in arm, continuing the topics of the day. So were the days.
I soon noticed his ability to look through one’s soul. He surprised me by telling what he knew about my own soul. He knew things about me that only I could knew. At these moments of insight, he was cold and distant; his voice became high and nervous. At such times, I thought of him as a double Dupin – the creative and the resolvent.
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.
