The Man Who Was Poe

by Avi

  “We merely wish the name of one of your tenants,” Dupin said briskly, as he insinuated himself past the edge of the door. “Fourth floor. Back room. Right-hand side.”

  “That’s none of —” the woman began to say, but she stopped. “That man owes me a week’s rent,” she exclaimed.

  “Exactly. Tell me about him,” Dupin said.

  “He came here about two weeks ago,” the woman went on, now quite willing to talk. “Offered to take a room, and, mind, very particular which room. But then, you know, he never lived in it. Just came now and again to pace it out. With another man. Said he was having trouble getting his goods removed. I didn’t care. Not as long as he paid. But then, he only gave for the first week.”

  “His name!”

  “He wouldn’t give it at first but when I insisted he said it was Mr. Smith.”

  “And the way he looked?”

  The woman shook her head. “A large man. I’ve not the eyes to tell you more. What are you asking for?”

  “A private matter,” Dupin said. “Can you tell us anything else about him? It’s urgent.”

  “Urgent?” the woman echoed. “He owes me money. That’s urgent.”

  Dupin let her shut the door.

  Edmund tugged at Dupin’s coat. “Sir,” he said, “are you really an official?”

  “Of course not! Is there a place nearby where we can get something to eat?”

  Edmund nodded.

  “Does it sell drink?”

  “Yes, sir.”

  “Find it, Edmund. Find it!”

  * * *

  It was a large, well lit café, crowded and noisy, that Edmund led them to. Dupin quickly took a table and told the boy to sit. “First,” he said, “we shall eat. Then I intend to get you some warmer clothing.” He turned to study the chalkboard menu.

  As he did, Edmund fell into thoughts about what Mr. Dupin had said, that his sister had been stolen. The notion astounded him, terrified him. His own sister … He looked up. Mr. Dupin was staring across the room. Edmund followed his gaze. Mr. Throck, the night watchman, had just entered and a crowd was gathered about him, listening as he talked with animation.

  Edmund turned back to Dupin. “Sir …?”

  Dupin’s eyes remained on Throck.

  “Mr. Dupin?” Edmund tried again in a whisper. “Was the person who murdered my aunt the one who stole my sister?”

  “What makes you sure your aunt was murdered?” replied Dupin, his eyes still on Throck. “It might have been an accident.”

  “I’m not certain,” Edmund admitted, “but …”

  “Then wait for the facts. Now, I wish to ask you something. Were you and your sister together all the time until that moment you left her to go for food? Think hard now. It’s important.”

  “I never left her. I wouldn’t. And I only did it because …”

  “Edmund, I’m not interested in your reasons. The point being, it’s logical to suppose that — if you are telling the truth —”

  “Mr. Dupin …”

  Dupin waved Edmund’s objection aside and rushed on, “— then the man who occupied the room opposite yours was waiting, watching for the moment when you did leave her alone.”

  “Watching us?” Edmund said, startled.

  “Didn’t you say that when you went out for food that night you were detained on the street?”

  “An old man asked for some help.”

  “Not just any old man, Edmund. But could it have been … an old man with white hair?”

  Edmund’s mouth dropped open. “How did you know?” he said.

  “Edmund, that ghastly woman stated that the large man who rented that room had another with him, did she not?”

  Edmund nodded.

  “Therefore,” Dupin said triumphantly, “we are looking for two men. While you were out in search of food and detained, ‘Mr. Smith’ — that name is, I assure you, a false one — stole your sister. Furthermore, the appointment your aunt had — from which she did not return — was with one of those two. It was a conspiracy to lure your aunt away so you would be alone with your sister. Then, once you left her …”

  “Sis told me to go …”

  “… they detained you,” Dupin rushed on, paying no mind to Edmund, “and stole her through the window so as to make certain they would not be observed.

  “Who are these people? You said your aunt came to Providence after receiving a message from your mother. A message, Edmund, not a letter. This was brought, moreover, by an ordinary sailor, a most casual means of communication. It suggests your mother acted under duress, on the impulse of sudden opportunity. In short, Edmund, the people your mother was consorting with, the man your aunt went to meet and who perhaps killed her, the ones who stole your sister — they are all one and the same.”

  “Do you know who they are?” Edmund said, awed by all that Dupin had deduced.

  “I have a good idea.” Dupin glanced quickly at Throck.

  Before Edmund could ask more, a waiter approached. “Your order, sir?” he said.

  Dupin checked what money he had, then requested soup and bread for Edmund, drink for himself. But as the waiter turned to leave, Dupin called him back. “That man over there,” he said, “is that Mr. Throck?”

  The waiter looked over his shoulder. “It is, sir, and he’s got himself a ripe story to tell.”

  “A murder?”

  The waiter shook his head. “Sure now, sir, haven’t you heard about the bank?”

  “What bank?”

  “The Providence Bank. It was robbed last night of California gold. Taken right from the vault like magic. You ask Throck. He’ll tell it to you fine.” The waiter scurried off.

  For a moment Dupin continued to gaze at Throck. Then he took a small notebook from his pocket and began to write in it.

  “Sir,” Edmund said, “if you aren’t an official, shouldn’t we inform the authorities that my sister was stolen? You might tell them all you’ve discovered, mightn’t you?”

  Dupin kept writing.

  Not sure he had been heard, Edmund leaned across the table and touched Dupin’s arm. Dupin jumped as though pinched.

  “What do you want?” he snapped.

  “It’s about my sister …”

  “What about her?”

  “Shouldn’t we inform the authorities?”

  “Edmund, I shall say this but once more: If you desire someone else to help you, find him and leave me in peace! So, make up your mind. Is it to be me? Yes or no?”

  Edmund sat frozen.

  “There,” Dupin continued with a nod of his head, “is a member of the Providence Night Watch. Mr. Throck. He would be delighted to lend assistance. But I can assure you, Edmund, he will be of very little use. Now, again, do you or do you not wish to learn what happened to your sister?”

  “I do, sir.”

  “Then believe me. Only Auguste Dupin can help you.” He smiled faintly. “I may have discovered how she was stolen but I do not yet know why, much less her present condition. I’ll act only when I have completed my investigations.”

  “But …”

  “No buts. Now,” Dupin continued without pause, “as soon as we’re done here, I’ve an errand for you to run. In the meanwhile do you know a clothier in the neighborhood?”

  “I think so,” Edmund said, trying to keep up with Mr. Dupin’s constant shifts.

  “Good,” Dupin said. “No more idle chatter. Here’s your soup. Eat it. You’re in need.”

  Afraid to say anything, Edmund turned to the food the waiter had set before him. Mr. Dupin, he noticed, had put the notebook away and was sipping from his glass. But mostly he was keeping an eye on the night watchman. Edmund realized that the man was returning Dupin’s stare.

  “That clothier you spoke of,” Dupin said abruptly. “Is it far?”

  Edmund shook his head.

  “Good,” Dupin said. “Go and determine the price of a coat for yourself. Can you do that?”

  “Now?” E
dmund said. He had not finished eating.

  Dupin checked his pocket watch. “It’s nine-thirty. Return in half an hour. Not a moment sooner. Go on. Quickly now!”

  Edmund rose from the table, bread in hand, and glanced across the room. The night watchman had come to his feet too.

  “Are you or are you not going to do as you’ve been told?” Dupin pressed.

  “Yes, sir. I will.” Edmund left the café reluctantly. Even as he did, Throck crossed the room and approached Dupin.

  “DID YOU WANT words with me?” Throck demanded.

  Dupin gestured to Edmund’s empty seat.

  “Don’t mind if I do,” Throck said, sitting heavily. “I’ve had a long night.”

  The two men looked at one another. After a while Dupin said, “It’s the officers’ fault.”

  “I’ve always said so,” Throck replied, only to turn red in the face. “Here,” he demanded, “how do you know what was in my mind?”

  Dupin clasped his hands before him and sat back in his chair. “A matter of observing details, Mr. Throck,” he said. “Details.

  “You come over here, and you sit down wondering why I have been fixing my attentions on you. You even study me, brow furrowed, trying to guess who I am. I follow your eyes. Your gaze passes from my face to my hand. You can make nothing of that. You notice my coat. That you recognize. You know it for an army coat. I know because the lines on your brow relax. How do you know? Why, your jacket is army issue too, which suggests that you, like me, were once in the army. That scar on your face suggests more, as does the pistol you have not quite concealed in your vest pocket.”

  Without thinking, Throck touched his jacket.

  “In short, you enjoy violence to a considerable degree,” Dupin continued. “But why should a man like you be cashiered from the army? Here I hazard a guess: you were thrown out for excessive brawling.

  “Ah, but if you hadn’t been, you’d be in Mexico. Now Mexico, to be sure, is a warmer place. You’d much rather be there. Whose fault is that? It’s the officers’ fault. I share your opinion of them.”

  Throck studied Dupin. “Who told you all that?”

  “I told you, I notice details. And I believe,” Dupin hurried on, wishing to take advantage of Throck’s confusion, “that we met along the docks last night. And your friend, Mr. Fortnoy, too.”

  Throck’s eyes narrowed. “Never mind who are my friends and who aren’t,” he said. “I thought you were interested in that robbery.”

  “Should I be?”

  “Suit yourself.”

  “What I do want to know,” Dupin said, leaning forward, “is if any more information has been found about that unfortunate woman pulled from the bay.”

  Throck studied Dupin carefully. “Don’t know what business it is of yours,” he said. “’Course,” he added, “there’s that boy you were just sitting here with. Same as last night.”

  “What about him?”

  “He … had a mother.”

  Caught off guard, Dupin frowned. “A mother?”

  “But then,” Throck added, “so do we all. Or then, perhaps you don’t.”

  Dupin grew pale.

  Throck grinned, delighted to have discomforted the man. “Is that what you wanted to ask me about?”

  Dupin struggled to regain his composure. “Last night, you mentioned an inquest. Is that today?”

  “I’d have thought you could have detailed that out,” Throck said mockingly. “But I’ll tell you anyway because I care flea eggs for you. It’s at the courthouse. Eleven this morning.

  “And,” he continued, “that boy who was just here — I asked you last night but you wouldn’t answer — is he a relation of yours?”

  “Relation?”

  “Such as his aunt was looking for?”

  “The mother?”

  Throck winked. “It takes two.”

  Dupin felt affronted. “What is all this to you?” he demanded.

  “It’s my business.”

  Dupin reached into his pocket, found the note that had been slipped under Edmund’s door during the night, and pushed it across the table. “Is this threat part of your business?”

  Throck got to his feet. “You can be sure of one thing, mister.”

  “And that?”

  “Once I promise to find someone, it don’t matter to me if they’re alive or dead. And I don’t care what money there is. I know what’s right. I took an oath to that.” He thumped the star on his chest. “You remember that,” he said, shaking a massive fist before Dupin. “Throck sees it through.”

  With that, Throck snatched up the note and hurriedly made his way out of the café, pushing people aside as he went.

  Dupin watched him go. “It takes two,” he murmured, then called to the waiter for more drink. As Dupin drank he began to wonder at the similarities between the boy’s life and his own. Both were abandoned boys. Similar first names. Both with lost fathers. For Edmund an aunt who took the place of a mother. Like himself. And, dear to each, someone called “Sis.”

  Yes, Dupin realized, their situations were very much the same. In fact, only two details were missing for Edmund. A stepfather. A hateful one. And … the death of “Sis.”

  Have I, Dupin asked himself suddenly — have I gone beyond the writing of words? Could I be writing this boy’s life? But, he continued, if I am writing Edmund’s story — and it is the same as mine — then it must end with the death of his Sis. The thought held Dupin, fascinated him, even as it terrified him.

  * * *

  On Wickenden Street, two blocks from the café, Edmund made his way through the fog to a clothing store. Once inside he stood just by the door and looked about, all too conscious of the poor appearance he made in his tattered trousers and shirt.

  It was a large store with shelving which reached to the ceiling. Counters were everywhere. Not a surface was without its bolt of cloth. Edmund wished Mr. Dupin was with him. How was he to find the price of anything?

  In the center of the room stood a man on a platform trying on a coat. He was quite portly and had a florid face, pink lips, and great whiskers.

  Kneeling below him was a tailor with a mouth full of pins tacking up the bottom of the coat. Yet another man, tape measure in hand, was standing off to one side observing the proceedings.

  “They say it was millions,” the observer said. “All California gold.”

  The man on the platform grunted.

  “I tell you, sir,” the salesman continued, “there’s no safety. The vault that gold was taken from had massive locks on it. Massive! And not one of them touched, so they say. The gold flew up the chimney so to speak. There, does that look right?”

  The portly man turned slightly to look at himself in a full-length mirror. As he did he noticed Edmund. For a moment he merely stared. Then a flash of panic came to his face. Violently, he swung away.

  The salesman looked around. He saw Edmund, then glanced up at his customer. Seeing the man’s dismay, he rushed over to Edmund. “We’re not giving anything,” the salesman shouted, shoving Edmund toward the door. “Out!”

  “Please, sir, I only wanted to find the price of a coat.”

  “None of that cheek,” the man cried.

  “It’s true, sir. It is!”

  “Don’t you lie to me!” the salesman insisted. “Out!” And he all but threw Edmund onto the street.

  Deeply humiliated, Edmund started down Wickenden but recalled Mr. Dupin’s admonition not to return too soon. His sense of humiliation increasing, he stepped into a doorway and looked back toward the clothier’s. To his surprise he saw the portly man rush out onto the street and look up and down as if in search of something.

  Hoof beats heralded the coming of a horse-drawn cab. The man jumped forward and hailed it. “Church Street!” he called, and began to climb inside. Just as quickly he changed his mind. Out he leaped, shouting, “Never mind!” to the driver. The next moment he hurried up Wickenden Street and was lost in the fog.

 
Edmund watched him go, wondering what had happened. Then he realized that the store was now empty of other customers. He had half a mind to go back in again. But his humiliation had been too great. He turned toward the café.

  When he arrived Dupin was sitting at the table writing busily. An empty whiskey bottle stood at his elbow. The night watchman was nowhere to be seen. Worried that he had returned too soon, and not wishing to interrupt, Edmund slipped quietly into his seat.

  Dupin looked up with cloudy eyes. “Where have you been?” he asked. His words were slightly slurred.

  Edmund was taken aback. “You sent me to the store, sir.”

  “What store?”

  “The clothier. To find the price of a coat. Only they chased me out.”

  Dupin continued to look at him blankly.

  Edmund felt even more uncomfortable. It was as if Mr. Dupin didn’t know who he was. “Sir,” he repeated, “you told me to go.”

  Dupin made a dismissive gesture. “Never mind,” he said. “You are to deliver this.” He tore a page from his notebook, folded it over, and held it out. “Eighty-eight Benefit.”

  “Is that where I delivered the note last night?” Edmund asked.

  Once again Dupin’s eyes glazed over with incomprehension.

  “Last night,” Edmund tried, “you sent me there. Don’t you remember? It was right after I ran into you.”

  Dupin said, “I do remember.”

  “But weren’t we going to get me a coat?” Edmund asked cautiously.

  “Edmund,” Dupin drawled, “I’m not interested in coats. Now mind, you are to put my letter” — he shook it before the boy — “in the hand — only the hand — of Mrs. Helen Whitman.” His voice had become even thicker.

  Edmund took the letter. “Shall I come back when I deliver it, sir?” he asked.

  “To this very spot,” Dupin said. “I won’t budge. Not an inch. Not until you return. And there’s another thing,” he said, leaning forward.

  Pulling back from the stench of liquor, Edmund waited.

  “Don’t,” Dupin admonished, “don’t, under any circumstances, give my letter to Mrs. Whitman unless she is completely alone. Is that clear?”

  Edmund nodded.