The Man Who Was Poe

  “However, while no grown person can go down through that shaft, a child, Edmund, a child you or your sister’s size could be lowered down by rope.”

  “Down the shaft?” Edmund gasped, horrified.

  “Exactly. And I have no doubt that if it had been your sister who had gone to the store they would have taken you and done the same.”

  Edmund paled.

  Dupin crossed to the table, picked up the piece of string that lay there and dangled it before Edmund’s eyes. “I found this in the vault,” he said, “and compared it with the bell ropes in the Unitarian Church. It is not string, but a piece of strong rope.

  “Individually, the bars of gold are not that heavy. A child — in this case your sister — could place them, one by one, into a basket that is lowered with her, and then … all are hauled away.

  “Do you not see Edmund, the women in this story, the women who are not here — are everywhere!

  “Indeed, your sister herself has a means of thwarting these men. A plucky girl, she takes it from that story she’s read, ‘Hansel and Gretel.’” Dupin flung the string aside and scooped up the buttons. “Your sister leaves a button everywhere she is taken.

  “Peterson, with the bragging vanity of the thief, shows me one he himself found in the bank, little knowing what I know.

  “The robbery done,” Dupin continued, “the men hide your sister in the abandoned cemetery behind Mrs. Whitman’s house — in the mausoleum. This second button here proves that.

  “Rachett — pretending to be Arnold — has been to the house often in pursuit of Mrs. Whitman. He believes the mausoleum is never visited.

  “In any case, all has gone as planned — except the woman they think is your aunt has escaped. Are they greatly concerned? No! What can your aunt do to them? A foreigner. A woman. A spinster. It would be her word against Rachett, who, as I told you, under the name Arnold, has allied himself with powerful friends of Mrs. Powers in this city.

  “Ah, but something of great importance happens. Something Rachett or Peterson could hardly have foreseen. You meet me! And I, as Auguste Dupin, undertake to unravel the mystery.

  “Now, Edmund, this morning, under my direction, you go into a clothing store. Rachett sees you. Edmund, these are the crucial moments. Consider how his mind must have worked.

  “One! He sees you, recognizes you, and is struck by your similarity to your sister.

  “Two! That reminds him of how much alike were your mother and aunt.

  “Three! Suddenly he asks himself, did we kill the right woman? Could it be that it is my wife who escaped?

  “Four! Unable to be certain he becomes panicked.

  “Five! He must find the truth!

  “Six! He rushes to this room, and discovers that picture in the trunk.

  “Seven! The picture only incites his worst fears: they may have done away with, not your mother but your aunt!

  “Now then, given that, we deduce his state of mind: all is placed in jeopardy. Rachett knows he must escape. But he needs to make certain he’s left no evidence behind. He rushes to the mausoleum and retrieves your sister.

  “He then writes a message. He knows my work. Brags of it. Has read, ‘The Gold Bug,’ as has Peterson. Lazy man, he uses the code in my story to write to Peterson.”

  From the table Dupin picked up the message Edmund had found and read it out loud:

  “Meet me at the hotel. I have moved girl and gold. Must leave. Sunrise at six A.M.

  “But, before Rachett can deliver this, Mrs. Powers observes him in the cemetery and detains him. That’s when you overhear the conversation. Rachett drops the message.

  “Leaving Mrs. Powers he must send another message to Peterson. They meet and make plans. At the hotel. While Arnold goes to the tea party — he cannot refuse Mrs. Powers — Peterson is to do two things: clean out the mausoleum, then secure you.”

  “Me?”

  “Of course. If they have both you and your sister, your mother will have that much less of a hold on Rachett. And it is you, Edmund, who make it easy for them to try.”

  “What do you mean?”

  “Did you not say you followed me to Mrs. Whitman’s and then the maid to the Hotel American House?”

  “Yes, but …”

  “What happened next?”

  “I followed her and Mr. Rachett back to Mrs. Whitman’s house.”

  “And then?”

  “I went to the docks.”

  “Don’t you see? Peterson — in the hotel — must have seen you and followed you all the way.”

  Edmund’s mouth dropped open.

  “Meanwhile, I go to my meeting with Mrs. Whitman in the cemetery. When I do, I see a person resembling the dead woman I’ve seen in the court of inquest. I see her coming out of the mausoleum. I believe it to be the ghost of your aunt.

  “Now then, only when I see the daguerreotype do I realize there are two women who look alike. Understanding that, I know I have not seen a ghost. I am not mad. It is something more extraordinary than that. I have made a mistake!

  “No, the woman I saw was either your unfortunate mother or your aunt looking for you and your sister.

  “One further point. At Mrs. Whitman’s, I unknowingly alluded to the incident at the clothier. Rachett, hearing me, believes I know the truth, though in fact, at that moment, I do not. But when he rushes out and comes to wait near this building prepared to kill me it provides the final proof that I have thought it all out properly. Now, no doubt, at this very moment, he is preparing to flee the city!”

  “With Sis?”

  Dupin, exhausted, sat down at the table. “I don’t know,” he said.

  “But who was killed? My mother or my aunt?”

  Dupin shrugged.

  Edmund said, “Captain Elias told me he saw someone this morning on the docks who looked like Aunty. He told her about the inquest.”

  “The woman I saw.”

  “And another thing,” Edmund said, becoming more and more excited. “It’s about the cemetery.”

  “What is that?”

  “Just before I found you at Mrs. Whitman’s there was a man there.”

  “Hair so blond as to be almost white?” said Dupin wearily. “Bright blue eyes, and round, red cheeks.”

  Edmund nodded.

  “That is your Mr. Peterson. More confirmation of what I’ve been saying. Failing to murder you, Peterson returns to the cemetery for a final clearing out of the mausoleum.”

  “I thought he was praying,” Edmund said. “He dropped this.” Edmund took out the prayer book and offered it to Dupin.

  Dupin considered the book, then flipped it onto the table.

  “Doesn’t that tell you anything?” Edmund asked, disappointed.

  “Left by the woman I saw. She must have gotten it from the Unitarian Church. They allow the homeless to sleep there. It suggests she may well be there now.”

  “Now?”

  “Yes, of course.” Dupin reached into his carpetbag and removed notebook, pen, and ink bottle.

  “But … Mr. Dupin …”

  “That’s not my name.”

  “What?”

  “My name is Poe. Edgar Allan Poe.”

  “Mr. … Poe, aren’t we going?”

  “Going? Going where?”

  “To the church.”

  “Why should we?”

  “You just said my mother or my aunt might be there! And maybe Sis, too.”

  Poe shook his head even as he opened his notebook. “As far as I’m concerned they are all dead.”

  Edmund, shocked, stared at him. “But they aren’t dead. You just said so.”

  “In my story they will die.” Poe dipped his pen into the ink bottle.

  Edmund gazed at the man in disbelief. “Mr. Dupin —”

  “Poe!”

  “Mr. Poe, this isn’t a story.”

  Poe, poised to write, gave a shake of his head. “Edmund, I should really appreciate it if you would go back to that saloon and get
me some drink. I never quite finished.” He laid some coins on the table.

  Edmund felt weak.

  “Believe me,” Poe continued, “I have done more for you than any other human could have done. Now, I have my work to do.”

  “But, we have to find them!” Edmund cried.

  “Edmund, I am a writer, not an adventurer. My function is to think and then to write about what I think. Must I repeat myself? I’m no longer concerned with your story. As for my story, I have a more elaborate ending to pursue. Didn’t you hear me? Can’t you understand? I’m no longer Auguste Dupin. I am the man who is Edgar — Allan — Poe.”

  Edmund stood still, staring at Poe as he bent over his notebook, writing. “But …”

  “Boy, is this the thanks I get for solving your problem? Go.”

  After a moment Edmund stepped forward, placed the money on the table, then turned and went out.

  Poe lifted his head and listened to Edmund walk down the hallway. When he heard the hall door open and close, he sighed, put down his pen, and took up the money. Next he put on his greatcoat. Then he too left the room.

  EDMUND DASHED OUT onto the dark street. Rain was pelting down. Street gutters ran with foam and filth. Gusts of wind hurled fists of water against walls, rattled signs, and pulled doors open, only to bang them shut. The few people abroad, their collars up, hats low, hurried by.

  As if trying to outrun the rain, Edmund bolted for Benefit Street and did not stop running until he reached the Unitarian Church.

  The church was an enormous white stone building whose steeple, towering high, seemed to melt into the dismal murk above. Over its door a lamp — swinging wildly in the wind — was lit. The light it cast on the church’s white porch made Edmund think of a pile of dancing bones.

  Panting for breath, soaked to the skin and shivering, he hastened up the walkway and tried the central entry. When it didn’t yield, he went on to the side door. That was open.

  As large as the building looked from outside, it seemed bigger within. Its central hall was huge, its pulpit massive. From the ceiling hung an enormous chandelier jeweled with a few small candles whose flames fluttered like pale butterfly wings.

  Edmund ventured down the center aisle. Most of the main floor was covered with pews. And he could make out a grand balcony on three sides with more rows of pews. All had polished rails. Tucked behind the rails were prayer books like the one he had found.

  Edmund stood and listened to the sounds of the storm outside. The rain, pounding above, echoed the beating of his heart. Gradually he began to hear sighing, muttering, deep breathing. As his eyes became adjusted to the gloom he saw that here and there people were huddled, seeking sanctuary from the rain and cold, hunched over as if in hiding.

  Then Edmund heard a low moaning sound close to the pulpit. At first he thought it was only the wind. But when it came again he realized it was human.

  He edged nearer. Someone lay curled against the pulpit. Gradually he saw that it was a woman and she was wearing a faded, torn gown of striped white and pale green. “Aunty!” he cried out.

  The woman did not move.

  Heart pounding, Edmund drew closer and knelt down, trying to see the woman’s face. At first all he could see was that it was shabby, tear-streaked. Then he saw more.

  “Mother …?” he began.

  The moaning ceased. The figure stirred. Slowly she turned toward him. “Who is it?” she asked.

  “It’s me … Edmund …”

  The woman pushed the hair out of her face. The face was thin and filthy, her eyes dark and disbelieving. “Edmund?” she whispered.

  He nodded.

  Her lips trembled. “Alive?”

  “Yes.”

  She reached out slowly and gently touched his face, letting her fingers linger. Then she withdrew her hand, turned from him and looked around the church as if to reassure herself about where she was. Again she turned and fastened her gaze on Edmund.

  “I was not sure … I’d see you again.”

  “I’m here.”

  “So much … bigger.”

  He nodded tearfully.

  She held out her arms. For a long time they cradled each other. Neither spoke. Outside the wind and rain continued.

  Finally Edmund said, “Can you tell me what happened?”

  “I’ll … try.” Haltingly, sometimes groping for words, Mrs. Rachett told her son the story.

  “After coming to Providence it was quite a while before I found Mr. Rachett. He’d taken the name of Arnold and — with my money — was living the life of a proper gentleman. When I made myself known to him he was furious, said I’d ruined his life. That was his way.

  “I told him I wanted but two things: a divorce and the return of my money.

  “The divorce he’d give, he said at first, but not the money.

  “On my part I’d not give him one without the other. It was the only hold I had.

  “He accused me of causing scandal! Whatever he could blame others for, or get others to do for him, that was his way. To be seen as gentry, that was what was important to him.

  “In fearing I should expose him, he lured me with a promise that I should have what I wanted, then kept me virtual prisoner for months. Oh, anything to have the world think him a proper gentleman!

  “I wrote a message to my sister, your Aunt Pru, begging her for help. But how could I get it to her? By then I had no money of my own at all. Still, I carried that message about me so — on the rare occasion he let me out with him — a chance might offer itself. Sure enough, once when I was momentarily alone I spied a British sailor. I gave the message to him and begged him to deliver it. He said he would if he could.

  “He must have done. For Pru did come, bringing you. I don’t know how, but Mr. Rachett learned of her arrival. And in the meanwhile he’d decided to marry a wealthy widow by the name of Mrs. Whitman. The achievement of all his desires. Ever greedy, he planned a crime, which I learned required the use of my children!

  “I told him then — begged him — to let me go. I’d make no claims to the money. Alas, it was too late for that.

  “First he found a way to get hold of Pru. Oh, Edmund, she and I had a painful reunion. Worse, when Mr. Rachett demanded her room key we were in dreadful fear that he intended to use you and your sister in some life-threatening way we could not grasp. And then, there was our gradual awareness that he had the most dreadful designs on me, his wife.

  “For Mr. Rachett had taken on a partner, a young man called Peterson. A vicious man, he was always egging Mr. Rachett on to violence. One night we overheard Peterson urging him to kill us both. The two men argued. Mr. Rachett, squeamish in his evil way, said it need only be one — me, his wife.

  “It was my sister Pru who — in a desperate scheme to thwart their plans — conceived the idea of our changing clothes so as to confuse them. She would sacrifice herself while I — your mother — would at least have the chance to save you. Reluctantly, I agreed. The trick worked. It was your Aunt Pru who was led away by Peterson.

  “But as Pru was taken away Mr. Rachett warned me, whom he thought to be Pru, that if I got up to any mischief, the children’s lives would be forfeit.

  “That same night I escaped. But I was so horrified by my husband’s final, fearful threat, that though free, I felt lost, unsure of where to turn. I did make my way to the church where I slept some, and prayed.

  “Next morning, I was so distracted that I could not recollect where it was that Pru had said she’d taken a room. I knew only it was by the docks. There, in search of you children, I went. At the docks I learned for certain of my sister’s death. I went to the inquest. More frightened than ever, I ran from the place.

  “Chance brought me to see Peterson outside the bank. He was talking to a man, but then Peterson set off up College Hill. I followed.

  “Peterson stopped to turn into a cemetery and entered a small mausoleum. While I watched he soon emerged and hurried on. Suspicious, I followed his tr
acks. In the mausoleum — though it was deserted — I found evidence that someone had been held there. I was certain it was my children.

  “It was then that another man discovered me, the same one I had seen Peterson talking to outside the bank. But when I saw he was not alone, I fled. In despair I crept back to the church.”

  The rest Edmund knew.

  He in turn told his mother what had happened during the year they had been apart. He told her how Sis had been stolen and about her terrifying role in the robbery, and how he had been searching and searching for her.

  Finally his mother said, very quietly, “Edmund, do you think your sister is alive?”

  At first he hesitated, then nodded.

  “But … where is she?”

  “I’ll find her,” Edmund declared as, gently, he helped her to her feet and down the aisle of the church.

  IT WAS NIGHT. There was a man. There was a boy. And they moved through the city with grim determination, uncertain of their fate, uncertain of the fate of those they sought. … Poe, sitting at the table, writing in his notebook by the light of a small candle, could see them distinctly. Two empty bottles lay at his feet. A third bottle, almost empty, was near at hand.

  And he could hear the characters too. “I found her,” one of them said.

  Poe wrote that down, then frowned. It didn’t feel right.

  The voice came again. It was more insistent than before. “Mr. Poe, I found her.”

  Poe looked up. It was very dim in the room and at first he wasn’t sure what he was seeing. Gradually he began to see that it was the boy from his story standing before him. He was dripping wet. Behind him stood someone who appeared — Poe was not sure at first — to be a woman. She was dressed in dirty clothes and was in an advanced state of exhaustion. It was as if she had traveled some immense distance.

  Poe stared at the two of them, then looked down into his notebook and read what he had been writing, only to look up again with a start. A thrill of excitement passed through him. The characters he’d been writing about had actually come to life. They were standing before him! Never in all his years had he had such a vivid sense of the reality of his own creations.