ENGLISH LANGUAGE ARTS

Transcription

1 !! Upward Bound Sonoma State University -Summer (This course reader belongs to) ENGLISH LANGUAGE ARTS The Anatomy of Crime Stories with Mr. Gazdik!!!!!!!

2 !! TABLE OF CONTENTS: 1. How a Crime Scene Works by Julia Layton 2. Porphyria s Lover by Robert Barrett Browning 3. The Raven by Edgar Allen Poe 4. Murders in the Rue Morgue by Edgar Allen Poe 5. The Red Headed League by Arthur Conan Doyle 6. The Invisible Man by G.K. Chesterton 7. Civilization and its Discontents by Sigmund Freud 8. The Strange Case of Dr. Jekyll and Mr. Hyde by Robert Lewis Stevenson!!

3 How Crime Scene Investigation Works by Julia Layton Browse the article How Crime Scene Investigation Works Introduction to How Crime Scene Investigation Works On TV shows like "CSI," viewers get to watch as investigators find and collect evidence at the scene of a crime, making blood appear as if by magic and swabbing every mouth in the vicinity. Many of us believe we have a pretty good grip on the process, and rumor has it criminals are getting a jump on the good guys using tips they pick up from these shows about forensics. But does Hollywood get it right? Do crime scene investigators follow their DNA samples into the lab? Do they interview suspects and catch the bad guys, or is their job all about collecting physical evidence? In this article, we'll examine what really goes on when a CSI "processes a crime scene" and get a real-world view of crime scene investigation from a primary scene responder with the Colorado Bureau of Investigation. CSI Basics Crime scene investigation is the meeting point of science, logic and law. "Processing a crime Photo courtesy FBI scene" is a long, tedious process that involves purposeful documentation of the conditions at the scene and the collection of any physical evidence that could possibly illuminate what happened and point to who did it. There is no typical crime scene, there is no typical body of evidence and there is no typical investigative approach. At any given crime scene, a CSI might collect dried blood from a windowpane -- without letting his arm brush the glass in case there are any latent fingerprints there, lift hair off a victim's jacket using tweezers so he doesn't disturb the fabric enough to shake off any of the white powder (which may or may not be cocaine) in the folds of the sleeve, and use a sledge hammer to break through a wall that seems to be the point of origin for a terrible smell. Who's at the Scene? Police officers are typically the first to arrive at a crime scene. They arrest the perpetrator is he's still there and call for an ambulance if necessary. They are responsible for securing the scene so no evidence is destroyed. The CSI unit documents the crime scene in detail and collects any physical evidence. The district attorney is often present to help determine if the investigators require any search warrants to proceed and obtain those warrants from a judge. The medical examiner (if a homicide) may or may not be present to determine a preliminary cause of death. Specialists (entomologists, forensic scientists, forensic psychologists) may be called in if the evidence requires expert analysis. Detectives interview witnesses and consult with the CSI unit. They investigate the crime by following leads provided by witnesses and physical evidence. All the while, the physical evidence itself is only part of the equation. The ultimate goal is the conviction of the perpetrator of the crime. So while the CSI scrapes off the dried blood without smearing any prints, lifts several hairs without disturbing any trace evidence and smashes through a wall in the living room, he's considering all of the necessary steps to preserve the evidence in its current form, what the lab can do with this evidence in order to reconstruct the crime or identify the criminal, and the legal issues involved in making sure this evidence is admissible in court. The investigation of a crime scene begins when the CSI unit receives a call from the police officers or detectives on the scene. The overall system works something like this: The CSI arrives on the scene and makes sure it is secure. She does an initial walk-through to get an overall feel for the crime scene, finds out if anyone moved anything before she arrived, and generates initial theories based on visual examination. She makes note of potential evidence. At this point, she touches nothing. The CSI thoroughly documents the scene by taking photographs and drawing sketches during a second walk-through. Sometimes, the documentation stage includes a video walk-through, as well. She documents the scene as a whole and documents anything she has identified as evidence. She still touches nothing.

4 Now it's time to touch stuff -- very, very carefully. The CSI systematically makes her way through the scene collecting all potential evidence, tagging it, logging it and packaging it so it remains intact on its way to the lab. Depending on the task breakdown of the CSI unit she works for and her areas of expertise, she may or may not analyze the evidence in the lab. The crime lab processes all of the evidence the CSI collected at the crime scene. When the lab results are in, they go to the lead detective on the case. Every CSI unit handles the division between field work and lab work differently. What goes on at the crime scene is called crime scene investigation (or crime scene analysis), and what goes on in the laboratory is called forensic science. Not all CSIs are forensic scientists. Some CSIs only work in the field -- they collect the evidence and then pass it to the forensics lab. In this case, the CSI must still possess a good understanding of forensic science in order to recognize the specific value of various types of evidence in the field. But in many cases, these jobs overlap. Joe Clayton is a primary crime scene responder at the Colorado Bureau of Investigation (CBI). He has 14 years of field experience and also is an expert in certain areas of forensic science. As Clayton explains, his role in laboratory analysis varies according to the type of evidence he brings back from the crime scene: Depending on what scientific examinations are needed or requested, I may be involved in the actual "bench work" once the evidence is submitted to the laboratory. I have expertise in blood pattern identification (blood spatter), trajectory determination, serology (blood and body fluids), and photography. I also have knowledge in many other areas (firearms, fingerprints, questioned documents...) that may assist me at the scene. As a primary crime scene responder at the CBI, my role at the scene may involve one or more of my particular disciplines. While I would not do a functionality test on a firearm here at the laboratory, my role at the crime scene would be to collect the gun and understand its potential evidentiary significance. Crime scene investigation is a massive undertaking. Let's start at the beginning: scene recognition. At the Crime Scene: Scene Recognition It is helpful to secure an area that is larger than the crime scene. When a CSI arrives at a crime scene, he doesn't just jump in and start recovering evidence. The goal of the scene recognition stage is to gain an understanding of what this particular investigation will entail and develop a systematic approach to finding and collecting evidence. At this point, the CSI is only using his eyes, ears, nose, some paper and a pen. The first step is to define the extent of the crime scene. If the crime is a homicide, and there is a single victim who was killed in his home, the crime scene might be the house and the immediate vicinity outside. Does it also include any cars in the driveway? Is there a blood trail down the street? If so, the crime scene might be the entire neighborhood. Photo courtesy Naval Medical Center Portsmouth, VA Securing the crime scene -- and any other areas that might later turn out to be part of the crime scene -- is crucial. A CSI really only gets one chance to perform a thorough, untainted search -- furniture will be moved, rain will wash away evidence, detectives will touch things in subsequent searches, and evidence will be corrupted. Thanks! Special thanks to Joe Clayton, Laboratory Agent and primary scene responder for the Colorado Bureau of Investigation, for his generous assistance with this article. Usually, the first police officers on the scene secure the core area -- the most obvious parts of the crime scene where most of the evidence is concentrated. When the CSI arrives, he will block off an area larger than the core crime scene because it's easier to decrease the size of a crime scene than to increase it -- press vans and onlookers may be crunching through the area the CSI later determines is part of the crime scene. Securing the scene involves creating a physical barrier using crime scene tape or other obstacles like police officers, police cars or sawhorses, and removing all unnecessary personnel from the scene. A CSI might establish

5 a "safe area" just beyond the crime scene where investigators can rest and discuss issues without worrying about destroying evidence. Once the CSI defines the crime scene and makes sure it is secure, the next step is to get the district attorney involved, because if anyone could possibly have an expectation of privacy in any portion of the crime scene, the CSI needs search warrants. The evidence a CSI recovers is of little value if it's not admissible in court. A good CSI errs on the side of caution and seldom searches a scene without a warrant. With a search warrant on the books, the CSI begins a walk-through of the crime scene. He follows a pre-determined path that is likely to contain the least amount of evidence that would be destroyed by walking through it. During this initial walk-through, he takes immediate note of details that will change with time: What's the weather like? What time of day of day is it? He describes any notable smells (gas? decomposition?), sounds (water dripping? smoke alarm beeping?), and anything that seems to be out of place or missing. Is there a chair pushed up against a door? Is the bed missing pillows? This is also the time to identify any potential hazards, like a gas leak or an agitated dog guarding the body, and address those immediately. The CSI calls in any specialists or additional tools he thinks he'll need based on particular types of evidence he sees during the recognition stage. A t-shirt stuck in a tree in the victim's front yard may require the delivery of a scissor lift to the scene. Evidence such as blood spatter on the ceiling or maggot activity on the corpse requires specialists to analyze it at the scene. It's hard to deliver a section of the ceiling to the lab for blood spatter analysis, and maggot activity changes with each passing minute. Mr. Clayton happens to be an expert in blood spatter analysis, so he would perform this task in addition to his role as crime scene investigator. During this time, the CSI talks to the first responders to see if they touched anything and gather any additional information that might be helpful in determining a plan of attack. If detectives on the scene have begun witness interviews, they may offer details that point the CSI to a particular room of the house or type of evidence. Was the victim yelling at someone on the phone a half-hour before the police arrived? If so, the Caller ID unit is a good piece of evidence. If an upstairs neighbor heard a struggle and then the sound of water running, this could indicate a clean-up attempt, and the CSI knows to look for signs of blood in the bathroom or kitchen. Most CSIs, including Mr. Clayton, do not talk to witnesses. Mr. Clayton is a crime scene investigator and a forensic scientist - - he has no training in proper interview techniques. Mr. Clayton deals with the physical evidence alone and turns to the detectives on the scene for any useful witness accounts. The CSI uses the information he gathers during scene recognition to develop a logical approach to this particular crime scene. There is no cookie-cutter approach to crime scene investigation. As Mr. Clayton explains, the approach to a crime scene involving 13 deaths in a high school (Mr. Clayton was one of the CSIs who processed Columbine High School after the shootings there) and the approach to a crime scene involving a person who was raped in a car are vastly different. Once the CSI has formed a plan of attack to gather all of the evidence that could be relevant to this particular crime, the next step is to fully document every aspect of the scene in a way that makes it possible for people who weren't there to reconstruct it. This is the scene-documentation stage. At the Crime Scene: Scene Documentation The goal of crime-scene documentation is to create a visual record that will allow the forensics lab and the prosecuting attorney to easily recreate an accurate view of the scene. The CSI uses digital and film cameras, different types of film, various lenses, flashes, filters, a tripod, a sketchpad, graph paper, pens and pencils, measuring tape, rulers and a notepad at this stage of the investigation. He may also use a camcorder and a camera boom. Scene documentation occurs during a second walk-through of the scene (following the same path as the initial walk-through). If there is more than one CSI on the scene (Mr. Clayton has been the sole CSI on a scene; he has also been one of dozens), one CSI will take photos, one will create sketches, one will take detailed notes and another might perform a video walk-through. If there is only one CSI, all of these jobs are his. Notes Note-taking at a crime scene is not as straightforward as it may seem. A CSI's training includes the art of scientific observation. Whereas a layperson may see a large, brownish-red stain on the carpet, spreading outward from the corpse, and write down "blood spreading outward from underside of corpse," a CSI would write down "large, brownish-red fluid spreading outward from underside of corpse." This fluid might be blood; it might also be decomposition fluid, which resembles blood at a certain stage. Mr. Clayton explains that in crime scene investigation, opinions don't matter and assumptions are harmful. When describing a crime scene, a CSI makes factual observations without drawing any conclusions. Photographs CSIs take pictures of everything before touching or moving a single piece of evidence. The medical examiner will not touch the corpse until the CSI is done photographing it and the surrounding area. There are three types of photographs a CSI takes to document the crime scene: overviews, mid-views, and close-ups.

6 Overview shots are the widest possible views of the entire scene. If the scene is indoors, this includes: views of all rooms (not just the room where the crime seems to have occurred), with photos taken from each corner and, if a boom is present, overhead views of the outside of the building where the crime happened, including photos of all entrances and exits views of the building showing its relation to surrounding structures photos of any spectators at the scene These last shots might identity a possible witness or even a suspect. Sometimes, criminals do actually return to the scene of the crime (this is particularly true in arson cases). Mid-range photos come next. These shots show key pieces of evidence in context, so the photo includes not only the evidence but also its location in a room and its distance from other pieces of evidence. Joe Clayton's photography kit: He usually uses a digital Nikon D100 to photograph a crime scene. He might also use a Nikon N8008s (35-mm film format) for special applications. Finally, the CSI takes close-ups of individual pieces of evidence, showing any serial numbers or other identifying characteristics. For these pictures, the CSI uses a tripod and professional lighting techniques to achieve the best possible detail and clarity -- these photos in particular will provide the forensics lab with views to assist in analyzing the evidence. The CSI also takes a second set of close-up shots that includes a ruler for scale. Every photo the CSI takes makes it into the photo log. This log documents the details of every photo, including the photograph number, a description of the object or scene in the photograph, the location of the object or scene, the time and date the photograph was taken and any other descriptive details that might be relevant. Without a good photo log, the pictures of the scene lose a lot of their value. In the investigation of John F. Kennedy's assassination, the FBI photographers who attended the autopsy didn't create descriptions of the pictures they were taking, and investigators were later unable to distinguish between entrance and exit wounds in the photos. Cleanup Crews Crime scene investigators do not clean up the scene -- neither do police officers, detectives or anyone else involved in the investigation. The task of cleaning up a gruesome crime scene often falls to the victim's family members. In the last 10 years, however, some people have recognized the need for hired crime-scene cleaners to take care of the job so family members and landlords don't have to, and some of these people have formed companies dedicated to the task. It's a dirty, sometimes hazardous, very high-paying job. Crime-scene clean-up can run up to $200 an hour on top of flat fees (in the thousands) and equipment costs. Cleaning up a meth lab is especially expensive because of the risk to anyone who enters the scene and the amount of work involved in making the area habitable again. Sketches In addition to creating a photographic record of the scene, CSIs also create sketches to depict both the entire scene, which is easier to do in a sketch than in a photograph because a sketch can span several rooms, and particular aspects of the scene that will benefit from exact measurements. The goal is to show locations of evidence and how each piece of evidence relates to rest of scene. The sketch artist may indicate details like the height of a door frame, the exact size of the room, the distance from the window to the door and the diameter of the hole in the wall above the victim's body. Video Scene documentation may also include a video walk-through, especially in major cases involving serial killers or multiple homicides. A video recording can offer a better feel for the layout of the crime scene -- how long it takes to get from one room to another and how many turns are involved, for instance. Also, once the investigation is further along, it may reveal something that was overlooked at the scene because the investigators didn't know to look for it. During a video walk-through, the CSI captures the entire crime scene and surrounding areas from every angle and provides a constant audio narrative. After the CSI has created a full record of the crime scene exactly as it was when he arrived, it's time to collect the evidence. Now he starts touching things.

7 At the Crime Scene: Finding the Evidence The goal of the evidence-collection stage is to find, collect and preserve all physical evidence that might serve to recreate the crime and identify the perpetrator in a manner that will stand up in court. Evidence can come in any form. Some typical kinds of evidence a CSI might find at a crime scene include: Trace evidence (gunshot residue, paint residue, broken glass, unknown chemicals, drugs) Impressions (fingerprints, footwear, tool marks) Body fluids (blood, semen, saliva, vomit) Hair and fibers Weapons and firearms evidence (knives, guns, bullet holes, cartridge casings) Questioned documents (diaries, suicide note, phone books; also includes electronic documents like answering machines and caller ID units) With theories of the crime in mind, CSIs begin the systematic search for incriminating evidence, taking meticulous notes along the way. If there is a dead body at the scene, the search probably starts there. Examining the body A CSI might collect evidence from the body at the crime scene or he might wait until the body arrives at the morgue. In either case, the CSI does at least a visual examination of the body and surrounding area at the scene, taking pictures and detailed notes. Before moving the body, the CSI makes note of details including: Are there any stains or marks on the clothing? Is the clothing bunched up in particular direction? If so, this could indicate dragging. Are there any bruises, cuts or marks on body? Any defense wounds? Any injuries indicating, consistent with or inconsistent with the preliminary cause of death? Is there anything obviously missing? Is there a tan mark where a watch or ring should be? If blood is present in large amounts, does the direction of flow follow the laws of gravity? If not, the body may have been moved. If no blood is present in the area surrounding the body, is this consistent with the preliminary cause of death? If not, the body may have been moved. Are there any bodily fluids present beside blood? Photo courtesy U.S. Aid Is there any insect activity on the body? If so, the CSI may call in a forensic entomologist to analyze the activity for clues as to how long the person has been dead. After moving the body, he performs the same examination of the other side of the victim. At this point, he may also take the body temperature and the ambient room temperature to assist in determining an estimated time of death (although most forensic scientists say that time of death determinations are extremely unreliable -- the human body is unpredictable and there are too many variables involved). He will also take fingerprints of the deceased either at the scene or at the ME's office. Once the CSI is done documenting the conditions of body and the immediately surrounding area, technicians wrap the body in a white cloth and put paper bags over the hands and feet for transportation to the morgue for an autopsy. These precautions are for the purpose of preserving any trace evidence on the victim. A CSI will usually attend the autopsy and take additional pictures or video footage and collect additional evidence, especially tissue samples from major organs, for analysis at the crime lab.

8 Examining the scene There are several search patterns available for a CSI to choose from to assure complete coverage and the most efficient use of resources. These patterns may include: The inward spiral search: The CSI starts at the perimeter of the scene and works toward the center. Spiral patterns are a good method to use when there is only one CSI at the scene. The outward spiral search: The CSI starts at the center of scene (or at the body) and works outward. The parallel search: All of the members of the CSI team form a line. They walk in a straight line, at the same speed, from one end of crime scene to the other The grid search: A grid search is simply two parallel searches, offset by 90 degrees, performed one after the other.

9 The zone search: In a zone search, the CSI in charge divides the crime scene into sectors, and each team member takes one sector. Team members may then switch sectors and search again to ensure complete coverage. Consider This Crime scenes are three dimensional. CSIs should remember to look up. If a CSI shines a flashlight on the ground at various angles, even when there's plenty of lighting, he'll create new shadows that could reveal evidence. It's easy to recover DNA from cigarette butts. While searching the scene, a CSI is looking for details including: Are the doors and windows locked or unlocked? Open or shut? Are there signs of forced entry, such as tool marks or broken locks? Is the house in good order? If not, does it look like there was a struggle or was the victim just messy? Is there mail lying around? Has it been opened? Is the kitchen in good order? Is there any partially eaten food? Is the table set? If so, for how many people? Are there signs of a party, such as empty glasses or bottles or full ashtrays? If there are full ashtrays, what brands of cigarettes are present? Are there any lipstick or teeth marks on the butts? Is there anything that seems out of place? A glass with lipstick marks in a man's apartment, or the toilet seat up in a woman's apartment? Is there a couch blocking a doorway? Is there trash in the trash cans? Is there anything out of the ordinary in the trash? Is the trash in the right chronological order according to dates on mail and other papers? If not, someone might have been looking for something in the victim's trash. Do the clocks show the right time? Are the bathroom towels wet? Are the bathroom towels missing? Are there any signs of a cleanup?

10 If the crime is a shooting, how many shots were fired? The CSI will try to locate the gun, each bullet, each shell casing and each bullet hole. If the crime is a stabbing, is a knife obviously missing from victim's kitchen? If so, the crime may not have been premeditated. Are there any shoe prints on tile, wood or linoleum floors or in the area immediately outside the building? Are there any tire marks in the driveway or in the area around the building? Is there any blood splatter on floors, walls or ceilings? The actual collection of physical evidence is a slow process. Each time the CSI collects an item, he must immediately preserve it, tag it and log it for the crime scene record. Different types of evidence may be collected either at the scene or in lab depending on conditions and resources. Mr. Clayton, for instance, never develops latent fingerprints at the scene. He always sends fingerprints to the lab for development in a controlled environment. In the next section, we'll talk about collection methods for specific types of evidence. Evidence Collection In collecting evidence from a crime scene, the CSI has several main goals in mind: Reconstruct the crime, identify the person who did it, preserve the evidence for analysis and collect it in a way that will make it stand up in court. Trace evidence Trace evidence might include gun-shot residue (GSR), paint residue, chemicals, glass and illicit drugs. To collect trace evidence, a CSI might use tweezers, plastic containers with lids, a filtered vacuum device and a knife. He will also have a biohazard kit on hand containing disposable latex gloves, booties, face mask and gown and a biohazard waste bag. If the crime involves a gun, the CSI will collect clothing from the victim and anyone who may have been at the scene so the lab can test for GSR. GSR on the victim can indicate a close shot, and GSR on anyone else can indicate a suspect. The CSI places all clothing in sealed paper bags for transport to the lab. If he finds any illicit drugs or unknown powders at the scene, he can collect them using a knife and then seal each sample in a separate, sterile container. The lab can identify the substance, determine its purity and see what else is in the sample in trace amounts. These tests might determine drug possession, drug tampering or whether the composition could have killed or incapacitated a victim. CBI Denver trace-evidence room Technicians discover a lot of the trace evidence for a crime in the lab when they shake out bedding, clothing, towels, couch cushions and other items found at the scene. At the CBI Denver Crime Lab, technicians shake out the items in a sterile room, onto a large, white slab covered with paper. The technicians then send any trace evidence they find to the appropriate department. In the Denver Crime Lab, things like soil, glass and paint stay in the trace-evidence lab, illicit drugs and unknown substances go to the chemistry lab, and hair goes to the DNA lab. Body fluids Body fluids found at a crime scene might include blood, semen, saliva, and vomit. To identify and collect these pieces of evidence, a CSI might use smear slides, a scalpel, tweezers, scissors, sterile cloth squares, a UV light, protective eyewear and luminol. He'll also use a blood collection kit to get samples from any suspects or from a living victim to use for comparison. If the victim is dead and there is blood on the body, the CSI collects a blood sample either by submitting a piece of clothing or by using a sterile cloth square and a small amount of distilled water to remove some blood from the body. Blood or saliva collected from the body may belong to someone else, and the lab will perform DNA analysis so the sample can be used later to compare to blood or saliva taken from a suspect. The CSI will also scrape the victim's nails for skin -- if there was a struggle, the suspect's skin (and therefore DNA) may be under the victim's nails. If there is dried blood on any furniture at the scene, the CSI will try to send the

11 entire piece of furniture to the lab. A couch is not an uncommon piece of evidence to collect. If the blood is on something that can't reasonably go to the lab, like a wall or a bathtub, the CSI can collect it by scraping it into a sterile container using a scalpel. The CSI may also use luminol and a portable UV light to reveal blood that has been washed off a surface. If there is blood at the scene, there may also be blood spatter patterns. These patterns can reveal the type of weapon that was used -- for instance, a "cast-off pattern" is left when something like a baseball bat contacts a blood source and then swings back. The droplets are large and often tear-drop shaped. This type of pattern can indicate multiple blows from a blunt object, because the first blow typically does not contact any blood. A "high-energy pattern," on the other hand, is made up of many tiny droplets and may indicate a gun shot. Blood spatter analysis can indicate which direction the blood came from and how many separate incidents created the pattern. Analyzing a blood pattern involves studying the size and shape of the stain, the shape and size of the blood droplets and the concentration of the droplets within the pattern. The CSI takes pictures of the pattern and may call in a bloodspatter specialist to analyze it. Hair and Fibers A CSI may use combs, tweezers, containers and a filtered vacuum device to collect any hair or fibers at the scene. In a rape case with a live victim, the CSI accompanies the victim to the hospital to obtain any hairs or fibers found on the victim's body during the medical examination. The CSI seals any hair or fiber evidence in separate containers for transport to the lab. A CSI might recover carpet fibers from a suspect's shoes. The lab can compare these fibers to carpet fibers from the victim's home. Analysts can use hair DNA to identify or eliminate suspects by comparison. The presence of hair on a tool or weapon can identify it as the weapon used in the crime. The crime lab can determine what type of animal the hair came from (human? dog? cow?); and, if it's human, analysts can determine the person's race, what part of the body the hair came from, whether it fell out or was pulled and whether it was dyed. Fingerprints Tools for recovering fingerprints include brushes, powders, tape, chemicals, lift cards, a magnifying glass and Super Glue. A crime lab can use fingerprints to identify the victim or identify or rule out a suspect. There are several types of prints a CSI might find at a crime scene: Visible: Left by the transfer of blood, paint or another fluid or powder onto a surface that is smooth enough to hold the print; evident to the naked eye Molded: Left in a soft medium like soap, putty or candle wax, forming an impression Latent: Left by the transfer of sweat and natural oils from the fingers onto a surface that is smooth enough to hold the print; not visible to the naked eye A perpetrator might leave prints on porous or nonporous surfaces. Paper, unfinished wood and cardboard are porous surfaces that will hold a print, and glass, plastic and metal are non-porous surfaces. A CSI will typically look for latent prints on surfaces the perpetrator is likely to have touched. For instance, if there are signs of forced entry on the front door, the outside door knob and door surface are logical places to look for prints. Breathing on a surface or shining a very strong light on it might make a latent print temporarily visible. When you see a TV detective turn a doorknob using a handkerchief, she's probably destroying a latent print. The only way not to corrupt a latent print on a non-porous surface is to not touch it. Proper methods for recovering latent prints include: Powder (for non-porous surfaces): Metallic silver powder or velvet black powder A CSI uses whichever powder contrasts most with the color of material holding the print. He gently brushes powder onto the surface in a circular motion until a print is visible; then he starts brushing in the direction of the print ridges. He takes a photo of the print before using tape to lift it (this makes it stand up better in court). He adheres clear tape to the powdered print, draws it back in a smooth motion and then adheres is to a fingerprint card of a contrasting color to the powder. Chemicals (for porous surfaces): Iodine, ninhydrin, silver nitrate The CSI sprays the chemical onto the surface of the material or dips the material into a chemical solution to reveal the latent print. Powders and brushes at the CBI latent-fingerprint lab

12 Cyanoacrylate (Super Glue) fuming (for porous or non-porous surfaces) The CSI pours Super Glue into a metal plate and heats it to about 120 F. He then places the plate, the heat source and the object containing the latent print in an airtight container. The fumes from the Super Glue make the latent print visible without disturbing the material it's on. Footwear Impressions and Tool Marks A latent fingerprint is an example of a two-dimensional impression. A footwear impression in mud or a tool mark on a window frame is an example of a three-dimensional impression. If it's not possible to submit the entire object containing the impression to the crime lab, a CSI makes a casting at the scene. A casting kit might include multiple casting compounds (dental gypsum, Silicone rubber), snow wax (for making a cast in snow), a bowl, a spatula and cardboard boxes to hold the casts. If a CSI finds a footwear impression in mud, she'll photograph it and then make a cast. To prepare the casting material, she combines a casting material and water in a Ziploc-type bag and kneads it for about two minutes, until the consistency is like pancake batter. She then pours the mixture into the edge of the track so that it flows into the impression without causing air bubbles. Once the material overflows the impression, she lets it set for at least 30 minutes and then carefully lifts the cast out of the mud. Without cleaning the cast or brushing anything off it (this would destroy any trace evidence), she puts the cast into a cardboard box or paper bag for transport to the lab. This cast is a student sample. According to Mr. Clayton, footprints found at a crime scene seldom produce such perfect specimens. For toolmark impressions, a cast is much harder to use for comparison than it is with footwear. If it's not feasible to transport the entire item containing the tool mark, a CSI can make a silicone-rubber cast and hope for the best. There are two types of tool marks a CSI might find at a crime scene: Impressed: A hard object contacts a softer object without moving back and forth (for example, a hammer mark on a door frame). The tool mark is an impression of the tool's shape. It's difficult to make a definite match with an impressed tool mark. Striated: A hard object contacts a softer object and moves back and forth (for example, pry marks on a window frame). The tool mark is a series of parallel lines. It's easier to make a definite match with a striated tool mark. In toolmark analysis, the lab might determine what sort of tool made the mark and whether a tool in evidence is the tool that made it. It can also compare the tool mark in evidence to another toolmark to determine if the marks were made by the same tool. Firearms If a CSI finds any firearms, bullets or casings at the scene, she puts gloves on, picks up the gun by the barrel (not the grip) and bags everything separately for the lab. Forensic scientists can recover serial numbers and match both bullets and casings not only to the weapon they were fired from, but also to bullets and casings found at other crime scenes throughout the state (most ballistics databases are statewide). When there are bullet holes in the victim or in other objects at the scene, specialists can determine where and from what height the bullet was fired from, as well as the position of the victim when it was fired, using a laser trajectory kit. If there are bullets embedded in a wall or door frame, the CSI cuts out the portion of the wall or frame containing the bullet -- digging the bullet out can damage it and make it unsuitable for comparison. Stuff You Might Find in a CSI Van In a CSI van, you might see hack saws, pliers, a pipe wrench, a pry bar, wire cutters, bolt cutters, shovels, sifters, a slim jim, a pocket knife, measuring tapes, orange marker flags, a flashlight, batteries, chalk, forceps, Vise-Grips, a compass, a magnet, a metal detector, distilled water, kneeling pads, and stuffed animals for living child victims.

13 Documents A CSI collects and preserves any diaries, planners, phone books or suicide notes found at a crime scene. He also delivers to the lab any signed contracts, receipts, a torn up letter in the trash or any other written, typed or photocopied evidence that might be related to the crime. A documents lab can often reconstruct a destroyed document, even one that has been burned, as well as determine if a document has been altered. Technicians analyze documents for forgery, determine handwriting matches to the victim and suspects, and identify what type of machine was used to produce the document. They can rule out a printer or photocopier found at the scene or determine compatibility or incompatibility with a machine found in a suspect's possession. Whenever a CSI discovers a piece of evidence at the scene, she photographs it, logs it, recovers it and tags it. An evidence tag may include identification information such as time, date and exact location of recovery and who recovered the item, or it may simply reflect a serial number that corresponds to an entry in the evidence log that contains this information. The crime scene report documents the complete body of evidence recovered from the scene, including the photo log, evidence recovery log and a written report describing the crime scene investigation. Analyzing the Evidence: Forensic Science On the Stand The role of a crime scene investigator doesn't end when he completes his evidence report. It doesn't even end when the lab results related to that evidence are delivered to the detectives on the case. A big part of a CSI's job is testifying in court about the evidence he collected, the methods he used to recover it and the number of people who came into contact with it before it ended up as the prosecution's Exhibit D. And the defense attorney's job is to attack the evidence, which sometimes means attacking the person who collected it. This is why search warrants, evidence logs, photographs and extremely detailed reports are so critical to the CSI process. The defense will try to get every piece of incriminating evidence thrown out of court. The legality of the search, the untainted preservation of the evidence and the full, undisputable documentation of the crime scene are prime considerations in a crime scene investigation. The first forensics lab in the United States opened in 1923 in Los Angeles. In 1932, the FBI established its own forensics lab to serve police departments and other investigating authorities all over the country. The FBI lab is one of the largest in the world. The Denver Crime Lab at the Colorado Bureau of Investigation provides evidence collection and laboratory analysis for any police department in Colorado that requests its services. It also conducts state investigations that don't fall under the jurisdiction of any local authority. Some specialty departments in the Denver Crime Lab include: Latent fingerprints and impressions Develop latent fingerprints; analyze and compare fingerprints, footwear and tire impressions; run fingerprints through the Automated Fingerprint Identification System (AFIS, which utilizes the FBI database) for comparison against hundreds of millions of prints.. Trace evidence Run GSR analysis; identify and compare samples of soil, glass, fibers and paint Chemistry Conduct analysis and comparison of illicit drugs, explosives and unknown chemicals Computer Crimes Recover evidence from computers; perform computer enhancement on audio or video evidence Firearms and toolmark identification Identify firearms; test firearms to establish barrel pattern and distance of gun from entrance wound; identify and compare bullets, casings and toolmark impressions. CBI technicians use these camera setups to photograph recovered prints to use in comparison and for running through the AFIS system. On the left is an old-school Polaroid setup, and on the right is a digital-camera setup. Mr. Clayton prefers the Polaroid results

14 Serology and DNA Conduct body fluid analysis, including DNA analysis for blood stains, semen and hair for identification and comparison. Questioned documents Detect forgery and alterations; conduct handwriting comparisons; reconstruct destroyed documents; identify and compares printers, typewriters or copiers used to produce a document. Often, a piece of evidence passes through more than one department for analysis. Each department delivers a complete report of the evidence it analyzed for the case, including the actual results (numbers, measurements, chemical contents) and any expert conclusions the scientists have drawn from these results. The CSI in charge might compile the results and deliver them to the lead detective on the case, or the lab might send the results directly to the detective squad. Comparison microscope setup in the CBI serology lab CSI vs. "CSI" So, does Hollywood get it right? When asked if the TV show "CSI" accurately depicts his job, Joe Clayton's short answer was, "No." The long answer was that the show does accurately represent certain aspects of crime scene investigation, but it leaves a lot out and it adds a lot because, well, it's Hollywood. Viewers don't want to watch a bunch of CSIs waiting around for a search warrant, and they would probably be unsatisfied if they never got a look at the suspect. Scientifically speaking, "CSI" sometimes misses the mark. In reality, it's not possible to come up with a two-hour range for the time of death. Also, you don't just scan a fingerprint into a computer and wait for it to spit out a photo of the suspect. Fingerprintcomparison software returns several possible matches that an expert then analyzes visually to determine a definite match. Other places where Hollywood gets it wrong involves investigative process. Crime scene investigators almost always get warrants before searching a scene. Pretty much the only scene that might not require a warrant is an apartment owned by the victim, who lived there alone and never shared the space with anyone else at any time. This means there's a lot of waiting involved -- it's pretty unusual for a CSI to arrive on a scene and just start searching. What usually happens is the CSI arrives and determines which areas need to be searched, and then someone gets a hold of the district attorney, who gets a hold of a judge, who signs whatever search warrants are requested. Once the district attorney brings the warrants to the scene, the search begins. And the search involves the evidence, not the neighbors of the victim. CSIs do not deal with witnesses or suspects. They don't interview people at the scene, they don't interrogate anyone and they definitely don't pursue the perpetrator. These are all the jobs of the detectives on the case. Also, it's rare for a CSI to handle an entire investigation from beginning to end, even if we're just talking about the evidence. There are tons of people involved in collecting and analyzing evidence, including CSIs, forensic specialists, medical examiners and detectives. It's a rare CSI who has the time or expertise to do it all. In Mr. Clayton's opinion, shows like "CSI" aren't making criminals any smarter. The truth is, crime scene investigation and forensic science are always trying to catch up with the criminals, not the other way around. And while there are certainly people who meticulously plan a crime and how to get away with it, Mr. Clayton's experience with crime scenes tells a different story: Most violent crimes are committed in the heat of the moment. The perpetrator is in an agitated state, possibly under the influence of drugs or alcohol, and doesn't have the presence of mind to meticulously cover his tracks. It's the rare criminal genius who studies forensic science so he can commit the perfect murder and get away with it. For more information on crime scene investigation, forensic science and related topics, check out the links on the next page. Becoming a CSI CSIs work long hours, must be available for emergencies 24/7 and often deal with gruesome scenes. For Joe Clayton, his job as a CSI involves constant reminders of man's inhumanity to man. But he views his job as a chance to use science to help people. CSIs can be police officers or civilians. The most common way to become a CSI is to become a police officer first and then receive CSI training. All police departments and law-enforcement agencies have different criteria. Typically, a civilian CSI should have a two- or four-year degree. Mr. Clayton is not a police officer. He graduated from college with a bachelor's degree in biology and minors in chemistry and behavioral sciences. He applied for a CSI position at the Kansas Bureau of Investigation and received his training there. Call your local police department or crime lab to find out what their requirements are for civilian CSIs. Before deciding to pursue the job, you should visit a morgue and have a look at a mangled body -- if you pass out, consider another career.

15 2/1/2015 Porphyria's Lover by Robert Browning : The Poetry Foundation Home > Poems & Poets > Porphyria's Lover Porphyria's Lover BY ROBERT BROWNING The rain set early in to-night, The sullen wind was soon awake, It tore the elm-tops down for spite, And did its worst to vex the lake: I listened with heart fit to break. When glided in Porphyria; straight She shut the cold out and the storm, And kneeled and made the cheerless grate Blaze up, and all the cottage warm; Which done, she rose, and from her form Withdrew the dripping cloak and shawl, And laid her soiled gloves by, untied Her hat and let the damp hair fall, And, last, she sat down by my side And called me. When no voice replied, She put my arm about her waist, And made her smooth white shoulder bare, And all her yellow hair displaced, And, stooping, made my cheek lie there, And spread, o'er all, her yellow hair, Murmuring how she loved me she Too weak, for all her heart's endeavour, To set its struggling passion free From pride, and vainer ties dissever, And give herself to me for ever. But passion sometimes would prevail, Nor could to-night's gay feast restrain A sudden thought of one so pale For love of her, and all in vain: So, she was come through wind and rain. Be sure I looked up at her eyes Happy and proud; at last I knew Porphyria worshipped me; surprise Made my heart swell, and still it grew While I debated what to do. That moment she was mine, mine, fair, Perfectly pure and good: I found A thing to do, and all her hair In one long yellow string I wound Three times her little throat around, And strangled her. No pain felt she; I am quite sure she felt no pain. As a shut bud that holds a bee, 1/2

16 2/1/2015 Porphyria's Lover by Robert Browning : The Poetry Foundation I warily oped her lids: again Laughed the blue eyes without a stain. And I untightened next the tress About her neck; her cheek once more Blushed bright beneath my burning kiss: I propped her head up as before, Only, this time my shoulder bore Her head, which droops upon it still: The smiling rosy little head, So glad it has its utmost will, That all it scorned at once is fled, And I, its love, am gained instead! Porphyria's love: she guessed not how Her darling one wish would be heard. And thus we sit together now, And all night long we have not stirred, And yet God has not said a word! 2/2

17 2/9/2015 The Raven by Edgar Allan Poe : The Poetry Foundation Home > Poems & Poets > The Raven The Raven BY EDGAR ALLAN POE Once upon a midnight dreary, while I pondered, weak and weary, Over many a quaint and curious volume of forgotten lore While I nodded, nearly napping, suddenly there came a tapping, As of some one gently rapping, rapping at my chamber door. Tis some visitor, I muttered, tapping at my chamber door Only this and nothing more. Ah, distinctly I remember it was in the bleak December; And each separate dying ember wrought its ghost upon the floor. Eagerly I wished the morrow; vainly I had sought to borrow From my books surcease of sorrow sorrow for the lost Lenore For the rare and radiant maiden whom the angels name Lenore Nameless here for evermore. And the silken, sad, uncertain rustling of each purple curtain Thrilled me filled me with fantastic terrors never felt before; So that now, to still the beating of my heart, I stood repeating Tis some visitor entreating entrance at my chamber door Some late visitor entreating entrance at my chamber door; This it is and nothing more. Presently my soul grew stronger; hesitating then no longer, Sir, said I, or Madam, truly your forgiveness I implore; But the fact is I was napping, and so gently you came rapping, And so faintly you came tapping, tapping at my chamber door, That I scarce was sure I heard you here I opened wide the door; Darkness there and nothing more. Deep into that darkness peering, long I stood there wondering, fearing, Doubting, dreaming dreams no mortal ever dared to dream before; But the silence was unbroken, and the stillness gave no token, And the only word there spoken was the whispered word, Lenore? This I whispered, and an echo murmured back the word, Lenore! Merely this and nothing more. Back into the chamber turning, all my soul within me burning, Soon again I heard a tapping somewhat louder than before. Surely, said I, surely that is something at my window lattice; Let me see, then, what thereat is, and this mystery explore Let my heart be still a moment and this mystery explore; Tis the wind and nothing more! Open here I flung the shutter, when, with many a flirt and flutter, 1/3

18 2/9/2015 The Raven by Edgar Allan Poe : The Poetry Foundation In there stepped a stately Raven of the saintly days of yore; Not the least obeisance made he; not a minute stopped or stayed he; But, with mien of lord or lady, perched above my chamber door Perched upon a bust of Pallas just above my chamber door Perched, and sat, and nothing more. Then this ebony bird beguiling my sad fancy into smiling, By the grave and stern decorum of the countenance it wore, Though thy crest be shorn and shaven, thou, I said, art sure no craven, Ghastly grim and ancient Raven wandering from the Nightly shore Tell me what thy lordly name is on the Night s Plutonian shore! Quoth the Raven Nevermore. Much I marvelled this ungainly fowl to hear discourse so plainly, Though its answer little meaning little relevancy bore; For we cannot help agreeing that no living human being Ever yet was blessed with seeing bird above his chamber door Bird or beast upon the sculptured bust above his chamber door, With such name as Nevermore. But the Raven, sitting lonely on the placid bust, spoke only That one word, as if his soul in that one word he did outpour. Nothing farther then he uttered not a feather then he fluttered Till I scarcely more than muttered Other friends have flown before On the morrow he will leave me, as my Hopes have flown before. Then the bird said Nevermore. Startled at the stillness broken by reply so aptly spoken, Doubtless, said I, what it utters is its only stock and store Caught from some unhappy master whom unmerciful Disaster Followed fast and followed faster till his songs one burden bore Till the dirges of his Hope that melancholy burden bore Of Never nevermore. But the Raven still beguiling all my fancy into smiling, Straight I wheeled a cushioned seat in front of bird, and bust and door; Then, upon the velvet sinking, I betook myself to linking Fancy unto fancy, thinking what this ominous bird of yore What this grim, ungainly, ghastly, gaunt, and ominous bird of yore Meant in croaking Nevermore. This I sat engaged in guessing, but no syllable expressing To the fowl whose fiery eyes now burned into my bosom s core; This and more I sat divining, with my head at ease reclining On the cushion s velvet lining that the lamp-light gloated o er, But whose velvet-violet lining with the lamp-light gloating o er, She shall press, ah, nevermore! Then, methought, the air grew denser, perfumed from an unseen censer Swung by Seraphim whose foot-falls tinkled on the tufted floor. Wretch, I cried, thy God hath lent thee by these angels he hath sent thee Respite respite and nepenthe from thy memories of Lenore; 2/3

19 2/9/2015 The Raven by Edgar Allan Poe : The Poetry Foundation Quaff, oh quaff this kind nepenthe and forget this lost Lenore! Quoth the Raven Nevermore. Prophet! said I, thing of evil! prophet still, if bird or devil! Whether Tempter sent, or whether tempest tossed thee here ashore, Desolate yet all undaunted, on this desert land enchanted On this home by Horror haunted tell me truly, I implore Is there is there balm in Gilead? tell me tell me, I implore! Quoth the Raven Nevermore. Prophet! said I, thing of evil! prophet still, if bird or devil! By that Heaven that bends above us by that God we both adore Tell this soul with sorrow laden if, within the distant Aidenn, It shall clasp a sainted maiden whom the angels name Lenore Clasp a rare and radiant maiden whom the angels name Lenore. Quoth the Raven Nevermore. Be that word our sign of parting, bird or fiend! I shrieked, upstarting Get thee back into the tempest and the Night s Plutonian shore! Leave no black plume as a token of that lie thy soul hath spoken! Leave my loneliness unbroken! quit the bust above my door! Take thy beak from out my heart, and take thy form from off my door! Quoth the Raven Nevermore. And the Raven, never flitting, still is sitting, still is sitting On the pallid bust of Pallas just above my chamber door; And his eyes have all the seeming of a demon s that is dreaming, And the lamp-light o er him streaming throws his shadow on the floor; And my soul from out that shadow that lies floating on the floor Shall be lifted nevermore! 3/3

20 E d g a r A l l a n P o e p The Murders in the Rue Morgue Part One PARIS! IN PARIS IT WAS, IN THE summer of 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 38

21 E d g a r A l l a n P o e : S t o r y t e l l e r 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. 39

22 E d g a r A l l a n P o e 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. Now I was certain that 40

23 E d g a r A l l a n P o e : S t o r y t e l l e r 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. 41

24 E d g a r A l l a n P o e p The Murders in the Rue Morgue Part Two IT WAS IN PARIS IN THE SUMMER of 1840 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, 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. 42

25 E d g a r A l l a n P o e : S t o r y t e l l e r 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. Quick ly they forced the door open, and they saw spread be fore 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, 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. 43

26 E d g a r A l l a n P o e 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. 44

27 E d g a r A l l a n P o e : S t o r y t e l l e r 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. 45

28 E d g a r A l l a n P o e 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! 46

29 E d g a r A l l a n P o e : S t o r y t e l l e r p The Murders in the Rue Morgue Part Three IT WAS IN PARIS THAT I MET August Dupin. He was an un usually interesting young man with a busy, forceful mind. This mind could, it seemed, look right through a man s body into his deepest soul. One hot summer morning we read in the newspapers about a terrible killing. The dead persons were an old woman and her unmarried daughter, who lived alone on the fourth floor of an old house on the street called the Rue Morgue. Someone had taken the daughter s neck in his powerful fingers and pressed with fearful strength until her life was gone. Her mother s body was found outside, behind the house, with the head nearly cut off. The knife with which she was killed was found, however, in the room, on the floor. Several neighbors ran to the house when they heard the women s cries of fear. As they ran up to the fourth floor they heard two other voices. But when they reached the room and broke down the door they found no living person in the room. Like the door, the two 47

30 E d g a r A l l a n P o e windows were firmly closed, locked on the inside. There was no other way that the killer could have got in or out of the room. The Paris police did not know where to begin to look for the answer. I told Dupin that it seemed to me that it was not possible to learn the answer to the mystery of these killings. No, no, said Dupin. No; I think you are wrong. A mystery it is, yes. But there must be an answer. We must not judge what is possible just by what we have read in the newspapers. The Paris police work hard and often get good results; but there is no real method in what they do. When something more than simple hard work is needed, when a little real method is needed, the police fail. Sometimes they stand too near the problem. Often, if a person looks at something very closely he can see a few things more clearly, but the shape of the whole thing escapes him. There must be an answer! There must! Let us go to the house and see what we can see. I know the head of the police, and he will allow us to do so. And this will be interesting and give us some pleasure. I thought it strange that Dupin should believe we would get pleasure out of this. But I said nothing. It was late in the afternoon when we reached the house on the Rue Morgue. It was easily found for there were still many persons in fact, a crowd, standing there looking at it. Before going in we walked all around it, and Dupin carefully looked at the neighboring houses as well as this one. I could not understand the reason for such great care. We came again to the front of the house and went in. We went up the stairs into the room where the daughter s body had been found. Both bodies were there. The police had left the room as they had found it. I saw nothing beyond what the newspaper had told us. Dupin looked with great care at every thing, at the bodies, the walls, the fireplace, the windows. Then we went home. Dupin said nothing. I could see the cold look in his eyes which told me that his mind was working, working busily, quickly. I asked no questions. Dupin said nothing until the next morning, when he came into my room and asked me suddenly if I had not no ticed something especially strange about what we saw at the house on the Rue Morgue. I replied: Nothing more than we both read in the newspaper. 48

31 E d g a r A l l a n P o e : S t o r y t e l l e r Tell me, my friend. How shall we explain the horrible force, the unusual strength used in these murders? And whose were the voices that were heard? No one was found except the dead women; yet there was no way for anyone to escape. And the wild condition of the room; the body which was found head down above the fireplace; the terrible broken appearance of the body of the old lady, with its head cut off; these are all so far from what might be expected that the police are standing still; they don t know where to begin. These things are unusual, indeed; but they are not deep mysteries. We should not ask, What has happened? but What has happened that has never happened before? In fact, the very things that the police think cannot possibly be ex plained are the things which will lead me to the answer. In deed, I believe they have already led me to the answer. I was so surprised I could not say a word. Dupin looked quickly at the door. I am now waiting for a person who will know something about these murders, these wild killings. I do not think he did them himself. But I think he will know the killer. I hope I am right about this. If I am, then I expect to find the whole answer, today. I expect the man here in this room at any moment. It is true that he may not come; but he probably will. But who is this person? How did you find him? I ll tell you. While we wait for this man we do not know for I have never met him while we wait, I will tell you how my thoughts went. Dupin began to talk. But it did not seem that he was trying to explain to me what he had thought. It seemed that he was talking to himself. He looked not at me, but at the wall. It has been fully proved that the voices heard by the neighbors were not the voices of the women who were killed. Someone else was in the room. It is therefore certain that the old woman did not first kill her daughter and then kill herself. She would not have been strong enough to put her daughter s body where it was found; and the manner of the old lady s death shows that she could not have caused it herself. A per son can kill himself with a knife, yes. But he surely cannot cut his own head almost off, then drop the knife on the floor and jump out the window. It was murder, then, done by some third person or persons. And the voices heard were the voic es of these 49

32 E d g a r A l l a n P o e persons. Let us now think carefully about the things people said about those voices. Did you notice anything especially strange in what was told about them? Well, yes. Everybody agreed that the low voice was the voice of a Frenchman; but they could not agree about the high voice. Ah! That was what they said, yes; but that was not what was so strange about what they said. You say you have noticed nothing that makes their stories very different from what might have been expected. Yet there was something. All these persons, as you say, agreed about the low voice; but not about the high hard voice. The strange thing here is that when an Italian, an Englishman, a Spaniard, and a Frenchman tried to tell what the voice was like, each one said it sounded like the voice of a foreigner. How strangely unusual that voice really must have been! Here are four men from four big countries, and not one of them could understand what the voice said; each one gave it a different name. Now, I know that there are other countries in the world. You will say that perhaps it was the voice of someone from one of those other lands Russia, perhaps. But remem ber, not one of these people heard anything that sounded like a separate word. Here Dupin turned and looked into my eyes. This is what we have learned from the newspaper. I don t know what I have led you to think. But I believe that in this much of the story there are enough facts to lead us in the one and only direction to the right answer. What this answer is, I will not say not yet. But I want you to keep in mind that this much was enough to tell me what I must look for when we were in that house on the Rue Morgue. And I found it! 50

33 E d g a r A l l a n P o e : S t o r y t e l l e r p The Murders in the Rue Morgue Part Four MURDERERS HAD COME TO THE OLD HOUSE ON THE STREET CALLED the Rue Morgue! Murderers had come and gone and left behind the dead bodies of an old woman and her daughter. The daughter s body was in the bedroom on the fourth floor. The old woman was lying outside, behind the house, her head almost cut off; but the knife which killed her was up in the bedroom, on the floor. The door and the windows were all firmly closed, locked on the inside; there was no way for anyone to go in or out. Voices had been heard. One voice was speaking in French; the other voice had not spoken even one word that anyone could understand. But there was no one in the room when police arrived. This much we had learned from the newspapers, my friend Dupin and I. Interested by it, we had gone to look at the house and the bodies. Dupin was now explaining to me what he had learned there. That is what we learned from the newspapers. Please remember it; for that much was enough to tell me what I must look for when we were in that house on the Rue Morgue. And I found it! Let us now take ourselves again, in our thoughts, to the room where the murders were done. What shall we first look for? The way the murderers escaped. All right. We agree, I am sure, that we do not have to look for anything outside of nature, for anything not having a real form, a body. The killers were not spirits; they were real. They could not go through the walls. Then how did they escape? There is only one way to reason on that subject, and it must lead us to the answer. Let us look, one at a time, at the possible ways to escape. It is 51

34 E d g a r A l l a n P o e clear that the killers were in the room where the daughter was found. From this room they must have escaped. How? At first I saw no way out. It had been necessary for the neighbors to break down the door in order to enter the room. There was no other door. The opening above the fireplace is not big enough, near the top, for even a small animal. The murderers therefore must have escaped through one of the windows. This may not seem possible. We must prove that it is possible. There are two windows in the room. Both of them, you will remember, are made of two parts; to open the window one must lift up the bottom half. One of these windows is easily seen; the lower part of the other is out of sight behind the big bed. I looked carefully at the first of these windows. It was firmly closed, fastened, like the door, on the inside. To keep the window closed, to fasten it, someone had put a strong iron nail into the wood at the side of the window in such a way that the window could not be raised. At least it seemed that the nail held the window closed. The nail was easy to see. There it was. And the people who discovered the kil l ings used their greatest strength and could not raise the win dow. I, too, tried to raise the window and could not. I went to the second window and looked behind the bed at the lower half of the window. There was a nail here, too, which held the window closed. Without moving the bed, I tried to open this window also, and again I could not do so. I did not stop looking for an answer, however, because I knew that what did not seem possible must be proved to be possible. The killers or perhaps I should say, the killer, for I am almost certain there was only one the killer escaped through one of these windows. Of this I felt certain. After the murderer had left the bedroom he could have closed the win dow from the outside; but he could not have fastened it again on the inside. Yet anyone could see the nails which held the windows tightly closed. This was the fact that stopped the police. How could the murderer put the nail back in its place? Perhaps perhaps if you pulled out the nail. Yes! That is just what I thought. Two things seemed clear: first, there had to be something wrong with the idea that the nails were holding the windows closed. I didn t know what was wrong. Something 52

35 E d g a r A l l a n P o e : S t o r y t e l l e r was. Second, if it was not the nails which were holding the windows closed, then something else was holding them closed, something hard to see, some thing hidden. I went back to the first window. With great effort I pulled out the nail. Then I again tried to raise the window. It was still firmly closed. This did not surprise me. There had to be a hidden lock, I thought, inside the window. I felt the window carefully with my fingers. Indeed, I found a button which, when I pressed it, opened an inner lock. With almost no effort I raised the window. Now I knew that the killer could close the window from outside and the window would lock itself. But there was still the nail. Carefully, I put the nail back into the hole from which I had taken it. Then I pressed the button and tried to raise the window. I could not. The nail also was holding the window closed! Then then the murderer could not possibly have gone out the window. He could not have gone out that window. Therefore, he must have escaped through the other window. The other win dow was also held closed by a nail. But I knew I must be right. Although no one else had looked carefully at the window behind the bed, I went to it and tried to see whether the two windows were in some way different. The nail in the second window looked the same as the one I had just seen. I moved the bed so that I could look closely. Yes. There was a button here, too. I was so sure I was right that without touching the nail I pressed the button and tried to raise the window. Up it went! As the window went up it carried with it the top part of the nail, the head. When I closed the window the head of the nail was again in its place. It looked just as it had looked before. I took the head of the nail in my fingers and it easily came away from the window. I saw that the nail had been broken. But when I put the nail head back in its place, the nail again looked whole. What seemed to be not possible we have proved to be possible. The murderer indeed escaped through that window. I could now see, in my mind, what had happened. It was a hot summer night. When the murderer first arrived he found that window open, open to let some of the fresh night air come in. Through the open window the mur derer went in and came 53

36 E d g a r A l l a n P o e out again. As he came out he closed the window, perhaps with a purpose to do so, perhaps by chance. The special lock inside the window held the window firmly closed. The nail only seemed to be holding it closed. And that which was possible looked not possible. Dupin had been talking not to me, it seemed, but to himself. His cold eyes seemed to see only what was in his own mind. Now he stopped and looked straight at me. His eyes were now hard and bright. And I understood that using his unusual reasoning power to find the answer to those bloody murders was giving Dupin great pleasure! At first I could think only of this. Then I said: Dupin the windows are on the fourth floor, far above the ground. Even an open window. Yes. That is an interesting question: how did the mur derer go from the window down to the ground? Once I was quite certain that the murderer had in fact gone through that window the rest was not so hard to know. And the answer to this question told me still more about who the murderer was! When you and I first came to the house on the Rue Morgue we walked around the house. At that time I noted a long, thin metal pole which went from the top of the build ing to the ground a lightning rod, put there to carry down to the ground a charge of electricity that might come out of the clouds during a bad summer storm. Here, I thought, is a way for someone to go up or down the wall, and then to go in or out the window. He would have to be very strong. Although certain animals could easily go up the pole, not every man could do it only a man with very special strength and special training. This told me more about what the murderer was like. But I still had the question: who? 54

37 E d g a r A l l a n P o e : S t o r y t e l l e r p The Murders in the Rue Morgue Part Five THAT UNUSUAL FRENCHMAN, AUGUST Dupin, was still explaining to me how he found the answer to the question of who murdered the two women in the house on the Rue Morgue. We now knew that it was indeed possible for the killer to go in and again out one of the windows and still leave them both firmly closed, locked on the inside. And I agreed with Dupin when he said that only someone with very special strength and training could have gone up the lightning rod on the side of the house and thus entered the window. But who the murderer was, we still did not know. Let us look again, said Dupin, at that room on the fourth floor. Let us now go back, in our minds, to the room we saw yesterday. Consider its appearance. Clothes had been thrown around the room; yet it seemed that none had been taken. The old woman and her daughter almost never left the house. They had little use for many clothes. Those that were found in the room were as good as any they had. If the killer took some, why didn t he take the best or take all? And why would he take a few clothes and leave all the money? Nearly the whole amount brought from the bank was found, in bags, on the floor. 55

38 E d g a r A l l a n P o e I want you therefore to forget the idea in the minds of the police, the idea that a desire for money was what they call the motive, the reason for the murders. This idea rose in their minds when they heard how the money was brought to the house three days before the killings. But this is only what we call a coincidence two things happening at the same time, but only by chance and not because of some cause, some cause that brought them together. Coincidences happen to all of us every day of our lives. If the gold was the reason for the murders, the killer must have been quite a fool to forget and leave it there. No. I don t think the desire for money was the reason for the killings. I think that there was no reason for these killings except, perhaps, fear. Now let us look at the murders themselves. A girl is killed by powerful hands around her neck, then the body is placed in the opening over the fireplace, head down. No murders we usually hear about are like this. There is something here that does not fit our ideas of human actions, even when we think of men of the most terrible kind. Think, also, of the great strength which was necessary to put the body where it was found. The strength of several men was needed to pull it down! There are other signs of this fearful strength. In front of the fireplace some gray human hair was lying, thick pieces of it, pulled from the head of the old woman. You saw the hair on the floor yourself, and you saw the blood and skin with it. You know, and I know, that great force is necessary to pull out even twenty or thirty hairs at one time. A much greater force was needed to pull out hundreds of hairs at one time. Also, the head of the old lady was cut almost completely from the body. Why? To kill a woman with a knife it is not necessary to cut her head off!! If, now, added to all these things, we add also the condition of the room, we have put together the following ideas: strength more than human; wildness less than human; a murder without reason; horror beyond human understanding; and a voice which made no sound that men could understand. What result, then, have you come to? What have I helped you to see? 56

39 E d g a r A l l a n P o e : S t o r y t e l l e r A cold feeling went up and down my back as Dupin asked me the question. A man someone who has lost his mind, I said. A madman!! A madman!! Only a madman could have done these murders! I think not. In some ways your idea is a good one. But madmen are from one country or another. Their cries may be terrible, but they are made of words, and some of the words can be understood. Here! Look! Look at this hair. I took it from the fin gers of the old woman. The hair of a madman is not like this. Tell me what you think it is. Dupin! This hair is this hair is not human hair!! I did not say that it is. But, before we decide this matter, look at the picture I had made here on this piece of paper. It is a picture of the marks on the daughter s neck. The doctors said these marks were made by fingers. Let me spread the paper on the table before us. Try to put your fingers, all at the same time, on the picture, so that your hand and its fingers will fit the picture of the marks on the daughter s neck. I cannot! No. But perhaps we are not doing this in the right way. The paper is spread out on the table; the human neck is round. Here is a piece of wood about as big as the daughter s neck. Put the paper around it and try again. Go on! Try! I tried to put my fingers around the piece of wood, as if it were the girl s neck! But still my hand was not large enough to equal the marks left by the killer. Dupin! These marks were made by no human hand! No. They were not. I am almost certain that they were made by the hand of an orangutan, one of those man-like animals that live in the wild forests. The great size, the strength, the wildness of these animals are well known. Now. Look in this book by Cuvier. Read. Look at the picture. I did so, and at once I knew that Dupin was right in everything he said. The color of the hair the size of the hand the terrible strength the wildness of the kill ings those sounds which were a voice but were not words everything fit nicely in its place. No, not everything. Dupin! I said. There were two voices. Whose was the second voice? 57

40 E d g a r A l l a n P o e The second voice! Yes! Remember: we decided that only someone with a very special kind of strength could have gone up the lightning rod, up the side of the house to the window on the fourth floor perhaps an animal, perhaps a strong man from a circus, perhaps a sailor. We know now that one of the voices was the voice of an animal, an orang utan. The other was the voice of a man. This voice spoke only two words; they were My God! spoken in French. Upon those two words I have placed my hopes of find ing a full answer to this horrible question. The words were an expression of horror. This means that a Frenchman knew about these murders. It is possible indeed it is probable that the Frenchman himself did not help the orang utan to kill. Perhaps the animal escaped from him, and he followed it to the house on the Rue Morgue. He could not have caught it again. It must still be free somewhere in Paris. I will not continue with these guesses for I cannot call them more than that. If I am right, and if the Frenchman did not himself help with the killings, I expect him to come here. Read this. I paid to have this put in the newspaper. I took the newspaper and read the following: CAUGHT Early in the morning of the seventh of this month: a very large orangutan. The owner, who is known to be a sailor, may have the animal again if he can prove it is his. But, Dupin. How can you know that the man is a sailor? I do not know it. I am not sure of it. I think the man is a sailor. A sailor could go up that pole on the side of the house. Sailors travel to strange, faraway places where such things as orang utans can be got. If I am right. Think for a moment! The sailor will say to himself: The animal is valuable. Why shouldn t I go and get it? The police do not know the animal killed two women. And clearly somebody knows I am in Paris. If I do not go to get the animal, they will ask why. I don t want anyone to start asking questions about the animal. So I will go and get the orang utan and keep it where no one will see it, until this trouble has passed. This, I believe, is how the sailor will think. But listen! I hear a man s step on the stairs. 58

41 E d g a r A l l a n P o e : S t o r y t e l l e r Dupin had left the front door of the house open, and the visitor entered without using the bell. He came several steps up the stairs, then stopped. We heard him go down again. Dupin was moving toward the door when we again heard the stranger coming up. He did not turn back a second time, but came straight to the door of our room. In a strong, warm, friendly voice, Dupin said: Come in, my friend! Come in! Slowly the door opened, and in came a sailor! 59

42 E d g a r A l l a n P o e p The Murders in the Rue Morgue Part Six MY FRIEND DUPIN WAS NOW CERTAIN THAT THE MURDERS IN THE Rue Morgue had been done by a wild animal of the jungle, the manlike animal known as an orang utan. The animal had escaped from its owner, he thought; and the owner was prob ably a sailor. He had put a notice in the newspaper that the man who owned the orang utan could have it again if he came to our house to get it. Now, as the owner came to our door, we were both wondering if that man would, as Dupin guessed, be a sailor. Yes. The man who entered was indeed a sailor. He was a large man, and strong. He carried a big, heavy piece of wood, but no gun. He said to us, in French: Good evening. Sit down, my friend. I suppose you have come to ask about the orang utan. A very fine animal. I have no doubt that it is a very valuable animal. How old do you think it may be? I have no way of guessing how old it is, but it can t be more than four or five years old. Have you got it here? 60

43 E d g a r A l l a n P o e : S t o r y t e l l e r No, no. We have no place for it here. You can get it in the morning. Of course you can prove it is yours? Yes. Yes, I can. I wish I could keep it. I would like to have it. I of course I will pay you for finding and keeping the animal. Anything anything within reason. Well That is very fair, indeed. Let me think. What shall I ask for? I know! Let this be my pay. Tell me everything you know about the murders in the Rue Morgue. As quietly as he had spoken Dupin walked to the door, locked it, and put the key in his coat. At the same time he took a gun out of his coat and placed it on the table. The sailor s face had become red. He jumped to his feet and reached for his stick of wood, but in the next moment he fell back into his chair, trembling. His face became quite white, bloodless. He spoke not a word. His eyes were closed. My friend, you must not be afraid. We are not going to hurt you. I know very well that you yourself are not the killer. But it is true that you know something about him or about it. From what I have already said, you must know that I have ways of learning about the matter ways you could never have dreamed of. Now, I know that you yourself have done nothing wrong. You didn t even take any of the money. You have no reason to be afraid to talk and to tell the truth. It is a matter of honor for you to tell all you know. And you know who the killer is. So help me God! I I ll tell you all I know about this, all I know but I don t expect you to believe one half of what I say not one half. Still, I didn t kill anyone, and I ll tell the whole story if I die for it. It was that animal! The orang utan! About a year ago our ship sailed to the Far East, to the island of Borneo. I had never before seen Borneo. The forest, the jungle, was thick with trees and other plants, and hot and wet and dark. But we went a friend and I we went into that forest for pleasure. There we saw this orang utan, a big animal. But we were two, and we caught it. We took it with us on the ship. Soon, however, my friend died, and the animal was mine. But it was very strong and caused a lot of trouble. 61

44 E d g a r A l l a n P o e In the end I brought it back to Paris with me. I kept it in my house, in my own house, carefully locked up, so the neighbors could not know about it. The animal had cut one foot badly while on the ship. I thought I thought that as soon as it got well I would sell it. I was certain it was of great value. And it was so much trouble to keep! I wanted to sell it, soon. The night of the murders, very late, I came home and found the animal in my bedroom. It had got free, I don t know how. It held a knife in its hands, and was playing with it. I was afraid. I didn t know what to do. When it saw me it jumped up, ran out of the room and down the stairs. There it found an open window and jumped into the street. I followed, never far behind, although I had no hope of catching it again. The animal, with the knife still in its hand, stopped often to look back at me. But before I could come near enough to even try to catch it, the animal always started to run again. It seemed to be playing with me. It was nearly morning, but the streets were still dark, and quiet. We passed the back of a house in the Rue Morgue. The animal looked up and saw a light in the open window of a room high above. It was the only lighted window in sight. The animal saw the metal pole, went up it easily and quickly, and jumped into the room. All this didn t take a minute. I didn t know what to do. I didn t know what I could do. I followed the animal. I too went up the pole. As I am a sailor it was easy for me. But the open window was far from the pole and I was afraid to try to jump. I could see into the room, however, through the other window, which was closed. The two women were sitting there, with their backs to the windows. Who can guess why they were not sleeping at that hour of the night? A box was in the middle of the floor. The papers which had been in the box were lying around on the floor. The women seemed to be studying some of these. They did not see the animal, which was just standing there, watching, the knife still in one hand. But the old woman heard it and turned her head and saw the animal there, knife in hand, and then then I heard the first of those terrible cries. When the animal heard the old woman s cry it caught her by the hair and slowly moved the knife before her face. The daughter, filled 62

45 E d g a r A l l a n P o e : S t o r y t e l l e r with terror, fell to the floor and re mained there without moving, her eyes closed. The old woman continued to cry for help, screaming with fear. I think the animal now was as afraid as the old woman was. With terrible force it pulled out a handful of hair. And when the woman, covered with blood, tried to run from it, the animal caught her again by the hair and with one move of its arm it nearly cut her head from her body. Throwing down the body, the animal turned and saw that the daughter was moving, watching it with horror. With fire in its eyes it rushed to the girl, put its powerful fingers around her neck, and pressed them firmly there until she died. When the girl stopped moving, the animal dropped her body to the floor and looked up. It saw my face in the win dow. It began to run around the room, quickly, without pur pose. It jumped up and down, breaking the chairs, pulling the bed to pieces. Suddenly it stopped and took the body of the daughter and, as if to hide it, with terrible strength it put the body up above the fireplace, where it was found. It threw the old woman out the window. All this time I was hanging from the pole, filled with horror. It seemed I had lost the power to move. But when I saw the animal coming toward the window with the old woman s body, my horror became fear. I went quickly down I almost fell down the pole, and I ran. I didn t look back. I ran! Oh, my God! My God! The Chief of the police was not happy that the answer to the mystery of the killings had been found by someone who was not a policeman. He said that people should keep to their own business. Let him talk, said Dupin. Let him talk. He ll feel better for it. And he s a good fellow. But he makes things less simple than they really are. Still, people call him skillful, and even wise. I think they say this because of the way he explains, carefully, fully, something which is not here, or there, or anywhere; and says, Not possible! about something which is there before his eyes. 63

46 The Red-Headed League

47

48 The Red-Headed League had called upon my friend, Mr. Sherlock Holmes, one day in the autumn of last year and found him in deep conversation with a very stout, florid-faced, elderly gentleman with fiery red hair. With an apology for my intrusion, I was about to withdraw when Holmes pulled me abruptly into the room and closed the door behind me. You could not possibly have come at a better time, my dear Watson, he said cordially. I was afraid that you were engaged. So I am. Very much so. Then I can wait in the next room. Not at all. This gentleman, Mr. Wilson, has been my partner and helper in many of my most successful cases, and I have no doubt that he will be of the utmost use to me in yours also. The stout gentleman half rose from his chair and gave a bob of greeting, with a quick little questioning glance from his small fat-encircled eyes. Try the settee, said Holmes, relapsing into his armchair and putting his fingertips together, as was his custom when in judicial moods. I know, my dear Watson, that you share my love of all that is bizarre and outside the conventions and humdrum routine of everyday life. You have shown your relish for it by the enthusiasm which has prompted you to chronicle, and, if you will excuse my saying so, somewhat to embellish so many of my own little adventures. Your cases have indeed been of the greatest interest to me, I observed. You will remember that I remarked the other day, just before we went into the very simple problem presented by Miss Mary Sutherland, that for strange effects and extraordinary combinations we must go to life itself, which is always far more daring than any effort of the imagination. A proposition which I took the liberty of doubting. You did, Doctor, but none the less you must come round to my view, for otherwise I shall keep on piling fact upon fact on you until your reason breaks down under them and acknowledges me to be right. Now, Mr. Jabez Wilson here has been good enough to call upon me this morning, and to begin a narrative which promises to be one of the most singular which I have listened to for some time. You have heard me remark that the strangest and most unique things are very often connected not with the larger but with the smaller crimes, and occasionally, indeed, where there is room for doubt whether any positive crime has been committed. As far as I have heard it is impossible for me to say whether the present case is an instance of crime or not, but the course of events is certainly among the most singular that I have ever listened to. Perhaps, Mr. Wilson, you would have the great kindness to recommence your narrative. I ask you not merely because my friend Dr. Watson has not heard the opening part but also because the peculiar nature of the story makes me anxious to have every possible detail from your lips. As a rule, when I have heard some slight indication of the course of events, I am able to guide myself by the thousands of other similar cases which occur to my memory. In the present instance I am forced to admit that the facts are, to the best of my belief, unique. The portly client puffed out his chest with an appearance of some little pride and pulled a dirty and wrinkled newspaper from the inside pocket of his greatcoat. As he glanced down the advertisement column, with his head thrust forward and the paper flattened out upon his knee, I took a good look at the man and endeavoured, after the fashion of my companion, to read the indications which might be presented by his dress or appearance. I did not gain very much, however, by my inspection. Our visitor bore every mark of being an average commonplace British tradesman, obese, pompous, and slow. He wore rather baggy grey shepherd s check trousers, a not over-clean black frock-coat, unbuttoned in the front, and a drab waistcoat with a heavy brassy Albert chain, and a square pierced bit of metal dangling down as an ornament. A frayed top-hat and a faded brown overcoat with a wrinkled velvet collar lay upon a chair beside him. Altogether, look as I would, there was nothing remarkable about the man save his blazing red head, and the expression of extreme chagrin and discontent upon his features. Sherlock Holmes quick eye took in my occupation, and he shook his head with a smile as he noticed my questioning glances. Beyond the obvious facts that he has at some time done manual labour, that he takes snuff, that he is a Freemason, that he has been in China, and that he has done a considerable amount of writing lately, I can deduce nothing else. Mr. Jabez Wilson started up in his chair, with his forefinger upon the paper, but his eyes upon my companion. How, in the name of good-fortune, did you know all that, Mr. Holmes? he asked. How did you know, for example, that I did manual labour. It s as true as gospel, for I began as a ship s carpenter. 19

49 The Red-Headed League Your hands, my dear sir. Your right hand is quite a size larger than your left. You have worked with it, and the muscles are more developed. Well, the snuff, then, and the Freemasonry? I won t insult your intelligence by telling you how I read that, especially as, rather against the strict rules of your order, you use an arc-andcompass breastpin. Ah, of course, I forgot that. But the writing? What else can be indicated by that right cuff so very shiny for five inches, and the left one with the smooth patch near the elbow where you rest it upon the desk? Well, but China? The fish that you have tattooed immediately above your right wrist could only have been done in China. I have made a small study of tattoo marks and have even contributed to the literature of the subject. That trick of staining the fishes scales of a delicate pink is quite peculiar to China. When, in addition, I see a Chinese coin hanging from your watch-chain, the matter becomes even more simple. Mr. Jabez Wilson laughed heavily. Well, I never! said he. I thought at first that you had done something clever, but I see that there was nothing in it, after all. I begin to think, Watson, said Holmes, that I make a mistake in explaining. Omne ignotum pro magnifico, you know, and my poor little reputation, such as it is, will suffer shipwreck if I am so candid. Can you not find the advertisement, Mr. Wilson? Yes, I have got it now, he answered with his thick red finger planted halfway down the column. Here it is. This is what began it all. You just read it for yourself, sir. I took the paper from him and read as follows: To the Red-headed League: On account of the bequest of the late Ezekiah Hopkins, of Lebanon, Pennsylvania, U. S. A., there is now another vacancy open which entitles a member of the League to a salary of 4 a week for purely nominal services. All red-headed men who are sound in body and mind and above the age of twenty-one years, are eligible. Apply in person on Monday, at eleven o clock, to Duncan Ross, at the offices of the League, 7 Pope s Court, Fleet Street. What on earth does this mean? I ejaculated after I had twice read over the extraordinary announcement. Holmes chuckled and wriggled in his chair, as was his habit when in high spirits. It is a little off the beaten track, isn t it? said he. And now, Mr. Wilson, off you go at scratch and tell us all about yourself, your household, and the effect which this advertisement had upon your fortunes. You will first make a note, Doctor, of the paper and the date. It is The Morning Chronicle of April 27, Just two months ago. Very good. Now, Mr. Wilson? Well, it is just as I have been telling you, Mr. Sherlock Holmes, said Jabez Wilson, mopping his forehead; I have a small pawnbroker s business at Coburg Square, near the City. It s not a very large affair, and of late years it has not done more than just give me a living. I used to be able to keep two assistants, but now I only keep one; and I would have a job to pay him but that he is willing to come for half wages so as to learn the business. What is the name of this obliging youth? asked Sherlock Holmes. His name is Vincent Spaulding, and he s not such a youth, either. It s hard to say his age. I should not wish a smarter assistant, Mr. Holmes; and I know very well that he could better himself and earn twice what I am able to give him. But, after all, if he is satisfied, why should I put ideas in his head? Why, indeed? You seem most fortunate in having an employee who comes under the full market price. It is not a common experience among employers in this age. I don t know that your assistant is not as remarkable as your advertisement. Oh, he has his faults, too, said Mr. Wilson. Never was such a fellow for photography. Snapping away with a camera when he ought to be improving his mind, and then diving down into the cellar like a rabbit into its hole to develop his pictures. That is his main fault, but on the whole he s a good worker. There s no vice in him. He is still with you, I presume? Yes, sir. He and a girl of fourteen, who does a bit of simple cooking and keeps the place clean that s all I have in the house, for I am a widower and never had any family. We live very quietly, sir, the three of us; and we keep a roof over our heads and pay our debts, if we do nothing more. The first thing that put us out was that advertisement. Spaulding, he came down into the office 20

50 The Red-Headed League just this day eight weeks, with this very paper in his hand, and he says: I wish to the Lord, Mr. Wilson, that I was a red-headed man. Why that? I asks. Why, says he, here s another vacancy on the League of the Red-headed Men. It s worth quite a little fortune to any man who gets it, and I understand that there are more vacancies than there are men, so that the trustees are at their wits end what to do with the money. If my hair would only change colour, here s a nice little crib all ready for me to step into. Why, what is it, then? I asked. You see, Mr. Holmes, I am a very stay-at-home man, and as my business came to me instead of my having to go to it, I was often weeks on end without putting my foot over the door-mat. In that way I didn t know much of what was going on outside, and I was always glad of a bit of news. Have you never heard of the League of the Red-headed Men? he asked with his eyes open. Never. Why, I wonder at that, for you are eligible yourself for one of the vacancies. And what are they worth? I asked. Oh, merely a couple of hundred a year, but the work is slight, and it need not interfere very much with one s other occupations. Well, you can easily think that that made me prick up my ears, for the business has not been over-good for some years, and an extra couple of hundred would have been very handy. Tell me all about it, said I. Well, said he, showing me the advertisement, you can see for yourself that the League has a vacancy, and there is the address where you should apply for particulars. As far as I can make out, the League was founded by an American millionaire, Ezekiah Hopkins, who was very peculiar in his ways. He was himself red-headed, and he had a great sympathy for all red-headed men; so when he died it was found that he had left his enormous fortune in the hands of trustees, with instructions to apply the interest to the providing of easy berths to men whose hair is of that colour. From all I hear it is splendid pay and very little to do. But, said I, there would be millions of redheaded men who would apply. Not so many as you might think, he answered. You see it is really confined to Londoners, and to grown men. This American had started from London when he was young, and he wanted to do the old town a good turn. Then, again, I have heard it is no use your applying if your hair is light red, or dark red, or anything but real bright, blazing, fiery red. Now, if you cared to apply, Mr. Wilson, you would just walk in; but perhaps it would hardly be worth your while to put yourself out of the way for the sake of a few hundred pounds. Now, it is a fact, gentlemen, as you may see for yourselves, that my hair is of a very full and rich tint, so that it seemed to me that if there was to be any competition in the matter I stood as good a chance as any man that I had ever met. Vincent Spaulding seemed to know so much about it that I thought he might prove useful, so I just ordered him to put up the shutters for the day and to come right away with me. He was very willing to have a holiday, so we shut the business up and started off for the address that was given us in the advertisement. I never hope to see such a sight as that again, Mr. Holmes. From north, south, east, and west every man who had a shade of red in his hair had tramped into the city to answer the advertisement. Fleet Street was choked with red-headed folk, and Pope s Court looked like a coster s orange barrow. I should not have thought there were so many in the whole country as were brought together by that single advertisement. Every shade of colour they were straw, lemon, orange, brick, Irish-setter, liver, clay; but, as Spaulding said, there were not many who had the real vivid flame-coloured tint. When I saw how many were waiting, I would have given it up in despair; but Spaulding would not hear of it. How he did it I could not imagine, but he pushed and pulled and butted until he got me through the crowd, and right up to the steps which led to the office. There was a double stream upon the stair, some going up in hope, and some coming back dejected; but we wedged in as well as we could and soon found ourselves in the office. Your experience has been a most entertaining one, remarked Holmes as his client paused and refreshed his memory with a huge pinch of snuff. Pray continue your very interesting statement. There was nothing in the office but a couple of wooden chairs and a deal table, behind which sat a small man with a head that was even redder than mine. He said a few words to each candidate as he came up, and then he always managed to find some fault in them which would disqualify them. Getting a vacancy did not seem to be such a very easy matter, after all. However, when our turn came the little man was much more favourable to me than to any of the others, and he closed the 21

51 The Red-Headed League door as we entered, so that he might have a private word with us. This is Mr. Jabez Wilson, said my assistant, and he is willing to fill a vacancy in the League. And he is admirably suited for it, the other answered. He has every requirement. I cannot recall when I have seen anything so fine. He took a step backward, cocked his head on one side, and gazed at my hair until I felt quite bashful. Then suddenly he plunged forward, wrung my hand, and congratulated me warmly on my success. It would be injustice to hesitate, said he. You will, however, I am sure, excuse me for taking an obvious precaution. With that he seized my hair in both his hands, and tugged until I yelled with the pain. There is water in your eyes, said he as he released me. I perceive that all is as it should be. But we have to be careful, for we have twice been deceived by wigs and once by paint. I could tell you tales of cobbler s wax which would disgust you with human nature. He stepped over to the window and shouted through it at the top of his voice that the vacancy was filled. A groan of disappointment came up from below, and the folk all trooped away in different directions until there was not a red-head to be seen except my own and that of the manager. My name, said he, is Mr. Duncan Ross, and I am myself one of the pensioners upon the fund left by our noble benefactor. Are you a married man, Mr. Wilson? Have you a family? I answered that I had not. His face fell immediately. Dear me! he said gravely, that is very serious indeed! I am sorry to hear you say that. The fund was, of course, for the propagation and spread of the red-heads as well as for their maintenance. It is exceedingly unfortunate that you should be a bachelor. My face lengthened at this, Mr. Holmes, for I thought that I was not to have the vacancy after all; but after thinking it over for a few minutes he said that it would be all right. In the case of another, said he, the objection might be fatal, but we must stretch a point in favour of a man with such a head of hair as yours. When shall you be able to enter upon your new duties? Well, it is a little awkward, for I have a business already, said I. Oh, never mind about that, Mr. Wilson! said Vincent Spaulding. I should be able to look after that for you. What would be the hours? I asked. Ten to two. Now a pawnbroker s business is mostly done of an evening, Mr. Holmes, especially Thursday and Friday evening, which is just before pay-day; so it would suit me very well to earn a little in the mornings. Besides, I knew that my assistant was a good man, and that he would see to anything that turned up. That would suit me very well, said I. And the pay? Is 4 a week. And the work? Is purely nominal. What do you call purely nominal? Well, you have to be in the office, or at least in the building, the whole time. If you leave, you forfeit your whole position forever. The will is very clear upon that point. You don t comply with the conditions if you budge from the office during that time. It s only four hours a day, and I should not think of leaving, said I. No excuse will avail, said Mr. Duncan Ross; neither sickness nor business nor anything else. There you must stay, or you lose your billet. And the work? Is to copy out the Encyclopaedia Britannica. There is the first volume of it in that press. You must find your own ink, pens, and blotting-paper, but we provide this table and chair. Will you be ready to-morrow? Certainly, I answered. Then, good-bye, Mr. Jabez Wilson, and let me congratulate you once more on the important position which you have been fortunate enough to gain. He bowed me out of the room and I went home with my assistant, hardly knowing what to say or do, I was so pleased at my own good fortune. Well, I thought over the matter all day, and by evening I was in low spirits again; for I had quite persuaded myself that the whole affair must be some great hoax or fraud, though what its object might be I could not imagine. It seemed altogether past belief that anyone could make such a will, or that they would pay such a sum for doing anything so simple as copying out the Encyclopaedia Britannica. Vincent Spaulding did what he could to cheer me up, but by bedtime I had reasoned myself out of the whole thing. However, in the morning I determined to have a look at it anyhow, 22

52 The Red-Headed League so I bought a penny bottle of ink, and with a quillpen, and seven sheets of foolscap paper, I started off for Pope s Court. Well, to my surprise and delight, everything was as right as possible. The table was set out ready for me, and Mr. Duncan Ross was there to see that I got fairly to work. He started me off upon the letter A, and then he left me; but he would drop in from time to time to see that all was right with me. At two o clock he bade me good-day, complimented me upon the amount that I had written, and locked the door of the office after me. This went on day after day, Mr. Holmes, and on Saturday the manager came in and planked down four golden sovereigns for my week s work. It was the same next week, and the same the week after. Every morning I was there at ten, and every afternoon I left at two. By degrees Mr. Duncan Ross took to coming in only once of a morning, and then, after a time, he did not come in at all. Still, of course, I never dared to leave the room for an instant, for I was not sure when he might come, and the billet was such a good one, and suited me so well, that I would not risk the loss of it. Eight weeks passed away like this, and I had written about Abbots and Archery and Armour and Architecture and Attica, and hoped with diligence that I might get on to the B s before very long. It cost me something in foolscap, and I had pretty nearly filled a shelf with my writings. And then suddenly the whole business came to an end. To an end? Yes, sir. And no later than this morning. I went to my work as usual at ten o clock, but the door was shut and locked, with a little square of cardboard hammered on to the middle of the panel with a tack. Here it is, and you can read for yourself. He held up a piece of white cardboard about the size of a sheet of note-paper. It read in this fashion: The Red-headed League is Dissolved October 9, Sherlock Holmes and I surveyed this curt announcement and the rueful face behind it, until the comical side of the affair so completely overtopped every other consideration that we both burst out into a roar of laughter. I cannot see that there is anything very funny, cried our client, flushing up to the roots of his flaming head. If you can do nothing better than laugh at me, I can go elsewhere. No, no, cried Holmes, shoving him back into the chair from which he had half risen. I really wouldn t miss your case for the world. It is most refreshingly unusual. But there is, if you will excuse my saying so, something just a little funny about it. Pray what steps did you take when you found the card upon the door? I was staggered, sir. I did not know what to do. Then I called at the offices round, but none of them seemed to know anything about it. Finally, I went to the landlord, who is an accountant living on the ground-floor, and I asked him if he could tell me what had become of the Red-headed League. He said that he had never heard of any such body. Then I asked him who Mr. Duncan Ross was. He answered that the name was new to him. Well, said I, the gentleman at No. 4. What, the red-headed man? Yes. Oh, said he, his name was William Morris. He was a solicitor and was using my room as a temporary convenience until his new premises were ready. He moved out yesterday. Where could I find him? Oh, at his new offices. He did tell me the address. Yes, 17 King Edward Street, near St. Paul s. I started off, Mr. Holmes, but when I got to that address it was a manufactory of artificial kneecaps, and no one in it had ever heard of either Mr. William Morris or Mr. Duncan Ross. And what did you do then? asked Holmes. I went home to Saxe-Coburg Square, and I took the advice of my assistant. But he could not help me in any way. He could only say that if I waited I should hear by post. But that was not quite good enough, Mr. Holmes. I did not wish to lose such a place without a struggle, so, as I had heard that you were good enough to give advice to poor folk who were in need of it, I came right away to you. And you did very wisely, said Holmes. Your case is an exceedingly remarkable one, and I shall be happy to look into it. From what you have told me I think that it is possible that graver issues hang from it than might at first sight appear. Grave enough! said Mr. Jabez Wilson. Why, I have lost four pound a week. As far as you are personally concerned, remarked Holmes, I do not see that you have any grievance against this extraordinary league. On the contrary, you are, as I understand, richer by some 30, to say nothing of the minute knowledge which you have gained on every subject which comes under the letter A. You have lost nothing by them. 23

53 The Red-Headed League No, sir. But I want to find out about them, and who they are, and what their object was in playing this prank if it was a prank upon me. It was a pretty expensive joke for them, for it cost them two and thirty pounds. We shall endeavour to clear up these points for you. And, first, one or two questions, Mr. Wilson. This assistant of yours who first called your attention to the advertisement how long had he been with you? About a month then. How did he come? In answer to an advertisement. Was he the only applicant? No, I had a dozen. Why did you pick him? Because he was handy and would come cheap. At half-wages, in fact. Yes. What is he like, this Vincent Spaulding? Small, stout-built, very quick in his ways, no hair on his face, though he s not short of thirty. Has a white splash of acid upon his forehead. Holmes sat up in his chair in considerable excitement. I thought as much, said he. Have you ever observed that his ears are pierced for earrings? Yes, sir. He told me that a gipsy had done it for him when he was a lad. Hum! said Holmes, sinking back in deep thought. He is still with you? Oh, yes, sir; I have only just left him. And has your business been attended to in your absence? Nothing to complain of, sir. There s never very much to do of a morning. That will do, Mr. Wilson. I shall be happy to give you an opinion upon the subject in the course of a day or two. To-day is Saturday, and I hope that by Monday we may come to a conclusion. Well, Watson, said Holmes when our visitor had left us, what do you make of it all? I make nothing of it, I answered frankly. It is a most mysterious business. As a rule, said Holmes, the more bizarre a thing is the less mysterious it proves to be. It is your commonplace, featureless crimes which are really puzzling, just as a commonplace face is the most difficult to identify. But I must be prompt over this matter. What are you going to do, then? I asked. To smoke, he answered. It is quite a three pipe problem, and I beg that you won t speak to me for fifty minutes. He curled himself up in his chair, with his thin knees drawn up to his hawk-like nose, and there he sat with his eyes closed and his black clay pipe thrusting out like the bill of some strange bird. I had come to the conclusion that he had dropped asleep, and indeed was nodding myself, when he suddenly sprang out of his chair with the gesture of a man who has made up his mind and put his pipe down upon the mantelpiece. Sarasate plays at the St. James s Hall this afternoon, he remarked. What do you think, Watson? Could your patients spare you for a few hours? I have nothing to do to-day. My practice is never very absorbing. Then put on your hat and come. I am going through the City first, and we can have some lunch on the way. I observe that there is a good deal of German music on the programme, which is rather more to my taste than Italian or French. It is introspective, and I want to introspect. Come along! We travelled by the Underground as far as Aldersgate; and a short walk took us to Saxe- Coburg Square, the scene of the singular story which we had listened to in the morning. It was a poky, little, shabby-genteel place, where four lines of dingy two-storied brick houses looked out into a small railed-in enclosure, where a lawn of weedy grass and a few clumps of faded laurel-bushes made a hard fight against a smoke-laden and uncongenial atmosphere. Three gilt balls and a brown board with Jabez Wilson in white letters, upon a corner house, announced the place where our red-headed client carried on his business. Sherlock Holmes stopped in front of it with his head on one side and looked it all over, with his eyes shining brightly between puckered lids. Then he walked slowly up the street, and then down again to the corner, still looking keenly at the houses. Finally he returned to the pawnbroker s, and, having thumped vigorously upon the pavement with his stick two or three times, he went up to the door and knocked. It was instantly opened by a brightlooking, clean-shaven young fellow, who asked him to step in. Thank you, said Holmes, I only wished to ask you how you would go from here to the Strand. Third right, fourth left, answered the assistant promptly, closing the door. 24

54 The Red-Headed League Smart fellow, that, observed Holmes as we walked away. He is, in my judgment, the fourth smartest man in London, and for daring I am not sure that he has not a claim to be third. I have known something of him before. Evidently, said I, Mr. Wilson s assistant counts for a good deal in this mystery of the Redheaded League. I am sure that you inquired your way merely in order that you might see him. Not him. What then? The knees of his trousers. And what did you see? What I expected to see. Why did you beat the pavement? My dear doctor, this is a time for observation, not for talk. We are spies in an enemy s country. We know something of Saxe-Coburg Square. Let us now explore the parts which lie behind it. The road in which we found ourselves as we turned round the corner from the retired Saxe- Coburg Square presented as great a contrast to it as the front of a picture does to the back. It was one of the main arteries which conveyed the traffic of the City to the north and west. The roadway was blocked with the immense stream of commerce flowing in a double tide inward and outward, while the footpaths were black with the hurrying swarm of pedestrians. It was difficult to realise as we looked at the line of fine shops and stately business premises that they really abutted on the other side upon the faded and stagnant square which we had just quitted. Let me see, said Holmes, standing at the corner and glancing along the line, I should like just to remember the order of the houses here. It is a hobby of mine to have an exact knowledge of London. There is Mortimer s, the tobacconist, the little newspaper shop, the Coburg branch of the City and Suburban Bank, the Vegetarian Restaurant, and McFarlane s carriage-building depot. That carries us right on to the other block. And now, Doctor, we ve done our work, so it s time we had some play. A sandwich and a cup of coffee, and then off to violin-land, where all is sweetness and delicacy and harmony, and there are no red-headed clients to vex us with their conundrums. My friend was an enthusiastic musician, being himself not only a very capable performer but a composer of no ordinary merit. All the afternoon he sat in the stalls wrapped in the most perfect happiness, gently waving his long, thin fingers in time to the music, while his gently smiling face and his languid, dreamy eyes were as unlike those of Holmes the sleuth-hound, Holmes the relentless, keen-witted, ready-handed criminal agent, as it was possible to conceive. In his singular character the dual nature alternately asserted itself, and his extreme exactness and astuteness represented, as I have often thought, the reaction against the poetic and contemplative mood which occasionally predominated in him. The swing of his nature took him from extreme languor to devouring energy; and, as I knew well, he was never so truly formidable as when, for days on end, he had been lounging in his armchair amid his improvisations and his black-letter editions. Then it was that the lust of the chase would suddenly come upon him, and that his brilliant reasoning power would rise to the level of intuition, until those who were unacquainted with his methods would look askance at him as on a man whose knowledge was not that of other mortals. When I saw him that afternoon so enwrapped in the music at St. James s Hall I felt that an evil time might be coming upon those whom he had set himself to hunt down. You want to go home, no doubt, Doctor, he remarked as we emerged. Yes, it would be as well. And I have some business to do which will take some hours. This business at Coburg Square is serious. Why serious? A considerable crime is in contemplation. I have every reason to believe that we shall be in time to stop it. But to-day being Saturday rather complicates matters. I shall want your help tonight. At what time? Ten will be early enough. I shall be at Baker Street at ten. Very well. And, I say, Doctor, there may be some little danger, so kindly put your army revolver in your pocket. He waved his hand, turned on his heel, and disappeared in an instant among the crowd. I trust that I am not more dense than my neighbours, but I was always oppressed with a sense of my own stupidity in my dealings with Sherlock Holmes. Here I had heard what he had heard, I had seen what he had seen, and yet from his words it was evident that he saw clearly not only what had happened but what was about to happen, while to me the whole business was still confused and grotesque. As I drove home to my house in Kensington I thought over it all, from the extraordinary 25

55 The Red-Headed League story of the red-headed copier of the Encyclopaedia down to the visit to Saxe-Coburg Square, and the ominous words with which he had parted from me. What was this nocturnal expedition, and why should I go armed? Where were we going, and what were we to do? I had the hint from Holmes that this smooth-faced pawnbroker s assistant was a formidable man a man who might play a deep game. I tried to puzzle it out, but gave it up in despair and set the matter aside until night should bring an explanation. It was a quarter-past nine when I started from home and made my way across the Park, and so through Oxford Street to Baker Street. Two hansoms were standing at the door, and as I entered the passage I heard the sound of voices from above. On entering his room I found Holmes in animated conversation with two men, one of whom I recognised as Peter Jones, the official police agent, while the other was a long, thin, sad-faced man, with a very shiny hat and oppressively respectable frock-coat. Ha! Our party is complete, said Holmes, buttoning up his pea-jacket and taking his heavy hunting crop from the rack. Watson, I think you know Mr. Jones, of Scotland Yard? Let me introduce you to Mr. Merryweather, who is to be our companion in to-night s adventure. We re hunting in couples again, Doctor, you see, said Jones in his consequential way. Our friend here is a wonderful man for starting a chase. All he wants is an old dog to help him to do the running down. I hope a wild goose may not prove to be the end of our chase, observed Mr. Merryweather gloomily. You may place considerable confidence in Mr. Holmes, sir, said the police agent loftily. He has his own little methods, which are, if he won t mind my saying so, just a little too theoretical and fantastic, but he has the makings of a detective in him. It is not too much to say that once or twice, as in that business of the Sholto murder and the Agra treasure, he has been more nearly correct than the official force. Oh, if you say so, Mr. Jones, it is all right, said the stranger with deference. Still, I confess that I miss my rubber. It is the first Saturday night for seven-and-twenty years that I have not had my rubber. I think you will find, said Sherlock Holmes, that you will play for a higher stake to-night than you have ever done yet, and that the play will be more exciting. For you, Mr. Merryweather, the stake will be some 30,000; and for you, Jones, it will be the man upon whom you wish to lay your hands. John Clay, the murderer, thief, smasher, and forger. He s a young man, Mr. Merryweather, but he is at the head of his profession, and I would rather have my bracelets on him than on any criminal in London. He s a remarkable man, is young John Clay. His grandfather was a royal duke, and he himself has been to Eton and Oxford. His brain is as cunning as his fingers, and though we meet signs of him at every turn, we never know where to find the man himself. He ll crack a crib in Scotland one week, and be raising money to build an orphanage in Cornwall the next. I ve been on his track for years and have never set eyes on him yet. I hope that I may have the pleasure of introducing you to-night. I ve had one or two little turns also with Mr. John Clay, and I agree with you that he is at the head of his profession. It is past ten, however, and quite time that we started. If you two will take the first hansom, Watson and I will follow in the second. Sherlock Holmes was not very communicative during the long drive and lay back in the cab humming the tunes which he had heard in the afternoon. We rattled through an endless labyrinth of gas-lit streets until we emerged into Farrington Street. We are close there now, my friend remarked. This fellow Merryweather is a bank director, and personally interested in the matter. I thought it as well to have Jones with us also. He is not a bad fellow, though an absolute imbecile in his profession. He has one positive virtue. He is as brave as a bulldog and as tenacious as a lobster if he gets his claws upon anyone. Here we are, and they are waiting for us. We had reached the same crowded thoroughfare in which we had found ourselves in the morning. Our cabs were dismissed, and, following the guidance of Mr. Merryweather, we passed down a narrow passage and through a side door, which he opened for us. Within there was a small corridor, which ended in a very massive iron gate. This also was opened, and led down a flight of winding stone steps, which terminated at another formidable gate. Mr. Merryweather stopped to light a lantern, and then conducted us down a dark, earth-smelling passage, and so, after opening a third door, into a huge vault or cellar, which was piled all round with crates and massive boxes. You are not very vulnerable from above, Holmes remarked as he held up the lantern and gazed about him. 26

56 The Red-Headed League Nor from below, said Mr. Merryweather, striking his stick upon the flags which lined the floor. Why, dear me, it sounds quite hollow! he remarked, looking up in surprise. I must really ask you to be a little more quiet! said Holmes severely. You have already imperilled the whole success of our expedition. Might I beg that you would have the goodness to sit down upon one of those boxes, and not to interfere? The solemn Mr. Merryweather perched himself upon a crate, with a very injured expression upon his face, while Holmes fell upon his knees upon the floor and, with the lantern and a magnifying lens, began to examine minutely the cracks between the stones. A few seconds sufficed to satisfy him, for he sprang to his feet again and put his glass in his pocket. We have at least an hour before us, he remarked, for they can hardly take any steps until the good pawnbroker is safely in bed. Then they will not lose a minute, for the sooner they do their work the longer time they will have for their escape. We are at present, Doctor as no doubt you have divined in the cellar of the City branch of one of the principal London banks. Mr. Merryweather is the chairman of directors, and he will explain to you that there are reasons why the more daring criminals of London should take a considerable interest in this cellar at present. It is our French gold, whispered the director. We have had several warnings that an attempt might be made upon it. Your French gold? Yes. We had occasion some months ago to strengthen our resources and borrowed for that purpose 30,000 napoleons from the Bank of France. It has become known that we have never had occasion to unpack the money, and that it is still lying in our cellar. The crate upon which I sit contains 2,000 napoleons packed between layers of lead foil. Our reserve of bullion is much larger at present than is usually kept in a single branch office, and the directors have had misgivings upon the subject. Which were very well justified, observed Holmes. And now it is time that we arranged our little plans. I expect that within an hour matters will come to a head. In the meantime Mr. Merryweather, we must put the screen over that dark lantern. And sit in the dark? I am afraid so. I had brought a pack of cards in my pocket, and I thought that, as we were a partie carrée, you might have your rubber after all. But I see that the enemy s preparations have gone so far that we cannot risk the presence of a light. And, first of all, we must choose our positions. These are daring men, and though we shall take them at a disadvantage, they may do us some harm unless we are careful. I shall stand behind this crate, and do you conceal yourselves behind those. Then, when I flash a light upon them, close in swiftly. If they fire, Watson, have no compunction about shooting them down. I placed my revolver, cocked, upon the top of the wooden case behind which I crouched. Holmes shot the slide across the front of his lantern and left us in pitch darkness such an absolute darkness as I have never before experienced. The smell of hot metal remained to assure us that the light was still there, ready to flash out at a moment s notice. To me, with my nerves worked up to a pitch of expectancy, there was something depressing and subduing in the sudden gloom, and in the cold dank air of the vault. They have but one retreat, whispered Holmes. That is back through the house into Saxe-Coburg Square. I hope that you have done what I asked you, Jones? I have an inspector and two officers waiting at the front door. Then we have stopped all the holes. And now we must be silent and wait. What a time it seemed! From comparing notes afterwards it was but an hour and a quarter, yet it appeared to me that the night must have almost gone and the dawn be breaking above us. My limbs were weary and stiff, for I feared to change my position; yet my nerves were worked up to the highest pitch of tension, and my hearing was so acute that I could not only hear the gentle breathing of my companions, but I could distinguish the deeper, heavier in-breath of the bulky Jones from the thin, sighing note of the bank director. From my position I could look over the case in the direction of the floor. Suddenly my eyes caught the glint of a light. At first it was but a lurid spark upon the stone pavement. Then it lengthened out until it became a yellow line, and then, without any warning or sound, a gash seemed to open and a hand appeared, a white, almost womanly hand, which felt about in the centre of the little area of light. For a minute or more the hand, with its writhing fingers, protruded out of the floor. Then it was withdrawn as suddenly as it appeared, and all was dark again save the single lurid spark which marked a chink between the stones. 27

57 The Red-Headed League Its disappearance, however, was but momentary. With a rending, tearing sound, one of the broad, white stones turned over upon its side and left a square, gaping hole, through which streamed the light of a lantern. Over the edge there peeped a clean-cut, boyish face, which looked keenly about it, and then, with a hand on either side of the aperture, drew itself shoulder-high and waist-high, until one knee rested upon the edge. In another instant he stood at the side of the hole and was hauling after him a companion, lithe and small like himself, with a pale face and a shock of very red hair. It s all clear, he whispered. Have you the chisel and the bags? Great Scott! Jump, Archie, jump, and I ll swing for it! Sherlock Holmes had sprung out and seized the intruder by the collar. The other dived down the hole, and I heard the sound of rending cloth as Jones clutched at his skirts. The light flashed upon the barrel of a revolver, but Holmes hunting crop came down on the man s wrist, and the pistol clinked upon the stone floor. It s no use, John Clay, said Holmes blandly. You have no chance at all. So I see, the other answered with the utmost coolness. I fancy that my pal is all right, though I see you have got his coat-tails. There are three men waiting for him at the door, said Holmes. Oh, indeed! You seem to have done the thing very completely. I must compliment you. And I you, Holmes answered. Your redheaded idea was very new and effective. You ll see your pal again presently, said Jones. He s quicker at climbing down holes than I am. Just hold out while I fix the derbies. I beg that you will not touch me with your filthy hands, remarked our prisoner as the handcuffs clattered upon his wrists. You may not be aware that I have royal blood in my veins. Have the goodness, also, when you address me always to say sir and please. All right, said Jones with a stare and a snigger. Well, would you please, sir, march upstairs, where we can get a cab to carry your Highness to the police-station? That is better, said John Clay serenely. He made a sweeping bow to the three of us and walked quietly off in the custody of the detective. Really, Mr. Holmes, said Mr. Merryweather as we followed them from the cellar, I do not know how the bank can thank you or repay you. There is no doubt that you have detected and defeated in the most complete manner one of the most determined attempts at bank robbery that have ever come within my experience. I have had one or two little scores of my own to settle with Mr. John Clay, said Holmes. I have been at some small expense over this matter, which I shall expect the bank to refund, but beyond that I am amply repaid by having had an experience which is in many ways unique, and by hearing the very remarkable narrative of the Red-headed League. You see, Watson, he explained in the early hours of the morning as we sat over a glass of whisky and soda in Baker Street, it was perfectly obvious from the first that the only possible object of this rather fantastic business of the advertisement of the League, and the copying of the Encyclopaedia, must be to get this not over-bright pawnbroker out of the way for a number of hours every day. It was a curious way of managing it, but, really, it would be difficult to suggest a better. The method was no doubt suggested to Clay s ingenious mind by the colour of his accomplice s hair. The 4 a week was a lure which must draw him, and what was it to them, who were playing for thousands? They put in the advertisement, one rogue has the temporary office, the other rogue incites the man to apply for it, and together they manage to secure his absence every morning in the week. From the time that I heard of the assistant having come for half wages, it was obvious to me that he had some strong motive for securing the situation. But how could you guess what the motive was? Had there been women in the house, I should have suspected a mere vulgar intrigue. That, however, was out of the question. The man s business was a small one, and there was nothing in his house which could account for such elaborate preparations, and such an expenditure as they were at. It must, then, be something out of the house. What could it be? I thought of the assistant s fondness for photography, and his trick of vanishing into the cellar. The cellar! There was the end of this tangled clue. Then I made inquiries as to this mysterious assistant and found that I had to deal with one of the coolest and most daring criminals in London. He was doing something in the cellar something which took many hours a day for months on end. What could it be, once more? I could think of nothing save that he was running a tunnel to some other building. So far I had got when we went to visit the scene of action. I surprised you by beating upon 28

58 The Red-Headed League the pavement with my stick. I was ascertaining whether the cellar stretched out in front or behind. It was not in front. Then I rang the bell, and, as I hoped, the assistant answered it. We have had some skirmishes, but we had never set eyes upon each other before. I hardly looked at his face. His knees were what I wished to see. You must yourself have remarked how worn, wrinkled, and stained they were. They spoke of those hours of burrowing. The only remaining point was what they were burrowing for. I walked round the corner, saw the City and Suburban Bank abutted on our friend s premises, and felt that I had solved my problem. When you drove home after the concert I called upon Scotland Yard and upon the chairman of the bank directors, with the result that you have seen. And how could you tell that they would make their attempt to-night? I asked. Well, when they closed their League offices that was a sign that they cared no longer about Mr. Jabez Wilson s presence in other words, that they had completed their tunnel. But it was essential that they should use it soon, as it might be discovered, or the bullion might be removed. Saturday would suit them better than any other day, as it would give them two days for their escape. For all these reasons I expected them to come to-night. You reasoned it out beautifully, I exclaimed in unfeigned admiration. It is so long a chain, and yet every link rings true. It saved me from ennui, he answered, yawning. Alas! I already feel it closing in upon me. My life is spent in one long effort to escape from the commonplaces of existence. These little problems help me to do so. And you are a benefactor of the race, said I. He shrugged his shoulders. Well, perhaps, after all, it is of some little use, he remarked. L homme c est rien l oeuvre c est tout, as Gustave Flaubert wrote to George Sand. 29

59

60 THE INVISIBLE MAN By G.K. Chesterton In the cool blue twilight of two steep streets in Camden Town, the shop at the corner, a confectioner's, glowed like the butt of a cigar. One should rather say, perhaps, like the butt of a firework, for the light was of many colours and some complexity, broken up by many mirrors and dancing on many gilt and gaily-coloured cakes and sweetmeats. Against this one fiery glass were glued the noses of many gutter-snipes, for the chocolates were all wrapped in those red and gold and green metallic colours which are almost better than chocolate itself; and the huge white wedding-cake in the window was somehow at once remote and satisfying, just as if the whole North Pole were good to eat. Such rainbow provocations could naturally collect the youth of the neighbourhood up to the ages of ten or twelve. But this corner was also attractive to youth at a later stage; and a young man, not less than twenty-four, was staring into the same shop window. To him, also, the shop was of fiery charm, but this attraction was not wholly to be explained by chocolates; which, however, he was far from despising. He was a tall, burly, red-haired young man, with a resolute face but a listless manner. He carried under his arm a flat, grey portfolio of black-and-white sketches, which he had sold with more or less success to publishers ever since his uncle (who was an admiral) had disinherited him for Socialism, because of a lecture which he had delivered against that economic theory. His name was John Turnbull Angus. Entering at last, he walked through the confectioner's shop to the back room, which was a sort of pastry-cook restaurant, merely raising his hat to the young lady who was serving there. She was a dark, elegant, alert girl in black, with a high colour and very quick, dark eyes; and after the ordinary interval she followed him into the inner room to take his order. His order was evidently a usual one. "I want, please," he said with precision, "one halfpenny bun and a small cup of black coffee." An instant before the girl could turn away he added, "Also, I want you to marry me."

61 The young lady of the shop stiffened suddenly and said, "Those are jokes I don't allow." The red-haired young man lifted grey eyes of an unexpected gravity. "Really and truly," he said, "it's as serious as serious as the halfpenny bun. It is expensive, like the bun; one pays for it. It is indigestible, like the bun. It hurts." The dark young lady had never taken her dark eyes off him, but seemed to be studying him with almost tragic exactitude. At the end of her scrutiny she had something like the shadow of a smile, and she sat down in a chair. "Don't you think," observed Angus, absently, "that it's rather cruel to eat these halfpenny buns? They might grow up into penny buns. I shall give up these brutal sports when we are married." The dark young lady rose from her chair and walked to the window, evidently in a state of strong but not unsympathetic cogitation. When at last she swung round again with an air of resolution she was bewildered to observe that the young man was carefully laying out on the table various objects from the shop-window. They included a pyramid of highly coloured sweets, several plates of sandwiches, and the two decanters containing that mysterious port and sherry which are peculiar to pastry-cooks. In the middle of this neat arrangement he had carefully let down the enormous load of white sugared cake which had been the huge ornament of the window. "What on earth are you doing?" she asked. "Duty, my dear Laura," he began. "Oh, for the Lord's sake, stop a minute," she cried, "and don't talk to me in that way. I mean, what is all that?" "A ceremonial meal, Miss Hope." "And what is that?" she asked impatiently, pointing to the mountain of sugar. "The wedding-cake, Mrs. Angus," he said. The girl marched to that article, removed it with some clatter, and put it back in the shop window; she then returned, and, putting her

62 elegant elbows on the table, regarded the young man not unfavourably but with considerable exasperation. "You don't give me any time to think," she said. "I'm not such a fool," he answered; "that's my Christian humility." She was still looking at him; but she had grown considerably graver behind the smile. "Mr. Angus," she said steadily, "before there is a minute more of this nonsense I must tell you something about myself as shortly as I can.'" "Delighted," replied Angus gravely. "You might tell me something about myself, too, while you are about it." "Oh, do hold your tongue and listen," she said. "It's nothing that I'm ashamed of, and it isn't even anything that I'm specially sorry about. But what would you say if there were something that is no business of mine and yet is my nightmare?" "In that case," said the man seriously, "I should suggest that you bring back the cake." "Well, you must listen to the story first," said Laura, persistently. "To begin with, I must tell you that my father owned the inn called the 'Red Fish' at Ludbury, and I used to serve people in the bar." "I have often wondered," he said, "why there was a kind of a Christian air about this one confectioner's shop." "Ludbury is a sleepy, grassy little hole in the Eastern Counties, and the only kind of people who ever came to the 'Red Fish' were occasional commercial travellers, and for the rest, the most awful people you can see, only you've never seen them. I mean little, loungy men, who had just enough to live on and had nothing to do but lean about in bar-rooms and bet on horses, in bad clothes that were just too good for them. Even these wretched young rotters were not very common at our house; but there were two of them that were a lot too common common in every sort of way. They both lived on money of their own, and were wearisomely idle and over-dressed. But yet I was a bit sorry for them, because I half believe they slunk into our little empty bar because each of them had a slight deformity; the sort of thing that some yokels laugh at. It wasn't exactly a deformity either; it was more an oddity. One of them was a surprisingly small man,

63 something like a dwarf, or at least like a jockey. He was not at all jockeyish to look at, though; he had a round black head and a welltrimmed black beard, bright eyes like a bird's; he jingled money in his pockets; he jangled a great gold watch chain; and he never turned up except dressed just too much like a gentleman to be one. He was no fool though, though a futile idler; he was curiously clever at all kinds of things that couldn't be the slightest use; a sort of impromptu conjuring; making fifteen matches set fire to each other like a regular firework; or cutting a banana or some such thing into a dancing doll. His name was Isidore Smythe; and I can see him still, with his little dark face, just coming up to the counter, making a jumping kangaroo out of five cigars. "The other fellow was more silent and more ordinary; but somehow he alarmed me much more than poor little Smythe. He was very tall and slight, and light-haired; his nose had a high bridge, and he might almost have been handsome in a spectral sort of way; but he had one of the most appalling squints I have ever seen or heard of. When he looked straight at you, you didn't know where you were yourself, let alone what he was looking at. I fancy this sort of disfigurement embittered the poor chap a little; for while Smythe was ready to show off his monkey tricks anywhere, James Welkin (that was the squinting man's name) never did anything except soak in our bar parlour, and go for great walks by himself in the flat, grey country all round. All the same, I think Smythe, too, was a little sensitive about being so small, though he carried it off more smartly. And so it was that I was really puzzled, as well as startled, and very sorry, when they both offered to marry me in the same week. "Well, I did what I've since thought was perhaps a silly thing. But, after all, these freaks were my friends in a way; and I had a horror of their thinking I refused them for the real reason, which was that they were so impossibly ugly. So I made up some gas of another sort, about never meaning to marry anyone who hadn't carved his way in the world. I said it was a point of principle with me not to live on money that was just inherited like theirs. Two days after I had talked in this well-meaning sort of way, the whole trouble began. The first thing I heard was that both of them had gone off to seek their fortunes, as if they were in some silly fairy tale. "Well, I've never seen either of them from that day to this. But I've had two letters from the little man called Smythe, and really they were rather exciting." "Ever heard of the other man?" asked Angus.

64 "No, he never wrote," said the girl, after an instant's hesitation. "Smythe's first letter was simply to say that he had started out walking with Welkin to London; but Welkin was such a good walker that the little man dropped out of it, and took a rest by the roadside. He happened to be picked up by some travelling show, and, partly because he was nearly a dwarf, and partly because he was really a clever little wretch, he got on quite well in the show business, and was soon sent up to the Aquarium, to do some tricks that I forget. That was his first letter. His second was much more of a startler, and I only got it last week." The man called Angus emptied his coffee-cup and regarded her with mild and patient eyes. Her own mouth took a slight twist of laughter as she resumed, "I suppose you've seen on the hoardings all about this 'Smythe's Silent Service'? Or you must be the only person that hasn't. Oh, I don't know much about it, it's some clockwork invention for doing all the housework by machinery. You know the sort of thing: 'Press a Button A Butler who Never Drinks.' 'Turn a Handle Ten Housemaids who Never Flirt.' You must have seen the advertisements. Well, whatever these machines are, they are making pots of money; and they are making it all for that little imp whom I knew down in Ludbury. I can't help feeling pleased the poor little chap has fallen on his feet; but the plain fact is, I'm in terror of his turning up any minute and telling me he's carved his way in the world as he certainly has." "And the other man?" repeated Angus with a sort of obstinate quietude. Laura Hope got to her feet suddenly. "My friend," she said, "I think you are a witch. Yes, you are quite right. I have not seen a line of the other man's writing; and I have no more notion than the dead of what or where he is. But it is of him that I am frightened. It is he who is all about my path. It is he who has half driven me mad. Indeed, I think he has driven me mad; for I have felt him where he could not have been, and I have heard his voice when he could not have spoken." "Well, my dear," said the young man, cheerfully, "if he were Satan himself, he is done for now you have told somebody. One goes mad all alone, old girl. But when was it you fancied you felt and heard our squinting friend?" "I heard James Welkin laugh as plainly as I hear you speak," said the girl, steadily. "There was nobody there, for I stood just outside the shop at the corner, and could see down both streets at once. I had

65 forgotten how he laughed, though his laugh was as odd as his squint. I had not thought of him for nearly a year. But it's a solemn truth that a few seconds later the first letter came from his rival." "Did you ever make the spectre speak or squeak, or anything?" asked Angus, with some interest. Laura suddenly shuddered, and then said, with an unshaken voice, "Yes. Just when I had finished reading the second letter from Isidore Smythe announcing his success. Just then, I heard Welkin say, 'He shan't have you, though.' It was quite plain, as if he were in the room. It is awful, I think I must be mad." "If you really were mad," said the young man, "you would think you must be sane. But certainly there seems to me to be something a little rum about this unseen gentleman. Two heads are better than one I spare you allusions to any other organs and really, if you would allow me, as a sturdy, practical man, to bring back the wedding-cake out of the window " Even as he spoke, there was a sort of steely shriek in the street outside, and a small motor, driven at devilish speed, shot up to the door of the shop and stuck there. In the same flash of time a small man in a shiny top hat stood stamping in the outer room. Angus, who had hitherto maintained hilarious ease from motives of mental hygiene, revealed the strain of his soul by striding abruptly out of the inner room and confronting the new-comer. A glance at him was quite sufficient to confirm the savage guesswork of a man in love. This very dapper but dwarfish figure, with the spike of black beard carried insolently forward, the clever unrestful eyes, the neat but very nervous fingers, could be none other than the man just described to him: Isidore Smythe, who made dolls out of banana skins and matchboxes; Isidore Smythe, who made millions out of undrinking butlers and unflirting housemaids of metal. For a moment the two men, instinctively understanding each other's air of possession, looked at each other with that curious cold generosity which is the soul of rivalry. Mr. Smythe, however, made no allusion to the ultimate ground of their antagonism, but said simply and explosively, "Has Miss Hope seen that thing on the window?" "On the window?" repeated the staring Angus.

66 "There's no time to explain other things," said the small millionaire shortly. "There's some tomfoolery going on here that has to be investigated." He pointed his polished walking-stick at the window, recently depleted by the bridal preparations of Mr. Angus; and that gentleman was astonished to see along the front of the glass a long strip of paper pasted, which had certainly not been on the window when he looked through it some time before. Following the energetic Smythe outside into the street, he found that some yard and a half of stamp paper had been carefully gummed along the glass outside, and on this was written in straggly characters, "If you marry Smythe, he will die." "Laura," said Angus, putting his big red head into the shop, "you're not mad." "It's the writing of that fellow Welkin," said Smythe gruffly. "I haven't seen him for years, but he's always bothering me. Five times in the last fortnight he's had threatening letters left at my flat, and I can't even find out who leaves them, let alone if it is Welkin himself. The porter of the flats swears that no suspicious characters have been seen, and here he has pasted up a sort of dado on a public shop window, while the people in the shop " "Quite so," said Angus modestly, "while the people in the shop were having tea. Well, sir, I can assure you I appreciate your common sense in dealing so directly with the matter. We can talk about other things afterwards. The fellow cannot be very far off yet, for I swear there was no paper there when I went last to the window, ten or fifteen minutes ago. On the other hand, he's too far off to be chased, as we don't even know the direction. If you'll take my advice, Mr. Smythe, you'll put this at once in the hands of some energetic inquiry man, private rather than public. I know an extremely clever fellow, who has set up in business five minutes from here in your car. His name's Flambeau, and though his youth was a bit stormy, he's a strictly honest man now, and his brains are worth money. He lives in Lucknow Mansions, Hampstead." "That is odd," said the little man, arching his black eyebrows. "I live, myself, in Himylaya Mansions, round the corner. Perhaps you might care to come with me; I can go to my rooms and sort out these queer Welkin documents, while you run round and get your friend the detective."

67 "You are very good," said Angus politely. "Well, the sooner we act the better." Both men, with a queer kind of impromptu fairness, took the same sort of formal farewell of the lady, and both jumped into the brisk little car. As Smythe took the handles and they turned the great corner of the street, Angus was amused to see a gigantesque poster of "Smythe's Silent Service," with a picture of a huge headless iron doll, carrying a saucepan with the legend, "A Cook Who is Never Cross." "I use them in my own flat," said the little black-bearded man, laughing, "partly for advertisements, and partly for real convenience. Honestly, and all above board, those big clockwork dolls of mine do bring your coals or claret or a timetable quicker than any live servants I've ever known, if you know which knob to press. But I'll never deny, between ourselves, that such servants have their disadvantages, too." "Indeed?" said Angus; "is there something they can't do?" "Yes," replied Smythe coolly; "they can't tell me who left those threatening letters at my flat." The man's motor was small and swift like himself; in fact, like his domestic service, it was of his own invention. If he was an advertising quack, he was one who believed in his own wares. The sense of something tiny and flying was accentuated as they swept up long white curves of road in the dead but open daylight of evening. Soon the white curves came sharper and dizzier; they were upon ascending spirals, as they say in the modern religions. For, indeed, they were cresting a corner of London which is almost as precipitous as Edinburgh, if not quite so picturesque. Terrace rose above terrace, and the special tower of flats they sought, rose above them all to almost Egyptian height, gilt by the level sunset. The change, as they turned the corner and entered the crescent known as Himylaya Mansions, was as abrupt as the opening of a window; for they found that pile of flats sitting above London as above a green sea of slate. Opposite to the mansions, on the other side of the gravel crescent, was a bushy enclosure more like a steep hedge or dyke than a garden, and some way below that ran a strip of artificial water, a sort of canal, like the moat of that embowered fortress. As the car swept round the crescent it passed, at one corner, the stray stall of a man selling chestnuts; and right away at the other end of the curve, Angus could see a dim blue policeman walking slowly. These were the only human shapes in that high suburban solitude; but he had an irrational sense that they

68 expressed the speechless poetry of London. He felt as if they were figures in a story. The little car shot up to the right house like a bullet, and shot out its owner like a bomb shell. He was immediately inquiring of a tall commissionaire in shining braid, and a short porter in shirt sleeves, whether anybody or anything had been seeking his apartments. He was assured that nobody and nothing had passed these officials since his last inquiries; whereupon he and the slightly bewildered Angus were shot up in the lift like a rocket, till they reached the top floor. "Just come in for a minute," said the breathless Smythe. "I want to show you those Welkin letters. Then you might run round the corner and fetch your friend." He pressed a button concealed in the wall, and the door opened of itself. It opened on a long, commodious ante-room, of which the only arresting features, ordinarily speaking, were the rows of tall halfhuman mechanical figures that stood up on both sides like tailors' dummies. Like tailors' dummies they were headless; and like tailors' dummies they had a handsome unnecessary humpiness in the shoulders, and a pigeon-breasted protuberance of chest; but barring this, they were not much more like a human figure than any automatic machine at a station that is about the human height. They had two great hooks like arms, for carrying trays; and they were painted peagreen, or vermilion, or black for convenience of distinction; in every other way they were only automatic machines and nobody would have looked twice at them. On this occasion, at least, nobody did. For between the two rows of these domestic dummies lay something more interesting than most of the mechanics of the world. It was a white, tattered scrap of paper scrawled with red ink; and the agile inventor had snatched it up almost as soon as the door flew open. He handed it to Angus without a word. The red ink on it actually was not dry, and the message ran, "If you have been to see her today, I shall kill you." There was a short silence, and then Isidore Smythe said quietly, "Would you like a little whiskey? I rather feel as if I should." "Thank you; I should like a little Flambeau," said Angus, gloomily. "This business seems to me to be getting rather grave. I'm going round at once to fetch him." "Right you are," said the other, with admirable cheerfulness. "Bring him round here as quick as you can."

69 But as Angus closed the front door behind him he saw Smythe push back a button, and one of the clockwork images glided from its place and slid along a groove in the floor carrying a tray with syphon and decanter. There did seem something a trifle weird about leaving the little man alone among those dead servants, who were coming to life as the door closed. Six steps down from Smythe's landing the man in shirt sleeves was doing something with a pail. Angus stopped to extract a promise, fortified with a prospective bribe, that he would remain in that place until the return with the detective, and would keep count of any kind of stranger coming up those stairs. Dashing down to the front hall he then laid similar charges of vigilance on the commissionaire at the front door, from whom he learned the simplifying circumstances that there was no back door. Not content with this, he captured the floating policeman and induced him to stand opposite the entrance and watch it; and finally paused an instant for a pennyworth of chestnuts, and an inquiry as to the probable length of the merchant's stay in the neighbourhood. The chestnut seller, turning up the collar of his coat, told him he should probably be moving shortly, as he thought it was going to snow. Indeed, the evening was growing grey and bitter, but Angus, with all his eloquence, proceeded to nail the chestnut man to his post. "Keep yourself warm on your own chestnuts," he said earnestly. "Eat up your whole stock; I'll make it worth your while. I'll give you a sovereign if you'll wait here till I come back, and then tell me whether any man, woman, or child has gone into that house where the commissionaire is standing." He then walked away smartly, with a last look at the besieged tower. "I've made a ring round that room, anyhow," he said. "They can't all four of them be Mr. Welkin's accomplices." Lucknow Mansions were, so to speak, on a lower platform of that hill of houses, of which Himylaya Mansions might be called the peak. Mr. Flambeau's semi-official flat was on the ground floor, and presented in every way a marked contrast to the American machinery and cold hotel-like luxury of the flat of the Silent Service. Flambeau, who was a friend of Angus, received him in a rococo artistic den behind his office, of which the ornaments were sabres, harquebuses, Eastern curiosities, flasks of Italian wine, savage cooking-pots, a

70 plumy Persian cat, and a small dusty-looking Roman Catholic priest, who looked particularly out of place. "This is my friend Father Brown," said Flambeau. "I've often wanted you to meet him. Splendid weather, this; a little cold for Southerners like me." "Yes, I think it will keep clear," said Angus, sitting down on a violet-striped Eastern ottoman. "No," said the priest quietly, "it has begun to snow." And, indeed, as he spoke, the first few flakes, foreseen by the man of chestnuts, began to drift across the darkening windowpane. "Well," said Angus heavily. "I'm afraid I've come on business, and rather jumpy business at that. The fact is, Flambeau, within a stone's throw of your house is a fellow who badly wants your help; he's perpetually being haunted and threatened by an invisible enemy a scoundrel whom nobody has even seen." As Angus proceeded to tell the whole tale of Smythe and Welkin, beginning with Laura's story, and going on with his own, the supernatural laugh at the corner of two empty streets, the strange distinct words spoken in an empty room, Flambeau grew more and more vividly concerned, and the little priest seemed to be left out of it, like a piece of furniture. When it came to the scribbled stamp-paper pasted on the window, Flambeau rose, seeming to fill the room with his huge shoulders. "If you don't mind," he said, "I think you had better tell me the rest on the nearest road to this man's house. It strikes me, somehow, that there is no time to be lost." "Delighted," said Angus, rising also, "though he's safe enough for the present, for I've set four men to watch the only hole to his burrow." They turned out into the street, the small priest trundling after them with the docility of a small dog. He merely said, in a cheerful way, like one making conversation, "How quick the snow gets thick on the ground." As they threaded the steep side streets already powdered with silver, Angus finished his story; and by the time they reached the crescent with the towering flats, he had leisure to turn his attention to the four sentinels. The chestnut seller, both before and after receiving a sovereign, swore stubbornly that he had watched the door and seen

71 no visitor enter. The policeman was even more emphatic. He said he had had experience of crooks of all kinds, in top hats and in rags; he wasn't so green as to expect suspicious characters to look suspicious; he looked out for anybody, and, so help him, there had been nobody. And when all three men gathered round the gilded commissionaire, who still stood smiling astride of the porch, the verdict was more final still. "I've got a right to ask any man, duke or dustman, what he wants in these flats," said the genial and gold-laced giant, "and I'll swear there's been nobody to ask since this gentleman went away." The unimportant Father Brown, who stood back, looking modestly at the pavement, here ventured to say meekly, "Has nobody been up and down stairs, then, since the snow began to fall? It began while we were all round at Flambeau's." "Nobody's been in here, sir, you can take it from me," said the official, with beaming authority. "Then I wonder what that is?" said the priest, and stared at the ground blankly like a fish. The others all looked down also; and Flambeau used a fierce exclamation and a French gesture. For it was unquestionably true that down the middle of the entrance guarded by the man in gold lace, actually between the arrogant, stretched legs of that colossus, ran a stringy pattern of grey footprints stamped upon the white snow. "God!" cried Angus involuntarily, "the Invisible Man!" Without another word he turned and dashed up the stairs, with Flambeau following; but Father Brown still stood looking about him in the snow-clad street as if he had lost interest in his query. Flambeau was plainly in a mood to break down the door with his big shoulders; but the Scotchman, with more reason, if less intuition, fumbled about on the frame of the door till he found the invisible button; and the door swung slowly open. It showed substantially the same serried interior; the hall had grown darker, though it was still struck here and there with the last crimson shafts of sunset, and one or two of the headless machines had been moved from their places for this or that purpose, and stood here and there about the twilit place. The green and red of their coats were all darkened in the dusk; and their likeness to human shapes slightly

72 increased by their very shapelessness. But in the middle of them all, exactly where the paper with the red ink had lain, there lay something that looked like red ink spilt out of its bottle. But it was not red ink. With a French combination of reason and violence Flambeau simply said "Murder!" and, plunging into the flat, had explored, every corner and cupboard of it in five minutes. But if he expected to find a corpse he found none. Isidore Smythe was not in the place, either dead or alive. After the most tearing search the two men met each other in the outer hall, with streaming faces and staring eyes. "My friend," said Flambeau, talking French in his excitement, "not only is your murderer invisible, but he makes invisible also the murdered man." Angus looked round at the dim room full of dummies, and in some Celtic corner of his Scotch soul a shudder started. One of the life-size dolls stood immediately overshadowing the blood stain, summoned, perhaps, by the slain man an instant before he fell. One of the highshouldered hooks that served the thing for arms, was a little lifted, and Angus had suddenly the horrid fancy that poor Smythe's own iron child had struck him down. Matter had rebelled, and these machines had killed their master. But even so, what had they done with him? "Eaten him?" said the nightmare at his ear; and he sickened for an instant at the idea of rent, human remains absorbed and crushed into all that acephalous clockwork. He recovered his mental health by an emphatic effort, and said to Flambeau, "Well, there it is. The poor fellow has evaporated like a cloud and left a red streak on the floor. The tale does not belong to this world." "There is only one thing to be done," said Flambeau, "whether it belongs to this world or the other. I must go down and talk to my friend." They descended, passing the man with the pail, who again asseverated that he had let no intruder pass, down to the commissionaire and the hovering chestnut man, who rigidly reasserted their own watchfulness. But when Angus looked round for his fourth confirmation he could not see it, and called out with some nervousness, "Where is the policeman?" "I beg your pardon," said Father Brown; "that is my fault. I just sent him down the road to investigate something that I just thought worth investigating."

73 "Well, we want him back pretty soon," said Angus abruptly, "for the wretched man upstairs has not only been murdered, but wiped out." "How?" asked the priest. "Father," said Flambeau, after a pause, "upon my soul I believe it is more in your department than mine. No friend or foe has entered the house, but Smythe is gone, as if stolen by the fairies. If that is not supernatural, I " As he spoke they were all checked by an unusual sight; the big blue policeman came round the corner of the crescent, running. He came straight up to Brown. "You're right, sir," he panted, "they've just found poor Mr. Smythe's body in the canal down below." Angus put his hand wildly to his head. "Did he run down and drown himself?" he asked. "He never came down, I'll swear," said the constable, "and he wasn't drowned either, for he died of a great stab over the heart." "And yet you saw no one enter?" said Flambeau in a grave voice. "Let us walk down the road a little," said the priest. As they reached the other end of the crescent he observed abruptly, "Stupid of me! I forgot to ask the policeman something. I wonder if they found a light brown sack." "Why a light brown sack?" asked Angus, astonished. "Because if it was any other coloured sack, the case must begin over again," said Father Brown; "but if it was a light brown sack, why, the case is finished." "I am pleased to hear it," said Angus with hearty irony. "It hasn't begun, so far as I am concerned." "You must tell us all about it," said Flambeau with a strange heavy simplicity, like a child. Unconsciously they were walking with quickening steps down the long sweep of road on the other side of the high crescent, Father Brown leading briskly, though in silence. At last he said with an almost

74 touching vagueness, "Well, I'm afraid you'll think it so prosy. We always begin at the abstract end of things, and you can't begin this story anywhere else. "Have you ever noticed this that people never answer what you say? They answer what you mean or what they think you mean. Suppose one lady says to another in a country house, 'Is anybody staying with you?' the lady doesn't answer 'Yes; the butler, the three footmen, the parlourmaid, and so on,' though the parlourmaid may be in the room, or the butler behind her chair. She says 'There is nobody staying with us,' meaning nobody of the sort you mean. But suppose a doctor inquiring into an epidemic asks, 'Who is staying in the house?' then the lady will remember the butler, the parlourmaid, and the rest. All language is used like that; you never get a question answered literally, even when you get it answered truly. When those four quite honest men said that no man had gone into the Mansions, they did not really mean that no man had gone into them. They meant no man whom they could suspect of being your man. A man did go into the house, and did come out of it, but they never noticed him." "An invisible man?" inquired Angus, raising his red eyebrows. "A mentally invisible man," said Father Brown. A minute or two after he resumed in the same unassuming voice, like a man thinking his way. "Of course you can't think of such a man, until you do think of him. That's where his cleverness comes in. But I came to think of him through two or three little things in the tale Mr. Angus told us. First, there was the fact that this Welkin went for long walks. And then there was the vast lot of stamp paper on the window. And then, most of all, there were the two things the young lady said things that couldn't be true. Don't get annoyed," he added hastily, noting a sudden movement of the Scotchman's head; "she thought they were true. A person can't be quite alone in a street a second before she receives a letter. She can't be quite alone in a street when she starts reading a letter just received. There must be somebody pretty near her; he must be mentally invisible." "Why must there be somebody near her?" asked Angus. "Because," said Father Brown, "barring carrier-pigeons, somebody must have brought her the letter." "Do you really mean to say," asked Flambeau, with energy, "that Welkin carried his rival's letters to his lady?"

75 "Yes," said the priest. "Welkin carried his rival's letters to his lady. You see, he had to." "Oh, I can't stand much more of this," exploded Flambeau. "Who is this fellow? What does he look like? What is the usual get-up of a mentally invisible man?" "He is dressed rather handsomely in red, blue and gold," replied the priest promptly with precision, "and in this striking, and even showy, costume he entered Himylaya Mansions under eight human eyes; he killed Smythe in cold blood, and came down into the street again carrying the dead body in his arms " "Reverend sir," cried Angus, standing still, "are you raving mad, or am I?" "You are not mad," said Brown, "only a little unobservant. You have not noticed such a man as this, for example." He took three quick strides forward, and put his hand on the shoulder of an ordinary passing postman who had bustled by them unnoticed under the shade of the trees. "Nobody ever notices postmen somehow," he said thoughtfully; "yet they have passions like other men, and even carry large bags where a small corpse can be stowed quite easily." The postman, instead of turning naturally, had ducked and tumbled against the garden fence. He was a lean fair-bearded man of very ordinary appearance, but as he turned an alarmed face over his shoulder, all three men were fixed with an almost fiendish squint. * Flambeau went back to his sabres, purple rugs and Persian cat, having many things to attend to. John Turnbull Angus went back to the lady at the shop, with whom that imprudent young man contrives to be extremely comfortable. But Father Brown walked those snow-covered hills under the stars for many hours with a murderer, and what they said to each other will never be known.!

76 2/13/2015 Freud, "Civilization and its Discontents," 1930 (excerpt) Freud, Civilization and its Discontents, 1930 (excerpt)... men are not gentle creatures, who want to be loved, who at the most can defend themselves if they are attacked; they are, on the contrary, creatures among whose instinctual endowments is to be reckoned a powerful share of aggressiveness. As a result, their neighbor is for them not only a potential helper or sexual object, but also someone who tempts them to satisfy their aggressiveness on him, to exploit his capacity for work without compensation, to use him sexually without his consent, to seize his possessions, to humiliate him, to cause him pain, to torture and to kill him. Homo homini lupus [man is wolf to man]. Who in the face of all his experience of life and of history, will have the courage to dispute this assertion? As a rule this cruel aggressiveness waits for some provocation or puts itself at the service of some other purpose, whose goal might also have been reached by milder measures. In circumstances that are favorable to it, when the mental counter-forces which ordinarily inhibit it are out of action, it also manifests itself spontaneously and reveals man as a savage beast to whom consideration towards his own kind is something alien. Anyone who calls to mind the atrocities committed during the racial migrations or the invasions of the Huns, or by the people known as Mongols under Jenghiz Khan and Tamerlane, or at the capture of Jerusalem by the pious Crusaders, or even, indeed, the horrors of the recent World War -- anyone who calls these things to mind will have to bow humbly before the truth of this view. The existence of this inclination to aggression, which we can detect in ourselves and justly assume to be present in others, is the factor which disturbs our relations with our neighbor and which forces civilization into such a high expenditure [of energy]. In consequence of this primary mutual hostility of human beings, civilized society is perpetually threatened with disintegration. The interest of work in common would not hold it together; instinctual passions are stronger than reasonable interests. Civilization has to use its utmost efforts in order to set limits to man's aggressive instincts and to hold the manifestations of hem in check by psychical reaction-formations. Hence, therefore, the use of methods intended to incite people into identifications and aim-inhibited relations of love, hence the restriction upon sexual life, and hence too the ideal's commandment to love one's neighbor as oneself -- a commandment which is really justified by the fact that nothing else runs so strongly counter to the original nature of man. In spite of every effort, these endeavors of civilization have not so far achieved very much. It hopes to prevent the crudest excesses of brutal violence by itself assuming the right to use violence against criminals, but the law is not able to lay hold of the more cautious and refined manifestations of human aggressiveness. The time comes when each one of us has to give up illusions the expectations which, in his youth. he pinned upon his fellow men, and when he may learn how much difficulty and pain has been added to his life by their ill-will. At the same time, it would be unfair to reproach civilization with trying to eliminate strife and competition from human activity. These things are undoubtedly indispensable. But opposition is not necessarily enmity; it is merely misused and made occasion for enmity. The communists believe they have found the path to deliverance from our evils. According to them, man is wholly good and as well-disposed to his neighbor; but the institution of private property has corrupted his nature. The ownership of private wealth gives the individual power, and waited the temptation to ill-treat his neighbor; while the man who is 1/3