A week later, the newspaper carried more reports from France. The police were convinced the two deaths were completely unrelated, nor were they murders, despite misleading reports. One woman had been attacked by a wolf, which had been spotted several times in the district. The other had been killed by her own dog, turned unexpectedly savage. Although it had run away, it had been caught and destroyed.
Yet even as this story appeared in our American papers, another woman had died in a quiet country lane in a French village, her throat torn out, and in every other particular her death resembled that of the other two women. Soon enough, that story reached us across the ocean, accompanied by some of the hysteria gripping that region of France, and full of speculation as to the true reason for these deaths.
A surgeon who had examined all three bodies announced his conviction that the culprit was a human being. Not an animal, and certainly not a supernatural shape-shifting creature, but an exceptionally cunning and ruthless man who was driven to kill by some inexplicable compulsion (here he reminded questioners of the Reclus case in Paris a few years earlier) — mad in that way, but utterly rational in his ability to disguise his crimes.
It would have been better for Dr. De La Roche if he had never spoken out, for his announcement did not affect the rising hysteria about the loup garou, and three days later, both he and his wife were found dead in their home, their throats savaged in the same manner as seen on the other victims. When I heard that, it occurred to me that even if the police asked for his help, Dupin — now with the safety of his own wife to think about — would surely refuse. Would he be right to do so? Could anyone else solve this fearful mystery?
My mind therefore was certainly fixed on Dupin, as well as the recent terrible crimes in France, on the evening I attended a session promising “mesmeric revelations” in the home of Mr. D— W— of Elmira, New York.
Displays of mesmerism have been so popular and widespread in recent years that I think I need hardly explain the theory. The gathering at the W— home in Elmira was small and informal, for the parlor could comfortably accommodate no more than a dozen guests. The designated somnambule was the sixteen-year-old daughter of the house, and we had been told in advance that her particular talent, when under the influence of the magnetic passes made by her father, was to become a channel, or medium, through which we might receive the voices of the dead. Particularly likely to speak were those troubled spirits who had recently passed out of the realm of the physical, their deaths so sudden that they had not yet come to terms with their new state.
Even under the rapt gaze of an audience, Miss W— succumbed to the expected strange, sleep-like state quite rapidly. Almost at once she gasped, and exclaimed in French, then, in that same language, began to teasingly scold some gentleman who had, it seemed, taken her by surprise. The one-sided conversation that followed, at first flirtatious, became increasingly bold and salacious as the speaker began to bargain with the male stranger, offering the pleasures of her body in return for payment. I shifted uncomfortably in my seat, but noticing none of my fellow guests responding, realized I must be the only person there who understood the language.
The somnambule — or, I should say, whoever spoke through her — now changed her tone. She seemed nervous, even frightened of the man she had been so intent upon wooing, and there could be no mistaking her terror when she screamed.
At that bloodcurdling sound there was a shocked flurry throughout the stuffy parlor — one lady fainted dead away — and Mr. W— seemed about to try and wake his daughter when I stopped him. Recognizing that we’d heard evidence of a crime, I begged him to question his daughter as to the identity of the spirit.
But Miss W— was only a conduit, and knew nothing of what transpired while she was in this state. Fortunately, the spirit was still nearby. As the only French-speaker, it fell to me to question her, and firstly I inquired her name.
“I am Marie Callot.”
That was the name of the third victim of the murderous “wolf-man” of France. I felt a chill, and heard gasps and murmurs from others who also recognized her name from the papers.
How I longed for the aid of Auguste Dupin as I quizzed the victim about her attacker! Perhaps he would have made more of her slender evidence than I could. The girl had not known the man, and had scarcely seen his face in the dark lane where he encountered her. She could only say that she did not think he was a local; he had a Paris accent, and from the fine cloth and fashionable cut of his clothes, she knew he was “quality.” No, he did not bite her throat, nor did he metamorphose into a hairy animal. She did not see what sort of knife he held, only felt its rough bite as he slashed her throat and took her life with it.
After I had translated her words for the others, Marie was allowed to depart. I asked Mr. W— if we could summon other victims of this killer so I could question them.
He agreed to try, saying that it was best to summon the recently departed by name — and thus we called up Dr. De La Roche. I thought a man of science might have the most helpful observations to offer.
When Miss W— began to speak, her tone had dropped by nearly an octave: “Where am I?” growled an unfamiliar voice in French. “Is this Heaven or Hell?”
“Neither,” said I, “but a parlor in New York State. We speak to you by means of a medium created through mesmerism.”
“Mesmerism! Do you mean that absurd charade still keeps idiots occupied? How long have I been dead?”
“Scarcely more than a week.”
“Ah, so I am still in Limbo. And what of Dupin?”
I was quite startled to hear this name issue from the lips of the young medium. “You refer to the Chevalier C. Auguste Dupin?”
“Certainly. When he came to my door—”
Excited, I burst out: “When?”
“Why, on the last morning of my life! I was surprised, yet pleased, thinking that if he had taken an interest, the murders must be solved. And I should hear it first! I invited him inside, to take a bowl of coffee. It was still early, and my wife and I had not yet broken our fast.
“Once we were seated in the morning room, he congratulated me on having solved the mystery. I assured him that I was still very much in the dark.
“‘But you know,’ said he, ‘you perceived that the three young women were murdered, killed by a man, not attacked by wolves, dogs, or the frightful loup garou.’”
“‘Yes,’ said I, ‘but not the identity of their slayer; that, like his motives, remains mysterious.’
“He denied there was any mystery, and when I asked if he meant that he could identify the killer, he said, very calmly, that he could name the man, and explain every detail of the three killings.
“Astonished, I asked why he had not told the police. Was it not true they had asked for his help, and he had declined to become involved?
“Yes, he said, that was true. He had decided never to work with the police again after his last experience with them had left him agitated and disturbed. Although he had identified the killer to the police and the man had subsequently been executed for his crimes, Dupin considered he had failed to solve the case.
“I begged him to explain, and he replied that although he had discovered who had committed the murders, there remained unanswered the more troubling query: why.