POE MUST DIE

by Marc Olden

  “Noooooooooo! Do not do this, I beg you!”

  Poe. From downstairs.

  Quickly Figg found his flat, black wooden case and grabbed the two pistols. Pushing his way past Mrs. Clemm, he limped forward into darkness as fast as he could, stumbling down the stairs, pistols held high.

  Behind him, Mrs. Clemm shouted, “Eddy! Eddy!”

  * * * *

  Poe and Figg stood side by side on the cottage porch, looking into the night. Then Poe pointed. “There! Near the trees! There! I heard her call to me and she said she was Virginia, but I know this to be false!”

  Figg saw her in the moonlight, a cloaked figure running across the snow, towards trees leading down to the road. Jonathan’s wench. The one Poe said tried to drive him batty.

  Figg leaped from the porch, landing in snow. He ran. The figure ahead of him would reach the trees soon. Jonathan’s wench. Figg stopped and fired. The flintlock cracked once, sending a small puff of smoke from its chamber, the shot echoing across the countryside.

  The figure disappeared into the trees.

  Figg and Poe gave chase in the snow. In front of the trees, Poe dropped to one knee. “Blood on the snow, Mr. Figg. That is how they deceived me the last time. False blood. Mr. Figg? Mr. Figg?”

  “Over ‘ere, squire.”

  Poe ran to him. Just inside the grove of trees, Figg held a woman’s cloak that had caught onto a snow-covered bush. He fingered a hole in the back made by the flintlock’s ball. There was dampness around the small hole.

  “No deceivin’ this time, squire. Whoever the lady is, she’s got a ball in her. Come, let us see if we can find a trace of her.”

  Figg looked up at the sky. “Moon’s full. We ‘ave the light.” He limped forward in a crouch, eyes on the snow, the cloak over his shoulder. The empty flintlock was jammed down into his belt. The other was in his hand and if he had to use it on the woman again, so be it. She was Jonathan’s wench and Figg would kill her as easily as he sipped ale.

  In the cold, moonlit night, he and Poe kept their eyes down and looked for blood in the soft, beautiful snow.

  TWENTY-SEVEN

  “HUGH LARNEY, DO not turn around. Stay as you are.”

  The soft voice was Jonathan’s and it came from behind Larney. The food merchant’s blood turned cold; he held his breath. Jonathan had managed to enter Larney’s home unseen and was now upstairs in the special room, the room with the silver-handled coffin and the books on black magic and witchcraft. A servant had reported the door to the room slightly ajar and a fire burning in the fireplace. An enraged Larney had rushed upstairs, a poker in his hand.

  Jonathan.

  Larney’s hands shook; he dropped the poker.

  “Listen and listen well. I said do not turn around. The sight of your stupid face might force me to kill you here. Last night, you and Miles attempted to murder Poe against my orders. Why?”

  “M-Miles said you wanted him dead.”

  “Miles lied. And you believed him.”

  “He said, said, you wanted Poe dead and yes, yes I believed him.”

  “Miles does not think, he reacts. And I shall kill him for it.”

  Larney thought he heard a cat meow. Or, in his fear, had he imagined it? A cat?

  “Jonathan, I would not—”

  “But you have. You, Miles and Volney Gunning. What shall I do with the three of you, Hugh? Tell me. I have already told you what I intend to do with Miles.”

  A cat meowed again. Larney wanted to turn around; he wanted to run. But he wanted to live and so he did nothing. “Jonathan, I have, have to tell you something.”

  “You, Miles and Volney have mounted one more attack on the life of Poe.”

  “Ye-yes.”

  “Your intelligence is transparent. Do you wish to die?”

  “N-no. Oh please, oh—”

  “You can buy your life.”

  “I will give you anything, anything.”

  “You cannot buy it with money. You can buy it with blood, both you and Volney must purchase your lives in blood.”

  “We shall, we will.”

  “You both are to kill Miles Standish. First let me say that if your second attack on Poe’s life succeeds, all three of you will die by my hand and most painfully. Should Poe survive this attack, leave him alone until I tell you differently.”

  “Yes. I understand.”

  “I knew you would. Again, you and Volney Gunning are to kill Miles Standish.”

  “W-when?”

  “As soon as it can be arranged, and Larney—”

  “Yes, Jonathan?”

  “Succeed in this task.”

  “I shall, Jonathan. I shall. You have my word—”

  Larney heard the cat meow again, heard the movement of Jonathan’s arm as he brought the small piece of metal down against the back of Larney’s head.

  The blow was painful, but not hard. It wasn’t meant to be. Larney dropped to the floor on his knees and hands. Blackness squeezed his brain, then released it and he shook his head to clear it, forcing his eyes open, forcing them to focus.

  The shrieking came from the fireplace and it was horrible, shredding Larney’s nerves, shocking him into full awakeness. Jonathan had tossed a sack of live cats into the fireplace and now the sack jerked, twisted and took on a terrified life of its own as the burning cats struggled to get out.

  Jonathan’s warning. A hellish ritual from a time long forgotten.

  The cats howled and their cries pierced Larney’s brain like shards of cold steel. Still on his knees, he closed his eyes, hands over his ears to drown out the sound of the burning cats. Now the smell of the tortured animals reached his nose and Larney screamed.

  Servants pounded on the locked door and still Larney screamed.

  Later, when he had left the room, he asked the servants if they had seen anyone in the house who didn’t belong there. A frightened Larney was not surprised when they told him no, no one had entered or left the house for the past few hours.

  With Jonathan’s threat very much on his mind and the sound and smell of the burning cats still with him, Hugh Larney quickly left his home to seek out Volney Gunning. Miles Standish would die before the setting of the sun.

  TWENTY-EIGHT

  FIGG PUSHED THE last of his custard and hard-boiled egg into his mouth, chewing while staring through the window of the speeding train at the snow-covered ground and trees. The train was carrying him and Poe from Fordham back to New York. “This ‘ere thing moves right along. Ain’t no trains in England what speeds like this one.”

  Poe, seated across from him, nibbled on a slice of ham. “A speeding train, such as this one, is a dangerous business, sir.”

  “It’s what?”

  “An American train, Mr. Figg, is as poorly constructed as the track upon which it rolls. Curves are sharp, grades steep and the consideration given to passenger safety can best be described as fleeting. America is being speedily erected. It rises overnight from a wilderness, and under such circumstances, there is little time to waste upon being precise. Our republic worships the obsolete; it builds nothing that will last and it seems the citizenry, in its blissful ignorance, prefers this state of affairs. American trains undergo accidents at an astounding rate, a brutal truth we accept as we do political promises and heavy-handed dentists. Un-pleasantries to be endured and survived, the process to be repeated much too frequently.”

  Figg grunted. “Nothin’ built to last, you say.”

  Poe nodded.

  “Then why build a bloody thing at all? I mean in your New York you have people buildin’ one thing or another everywhere you turn. A man cannot stroll about your fair city without he gets the dust of cement and plaster in ‘is nostrils.”

  Poe fingered the woman’s cloak found last night near his cottage. It lay across his knees warming him. “We call that the spirit of ‘go-ahead,’ Mr. Figg. The ‘go-aheads’ tear down the beautiful old Dutch housing and churches of this city, to replace them with the ugly, cramp
ed wooden tenements needed to house a growing immigrant population, that welcomed source of cheap labor for a growing nation. New York feeds on progress, Mr. Figg and progress feeds on destruction.”

  Poe’s finger found the hole in the cloak made by the ball from Figg’s flintlock. “‘Go-ahead.’ ‘Self-improvement.’ These words sound better than greed. Well, let us trust to the almighty that we reach New York without mishap, where we shall continue our search for Hamlet Sproul.”

  Figg patted the flat, black wooden box on the seat next to him, the box that held his two flintlocks. “And we has a chat with Miles Standish, for if ‘e’s the one what turned on the gas, I would like to know why. If ’e ain’t, it’s time he led us to Jonathan.”

  He looked at the unfinished piece of ham Poe held in his lap. “’Ere now, if you ain’t gonna eat the rest of that, give it ‘ere. Leastwise we eat on yer American trains. Fella what comes up and down the aisle has enough food on ‘im to feed a bleedin’ army.”

  Poe blinked at the noon sun, then closed his eyes against the glare. “Have you noticed something, Mr. Figg?”

  “Noticed that ham you ain’t eatin’.”

  Poe smiled and handed it to him. “Look around you.”

  Figg did so, fingers of one hand pushing the ham into his mouth. Nothing much to see. A long, empty train car with seats covered in faded brown leather. Floors stained by tobacco juice. Heavy oil lamps on the walls above every two seats.

  Figg spoke with a mouth full of ham. “Nothin’ much to notice, squire.”

  “Precisely,” said Poe. He leaned forward until his knees almost touched Figg’s knees. “Nothing to notice. This car is empty, Mr. Figg, save for you and I.”

  “What is so out of the way about that?”

  “Why should two passengers be blessed with a separate car? Mr. Figg, we have made three stops, taking on passengers at each station and no one has entered this car. Twice I have noticed passengers attempting to enter what seems to have become our private domain and twice the conductor has prevented them from doing so. The rear door”—Poe pointed—”is locked, for persons have attempted to enter it without success. It is the custom, yes, to have separate cars on American trains.”

  Poe leaned closer. “There is a separate car for Negroes, there is one for women and one for men. But I have never heard of such a distinction being accorded a poet and a pugilist.”

  Poe watched Figg’s bulldog face knot with the effort of sudden thought. “You are sayin’, squire, that all is not correct on our journey.”

  At the far end of the car, the door opened and slammed shut loudly. Both men stood up, looked and saw nothing. They sat down. Poe’s gray eyes were almost closed. “Odd,” he whispered, fingering the cloak on his lap. “A locked door slams shut. Yet apparently no one enters or leaves. Odd.”

  Figg started to say something and Poe hushed him. “Shhhhh. Silence, Mr. Figg.”

  “’Ere now, ain’t nobody in ‘ere but you and me.”

  Poe’s whisper was barely audible. “That is the question. Are we alone—”

  The assassins struck.

  Screaming, they leaped over the seats at Poe and Figg, two men dressed in the ragged clothes, burnt cork makeup and woolly wigs of black minstrels. Each assassin carried a straight razor. At the front end of the coach, the door crashed open and a third razor carrying minstrel ran down the aisle toward them.

  Figg leaped from his seat, arms extended to grab the head of the minstrel nearest him and with both hands behind the man’s neck, Figg pulled with all his strength. The minstrel’s face smashed into the boxer’s shaven skull, The Liverpool Kiss. A fighting technique named for that English port city where those who entered its waterfront taverns left as either the lucky or the dead.

  No time for Figg to open his black wooden box, to remove and cock a flintlock. Poe was down in the aisle, both hands pushing the woman’s cloak at the minstrel who slashed it once, twice, the razor glittering in the sun. Figg knew little Poe wouldn’t last very long flat on his back, what with another blackie running up the aisle with all the speed God gave him.

  In one motion, Figg’s hands gripped the wooden box and swung it from the seat into the minstrel’s face, driving him back, down, away from Poe. The box flew from Figg’s grip. Damn it to bloody hell!

  Now the man Figg had hit with the box blocked the aisle on his hands and knees, delaying the third man. Delaying, but not stopping him. He leaped over his fallen comrade and Figg backed away, swaying on the speeding train, seeing Poe crawl between the seats and disappear. Two down, one more to go.

  Figg continued backing away, fingers tearing at the buttons of his frock coat and vest. He felt his belt buckle.

  The third minstrel slashed at the boxer, who leaned back out of reach as the train took a sharp curve. Both men tumbled into the seats. Figg hit the floor, down between seats, smelling tobacco juice and urine, hearing the speeding wheels beneath him. The knife was in his hand and the roar of the rushing train filled his ears. He looked out into the aisle. Goddam Ethiopian was looking down at him, razor held high and ready to come down and draw blood.

  Figg kicked out hard, driving the heel of his boot into the minstrel’s ankle. For you, blackie. Enjoy it.

  The minstrel hopped back, teeth clenched against the pain, his black woolly wig now lopsided on his head. In the sun his real hair was bright red and there was white skin visible at the top of his blackened forehead.

  Now he and Figg faced each other in the aisle, both men crouched, swaying with the motion of the train. Figg’s frock coat dangled from his left forearm like a bullfighter’s cape, hiding his right hand which held the small belt knife. Closer me darling and we will ‘ave our little dance, you and I.

  Figg shuffled forward in small steps. Wouldn’t do to trip up now. The minstrel stayed in place. He was young, aggressive and the old man in front of him had gotten lucky with that kick. Just lucky. The minstrel attacked, slashing shoulder level with the razor, then backhanding the weapon at Figg’s face in almost the same motion. The train jerked, slowed, jerked, and the minstrel, leaning forward with his attack, was thrown off balance. He fell face down into the aisle.

  Figg, falling backwards, grabbed for the edge of a seat with his coat-wrapped left hand. Got it! He gripped the seat edge, keeping his balance.

  The minstrel was on his hands and knees when Figg kicked him in the head, sending him flying backwards and then Figg was on the minstrel, coat pressed down on his face, knee down on his razor arm and digging into the bicep. The knife stroke that cut the minstrel’s throat was smooth, deep; his feet jerked, his left hand came up to push Figg off, then it flopped back to the floor.

  Crawling over the dead body, Figg grabbed the edge of a seat to pull himself to his feet.

  Jesus wept!

  Poe was almost done for. In front of Figg, the minstrel he’d hit with his pistol box was edging towards Poe who backed away along the aisle, arms outstretched. Where the bloody hell was Figg’s pistol box?

  The speeding train rocked from side to side and Figg fought for his balance. No gun. Damn it all to hell. And the tiny knife lacked the balance for throwing. Too small, too light in the blade and handle. It was for close work and besides, who could throw anything on a train that moved like the engineer was in a hurry to get us all to hell in time for the devil’s supper.

  Nothing to do but have a go. Figg charged down the aisle, wrapping his arms around the minstrel, pinning the man’s arms to his side, lifting him from the aisle. Then Figg slipped a hand between the man’s legs and the minstrel was overhead, squirming in panic.

  Figg heaved him through a train window. The sound of shattering glass swallowed the minstrel’s screaming. Figg had only seconds to see the man disappear into a snow bank while the train sped on.

  The boxer collapsed into a seat, chest heaving, eyes on the groaning minstrel he’d butted with his head. This one lay back on a seat, arm and leg dangling over the side, mouth opened because he couldn’t breathe
through his crushed, bleeding nose.

  Figg glanced at Poe who stood trembling in the aisle, clinging to a seat.

  Figg snorted. “Thought these ‘ere blackfaced blokes was only supposed to sing and dance.”

  Poe closed his eyes and waited for her nerves to calm down.

  “Mr. Poe’sMr. Poe?”

  He opened his eyes.

  “Yer about to tear off a hunk of that nice seat cover. Yer knuckles is white.”

  Quickly Poe released his grip on the seat. Violence. It drew him as a bird was drawn to a hypnotizing snake. But his love of it was disgusting. Why did he love it so? And there was the exhilaration of it, surpassing that of drugs and Poe had tried mind expanding substances on more than one occasion, suffering depressions at the conclusion of such an indulgence.

  He’d wanted to embrace death, to end this life, but that was in the past. Now there was Rachel. His reason to live.

  Figg was on his feet staring at him. Poe looked as though he were about to cough up all his insides. Got to get him talking, get him moving about.

  “Jonathan ain’t the kind to give up, it seems.”

  Poe shoved his trembling fists into the pockets of his overcoat. “Speak to the man lying there. That one in the aisle, he is—”

  “No sense talkin’ to ’em. ‘E ain’t got much to say.”

  Figg looked down at the groaning minstrel now trying to sit up from the seat. Blood mingled with-the burnt cork on the man’s face and the sight was not a pleasant one even to Figg, who had seen more than his share of gore. “Who sent you, mate?”

  Behind Figg, Poe said, “The attack lacks Jonathan’s sorcery. These were paid hooligans, hired takers of life.”

  Figg kicked the minstrel in the leg. The man flinched with pain and tried to back away in the seat. “I says to you mate, who’s yer keeper? Who called the tune for this little dance?”

  Figg slipped into the seat opposite the frightened man. “Yer two friends is no longer with us. I can arrange for you to join them, if you wish.”