Beyond Rue Morgue Anthology (26 page)

That is, until the last letter, in which he mentioned, in a post-script, that he was about to be married and would shortly be departing Paris for his wife’s country estate. He mentioned no word of love, nor did he describe the beauty or charm of his intended, although he did inform me that the future Madame Dupin came from a family equal in age and nobility to his own, but far superior in wealth. She had also inherited a library of impressive size. I perceived at once that this was no love match, but a practical arrangement by which Monsieur Dupin might subsidize his bibliophilia.

Unfortunately, he neglected to include his new address, or even his fiancée’s name or the location of her library. Surely he intended to inform me once he was settled into his new home, but within days of receiving that last letter, I found myself in a tricky financial situation, and was forced to depart the city abruptly without leaving a forwarding address. Alas, this set an unhappy pattern for the next two years, and as I lived a vagabond existence and moved from Brooklyn to Boston, then from Philadelphia to Poughkeepsie, I could only scour the newspapers for news from France, and quiz any recent visitors for word of him, but to no avail.

Until, at last, one day, in the pages of the
New York Herald
, I glimpsed the name of
C. Auguste Dupin
almost buried in a dense column of black type devoted to a series of shocking deaths—that series of hideous, inhuman killings dubbed by our press “the French Wolf-Man Murders.” Although he had no connection with the police or this case (as I discovered after reading the entire article), Dupin’s name was invoked by the journalist who fancied he saw some similarities to the murders in the Rue Morgue, and thought the genius who had solved that strange mystery would also be able to explain this one.

At that point, there had been two deaths, within weeks of each other, in the same region of France. One young woman had been bloodily slaughtered in a lonely forest, and the other died in her own bed. Both had had their throats ripped out, apparently by some fierce beast. The girl in the forest had been presumed to have fallen prey to a wolf (very rare in that part of the country, yet presumably not quite extinct) until the second killing, which apart from the setting, seemed almost identical to the first. But how had a wolf come to enter and leave a young lady’s bedroom without attracting attention? Sensationalist newspapers and superstitious public alike spoke of that creature which is a man in daylight and a wolf by night: the were-wolf, or
loup garou.

A week later, the newspaper carried more reports from France. The police were convinced the two deaths were completely unrelated, nor were they murders, despite misleading reports. One woman had been attacked by a wolf, which had been spotted several times in the district. The other had been killed by her own dog, turned unexpectedly savage. Although it had run away, it had been caught and destroyed.

Yet even as this story appeared in our American papers, another woman had died in a quiet country lane in a French village, her throat torn out, and in every other particular her death resembled that of the other two women. Soon enough, that story reached us across the ocean, accompanied by some of the hysteria gripping that region of France, and full of speculation as to the true reason for these deaths.

A surgeon who had examined all three bodies announced his conviction that the culprit was a human being. Not an animal, and certainly not a supernatural shape-shifting creature, but an exceptionally cunning and ruthless man who was driven to kill by some inexplicable compulsion (here he reminded questioners of the Reclus case in Paris a few years earlier)—mad in that way, but utterly rational in his ability to disguise his crimes.

It would have been better for Dr. De La Roche if he had never spoken out, for his announcement did not affect the rising hysteria about the
loup garou,
and three days later, both he and his wife were found dead in their home, their throats savaged in the same manner as seen on the other victims. When I heard that, it occurred to me that even if the police asked for his help, Dupin—now with the safety of his own wife to think about—would surely refuse. Would he be right to do so? Could anyone else solve this fearful mystery?

My mind therefore was certainly fixed on Dupin, as well as the recent terrible crimes in France, on the evening I attended a session promising “mesmeric revelations” in the home of Mr. D— W— of Elmira, New York.

Displays of mesmerism have been so popular and widespread in recent years that I think I need hardly explain the theory. The gathering at the W— home in Elmira was small and informal, for the parlor could comfortably accommodate no more than a dozen guests. The designated somnambule was the sixteen-year-old daughter of the house, and we had been told in advance that her particular talent, when under the influence of the magnetic passes made by her father, was to become a channel, or medium, through which we might receive the voices of the dead. Particularly likely to speak were those troubled spirits who had recently passed out of the realm of the physical, their deaths so sudden that they had not yet come to terms with their new state.

Even under the rapt gaze of an audience, Miss W— succumbed to the expected strange, sleep-like state quite rapidly. Almost at once she gasped, and exclaimed in French, then, in that same language, began to teasingly scold some gentleman who had, it seemed, taken her by surprise. The one-sided conversation that followed, at first flirtatious, became increasingly bold and salacious as the speaker began to bargain with the male stranger, offering the pleasures of her body in return for payment. I shifted uncomfortably in my seat, but noticing none of my fellow guests responding, realized I must be the only person there who understood the language.

The somnambule—or, I should say, whoever spoke
through
her—now changed her tone. She seemed nervous, even frightened of the man she had been so intent upon wooing, and there could be no mistaking her terror when she screamed.

At that bloodcurdling sound there was a shocked flurry throughout the stuffy parlor—one lady fainted dead away—and Mr. W— seemed about to try and wake his daughter when I stopped him. Recognizing that we’d heard evidence of a crime, I begged him to question his daughter as to the identity of the spirit.

But Miss W— was only a conduit, and knew nothing of what transpired while she was in this state. Fortunately, the spirit was still nearby. As the only French-speaker, it fell to me to question her, and firstly I inquired her name.

“I am Marie Callot.”

That was the name of the third victim of the murderous “wolf-man” of France. I felt a chill, and heard gasps and murmurs from others who also recognized her name from the papers.

How I longed for the aid of Auguste Dupin as I quizzed the victim about her attacker! Perhaps he would have made more of her slender evidence than I could. The girl had not known the man, and had scarcely seen his face in the dark lane where he encountered her. She could only say that she did not think he was a local; he had a Paris accent, and from the fine cloth and fashionable cut of his clothes, she knew he was “quality.” No, he did not bite her throat, nor did he metamorphose into a hairy animal. She did not see what sort of knife he held, only felt its rough bite as he slashed her throat and took her life with it.

After I had translated her words for the others, Marie was allowed to depart. I asked Mr. W— if we could summon other victims of this killer so I could question them.

He agreed to try, saying that it was best to summon the recently departed by name—and thus we called up Dr. De La Roche. I thought a man of science might have the most helpful observations to offer.

When Miss W— began to speak, her tone had dropped by nearly an octave: “Where am I?” growled an unfamiliar voice in French. “Is this Heaven or Hell?”

“Neither,” said I, “but a parlor in New York State. We speak to you by means of a medium created through mesmerism.”

“Mesmerism! Do you mean that absurd charade still keeps idiots occupied? How long have I been dead?”

“Scarcely more than a week.”

“Ah, so I am still in Limbo. And what of Dupin?”

I was quite startled to hear this name issue from the lips of the young medium. “You refer to the Chevalier C. Auguste Dupin?”

“Certainly. When he came to my door—”

Excited, I burst out: “When?”

“Why, on the last morning of my life! I was surprised, yet pleased, thinking that if he had taken an interest, the murders must be solved. And I should hear it first! I invited him inside, to take a bowl of coffee. It was still early, and my wife and I had not yet broken our fast.

“Once we were seated in the morning room, he congratulated me on having solved the mystery. I assured him that I was still very much in the dark.

“‘But you know,’ said he, ‘you
perceived
that the three young women were murdered, killed by a man, not attacked by wolves, dogs, or the frightful
loup garou
.’”

“‘Yes,’ said I, ‘but not the identity of their slayer; that, like his motives, remains mysterious.’

“He denied there was any mystery, and when I asked if he meant that he could identify the killer, he said, very calmly, that he could name the man, and explain every detail of the three killings.

“Astonished, I asked why he had not told the police. Was it not true they had asked for his help, and he had declined to become involved?

“Yes, he said, that was true. He had decided never to work with the police again after his last experience with them had left him agitated and disturbed. Although he had identified the killer to the police and the man had subsequently been executed for his crimes, Dupin considered he had failed to solve the case.

“I begged him to explain, and he replied that although he had discovered
who
had committed the murders, there remained unanswered the more troubling query:
why.

“Most crimes can be explained, he told me. A man becomes a killer in a fit of passion—he goes for his knife in a jealous rage, or beats or strangles a woman who repulsed his amorous attentions, or when driven past endurance by a nagging wife. Other killers are more calculating; they kill for revenge, or to remove an obstacle in their path. What reason could there be for a rational man to deliberately choose to murder strangers almost at random?

“I replied that some killers were insane, and it was fruitless to attempt to apply reason to the actions of a madman.

“Dupin replied that it made no sense to describe
this
killer as mad. The man was both clever and rational. He knew that what he did was wrong, but he killed for a purpose, although he understood that his purpose would be considered repulsive by most civilized beings, and if he was caught, he would pay for his crimes with his life. He was quite sane. He made a decision. He had no wish to die, but his desire to kill was so powerful, the reward so great, that he judged the risk of being caught was worth it.

“I stared at the great detective in astonishment, thinking he was joking, but he looked utterly serious. ‘Reward?’ I repeated. ‘Explain to me, sir, what possible
reward
could there be in killing a stranger?’

“Dupin gave me a cold, distant look as he replied: ‘Pleasure.’

“‘You expect me to believe Reclus killed purely for the pleasure—the, I should say,
imaginary
pleasure of it—and yet you say he was not mad?’ I said.

“‘He was not mad,’ argued Dupin. ‘He was a man of superior intellect, and quite peculiarly refined sensibilities, able to feel sensations that would be lost on most. He told me that the pleasure of taking a life was the greatest pleasure he had ever known—it was particularly keen when the victim was a young and beautiful woman, but any death was to be savored.’”

A faint sigh—a melancholy, expiring sigh—issued from the lips of the fair young medium and she wavered a little in her seat.

“I think it is time, we must not overtax her system,” said Mr. W—, moving toward his daughter and raising his arms as if anxious to perform the passes that would bring her out of her mesmerized state, but I blocked him.

“Not yet,” I said urgently. “Please—just give me a little longer!”

I looked around the stuffy room, hoping one of the other guests would support me, and realized that there would be no help forthcoming from them. The audience had grown bored with our incomprehensible conversation.

“Just a few more questions,” I said quickly. “Then I will translate—you see, he is about to reveal the identity of the French were-wolf!”

This caused a satisfactory stir of interest, so I put the question to Dr. De La Roche at once: “But what about the more recent murders? Did you ask Dupin to identify the killer?”

“Of course. He advised patience—all in good time, I think he said—and asked how I could be so certain the killer was a man and not an animal. Was it not true that, as he had read, each of the women’s throats revealed the unmistakable tooth-marks?”

“Indeed they did, and I may have chuckled a little as I explained that my closer examination, under a microscope, had convinced me that although the marks had been made by animal teeth, the wounds were not bites. There is a distinction, you see. After examining the pattern of the marks, I felt certain that the wounds had been inflicted by some implement, either artificially made, or the jawbone of some large, carnivorous animal, a wolf or a tiger, wielded by a human hand in such a way as to
mimic
the bite of an animal as it cut the throat.

“‘Yet it was not very well done if you were able to recognize its artificiality,’ said Monsieur Dupin, frowning.

“I assured him that it had fooled the police and would pass muster with most people, even other doctors, but that I had a great deal of experience with animal bites. Monsieur Dupin looked oddly reassured as he nodded his head. ‘You are particularly observant, and very thorough in your examinations,’ he said. ‘A paragon among men of medicine!’

“As I was modestly denying this, Monsieur Dupin reached inside his coat to reveal what he had hidden there. It was something like the curved blade of a sickle, but lined with rows of sharp teeth, some of them natural animal teeth, others manufactured from glass and steel. At first, I felt only wonder at the sight of it, for I had not yet comprehended why Monsieur Dupin had come to visit me at home, so early in the morning, and I did not realize that the emotion I should have felt was fear, until I saw my own blood spurting out over the white table cloth, and knew it was far too late.