The Man Who Was Poe

  “Yes, sir,” Edmund said, watching the man with puzzlement. After a moment he tugged on his coat and said, “Please, sir, would you help me now?”

  The man fixed his eyes upon Edmund with such intensity that the boy grew uncomfortable. “Is there,” he began, “a story to be made out of this boy’s circumstances?”

  “Sir?”

  “A story about a boy,” the man continued so that Edmund realized he was talking to himself. “Full of life, he searches for his parents only to find …” Becoming conscious of the boy’s stare, the man cut himself off. “Where have you been living?” he asked.

  “Near that India Street docks, sir, in Fox Point. Aunty Pru let a room there.”

  “Might I spend the night?”

  “Sir?”

  “I need a place to sleep.”

  “I suppose so, sir.”

  “Well then, lead me to it.”

  “But will you help me, sir?”

  “We shall see. What is your name?”

  “Edmund Albert George Brimmer. I prefer Edmund.”

  “Edmund, then.”

  “Sir? Might I know your name?”

  The man considered, shifted his gaze to Number Eighty-eight as if the answer lay there, then turned back to Edmund. “I am,” he announced, “Mr. Auguste Dupin.”

  “Mr. Dupin,” Edmund repeated, fixing the name. “Thank you, sir.”

  “Come then,” Dupin said, “lead the way.”

  Edmund, full of gratitude, started along the street. Dupin, however, turned back once more to stare at the house. This time he was reminded of a death’s-head. He looked again at the boy, who had stopped and was studying him intently.

  “Have you asked no one for help?” Dupin inquired.

  “I told you, sir, many people. All day. But no one would.”

  “And you’re sure you want my help?” Dupin went on.

  Once again Edmund became aware of the man’s eyes. They seemed so fierce, so penetrating. He was reminded of Aunty Pru’s constant warning: he and Sis must be very cautious in their dealings with strangers in Providence. But …

  “I do want your help, sir,” he finally said. “I’ve no one else.”

  “I know,” Dupin said darkly.

  Side by side, the two began to walk.

  They had not gone long when the door to Number Eighty-eight Benefit opened and a servant girl stepped out. Sleepy, cold, annoyed at having been summoned from a warm bed, she hurried down the street and up the hill until she reached the Hotel American House. There she left — for immediate delivery — a hastily written note. It read:

  Mr. Arnold:

  Edgar Allan Poe has come.

  AS EDMUND LED Mr. Dupin toward his room, the elegant houses along Benefit Street gave way to the much poorer ones of Fox Point. Dupin said nothing. He was too busy thinking how he might best describe the boy. Sad. Rather thin. Certainly desperate. The thought made him wonder if Edmund was desperate enough to shade the truth. Could he trust him? Dupin stole a look at him. Edmund was being very silent.

  “Are we close to water?” Dupin asked.

  Edmund, starting, looked up. “What, sir?”

  “I asked you if we are close to water.”

  “Just two blocks, sir,” Edmund replied. “It’s the head of Narragansett Bay, where the coastal ships dock.”

  “You’ve been there.”

  “Yes, sir. My sister and I collect boat names.”

  “Collect names?”

  After a moment Edmund said, “We don’t have much else to do.”

  Dupin looked inquiringly at him.

  “You see we get tired being in our room all day,” Edmund explained. “So when Aunty leaves we go too. Well, actually, it’s my sister who insists, and I do need to look after her, don’t I? Aunty doesn’t like us going to the docks, you see. Says it’s dangerous. Aunty says most things are dangerous. But we have made friends there. Do you know Captain Elias? He knows everything about ships.”

  Dupin frowned. “Could your sister have gone down to the docks when you went out?” he asked.

  “She’s not supposed to. Not without me.”

  Dupin frowned. “Did you ask your captain if he’d seen her?”

  Edmund shook his head.

  “Why not?”

  Edmund grew thoughtful, then said, “Aunty says we’re not to talk of family things.”

  “You spoke to me.”

  “You insisted, sir.”

  “Perhaps,” Dupin pressed, “your sister went in search of you. You said you came right back. Is that true? No shop windows to examine? No cats to observe?”

  Beneath Dupin’s stern gaze Edmund hung his head. “An old man requested help in finding his way, sir.”

  “Ah!”

  “But Aunty Pru says you should always help the old ones. So you see, I had to.”

  “You were detained for how long, Edmund? Be exact. One minute? An hour? Details are crucial. How long was it?”

  “I’m not sure,” Edmund admitted.

  “I thought as much. And you may have neglected to lock the door too.”

  “I did lock the door to our room, sir! She couldn’t have gotten out.”

  “Edmund, she was not there.”

  “But …”

  “Show me the dock area.”

  “Now?”

  “Edmund, do you desire my help or not?”

  “Yes, sir.”

  They started off again. Edmund kept stealing troubled glances at the man. After a while he stopped. “Sir,” he said, “I truly don’t think Sis would have come to the docks. Not without me.”

  “Why?”

  “I’ve thought it over. I think that after I left, Aunty must have returned, and then together, they went in search of me. Somehow we’ve missed one another. But now, you see, they’re back in the room. Please sir, don’t think me ungrateful, but perhaps, if it’s all the same, I don’t need your help.”

  Dupin put a firm hand on Edmund’s shoulder. “Edmund, there is a difference between what happens and what we would like to have happened. No, we are almost at the docks and we shall look.” He steered the boy on.

  They reached the waterfront. The cold November moon — partially hidden by the mist — shed pale light of a gravestone hue. Silhouettes of silent ships, mostly sail, some steam, bobbed gently on the bay. Small waves licked the quay. A buoy bell clanged.

  Dupin nodded in appreciation. It was the perfect setting for the story. Then he saw, thirty yards away, two men — one holding a lantern — both staring at something on the dock. “Come along,” Dupin said. Suddenly he drew in his breath and stopped.

  “What’s the matter?” Edmund asked.

  Dupin put down his carpetbag. A suspicion about what the men might be studying began to grow upon him. “Wait here,” he said.

  “Is something wrong?”

  “I’m going to speak to those men.”

  “Sir, I do think it would be better if I returned …”

  “Stay,” Dupin said, slipping off his greatcoat and draping it around Edmund’s shoulders so as to keep the boy warm. “And mind my bag.” Before Edmund could protest further, Dupin walked away.

  As he approached the two men he saw that the one holding the lamp was large and powerfully built. His hands were huge, his face broad, flat, and round, disfigured by a scar on the left cheek. His bald head was fringed with thin hair that touched his collar. On his jacket was a brass star, the emblem of the Providence Night Watch.

  With him was a short, ferret-faced, white-haired, older man whose wiry body coiled upon itself in a stoop. His eyes kept shifting nervously.

  Dupin was struck by the ugliness of the two. Still, he drew closer. As he did, the man with the star on his chest looked up. “Here’s a gentleman,” he announced gravely. “Let him see.” The white-haired man gave way.

  Dupin, his apprehension growing, drew near. In a glance he saw it was a woman who lay on the wharf planks. She was dead, but her eyes were still open and held
the unmistakable look of shock. It was as if her last view of the world had been some terrible grief.

  Her fair hair spread beneath her like an ornamental Japanese fan. Her soaking dress clung to her thin young body. Streaked with green slime, the ivory garment made her look as if she had been cut from marble.

  The vision of destroyed youth and beauty sent a tremor through Dupin. He gasped for breath. His fists clenched spasmodically. His head began to throb and he managed not to faint only when the man with the star grabbed him with quick, powerful hands.

  “A ghastly prettiness, sir, now ain’t she,” the man said.

  Dupin continued to stare at the woman. She had, he realized, an unmistakable resemblance to Edmund. “Where was she found?” he managed to ask.

  The large man touched fingers to his forehead. “The Providence Night Watch at your service, sir,” he said. “Mr. Asa Throck on duty. It was Mr. Fortnoy here —” he indicated his companion — “who just now pulled her out.”

  Dupin turned to the white-haired man.

  Fortnoy, as though requesting permission, twisted up out of his stoop. Throck gave a sharp, commanding nod. Reassured, Fortnoy gestured toward the bay. “I was just in from my boat,” he began, his voice a high whine. “Relieved of my watch. It was the whiteness of her dress floating beneath the prow of a clipper that took my attention.”

  “Who is she?” Dupin asked.

  Fortnoy darted an alarmed look at Throck.

  The night watchman grunted. “We’ve no idea,” he said.

  Dupin, without his greatcoat, shivered in the chilling damp. He glanced over his shoulder. Edmund was looking toward him. “What will happen to her now?” he asked Throck.

  “I’ve sent for the wagon,” Throck replied. “There’ll be an inquest in the morning. Then, if no one claims her, off to the pauper’s field for burial.”

  Edmund, waiting nervously, saw Dupin beckon. Reluctantly, he picked up the carpetbag and came forward, puzzled that the three men were watching him so intently.

  “Put down the bag,” Dupin said.

  Edmund did, then drew closer, only to realize that someone was lying on the dock. Frightened, he halted and looked to Dupin for an explanation.

  “Do you know who that is?” Dupin said.

  Edmund was afraid to move.

  Dupin turned the boy to look. “There,” he whispered.

  Edmund darted a swift glance at the body. The sight made his insides shrivel. Hardly able to breathe, he turned away and leaned into Dupin.

  “Your aunt?” Dupin whispered.

  Edmund could not speak.

  “Is it?”

  “It’s … not … her dress. …”

  “Her face, Edmund, her face.”

  Edmund, unwilling to look again, pressed his eyes against Dupin.

  “Answer.”

  That time Edmund nodded.

  The man with the star stretched forward and touched Dupin’s shoulder. “That there your boy?” he asked.

  Dupin swung about, putting himself between Throck and Edmund. “We must go,” he said, retrieving his carpetbag. With a hand on the boy’s shoulder, he led the way from the dock.

  “But … Aunty,” Edmund whimpered, unable to find the courage to look back.

  “They will take care of her,” Dupin said, giving the boy a gentle push. “Now take me to your room.”

  Edmund went.

  “THERE’S MY BUILDING,” Edmund said. “The door is around by the rear.” It was the first time either had spoken since leaving the waterfront. He looked up at Dupin. “Sir, must it be me who tells her?”

  “What are you talking about?”

  “I’m sure she’s returned. I’ve left the door to our room open. And she’ll need to know about Aunty.”

  “Who must know?” Dupin said.

  “Sis.”

  Dupin stopped so suddenly that Edmund looked up at him. The man’s eyes were closed.

  “You mean,” Dupin whispered, “your sister.”

  “Yes, sir.”

  “Sis,” Dupin said with difficulty, “was the name of my late wife.”

  “Oh, sir, I had no idea. I am very sorry. …”

  “You should be,” Dupin snapped. After a moment he opened his eyes. “What’s the name of this place?”

  “Ann Street.”

  Dupin looked about. There was nothing but dark tenement buildings. “Lead on.”

  “Thank you, sir,” Edmund said, deciding not to ask his question again. Instead he made his way to the back door. “Mind the steps,” he cautioned.

  At the top of the four flights of dark stairs, the boy opened the door that led to the hall. There, unable to restrain himself, he ran to the far end and flung open the door to his room. “Sis!” he cried.

  No one was there.

  Dupin pushed by him and at a glance took in the room’s meager furnishings. “Do you have a lamp?” he asked. “Some candles?”

  Edmund was too numb to reply.

  “What about food?” Dupin said, fingering an empty water basin.

  Edmund managed to shake his head.

  “Hardly a way to receive guests,” Dupin said sourly. “Is there a place to buy some at this hour?”

  Edmund struggled to rouse himself. “There’s a saloon, sir. It’s not far. They sell bread and meat pies.”

  Dupin produced a purse from his carpetbag and after a momentary calculation selected a few coins which he gave to Edmund. “A meat pie for us both. And see if they’ll sell you candles. Hurry now. I’ve not eaten since noon.”

  “Yes, sir.”

  “What is it?” Dupin said when Edmund made no move to go.

  “Is … is Aunty truly dead?”

  Dupin turned from the boy’s pain. “You saw for yourself.”

  “Sir …”

  “What?”

  “It wasn’t her dress.”

  “Edmund, your aunt is dead.”

  “But then, where is my sister?”

  “I haven’t the slightest idea. Now go.”

  Still Edmund stood, uncertain.

  “Go!”

  Edmund gripped the coins and went off.

  Dupin listened tensely until the boy’s steps retreated down the hallway. When he was sure Edmund was gone, he reached for his carpetbag and brought out a notebook as well as pen and ink. Quickly, he scratched out a few words.

  Story:

  Edmund … a boy … Missing sister … The sea – bringer of death … abandonment. Release/death.

  Then he added,

  The … necessity … of death … The certainty of death.

  The act of writing eased his tension. He read over what he had done. The words gave him a sharp pang of pain. Why must death always be certain? Could he never escape it? Never think of another ending? Depression crowded in.

  Desperate to quiet the pain of his emotions, Dupin slipped the notebook back into his bag and removed a liquor bottle, pulled its cork, and drank deeply.

  Then he stood by the window and looked out. What he saw was as uninviting as everything else he’d so far observed: another miserable building, so close he could lean out and touch its filthy windows. As the liquor took hold his pain gave way to anger. Why was he in such a place? It all made his head ache.

  Uneasy on his feet, Dupin returned to the table. After replacing the empty bottle in his bag, he took out another and drank that one off too. Gradually, his headache eased. Drowsiness replaced it. Soon he was cradling his head in his arms and dozing.

  * * *

  Edmund stood just outside his building. A heavy fog had crept in from the bay and made the night more impenetrable than ever. The few candles still burning in windows seemed draped in shrouds. His own emotions were in tatters.

  Barely twenty-four hours ago he’d left Sis. How many times since then had he rebuked himself for leaving her. If only he had listened to his Aunty’s cautions! But now — he sucked in a deep breath — Aunty was dead. Momentarily he closed his eyes. It was too difficult to
grasp.

  And now there was this man, Mr. Dupin. … Would he truly help? Edmund couldn’t think it through. He forced himself to set off toward the saloon.

  But hardly had he done so when he heard footsteps. At once he stopped and looked about. He saw nothing. Again he moved. Again the footsteps came. That time Edmund thought he saw someone on the far side of the street. When he caught sight of what appeared to be light or whitish hair, his heart gave a tumble. “Aunty!” he cried.

  The shape seemed to collapse upon itself and disappear.

  Edmund gazed into the fog but could make out nothing more. Then he recalled a fairy tale Sis had read to him, and its notion that the recent dead hovered about their former homes, unwilling to abandon the ones they loved. But Aunty had always said there were no ghosts. With a convulsive shudder, Edmund turned and hurried on.

  This time the saloon was not quite so empty. The man behind the counter was the same. But at one of the two tables sat three men wearing coats and jackets against the chill. They were playing cards. Half-filled glasses of rum and water stood before them. When Edmund walked in everyone looked up. All conversation stopped.

  Edmund noticed that one of the men was the night watchman from the docks.

  He made his way to the counter. The counter man looked down at him. “Yes, boy,” he demanded. “What do you want this time?”

  “Please, sir,” Edmund said, dumping Mr. Dupin’s coins on the counter, “a meat pie. And candles.”

  “Large pie or small?”

  “This is the money I have, sir.”

  The man made a slow count of the coins. “Two candles and a small pie,” he said, taking up the money. From a cabinet he fetched candles and matches. From a box behind the counter he retrieved a crusty pie, dusted it, laid it down on his pile of newspapers, wrapped everything up, then thrust the package into Edmund’s hands. All the while he gazed at him as if he were some curious bug.

  “Thank you, sir,” Edmund said and started out.

  As soon as Edmund left, the counter man leaned toward those at the table. “Is that the boy?” he asked. “The one you was just talking about?”

  “The same,” Throck returned. “Here from England only a while. Now it’s his aunt what got drownded.” The card game resumed.

  In moments the door opened again. Fortnoy entered. His thin face was protected against the cold by a high coat collar and a muffler.