The Purloined Letter
Nil sapientiæ odiosius acumine nimio.—Seneca.
It was Paris, just after dark, on a windy evening in the autumn of 18-. I was enjoying two pleasures at once: quiet thought and a meerschaum pipe. I was with my friend C. Auguste Dupin in his little back library, or book-closet. It was au troisième, at No. 33, Rue Dunôt, Faubourg St. Germain. For at least one hour we had sat in deep silence. Anyone who saw us might have thought we were only watching the curling clouds of smoke. The smoke hung heavy in the air of the room. But in my mind I was thinking about certain things we had talked about earlier that evening. I mean the affair of the Rue Morgue, and the mystery of the murder of Marie Rogêt. So it seemed a kind of coincidence when the door of our rooms was thrown open. In came our old acquaintance, Monsieur G——, the Prefect of the Paris police.
We gave him a warm welcome. There was something amusing about the man, though there was twice as much in him to look down on. And we had not seen him for several years. We had been sitting in the dark. Dupin now got up to light a lamp. But he sat down again without lighting it, because G. said he had come to ask for our advice. Or rather, he wanted my friend's opinion. It was about some official business that had caused him a great deal of trouble.
“If it needs careful thought,” said Dupin, leaving the lamp unlit, “we shall examine it better in the dark.”
“That is another of your odd ideas,” said the Prefect. He had a habit of calling everything “odd” if he did not understand it. So he lived among a whole army of “oddities.”
“Very true,” said Dupin. He gave his visitor a pipe and rolled a comfortable chair towards him.
“And what is the problem now?” I asked. “Nothing more in the murder line, I hope?”
“Oh no, nothing of that kind. The fact is, the business is very simple indeed. I have no doubt that we can manage it well enough ourselves. But then I thought Dupin would like to hear the details, because it is so very odd.”
Keep reading
“Simple and odd,” said Dupin.
“Why, yes. And not exactly that, either. The fact is, we have all been very puzzled. The affair is so simple, and yet it defeats us completely.”
“Perhaps it is the very simplicity of the thing that leads you wrong,” said my friend.
“What nonsense you talk!” replied the Prefect, laughing loudly.
“Perhaps the mystery is a little too plain,” said Dupin.
“Oh, good heavens! Who ever heard of such an idea?”
“A little too self-evident.”
“Ha! ha! ha—ha! ha! ha!—ho! ho! ho!” roared our visitor, greatly amused. “Oh, Dupin, you will be the death of me yet!”
“And what, after all, is the matter?” I asked.
“Why, I will tell you,” replied the Prefect. He took a long, slow, thoughtful puff and settled himself in his chair. “I will tell you in a few words. But before I begin, let me warn you. This affair demands the greatest secrecy. I would most probably lose my position if people knew I had told anyone.”
“Go on,” I said.
“Or not,” said Dupin.
“Well, then. I have received personal information from a very high place. A certain document of the greatest importance has been purloined from the royal apartments. We know who took it. There is no doubt about this, because he was seen taking it. We also know that he still has it.”
“How is this known?” asked Dupin.
“We can see it clearly,” replied the Prefect, “from the nature of the document. If it left the robber's hands, certain results would appear at once. That would happen if he used it, as he must plan to use it in the end. These results have not appeared.”
“Be a little clearer,” I said.
“Well, I may go so far as to say this. The paper gives its holder a certain power in a certain place. And in that place such power is very valuable.” The Prefect loved the empty language of diplomats.
“I still do not quite understand,” said Dupin.
“No? Well. Suppose the document were shown to a third person, who shall not be named. Then the honor of a person of very high rank would be in question. This fact gives the holder of the document power over that great person. That person's honor and peace are now in danger.”
“But this power,” I said, “would depend on the robber's knowledge of the loser's knowledge of the robber. Who would dare—”
“The thief,” said G., “is the Minister D——. He dares all things, those that are fitting for a man and those that are not. The way he stole it was as clever as it was bold. The document—a letter, to be honest—had been received by the royal lady who was robbed. She was alone in the royal boudoir at the time. While she was reading it, someone suddenly came in. It was the other great personage, the one from whom she most wanted to hide it. In a hurry she tried to push it into a drawer, but she could not. So she had to put it on a table, open as it was. But the address was on top, and the contents were hidden. So nobody noticed the letter. At this moment the Minister D—— comes in. His sharp eye sees the paper at once. He recognizes the handwriting of the address. He notices the lady's confusion, and he guesses her secret. He deals quickly with some business, in his usual way. Then he takes out a letter that looks rather like the other one. He opens it and pretends to read it. Then he puts it down close beside the other. Again he talks, for about fifteen minutes, about public affairs. At last, as he leaves, he also takes from the table the letter that is not his. The rightful owner saw this. But of course she did not dare to say anything. The third personage was standing right at her elbow. The Minister went away quickly. He left his own letter—one of no importance—on the table.”