Dupin made no comment–he had spoken not a single word in this short encounter–but he had an abstracted look to his face that usually accompanied his attention being focused on some mystery or other. Since he had undertaken no such investigations, to the best of my knowledge, and since he had been most genial over our glasses and pipes, I came to the conclusion that I must have mistaken his glance. We moved on, only to encounter a crowd just two streets away, in front of Ste-Mathilde.
“It would appear that there is no one in their beds this night,” I commented. “Perhaps we should find another way?”
“I think not,” Dupin replied, his eyes feasting eagerly on the motions and sounds of the gathered crowd. “Observe–these people go nowhere–they instead crowd around something on the pavement. And, unless I am very much mistaken, that is Monsieur Couperin, of the Préfecture de Police attempting to move them along. It seems I was correct to suspect foul play.”
I confess that I was puzzled by this remark, as I had seen nothing that had alerted me to the possibility of trouble. But Dupin was like a hound who has scented the fox, and hurried along to Couperin’s side. The policeman appeared surprised to see my friend, but there are few in the Sûreté who do not know Dupin by both reputation and appearance.
“It would appear,” Couperin said, jovially, “that you have a nose for blood. But there is little here to interest you, Dupin. It is merely an affair of honor that has ended tragically.” He scowled. “Unless you know something of this case that I do not.”
“I know very little about this case,” Dupin replied. “I was not even aware that there was a case until moments ago. My friend and I were merely heading home after a pleasant evening. But, as I am here, and a dead man is here…” He shrugged.
Couperin considered for a moment, and then nodded. He turned to the three gendarmes who were with him, and who were attempting–without noticeable success–to disperse the onlookers. Parisiennes, it has been claimed, have seen everything–but, nevertheless, there would appear to be no lack of interest in seeing a dead body on the pavement. “Let us through,” Couperin said, and the policemen motioned back the onlookers.
“This has only just occurred?” I asked him.
“Within the past ten minutes,” Couperin confirmed. “There was a policemen in this street who heard cries, and then saw a man fall from the roof of the church. I happened to be close by also, on an entirely different case, and arrived just moments later.
“Then how is it that you allowed the murderer to escape?” Dupin asked. He was standing close to the body, and studying it, as was his habit, with minute attention.
“I am yet to be convinced that it was murder,” Couperin said, somewhat stiffly. “It appears to me to have been a matter of honor.”
“Indeed?” Dupin beckoned me forward. “And what is your opinion?” he asked me.
I bent to examine the corpse. It was of a thick-set man in his late 20s, I should judge. He wore no coat, and his clothing was otherwise tidy. His face looked heavy, not refined, and there was a deep wound in his right shoulder. It was clear that he had been the victim of a sword-thrust. Oddly, there was not as much blood about the wound as I would have expected, nor was there a great deal on the ground.
“There is not much that occurs to me,” I confessed. “He was stabbed with a sword, obviously, but the blow did not kill him. It is not in a vital spot.” I glanced upward–the roof of the church was some 40 meters high. “I imagine it was the fall that terminated his life.”
Dupin turned to the policeman. “And on what do you base your ridiculous theory of an affair of honor?” he asked.
Couperin scowled. “On the facts,” he replied. “Your friend is undoubtedly correct in saying that the fall killed the poor fellow. So, we must ask ourselves: what was he doing on the roof on the church in the first place? Note the sword wound–how could he have been given one? Through a duel, obviously. Why the roof? So that he and his opponent could fight without being disturbed. His coat has been removed, clearly so that he can have greater freedom in the fight. I imagine that he was startled by being run through the shoulder, and then lost his footing and fell to his death.” He smiled, pleased with himself. “As I say, an affair of honor between two gentlemen–I admit I cannot deduce if it was over a point of honor or a woman–that resulted in the tragic death of this man. I do not believe that it was murder.”
Dupin snorted. “You, like all policemen, see everything with the eyes–and nothing with the mind. Do not look so annoyed with me, Inspector–you did at least see all the relevant details. The problem is that you are a romantic. You come upon a man with a sword wound, and instantly imagine that he is a romantic, as you are. You decide that the whole business is an affair of honor, when it is clearly nothing of the sort. Have you been up to look at the roof of the church yet?” he asked.
The policeman was momentarily taken aback by the apparent change of subject. “I was just about to do so when you arrived,” he said. He was still annoyed at Dupin’s comments, clearly, but striving for politeness. “Would you care to accompany me?”
“No,” Dupin said, carelessly. “I know precisely what you will discover up there. You will find this man’s jacket, which is black. You will find a pair of discarded gloves, which are white, but covered with blood. You will find a pool of blood–more than a liter, I would imagine. What you will not find is the mythical sword that this man used in your imaginary duel.” He waved one hand. “I will await you here. Ah, before you go, which is the policeman who was first on the scene and discovered the body?”
Couperin gestured to one of the trio, who stepped forward and saluted rather smartly. “I am going to examine the scene of the battle,” he told the man. He gestured to Dupin. “Answer this man’s questions as you would mine.” He then stalked off, into the open door of the church, taking another policeman with him. Dupin turned to the policeman.
“You saw the man fall?” he asked.
“Yes, sir.” The policeman had clearly been rehearsing his story in his mind, for he needed no further questioning to continue. “I was walking in this direction, and stood over there.” He gestured to a spot some 20 meters further up the road. “I heard a cry from the roof of the church, and looked up. In the darkness, I saw some object fall and strike the ground. Hurrying forward, I saw it was the victim. People had already started to gather, and I sent one of them for Monsieur Couperin, whom I knew to be close by.”
“I see.” Dupin smiled slightly. “And you saw no one with a sword?”
“No one at all, sir. I should certainly have detained anyone with a weapon.”
“I’m certain you would,” Dupin agreed. “You seem to be a most conscientious fellow.” There was a sparkle of amusement in his eyes. “Then where do you imagine that the Inspector’s other duelist has vanished to?”
“I have no idea, sir,” the policeman admitted. Then he looked startled. “You don’t think he’s still on the roof, do you? Monsieur Couperin–”
“Is in no danger at all,” Dupin replied. “The murderer is quite some distance from here by this point.”
The policeman looked confused, and then his puzzlement cleared. “You think he dropped his sword, then? I should have held everyone about here.”
“You could hardly hold everyone,” Dupin reassured the crestfallen policeman. He glanced at the crowd. “Though it would seem that almost nobody wishes to leave. Murder, it would appear, is something of a spectacle.”
Couperin returned from the church, looking somewhat flushed. Part of this was no doubt due to the exertion of climbing and then descending the tower. The other part, I soon discovered, was from anger. “How the Devil did you know what we would find on the roof?” were his first words to Dupin.
“Because I understand what has happened here,” my friend replied calmly. “You could find nothing other than I expected. Your problem, my friend, is that you are a kind person–you assume that others are like you, and give them too much credit for kind
ness. While this trait is admirable in the population at large, it is perhaps not the best characteristic for a policeman to possess. I, on the other hand, know the depredations that a person can sink into, and thus I expect nothing less. Sadly, perhaps, I all too frequently discover myself to be correct. I often wish that the human race did not lower itself to meet my expectations.”
“All of which still does not inform me how you knew what I would find on the roof of the church,” Couperin persisted, his annoyance still very evident.
“Very well,” Dupin said. “Let us examine the evidence. You see a man with a sword-wound, and without a jacket. You assume from this that he had been fighting a duel of honor, and fell from the roof. Let us examine the possibility that you are right. First, look at this man. Note the heavy features, the coarse hands. Is this a man to whom honor might mean more than life itself? No, this is a man who would settle an argument not with a sword, but with a cudgel or a pistol. Is there a sword he might have used? No, you found no trace. And nor did your conscientious policeman find anyone who saw anyone carrying a sword in this vicinity.”
“The other party might have hidden them,” Couperin protested. But I did detect a lack of force in his words, as if he were already coming to believe my friend’s objections.
Dupin waved his hand airily. “By all means, waste time searching,” he said. “There was no duel. Allow me to explain what actually occurred, and I am certain that you will be able to follow my reasoning.” His face took on the detached expression he always had when expounding his theories–if the word “theory” is not too light to be used concerning his mental processes. “This man’s killer happened upon the man here. It was unlikely to be by chance, for the murderer clearly knew that Ste-Mathilde had a flat roof, and that it was accessible at this odd hour. Therefore, the killer knew this man, and had planned carefully for his arrival. When the victim reached the church, he was forced inside by his attacker–undoubtedly when the man brandished the weapon that produced the wound we have seen.
“He took the victim to the roof so that he might have a very private conversation with him. The wound was not inflicted in a moment of passion as two men fought–it was given calmly and deliberately. Its purpose was to induce the man to talk.”
“How can you possibly say that?” the policeman asked.
“If you look at the wound,” Dupin said, “you will observe that there are black threads driven into it by the point of the weapon. Since the man’s shirt is white, clearly the threads had to have come from a black coat. Since the man was not wearing one, this was why I knew you would find one on the roof.”
“That does not prove that the wound was given to make him talk,” Couperin persisted.
Dupin sighed. “Again, look to the wound. There is remarkably little blood on the shirt, yet the wound is deep. It does not touch any vital spot, however, so it was not a killing thrust. And the man’s jacket is missing. How to explain this? Obviously, the person who attacked the victim then thrust him down onto the roof on his hands and knees. The blood fell straight from the wound and onto the roof–and you discovered the pool of blood there, as I knew it must be.”
“But why remove the jacket?” Couperin asked. His voice showed that he was considerably less sure of himself now.
“To restrain the man. Once he was on his hands and knees, gripping the collar of the jacket and pulling it down the arms is a very effective way of immobilizing a person. So, given that this is what must have happened, the only problem remaining is–why would the attacker act in such a fashion? The answer is apparent–the victim had some information that the killer wished to know. The attacker gave him the wound to torture him, to induce him to speak. The victim then told all. His attacker thereupon threw him from the roof. Why? For one of two reasons–to either silence the man, so that no one would know the information had been obtained. Or else… as a warning of our killer’s earnest. He is a man not to be trifled with, and he takes this man’s life as you or I would squash a bug.”
“But how can you be sure that the attacker gained the information he needed?” asked the policeman. “Is it not possible that this man threw himself deliberately from the roof to avoid talking?”
Dupin smiled slightly. “If you wish to conduct an experiment, my friend, then perhaps you would get down on your hands and knees. I will then pull your jacket down over your arms to immobilize you. You may then see if you are able to struggle out of your jacket and throw yourself anywhere before I am able to prevent you. You would not succeed. No, the victim was thrown to his death by his torturer, who pulled off the jacket first and discarded it.”
Couperin looked defeated, overwhelmed by Dupin’s relentless array of logic. “And the gloves?” he asked, feebly. “How did you know I should find them?”
“Ah, there I have a confession to make,” my friend admitted. “I was not absolutely certain that they would be there. It was a good guess, but by no means certain. They were stained with blood from the victim, so that the killer could not afford to be seen wearing them in public.”
It was then that I realized the point that Dupin was making. “Great Heavens!” I exclaimed. “We passed by the killer!”
“Indeed we did,” Dupin agreed. “And you and I both noted the oddity that such a well-dressed man was not wearing the gloves that would have completed his ensemble. That was what made me suspect they would have been left on the roof.”
“You met the killer?” Couperin cried. “Why did you not say so at once? Perhaps there is still time to find him…” He looked ready to send off his policemen to search the city streets.
Dupin shook his head. “You will not find him,” he assured the policeman. “He was disguised as an Englishman, and has undoubtedly discarded this disguise by now.”
“Disguised?” I could scarcely agree. “Dupin, I would swear that man was English. His accent, his admirable attempt to speak good French…”
“My friend,” Dupin said, smiling, “you heard what he wished you to witness. We are dealing with a most intelligent and dangerous man. But his accent, whilst superb, was not quite good enough to fool the ears of Dupin. He was a Frenchman, pretending a difficulty with our tongue, and that his native speech was English. I do not blame you for being deceived–very few people would not have been. Also, did you not notice the walking stick that the man carried? It had as a head the fleur-de-lys–a very French symbol, one that a true Englishman was unlikely to own. In fact, it was because of his attempt at disguise that I paid close attention to him. Why, I wondered, would this man pretend to be what he was not with two strangers who might never see him again? He was clearly behaving oddly. And so I was prepared for some strange occurrence. That is why I moved toward, instead of away from, the gathered crowd here. And, in retrospect, is it not curious that while all other people were hurrying toward the scene of the crime, our false Englishman was walking slowly away from it?”
“This is all very logical,” I was forced to admit. “But the man was not carrying a sword, and you do not expect to find one here. So, where is the weapon?”
“He was carrying it,” Dupin argued. “Undoubtedly that walking stick of his concealed a sword cane. A most useful weapon that is simple to disguise.”
Couperin looked quite exhausted. “But what was this man killed for?” he asked. “What information? And how can you be certain that your fake Englishman obtained what he sought?”
“If he had not, he would not have been so pleased with himself when he ran into us,” Dupin explained. “As to what that information was–I cannot yet say. Whatever it was, though it was of sufficient importance to cost a man his life, it was not of great urgency, otherwise the killer would have been hurrying away instead of walking quite casually. No, whatever it was that he learned, it is not something he will be able to make use of for several hours yet, at least.” Abruptly, he yawned. “So I believe we all have sufficient time to go home and get some rest. If you will excuse us?” Then he paused. “Perhaps you w
ould be kind enough to let us know any further facts you might unearth, my friend?” he asked the policeman. “You have our address, I trust? Just in case, please write it down–I would not wish you to mistake the house.” He dictated the address where we stayed to Couperin, and then had the audacity to force the policeman to read it back so Dupin could ascertain that it had been taken correctly. I was not surprised that Couperin looked distinctly annoyed at this lack of trust. In fact, once we had taken our leave of the poor fellow, I berated Dupin for humiliating him so.
“Did I really?” he asked, showing little concern. “I am sure that I will be forgiven. But I had to be certain that the man listening to all that was said heard it quite distinctly.”
“Man?” I asked, astonished. “What man?”
“You did not notice him?” Dupin asked. “He was attempting to pretend to be one of the crowd, but was paying inordinate attention to our conversation with the Inspector.”
“A journalist, perhaps?” I ventured.
“I think not.” Dupin shook his head. “The killer of this unfortunate is a most cunning and intelligent man. It seems to me that he may well have left an agent behind to ascertain what the police might discover from the corpse of his victim. I trust that when he receives the report, my deductions will unnerve him.”
“Good Heavens!” I said. “And what will he do then?”
“Come and call upon us, I hope,” Dupin replied. “Why else should I have made certain that he will get our address? I do not believe that we are in danger from this man, my friend, but it might be as well if you slept with a loaded pistol close at hand.”
Thankfully, despite Dupin’s warning, the rest of the night was uneventful. We had just finished a late breakfast–it might even have passed for a late lunch–when our visitor was announced. Dupin glanced to me to ascertain that I had my pistol within reach, though concealed from view, before allowing the man in.
Tales of the Shadowmen 1: The Modern Babylon Page 23