[adapted]

by
Edgar Allan Poe

Nothing is more annoying to wisdom than too much cleverness. —Seneca

In Paris, just after dark on a windy autumn evening in the year 18—, I was enjoying both quiet thinking and a meerschaum pipe. I was with my friend, C. Auguste Dupin, in his small back library, or book-room, on the third floor of No. 33, Rue Dunôt, in the Faubourg St. Germain.

For at least an hour, we had stayed completely silent. To someone watching us, it would have seemed like we were just focused on the swirls of smoke filling the room. But really, I was thinking about some things we had talked about earlier that evening. I mean the case of the Rue Morgue, and the mystery about the murder of Marie Rogêt. So I found it a bit of a surprise when the door suddenly opened and let in our old friend, Monsieur G——, the head of the Paris police.

We greeted him warmly. He was nearly as amusing as he was silly, and we had not seen him in years. We had been sitting in the dark, and Dupin stood up to light a lamp. But he sat back down when G. said he had come to talk with us—or really, to ask Dupin’s opinion—about a police matter that had caused a lot of trouble.

“If it’s something that needs thinking,” said Dupin, not lighting the lamp, “we’ll think better in the dark.”

“That’s one of your strange ideas,” said the Prefect. He always called something “strange” if he didn’t understand it—and so he lived in a world full of “strange” things.

“Very true,” said Dupin, as he gave G. a pipe and rolled a soft chair toward him.

“And what is the problem this time?” I asked. “I hope it’s not another murder?”

“Oh no, nothing like that. The truth is, the case is very simple, and I’m sure we could solve it ourselves. But I thought Dupin would want to hear it, because it’s so very strange.”

“Simple and strange,” said Dupin.

“Well, yes—and no,” replied the Prefect. “The truth is, we’ve all been very puzzled because the case is so simple, and still we can’t solve it.”

“Maybe it’s the very simplicity that has confused you,” said my friend.

“What silly talk!” said the Prefect, laughing loudly.

“Maybe the mystery is just a little too clear,” said Dupin.

“Oh, come on! Who ever heard such a thing?”

“Too easy to see.”

“Ha! ha! ha!—ha! ha! ha!—ho! ho! ho!” laughed our visitor, very amused. “Oh, Dupin, you’ll be the end of me yet!”

“So, what is this case really about?” I asked.

“Well, I’ll tell you,” the Prefect said, taking a long, slow puff on his pipe and settling back in his chair. “I’ll tell you in just a few words. But before I begin, let me warn you that this is a very secret matter. I would probably lose my job if anyone found out that I talked about it.”

“Go on,” I said.

“Or don’t,” said Dupin.

“Well, then; I’ve received direct information, from someone very important, that a certain document of great importance has been stolen from the royal rooms. The person who stole it is known—there’s no doubt about that. He was seen taking it. It’s also known that he still has it.”

“How is that known?” asked Dupin.

“It’s clear,” replied the Prefect, “because of what kind of paper it is, and because of what hasn’t happened yet. If he had used it—or given it away—certain things would have happened right away. Since those things haven’t happened, we can tell he still has it and hasn’t used it yet.”

“Can you explain that a bit more?” I asked.

“Well, I can say this much—the paper gives the person holding it a kind of power in a certain place, where that power is extremely valuable.” The Prefect liked to talk in a diplomatic way.

“I still don’t quite understand,” said Dupin.

“No? Well, if the paper were shown to a third person—someone I won’t name—it would damage the reputation of a very high-ranking person. That fact gives the person holding the paper power over the important person, whose honor and peace are at risk.”

“But that power,” I added, “would only work if the thief knows that the owner knows he took it. Who would dare—”

“The thief,” said G., “is the Minister D——. He dares to do anything—both things that are proper and things that are not. The way he stole the letter was as clever as it was bold. The stolen item—a letter, to be honest—was received by the person who lost it while she was alone in the royal sitting room. While she was reading it, another very important person came in—the very one she most wanted to hide it from. In a panic, she tried to put it in a drawer, but didn’t have time. She had to place it, still open, on a table. Luckily, the address side was facing up, so the contents couldn’t be seen, and the letter was not noticed.

“At that moment, Minister D—— came into the room. His sharp eyes immediately noticed the letter. He recognized the handwriting, saw how nervous the lady was, and guessed her secret. After quickly finishing some business matters, he took out a letter of his own that looked similar, opened it, pretended to read it, and then put it down very close to the first letter. He then talked for about fifteen minutes about government matters. Finally, as he was leaving, he picked up the letter that wasn’t his. The real owner saw it happen, but she couldn’t say anything in front of the third important person who was standing nearby. The minister left, leaving his own letter—which didn’t matter—on the table.”

“So there you have it,” said Dupin to me, “exactly what you said was needed: the thief knows that the person he stole from knows he stole it.”

“Yes,” said the Prefect, “and he’s been using that power for the past few months in a very dangerous way—for political reasons. The lady who lost the letter is more sure than ever that she must get it back. But, of course, she can’t do it openly. In the end, feeling hopeless, she has asked me to handle the matter.”

“Than whom,” said Dupin, through a thick cloud of smoke, “no wiser man could be wanted or even imagined.”

“You flatter me,” said the Prefect, smiling. “But it’s possible that others might think the same.”

“It’s clear,” I said, “as you mentioned, that the minister still has the letter. He hasn’t used it—just having it gives him power. If he used it, that power would disappear.”

“Exactly,” said G. “And that’s what I focused on. My first step was to search the minister’s home thoroughly. The hard part was doing it without him finding out. I had been warned that if he suspected anything, the situation could become dangerous.”

“But,” I said, “you’re very skilled in these kinds of searches. The Paris police have done things like this many times.”

“Oh yes—and that’s why I didn’t give up hope. Also, the minister’s habits gave me an advantage. He is often away from home all night. He doesn’t have many servants, and they sleep far from his own rooms. Most of them are from Naples, and they can be easily made drunk. I have keys, as you know, that can open any door or cabinet in Paris. For three months, almost every night, I’ve personally searched the Minister’s home. My honor is at stake, and, to tell you a big secret, the reward for solving this case is huge. I only stopped searching when I became fully sure that the thief is smarter than I am. I believe I have searched every possible place in the house where the letter could be hidden.”

“But,” I asked, “is it possible that even though the minister still has the letter, he might have hidden it somewhere outside his home?”

“That’s just barely possible,” said Dupin. “But with the strange situation at the royal court, and especially with the secret plots D—— is involved in, the ability to use the document at any moment—to produce it right away—is almost as important as simply having it.”

“Being able to produce it?” I asked.

“I mean being able to destroy it,” said Dupin.

“Ah, I see,” I said. “So then the letter must still be in the house. And we can be sure that the minister doesn’t carry it with him.”

“Exactly,” said the Prefect. “We even arranged for him to be stopped in the street twice, like a robbery, and we searched him carefully both times while I watched.”

“You didn’t need to do that,” said Dupin. “D—— isn’t a complete fool. He would have expected something like that.”

“He’s not a complete fool,” said G., “but he is a poet—which, in my opinion, is almost the same thing.”

“True,” said Dupin, after slowly blowing out a long cloud of smoke. “Though I’ve written a few silly poems myself.”

“Why don’t you tell us,” I said, “exactly how you searched the place?”

“Well, we took our time and looked everywhere. I’ve done a lot of this kind of work. We searched the whole building, room by room—spending a whole week’s worth of nights on each room. First, we looked at all the furniture. We opened every drawer. And you know that no well-trained police officer would ever miss a secret drawer. Anyone who misses one in this kind of search is an idiot. It’s very simple—we know how much space there should be in any cabinet. We have exact methods. Even something off by a tiny bit would not escape us. After the cabinets, we examined the chairs. We poked their cushions with long thin needles—you’ve seen me use them before. We even took apart the tables and removed their tops.”

“Why do that?” I asked.

“Because sometimes the top of a table or other furniture is taken off by someone who wants to hide something. Then they hollow out the leg, hide the item inside, and put the top back on. People also use the tops or bottoms of bedposts to hide things.”

“But couldn’t you find the hidden space by tapping or sounding the wood?” I asked.

“Not at all,” said the Prefect. “If the person used enough cotton or padding around the item, you wouldn’t hear anything unusual. And remember, we had to search quietly, without making noise.”

“But you couldn’t possibly take apart every piece of furniture where something small could be hidden. A letter can be rolled up tightly, like a big sewing needle. It could be hidden in the leg of a chair, for example. You didn’t take apart all the chairs, did you?”