The Man Who Was Poe

  Throck turned. “Well?” he demanded.

  “The boy came directly here,” Fortnoy informed him, “then headed right back. Nothing else.”

  “And the other?”

  “As far as I can tell, still there.”

  “Did the boy see you?”

  “For a moment I thought he did. But I stepped away.”

  Disgusted, Throck flung his cards down and, with hardly more than a farewell glance at his companions, left the saloon with Fortnoy.

  “What’s the matter with them?” said one of the men at the table.

  “Don’t you know what he’s been working on?” said the counter man.

  “He said nothing to me.”

  “I’ll show you,” the counter man said. He crossed the room to the wall of bills and posters. “Here,” he said, and read from a bill:

  “REWARD

  Persons providing information leading to the finding of one Mrs. G. Rachett, of London, England, but believed to be a recent resident of Providence, Rhode Island, shall be entitled to a bonded reward. Please contact Mr. Poley, Providence Bank, South Main, at earliest convenience.

  Oct. 15, 1848”

  One man at the table snorted. “Makes you wonder which part of the law Mr. Throck practices, doesn’t it?”

  “Well,” offered the other, “bread’ll take butter on either side.”

  * * *

  Edmund, carrying the meat pie and candles, burst into the room. “Mr. Dupin! I got …” Dupin was asleep, slumped over the table, empty bottle in hand. A stench of liquor filled the air. “Mr. Dupin,” Edmund said again. There was still no response.

  Edmund lit a match, let wax drip, fastened the candle on the table, and unwrapped the package. Then he gave Dupin a slight shake. “Mr. Dupin …” Dupin continued to sleep.

  Feeling the pangs of hunger, Edmund broke the pie in half. To his dismay one piece was slightly bigger than the other. He set the larger portion down on the table. Then he paused and studied the sleeping Dupin. Suddenly, he reached out and exchanged the pieces, taking the bigger one for himself. Sitting on the bed he devoured it in a few bites.

  Once he had eaten, his misery returned. Why had his aunty been killed? And where was his mother? Was she even alive? Aunty had insisted they believe that she was. But now …? And Sis, where was she? And what would become of him? Would he be killed? If he did live who would take care of him?

  Edmund listened to Dupin’s labored breathing, and again asked himself if this man would truly help. He’d been glad of his providential kindness. Still, he couldn’t deny there was something odd about the man. Was it Mr. Dupin’s hesitation when he had asked his name? His sudden changes of mood? His drinking? Drinking, Aunty said, was evil. Edmund sighed. Aunty objected to so much. He could almost hear her voice: Adults can be trusted to take care of children. Children must never question adults. Adults know best. Mr. Dupin is an adult.

  Edmund stole a guilty look at Dupin. There was the business of his stepfather, which he had not told him. But how could he reveal such a thing to anyone? Aunty had called it shameful.

  Then the most painful question of all returned — where was his sister? Even as he asked it, answering it now this way, now that, Edmund sank into a fitful sleep.

  As Edmund slept the sound of footsteps echoed in the hall. Dupin opened his eyes.

  “Who’s there?” he called out. All he saw was a candle before him with its small, blue, sputtering flame.

  Dizzy, confused, Dupin leaned back in his chair and stared at the ceiling. It was crisscrossed with crack lines, alive as a nest of vipers, creating fantastical shapes and ghastly configurations. In one such nest of lines he saw a death’s-head. In another, a pool of blood. In a third, a grave. Wincing, Dupin turned away to stare at the equally marred walls. No images there, just words.

  “Poe,” was what he saw first. Then “Mother,” followed by carefully written letters which spelled out “Sis.” Finally, inevitably, the word “Death” loomed large.

  Dupin gave a violent shake to his head. Shivering, he drew his greatcoat over his shoulders and rested his face in his hands. In the close, cupped darkness he knew so well appeared the image of the drowned woman. Now another image: Edmund. As Dupin watched, the skin upon the boy’s face tightened, split, and — snakelike — dropped away, leaving only a skull.

  Dupin began to sweat. Death. Always death! His whole body rocked with pain. Leaning forward, he cradled his head in his arms and sank into a deep sleep. The candle flame grew smaller and at last gutted out.

  As darkness descended a piece of paper was slipped under the door. Just as softly, footsteps retreated along the hall, down the stairs and into the mist-drenched night.

  THIRST, A RAW throat, and a throbbing head woke Dupin in the morning. Painfully he sat up and examined the dreary room. When his gaze fell on Edmund, still asleep on the bed, he had no idea who the boy was.

  Bit by bit, Dupin reconstructed the previous night’s events, including his half-promise to find the boy’s sister. Swearing under his breath, he berated himself for even considering the business. There were more important things to attend to: his courtship of Mrs. Whitman, the need to raise money for his new journal, the desire to write about …

  Vaguely, he recalled his notion that what was happening to the boy could be a story. He had even made notes. He groped for his carpetbag, relieved to find it by his feet. Then, finding his notebook, he turned the pages and read what he had written. It made his head ache.

  Feeling panicky, he rummaged through his carpetbag but found all his bottles empty. His headache intensified. His mouth felt as if it were full of sand.

  He looked about again. This time he noticed the half meat pie partially wrapped in newspaper. With a voracious appetite he reached for it.

  As Dupin ate he poked idly at the scrap of paper. It was the first page of the Providence Journal and contained a column of personal notices from two weeks before. With a mind given to the automatic habit of reading, he casually examined it.

  NOTICE EXTRAORDINARY

  As this is the season when Game and Oyster Suppers are in great demand, particularly so as the Presidential Election is shortly to be decided, we would recommend those who have suppers depending, to make arrangements with FRANK FOSTER, in season, that he may be able to accommodate all.

  NOTICE

  Mr. William Arnold is resident in the Hotel American House on Congdon Street, and is ready to conduct business with interested parties. Principals only.

  POSITION WANTED

  The advertiser, R. Peterson, a good copyist and accountant, thoroughly discreet, being at leisure from 6 to 9 P.M. would like any remunerative employment three or four evenings a week. Apply at Providence Bank office for particulars.

  Bored, Dupin pushed the paper aside. Then stiffly — for the damp, cold air had chilled him — he drew his greatcoat over his shoulders, opened the door to the room and looked out. The foul-smelling, deserted hallway filled him with self-loathing.

  He made up his mind. He would leave. Attend to his own affairs. Find something else to write about. But as Dupin stepped back into the room to fetch his carpetbag, he caught sight of a piece of paper on the floor. He picked it up. It read:

  MEDDLE AT YOUR PERIL!

  Dupin reread the note. He was being challenged. Insulted! He looked at the still-sleeping boy. Perhaps, he told himself, there was more here than the squalor of the place suggested. Dupin stuffed the note into a pocket and looked about with new interest.

  But the room was so small, so barren, that his energy quickly flagged. He would go. He snatched his carpetbag and was turning toward the door when Edmund woke.

  “Mr. Dupin,” the boy asked, “did my sister come back?”

  Dupin, embarrassed to have been caught sneaking away, shook his head. He leaned against the window casement and stared out, wondering if Edmund had been feigning sleep and watching him.

  “Mr. Dupin,” Edmund said, “when I came back last night, you w
ere asleep.”

  “No doubt.”

  “I ate only half the pie.”

  “The larger half.”

  Edmund blushed. “Sir …”

  “What?”

  “Will you still help me?”

  Dupin gazed sullenly out the window, wishing to avoid Edmund’s watchful look. Should he or should he not help the boy? Was there, or was there not, a story here? If there was, he needed more information.

  “I have,” Dupin said at last, “an appointment of great importance this afternoon. Until then I shall spend my time in search of your sister.”

  “Thank you, sir.”

  “But let me impress one thing upon you … Edmund — if I remember your name,” Dupin continued. “It is you who have the knowledge that will enable me to resolve this affair.”

  “I do —”

  “But though you have these details — only I have the ability to understand them. Therefore, I will need to ask you some questions.”

  “Yes, sir.”

  Dupin pulled pen and ink bottle from the carpetbag, opened his notebook, settled at the table, and with pen poised, said, “How long have you — your aunt, your sister, and yourself — lived in this place?”

  “Sir …?”

  Dupin looked up.

  “Is it necessary for you to write out what I say?”

  Dupin stared hard at Edmund. “Do you or do you not wish my help?” he asked.

  “I do, sir,” Edmund answered faintly.

  “Then answer my questions. How long have you been living here?”

  “About a month.”

  “And you are from England.”

  “London, sir.”

  “What brought you here?”

  Edmund said nothing.

  “Did you hear my question?”

  “I did, sir.”

  “Then answer it.”

  Edmund took a breath. Finally he said, “A while ago my mum went away and left us with Aunty — that’s my mum’s sister.” Edmund swallowed hard, then continued: “Aunty told us that we were to come to America” — he lifted his eyes — “to try and find Mum.”

  “When did your mother leave?”

  “A year ago.”

  “And why?”

  Casting his eyes down, Edmund said, “I don’t know, sir.”

  “Do you expect me to believe you?”

  Edmund hung his head.

  Dupin said, “I’ll try another way. What made your aunt think your mother was here?”

  “She received a message.”

  “A message?”

  Edmund nodded.

  “From whom?”

  “My mother.”

  “Who brought it?”

  “A sailor.”

  “A friend? A relation?”

  “Aunty said he was a stranger.”

  “And the message said …?”

  “I don’t know,” Edmund whispered.

  Dupin sighed. “Edmund, you told me your aunt spent her days out. I presume she was looking for your mother. Did she ever say she’d found her?”

  “She would have told us.”

  “Were you planning to go back to England?”

  “Only when we found Mum.”

  Dupin pointed his pen at the trunk. “What’s in there?”

  “My aunty’s things.”

  “Have you seen inside?”

  “There’s only clothing. And some family pictures.”

  “Do you have a key?”

  Edmund shook his head. “Just Aunty.”

  “Your sister, how old was she?”

  “Not was, sir. Is. She’s alive. I know it!”

  “Perhaps. How old?”

  “Eleven.”

  “The same as you?”

  “She’s my twin.”

  “Twin?”

  “It runs in the family.”

  “Is there anything else you wish to tell me?”

  Edmund turned away. “No, sir,” he said.

  Dupin again put down his pen. “Edmund,” he said, “you must trust me.”

  “I do, sir.”

  “Then tell me something I can use.”

  Edmund blushed. Trying to find a way to be helpful he said, “Sir, a few days ago, before my aunty disappeared, she said she was going to meet a man who might help her.”

  “Did she say who?”

  “No.”

  “Or why she was to meet him?”

  “Sis and I believed it had something to do with finding our mum.”

  “You recall nothing more than that?”

  “She was nervous about it.”

  “With reason. Last night,” Dupin continued, “you told me that when you left your sister in search of food you locked the door to this room. Are you absolutely certain you did lock it?”

  “I’m sure, sir.”

  “How many keys are there?”

  “Two, sir.” Edmund took the key from his pocket and offered it. “When Aunty would go out she’d leave one with us in case we had to go to the loo.”

  “Loo?”

  “Privy. It’s behind the building.”

  Dupin took the key. “Edmund, I shall step out into the hall and lock the door. Just as you said you did. When I do, you will attempt to open it from the inside. Is that understood?”

  “Why?”

  “Edmund!” Dupin cried. “Do you have anyone else to help out?”

  “No, sir.”

  “Then cease your questions and do as I tell you!” Edmund bit his lip. “Yes, sir,” he said.

  From the hallway Dupin locked the door. “Now,” he called in, “try to open it.”

  “I can’t, sir. It won’t give.”

  Dupin unlocked the door, entered the room, strode over to the window and lifted the sash. Damp, cold air rushed in. Leaning out as far as he could, he all but touched the window on the building across the way. Abruptly, he gathered his greatcoat and called, “Come along.”

  Edmund sprang up and followed.

  On the street, the fog from the bay made it hard to see more than a few yards. Even so, Dupin studied Edmund’s building intently, then examined the one to its left.

  “Notice,” Dupin lectured, “how alike the two buildings are, how the windows on the first level match exactly. It will be the same above. Edmund, do you know which is your room?”

  “The one in the back. On this side. But, sir I don’t follow you.”

  “You claimed you locked your sister in your room.”

  “I did lock the door. I’m sure I did.”

  “Unless someone else had a key there was only one other way out: through the window of your room — to the window in the building opposite.”

  “But …”

  “Edmund, think! How else? Where else?”

  It took a moment for Dupin’s words to sink in. But the moment they did Edmund leaped forward toward the building, found the steps, and raced up to the fourth floor. There they looked down a long hallway lined with doors, the same as in Edmund’s building.

  “Which would be your room?” Dupin asked.

  “That one,” Edmund said, pointing to the last door on the left.

  “Good,” Dupin said, “but we want the one on the right.”

  Edmund raced down the hall and banged on the door. No one came. He pounded again.

  “Here,” Dupin said. “Let me try.” And he flung himself forward, shoulder against the door. It burst open.

  “NOTHING’S HERE!” EDMUND cried.

  Dupin surveyed the empty room. “Not quite. Look!” He pointed to a wooden plank leaning against the wall near the window through which, just across the way, they could see Edmund’s room. “Open the window,” Dupin ordered.

  Edmund did as he was told. Dupin lifted the plank and maneuvered it so it reached from one window to the other. It made a perfect walkway.

  “There,” Dupin said. “Your sister walked from room to room.”

  Edmund turned to Dupin with astonishment. “But why?”

&n
bsp; Instead of answering, Dupin bent over and began to examine the floor. Suddenly he stood up, quelling a headache with a hand to his forehead. “Edmund, search the floor. See if you can find anything. I need more proof.”

  “Proof of what?”

  “Must you question everything?” Dupin cried. “Just search!”

  As Dupin watched, Edmund looked about the floor. Sure enough, in moments he found a pearl button. He snatched it up and brought it to Dupin. “It’s from one of my sister’s shoes,” he explained excitedly. “She’s very fond of the shoes. Thinks them very ladylike.”

  “Any notion as to why she might have left it?”

  “Hansel and Gretel!” Edmund said promptly. Dupin looked puzzled.

  “It’s a fairy tale Sis loves to read,” Edmund explained. “About a girl who leaves a trail of crumbs to get back home to her father.”

  “Then, you see,” Dupin said, “I was right. She was here.”

  “Sir, I still don’t think Sis would have come over.”

  “Not on her own. Of course not. She was forced.”

  “Do you mean stolen?” Edmund asked, wide-eyed.

  “Precisely.”

  “But who would do such a thing?”

  “Find the one who did it,” Dupin returned, “and we have gone a long way toward solving this mystery. But quickly now.”

  Before Edmund could absorb what he’d been told, Dupin rushed out of the room. Edmund hurried to keep up with him.

  At the main entrance of the house, Dupin yanked hard on the doorbell ringer.

  In moments a thin, elderly woman, her gray hair wrapped high in turban fashion, came to the door. Though she was standing directly in front of Dupin she looked this way and that as if she were blind. “What is it?” she demanded.

  “The landlord if you please,” Dupin said.

  “Is it a room you’ll be wanting?” the woman asked.

  “Not at all,” Dupin said. “I’m a city officer and wish to make an inquiry.”

  Edmund, surprised by this declaration, looked up at Dupin.

  “We have no troubles here,” the woman said, making an effort to shut the door. Dupin thrust his foot against it.

  “Here,” the woman objected, “I’m an old woman that sees but poorly. I’ve got my rights!”