SERIES I: THE MURDER OF ROSE ACTON

PART III OF IV
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This section immediately follows Series I, Part II of the Secret Chapters.
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	With Duponte's cryptic words on my mind, I decided I would find Monsieur 
Kalfon again and confront him about whatever it was he knew. Contrary to the world as 
depicted by the illustrators of popular magazines, walking through the streets of a 
crowded city, whether in Paris or Baltimore or the darkest place on the earth, most people 
look and act the same as one another, common and indistinguishable even in 
idiosyncrasies. After an hour of searching the chiffonier's territory, and examining the 
face of each person whom I passed, I yielded my purpose. 
	In Paris there are catacombs running under nearly a sixth of the capital. I noticed, 
for the first time during my stay, the entrance to these underground vaults, which can be 
found at the Barriére d'Enfer – the Gates of Hell. Finding my current mood just as 
dismal as that name, I decided to inspect the garden where this entrance was located.
	Admission to the public is restricted, but the head-workmen who stood with a 
group of engineers at the entrance quietly accepted a small fee to allow me to pass and 
satisfy my curiosity as to the strange underground world. The staircase was long, narrow 
and winding. I counted at least ninety steps down. After reaching level ground, a series of 
winding galleries leads to the octagonal vestibule of the catacombs. Above the door, is an 
inscription, Has ultra metas requiescunt beatam spem spectantes, which I shall leave to 
the reader to interpret.
	Two of the engineers who stood beyond this entryway, upon discovering I was 
from America, seemed to take to the idea that I would report their workmanship to my 
country and eagerly fitted me with a small lantern to use in my exploration. 
	The air was damp and still this far under the earth. As I passed further inside I 
could see why the place was closed to the public, and why those workmen had been 
stationed nearby. The roofs sagged dangerously and were tenuously propped up. The 
ground, meanwhile, sank under each step. In truth, at any moment one could be crushed 
from above or engulfed from below. I suppose it would not have been unwise to 
immediately turn back. 
	The quarries contained bones stacked from floor to roof, ordered in the most 
peculiar, most inhuman manner that perhaps only the French could devise. Arms all in 
one row, legs in theirs, thigh bones in another, and several lines of skulls staring out. You 
feel you are alone in the world among the dead. You have responsibility, as the last 
sample of a race, to make right whatever led to a broken and ugly end for the dead that 
repose all around in these horrific walls of piled bones. 
	As I passed a small fountain – with a few swimming goldfish, the only signs of 
life! – I heard a rustling behind me. I stopped in place and turned but could see nothing in 
the dim air even with my lantern in hand. I suppose there was some superstitious effect 
on me, though, as I walked faster, deep into the inmost recesses of the catacombs. The 
rustling grew louder, and the sound of human steps seemed to be coming toward me in a 
march. In a sudden panic, I remembered the tales of Parisian criminals using the 
subterranean catacombs to hide from police. Finding that I could still see nothing in the 
dark caverns behind me, I cried out in French.
	"Who is back there?"
	I was inside a range of low-arched crypts. I took a few slow steps back toward the 
mysterious sounds when a loud shot rang out. It was a gunshot. One of the skulls in the 
wall of bones nearby shattered. I ran, and as I did two more shots landed above me. I 
cried out but knew I was alone – a monstrous silence was all around except for the hot 
steps of my pursuer and our echoes.

*

	"You were wrong," I said to Duponte, when I found him stretched out on his bed 
in his chambers, composing a letter. I was still out of breath.
	"Indeed?" Duponte replied.
	Though I had lost my inner compass, I had somehow managed to run in the 
correct direction to flee the catacombs, and I raced up the ninety steps that brought me 
back to the living world in one piece.
	"Right," I was now saying to Duponte as I helped myself to a glass of water. "The 
chiffonier Kalfon is the murderer of Rose Acton, as I thought."
	"How do you know?"
	"I shall review it," I said. I felt my frightening experience in the catacombs had 
given me authority to explain such a thing even to Auguste Duponte. "This morning, I 
found Kalfon looking through the garbage near the boarding house where Mademoiselle 
Acton was murdered. This is the territory in which he is permitted, by his chiffonier 
license, to examine the rubbish for any valuables."
	"Yes, I see."
	"Very well. Now, the chiffonier's mandated hours to perform their occupations 
are between the hours of five and ten in the morning. This would have been precisely the 
time, according to the newspapers, that Rose Acton was killed. Therefore, I asked Kalfon 
if he knew anything about the murder. As I have told you before, the man nearly fell 
apart at the question, and hurried away."
	"Continue please."
	"After our discussion earlier today, I decided I would find Kalfon and insist that 
he tell me why he fled from me, and what he knew about Rose Acton's terrible fate. I 
searched everywhere in his usual territory – all the alleyways he inhabits and all the cafes 
where he sits. Not finding him, I decided to visit the catacombs, which my Paris 
guidebook had advised not to miss."
	"I should disagree with the guidebook entirely. I would advise you to miss them 
at all costs. The dampness cannot be salutary. Yet, I interrupt. Continue, Monsieur 
Clark."
	"While down there, I was shot at, Monsieur! Someone attempted to murder me, 
and I have no doubt it was the chiffonier Kalfon, because I had questioned him about that 
other murder. He, Monsieur, therefore must be the guilty party, and believing me close to 
discovering that, followed me and would have left me to rot below among the anonymous 
bones."
	Duponte appeared to be contemplative for several minutes. He put aside his pen 
and draped his short cape over his shoulders.
	"Come," he said.
	"You will report this all to the prefect, then?" I asked with satisfaction.
	"No. Instead, if you desire, I shall show you the man who shot at you… and the 
murderer of that poor girl, Rose Acton. They are one in the same person – in this aspect 
of your analysis, you have been correct."