The Man Who Was Poe

  “You know him by no other?”

  “Should I?” Edmund asked, finding the woman as baffling as Mr. Dupin.

  Mrs. Whitman bit her lip. “Edmund, how do you come to know him? Are you some … relation?”

  “We met last night.”

  “How?”

  Without answering, Edmund looked into Mrs. Whitman’s troubled face. To answer that question would be to explain his emergency, and he’d already decided he could not do that.

  She sighed again. “Very well. I wish you to give him a message.”

  “Yes, ma’am.”

  “Tell … Mr. Dupin … he may come. Not at four o’clock as he proposes, but at three-thirty. And Edmund, tell him … not to come to the front door. No, he should go behind the house, to the small graveyard whose entrance is on Church Street. We can meet in privacy. No one ever goes there. Now, repeat what I said.”

  “Three-thirty behind the house, in the cemetery on Church Street, where no one ever goes.”

  “Good,” she said. “You may leave.”

  Edmund started for the door.

  But she called him back. “You need not repeat what I asked you about him. And,” she added, lowering her voice, “be advised, the maid, Catherine, works for my mother, Mrs. Powers, not me. Now hurry and deliver my message.”

  Edmund left her.

  * * *

  Dupin walked into the room nearest the bank entrance. Six clerks, all perched on high stools before high desks, were scribbling away on ledger books by the light of gas lamps. At the back of the room — nearest the coal fire — was an older gentleman whose desk, rather like a pulpit, stood higher than the others. When Dupin entered, everyone in the room looked up.

  “I am,” Dupin said, responding to their inquiring looks, “a private investigator from the Lowell Insurance Company. I’ve been sent here to examine the place from which the gold was taken.”

  All heads turned to the rear of the room where the older man was perched. “Mr. Peterson,” this man called out, “show this gentleman the vault.”

  “Yes, Mr. Poley,” said the young man closest to the door. He had sprung off his stool when Dupin announced himself.

  Dupin turned. Mr. Peterson looked to him to be no more than sixteen or seventeen, the youngest in the room. His eyes were a pert, bright blue. His cheeks were round and red; his hair so blond as to be almost white.

  “This way, sir,” Peterson called. He’d taken up a candle and gestured to the hall. Dupin followed. From there the young man led the way up a central stairwell which corkscrewed to the top floor.

  “Terrible shocking, isn’t it?” the young man said as they climbed. “All that gold, gone.”

  “When did it arrive?”

  “A week ago.”

  “Not a secret I gather.”

  “Oh no, sir, very much a secret,” Peterson replied. “Though not here in the bank. We all knew it was coming. Mr. Poley — he’s that older gentleman in charge of the accounting room — he gave orders that not a word should be spoken about it.”

  “Even as he told you.”

  The young man giggled. “Mr. Poley is a regular chatterer, sir. As open as his ledger. No, he’s not one to keep a secret. There was great excitement about the gold being from California. They say it’s there for picking off the ground. Do you believe that? Some say yes. Some say no. Here we are, sir.”

  They had gone up three flights and were now on the top floor. Dupin, panting from the effort, stood before a massive black iron door. It was open wide.

  “Did you see this gold arrive?” Dupin asked, eyeing the door as if it were an adversary.

  “Not me, sir. Mr. Poley told us it came in the middle of the night. In bar form. Direct from the ship that brought it here. He said it took five men to carry that chest up those same steps we came on.”

  “Did the gold happen to come from a ship called The Lady Liberty?” Dupin asked.

  “I can’t say that I know. The gold was placed here,” said Peterson, nodding to the vault. “You’re welcome to look in. But I can assure you, there was not a thing to be found. They had me clean it out this morning myself.”

  “Not a thing?”

  “Well, not quite,” said Peterson after a momentary hesitation. “I did find this.” He reached into his pocket and held out his hand. A white button lay on it. “Perhaps,” he said with a smile, “you can solve the mystery.”

  Dupin reached into his pocket, felt the button Edmund had found and was about to draw it out when Peterson said, “Go into the vault, sir. Rest assured, I won’t lock you in.”

  The mere idea gave Dupin a turn of nausea. He glanced up into Peterson’s smiling blue eyes, then gazed into the vault with discomfort. Tentatively, he took the candle Peterson offered and forced himself to enter.

  It was as large as a small room, cold, dark, and empty. And Dupin was struck instantly by how, once inside, he felt completely cut off from the world. He might have been a hundred feet underground rather than — as he knew to be the case — a hundred feet above and snug against the hill. He lifted his eyes. The dancing light of the candle flame created the illusion that the walls were moving in and out, as if he were captive within a beating heart. His queasiness increased.

  More and more unsteady, he put a hand to one of the walls. It was hard, clammy. He cringed back and kept to the middle of the room.

  “Is there no way in or out save this door?” he asked. His voice produced an answering metallic echo. His breathing became labored.

  “Just this,” Peterson said brightly, rapping the iron door of the vault. “But they say it wasn’t even opened. Tight as a coffin lid. And still, for all that, the gold was taken.”

  “And the box in which the gold was kept?” Dupin asked. He was growing weaker.

  “Perhaps I misspoke,” Peterson replied. “There was no box. I was told the gold bars were unloaded outside and carried in, one by one, and placed where you stand. Quite manageable that way.”

  Dupin, fighting off growing dizziness, looked down. “What’s the floor made of?” he asked.

  “Iron.”

  Fearful of total collapse, Dupin knelt to touch the floor’s cold surface. When he did he noticed a bit of string. He snatched it up and put it in his pocket, then came unsteadily to his feet. Hands trembling, he held the candle high. Directly overhead he saw what looked like a shaft. It had an opening no more than a foot wide and receded up into darkness.

  “And that?”

  “An air shaft.”

  “To the roof?”

  Peterson stepped forward to peer up. “I should think so.”

  “Couldn’t the thief have come down through there?” Dupin managed to say, despite the tightness of his throat.

  “I doubt it,” Peterson answered, taking another look. “It’s far too narrow, isn’t it? I’m fairly thin myself, but even I couldn’t get through.”

  “Yes,” Dupin agreed, laboring for breath, “no grown person could.”

  “The story,” Peterson said, “is that the man who built this vault had a desperate fear of being locked in. That’s why he built the shaft. Otherwise a trapped person who might not be rescued for days would perish from suffocation. It would make a perfect tomb, now wouldn’t it?”

  It was then that Dupin fainted.

  AS EDMUND HURRIED toward Fox Point he kept thinking about Mrs. Whitman. Why had she asked him so many questions about Mr. Dupin?

  Edmund found it all very upsetting, the more so when he realized he had few satisfactory answers himself. He made up his mind that when he reached the café he would ask Mr. Dupin for some.

  Dupin was not at the café however.

  Merely puzzled at first, Edmund asked the waiter who had served them if he knew where Mr. Dupin had gone.

  “Oh, him,” the waiter said when Edmund offered a description. “He went off right after you did.”

  “Right after?”

  “He did leave a notebook. You sit down. I’ll fetch it.”


  Edmund, his anxiousness increasing, sat at one of the tables. In moments the waiter placed the notebook before him.

  Edmund gazed at it, wondering what it was that Mr. Dupin had been writing. No, it would be wrong to look. But then, they were his answers that Mr. Dupin had put down. He would take just a glance.

  Edmund drew the book close and opened it cautiously. On some pages there were just words, like search and death. Death, he quickly saw, appeared more than any other. And then there were notes which were so rambling and confused Edmund could make no sense of them. But on one page he was able to grasp something. It was headed, Plot.

  Story of a search … boy searching for vanished sister … wants her to be alive … of course … no tension there … to be effective must be a puzzle … is she alive? … Enter Dupin … Who took her? … much confusion … but then, boy finds that … One can find life only through death. I know. My Sis is dead too.

  Edmund stared at the page, horrified. He recalled Mr. Dupin’s questions and his own answers. These lines were much more than that. He reread them. When he reached the word, death, that word so often written, he shuddered, closed the book, and pushed it away. There was something very wrong with Mr. Dupin.

  But, he asked himself, who else could he turn to? He’d already decided against Mrs. Whitman. He considered the night watchman — Mr. Throck, he thought his name was. He’d seen him at the saloon the night before. Perhaps he could find him there again.

  Then he recalled Mr. Dupin’s words that only he, Dupin, would be able to find his sister. The next moment Edmund reminded himself that in some magical way Mr. Dupin had figured out that Sis had been stolen. He had even reminded him that on the way back from the saloon he’d met a white-haired man on the street. Perhaps he would find Sis.

  “Trust adults,” his poor aunty always told him. “Trust adults.” Edmund sighed. Sometimes it was very hard. Too hard.

  * * *

  Dupin was drowning, sinking beneath the bay. Cold water seemed to be pouring into him, gagging him, suffocating him. He wanted air desperately but he was being held by the throat, pushed deeper down. It took superhuman effort to open his eyes, to see who was trying to kill him. It was a man. A man with white hair. It was Peterson, the young accountant, bending over him.

  “Sir, are you all right?”

  Gradually, Dupin’s head cleared. The throbbing eased. With Peterson’s help, Dupin sat up and looked about, unsure of where he was. Then he remembered: he was inside the bank vault. Feeling acute embarrassment, he held out a hand. Peterson took it, and helped him to his feet.

  “Some fresh air might do you good, sir,” the young man suggested. He guided Dupin to the steps. “Hold on to the balustrade. Slowly now.”

  At the lowest level Peterson paused. “Just a moment,” he cautioned and dashed into the office and to Mr. Poley’s desk.

  “Ah, Mr. Peterson. Did you show that inspector the vault?”

  “Yes, sir,” Peterson whispered, “but I’m afraid he suddenly took ill.”

  Mr. Poley became alarmed. “Ill?” he said loudly. The other clerks turned to listen.

  “Perhaps,” Peterson said, “it would be wise for me to make sure he reaches his lodgings safely.”

  “Good thought, Mr. Peterson. See that you do. I should be much obliged.”

  Peterson started off. “Ah, Mr. Peterson!” Mr. Poley cried. The clerk turned. “Your friend, Mr. Rachett, came in and left a message for you.” He handed Peterson a folded piece of paper.

  Hesitating momentarily, Peterson took the note.

  “Go on, sir,” Mr. Poley urged. “You’d best take the time to read it. He said it was urgent.”

  Under Poley’s frankly curious eyes, Peterson unfolded the note and read it quickly. When he glanced up he realized everyone was watching him.

  “Is something the matter?” Poley asked. “You look stricken.”

  Peterson jerked around. “No, sir,” he said. “Not at all. I’ll see to the inspector.” Stuffing the note into his pocket, he returned to the hall, relieved to find Dupin still there.

  The two emerged onto the street. Dupin, aware that they were being observed closely from the crowd of loiterers, turned from them and took in the fresh air.

  “Can I help you anywhere?” Peterson inquired. “I’ve permission to see you to your lodgings.”

  Dupin shook his head. “I can make my own way,” he insisted.

  “To tell the truth, sir,” Peterson confided, loath to let Dupin go, “I don’t intend to be an accountant forever. I’ve always wanted to be an investigator like you. I believe I have a good mind for it. I’ve read a great deal too. Eugène Sue. And Vidocq. Our own Edgar Allan Poe. Have you ever read ‘The Gold Bug’? It’s very instructive, I think. I’m afraid,” he rattled on, “I didn’t catch your name when you introduced yourself. Would you be kind enough to give it to me?”

  Dupin gazed at him, then said, “Edward Grey.”

  “Very good, Mr. Grey,” Peterson replied, producing a calling card. “Here’s mine.”

  Dupin glanced at the card —

  MR. RANDOLF PETERSON

  Hotel American House

  — and shoved it into a pocket.

  “If ever you need someone here in Providence to assist you in your investigations, Mr. Grey,” Peterson pressed, “please call upon me. I’m thoroughly discreet.” He held out his hand.

  Dupin shook it lamely. “Thank you,” he said.

  Peterson watched anxiously as Dupin walked away. Then he unfolded the note he had been given by Mr. Poley, and studied it. “… at the hotel …” he murmured, only to stop when he realized he was talking out loud. Then he hastened up the hill behind the bank.

  Two of the loiterers separated from the crowd. One followed Peterson. The second, Mr. Throck, followed Dupin and watched him go into the first saloon he came upon.

  * * *

  Edmund continued to wait in the Wickenden Street café, growing more and more troubled the longer Mr. Dupin was away. Then it occurred to him that perhaps he was the one who had misunderstood. Perhaps Mr. Dupin had gone to the room and was waiting there.

  He quickly snatched up the notebook, and raced to his building and up the steps. From the hallway he saw that his door was open. He stopped short. His hopes soared. Sis had returned! Down the hall he dashed. … The room was a shambles. Everything was scattered. The table was overturned, the chair tossed aside. The trunk had been opened and its contents were spewed about the floor.

  Stunned, fighting back tears of anger and despair, Edmund began to set the furniture to rights, then the litter. He turned to Mr. Dupin’s belongings — including a shocking number of empty bottles — and put them back into the carpetbag. Finally he collected all that had been pulled from his aunt’s trunk.

  It was only then that Edmund realized something had been taken. Aunty Pru had had a drawing, a portrait of herself and Mum made by a street artist near Piccadilly Circus just before his mother had gone to America. Aunty claimed it was a good likeness of them both and had got the picture up in a little frame. She liked to show it to Sis and Edmund, saying that seeing it helped to keep up one’s faith. The drawing, and that alone, had been taken.

  To Edmund, it seemed a senseless theft.

  Once the room was set to rights he flung himself on the bed and looked about. Now that he was alone, now that he had to confront the fact that he might never see his sister or his aunty there again, Edmund realized how empty, how ugly it was. The very cracks on the ceiling and walls, as if they were some contorted message, seemed to spell out the undoing of his life.

  The thought of a message reminded him of the paper he had discovered in Mrs. Whitman’s house. He took it from his pocket and once more tried to decipher it. Unable to, he stuck the paper in his sister’s book.

  His sister’s book. Unreadable messages. Ugly, deserted room.

  A fist of anger hammered in his chest. “No!” Edmund shouted, “Sis is not dead. She’s alive! She is!” Consumed b
y sudden hopelessness, Edmund flung the book across the room, then hid his face in the blanket. The next moment he was up. He had to find Mr. Dupin.

  * * *

  His drinking done, Dupin proceeded unsteadily toward Wickenden Street. When he reached it he remembered he had wanted to buy Edmund a coat. He entered the first clothing shop he saw.

  A salesman approached. “May I help you, sir?”

  “A coat,” Dupin said.

  “Don’t move,” the salesman exclaimed. In moments he returned holding one. “Beautiful coat, isn’t it?”

  Dupin looked at it dubiously.

  “There’s a story behind this coat,” the salesman said. “A man orders a coat — not cheap, mind you. He has it fitted and cut for him. He comes in — this morning, actually — for the final fitting. We are trying it on when suddenly, with not so much as a ‘by your leave,’ the gentleman rushes off, and we have not heard from him since.”

  The oddness of the event piqued Dupin’s curiosity. “No idea what made him go?”

  The salesman shrugged. “A boy had wandered in.”

  “A boy?”

  “A begging boy. I’ll tell you what, sir. That man never put a penny down. Of course, we took him for a gentleman. Now we’ve done the work and don’t know whether he’ll be back or not. Quite a loss for us.”

  “That begging boy?” Dupin asked. “What time did he appear?”

  The man considered. “Between nine-thirty and ten. Now, sir,” he persisted, “since we don’t know if our customer is coming back, we would be willing to sell you this coat — taking it in a bit — at a considerable saving. That way we wouldn’t lose … nor would you.”

  “What did you say this man’s name was?”

  “I didn’t, sir, but I don’t mind saying. It’s his embarrassment, not ours. Mr. Rachett was the name he gave. Mr. Rachett. Perhaps you know him.”

  Dupin shook his head.

  “We would be happy to let you try the coat on,” the salesman suggested.

  “I don’t think I’m interested,” Dupin said. “Though I am getting married and shall want a better coat soon.”