The knight sat in the front room of his suite in the Bellevue on Broad Street several blocks off Philadelphia’s Rittenhouse Square. An open notebook rested on his lap. It was that gray hour before dawn when even the birds were not yet awake and the busy world remained blunted by a sepulchral stillness. The specter faced him from the corner of the room farthest from the darkened window. Sir Arthur learned from past experience to keep his distance. Like a mirage, the manifestation faded and vanished if approached too closely.
The Conan Doyles had been in the City of Brotherly Love for three days of a projected eight-day visit and, in spite of his hectic lecture schedule, Sir Arthur was up every morning before daybreak waiting for Poe’s supernatural appearance. He had not been disappointed. The ghost materialized, bright and early, the very first day.
When Sir Arthur described the ghastly murders committed in Manhattan, detailing how the killer duplicated crimes Poe had created in his fiction, the ghost opened wide his moonbeam mouth in a caterwaul of chilling laughter. And as he laughed, he slowly dissolved, whirling away like wisps of smoke in an icy wind until nothing remained but the disembodied laughter, a terrifying echo seeming to resound from the very bowels of hell itself.
Waiting in the predawn dark that morning, Conan Doyle remembered yesterday’s outrage, pondering the absurdity of his emotional reaction. Why should a spirit long deceased have any sympathy for the newly dead, no matter how grotesque their ends? And how absurd to assume the concerns of the living meant anything at all to those who had already passed beyond. Resigned to these disquieting realizations, Sir Arthur had a pleasant surprise when Poe’s ghost materialized as if on schedule and immediately brought up the subject of the murders.
Apparently intrigued with the notion of homicide as an art form, the specter continued: “It’s one thing to write about murder in the abstract, to invent a blood-drenched fiction is a fine fancy. But, how much more sublime to populate a narrative with actual corpses and render the scene in crimson gore instead of printer’s ink.”
“It’s not a matter of aesthetics!” Conan Doyle sputtered with indignation. “People are dying. Lives are at risk. My own quite possibly among them.”
This last remark prompted the ghost’s mocking smile. “Does a phantom worry about mortality?” The frosty eyes danced with irony.
Sir Arthur eased into an answering smile, his wit too keen not to see the humor inherent in the situation. “A metaphysical conundrum, I’ll admit,” he chuckled. The ghost stared at him. The knight felt a chill deep in his bones. “A more deadly riddle concerns me now. I rather hoped your fondness for problems of this sort might induce you to assist me.”
“It is indeed a mystery worthy of analysis.” Poe’s shade shimmered in the gloom. “Let us examine the elements already in play. The seemingly random nature of the crimes has convinced the authorities they investigate the work of a madman. Perhaps they are correct in this assumption, but it must be remembered there frequently is much method in any presumed madness. What better way to mask a murderous motive?”
Sir Arthur jotted down a quick note. “I quite agree. However, the possibility still exists that we’re dealing with a madman pure and simple.”
“If that were true there is no purpose to this exercise and we would be well advised to abandon any effort. Better to assume a discernible pattern and hope our investigation bears fruit.” The specter’s tented fingertips tapped against his pursed and pensive lips. “The sequence of crime was, I recollect: ‘Rue Morgue,’ followed by ‘Black Cat,’ followed by ‘Marie Roget.’ This progression duplicates the order of the stories’ publication. Logical to assume the next atrocity, when it occurs, will take as its inspiration one of my tales published at a later date.”
“Check Poe chronology,” Conan Doyle wrote in his notebook. “Are there any other aspects of these stories that strike you as fitting a pattern?” he asked.
“I can imagine a number of possibilities. The killer has a fascination with my work. It stands to reason, he must be aware of my interest in cryptography. Perhaps he’s creating a cipher for us to solve. The problem is knowing where to start. The letters comprising the titles of my tales might be one possibility. And what were the true names of the victims? See what can be made of the letters in their names.”
Sir Arthur busily scribbled notes. “Seems impossible,” he muttered, writing; “Mary Rogers. (Marie Roget?) Violette Speers. Ingrid Esp. Mrs. Esp. (What was mother’s first name?)”
“Nothing is impossible.” The ghost fussed with his disheveled cobweb hair. “Merely difficult… . Another avenue of investigation might be the victims’ street addresses.” Poe’s thin smile indicated his pleasure with the punning word-play. “Perhaps a numerical sequence will reveal itself …”
Impelled by his love of games, Sir Arthur jotted anagrams in the margin of his notebook. Working first with MARY ROGERS, he immediately saw MY RAGE, but that left SORR. He tried SORRY RAGE, and wondered what to do with the leftover M. “It could be anything,” he mused, half-aloud.
“That’s the beauty of it, wouldn’t you say?” Again, the wistful, mocking smile.
“SORRY GAMER…?” Sir Arthur tapped his pen against the page, wondering if he should try the letters from all the names at once. Even then, how could he be sure of finding a hidden message? Perhaps the names of unknown victims not yet dead were needed to complete the anagram. Absolutely no way to tell. “Beautiful in the abstract,” he said. “Unfortunately, this is very real. A life and death matter.”
“Arthur… ?” Jean looked in at him from the bedroom doorway. “Are you all right?”
“Couldn’t be finer, darling. Come join us. There’s someone here I’d very much like you to meet.”
She sat beside him on the sofa, teasing: “Is it a life and death matter?”
“In a manner of speaking.” He clasped her hand in his. “My dear, allow me to present to you, Mr. Edgar Allan Poe.”
Jean glanced all around. “Where, Arthur?”
The knight gestured at where Poe’s ghost had moments before been seated. The empty space looked all the more void for having been so recently occupied. “Why, he was just there. Big as life, if you’ll excuse the inappropriate simile.” Sir Arthur’s brave smile verged on bewilderment. “You do believe me, don’t you?”
“Of course, my darling.” Jean hugged her husband, kissing him tenderly on the cheek. His skin had a sickly gray pallor and dark circles underscored his eyes. “You really should get more rest, poor dear.”
“Poe was here, Jean,” he insisted, “right in this room. It’s not merely exhaustion.”
“Of course not. I wasn’t doubting your veracity. But, I’m worried about you. Your lecture schedule is so demanding, and now with you investigating this Poe phenomenon, you’re getting even less sleep. I know your energies are equal to those often ordinary men, but even the stalwart need rest occasionally.”
Sir Arthur patted her hand. “My sweet guardian angel …”
“Don’t patronize me, Arthur. I love you and want the best for you. Now, remember your luncheon engagement. It’s a newspaper interview and you know how grueling they can be.”
“I’d much prefer climbing into a cage with a man-eating tiger.”
“And, there’s the mayor’s reception tonight after the lecture. Not to mention dinner with Leopold Stokowski. You’ll need all the rest you can get and I’m taking charge.”
“Are you, indeed?”
“I am, my darling. You’re coming straight back to bed and get some decent sleep.”
The knight gave his wife’s knee a gentle squeeze. “Perhaps if something a bit more indecent were being offered …?”
“Oh, Arthur, you are a such a charming rogue.” She rose to her feet and held out her hand. “Come on then, I’ll tuck you in and we’ll see what can be arranged.”
At one-thirty that afternoon, sipping a cup of black coffee, Damon Runyon awaited his luncheon appointment at a table in Bookbinder’s Restaurant.
He looked very dapper in a double-breasted blue linen blazer, white flannel trousers with a pale blue pinstripe, and a bold red silk necktie from Sulka. He was in town to cover a doubleheader the next day between the Yankees and Connie Mack’s Athletics. A scheduled interview with the New York manager, Miller Huggins, had been canceled at the last minute and the enterprising reporter cast about for another story to fill his column. Sir Arthur Conan Doyle fit the bill exactly.
The knight arrived fifteen minutes late, apologizing for his unfamiliarity with the city and a cab driver who seemed determined to take him on a scenic tour. “When I saw the historic steeple of your esteemed Independence Hall for the third time, I realized I was on a wild goose chase.”
“You got taken for a ride, all right,” Runyon smirked. “Once a cabby gets an earful of your limey accent he figures he’s found himself a mark. Then, watch out, brother, let the sightseeing begin.”
Without further ado, they settled in and went to work on the warm Parker House rolls. “Mr. Runyon, I understand you to be a sporting reporter.” Sir Arthur plucked a fat green olive from a bowl of crushed ice studded with celery and carrot sticks like jewels in a crown. “I seem an odd subject for someone of your professional interests.”
“Not a bit. Didn’t you once score a century at Lord’s? Not to mention bowling W. R. Grace.”
“Good Lord, old man, are you a cricket fan?”
“Not exactly. Baseball’s more my game. But I do know your bit with Grace was comparable to striking out Ty Cobb”
“I take that as a high compliment, although I cannot speak from any experience. Been told your national pastime is rather like our game of rounders.”
“You’ve never been to a ballgame?” Damon Runyon watched the negative shake of the Englishman’s head. “When do you plan on being back in New York?”
“Perhaps for a short bit in July. I can’t say with any certainty. But definitely in the fall, before we sail home.”
“Tell you what. The Giants are the world Champs for the past two years. If they win the pennant again, I’ll get you a seat in the press box for a Series game.”
“Capital! That would be jolly nice of you.”
“Don’t go pinning any medals on me just yet.” Runyon glanced at the menu. “Heard you were quite handy with your dukes, once upon a time.”
“I beg your pardon?” Sir Arthur frowned.
“Word has it you were a top-notch amateur boxer.”
“Pugilism was indeed a favorite activity as a younger man. Still like to spar a bit with a suitable partner.”
A heavyweight from the look of you. Been to any fights in this country?”
“Alas, my schedule has kept me far too busy.”
“Firpo goes up against Willard next month in Jersey City. I’ll be at ringside. Say the word and I’ll save you a seat.”
“That would be jolly kind of you. I’d very much enjoy taking in a prizefight.”
The waiter asked if they were ready to order. Damon Runyon said he’d like the mixed grill, while the knight opted for crab cakes and a salad. “What I’d really love is a decent drink,” Sir Arthur confided to the journalist. “A good stiff scotch and soda or, at the very least, some claret at mealtimes. It strikes me as patently absurd that your congress has legislated a man to be a criminal merely for enjoying one of life’s civilizing amenities.”
Damon Runyon sipped his coffee. “Got no opinions on that score. I went dry ten years before the rest of the country followed suit.”
“Is your abstinence of a religious nature?”
Runyon shook his head, tapping the middle of his chest with a slim finger. “Ticker,” he said, his eyes glazing with disinterest. He seemed eager to change the subject. “You ever hear the story of the time Bat Masterson washed his hair with whisky?”
“Who is Bat Masterson?”
“Friend of mine. Sportswriter for the New York Morning Telegraph. Before that, he was a lawman and gunfighter on the western frontier. Rode with Wyatt Earp. I grew up in Pueblo, Colorado, listening to stories of Wild Bill Hickok and the Earps and Bat Masterson. Couldn’t get enough of those stories when I was a little shaver. Never dreamed one day I’d be hanging out with Bat on Broadway.”
Sir Arthur’s eyes twinkled. The notion of a gunslinger turned reporter appealed to his sense of the bizarre. “Did your friend find the pen to be mightier than the six-gun?”
“Bat had no literary style but he had plenty of moxie. There was nothing he was afraid to say in print. Cashed in his chips two years back. Must’ve been sixty-five or better. Found him slumped over his typewriter one morning at the office. His last words were written there for everyone to see: ‘In this life we all get an equal share of ice. The rich get it in the summer and the poor get it in the winter.’ “
“Pure prairie poetry.”
“That was Bat.”
The food arrived. Both men praised its excellence after a quick sampling. “Best grub in town,” came Damon Runyon’s succinct assessment. Between contented mouthfuls, the reporter spun the web of his interview. He had an infallible method for conducting such inquiries.
Meet the subject in a first-class restaurant. Unload a few anecdotes to set him at ease. Grease the wheels with plenty of bullshit and compliments. Offer up tickets to some sporting event, always a good ploy for creating a sense of gratitude. Finally, when the subject was lulled by fine food and, better still, strong drink; time to unload the heavy artillery. Damon Runyon narrowed his eyes behind his round, rimless glasses and drew a bead on Sir Arthur Conan Doyle as the knight started in on his second crab cake.
“About this spiritualism business…?” The reporter avoided Sir Arthur’s blue eyes, looking instead at a bit of grilled tomato harpooned on the tines of his fork. “Would you say it was some new form of religion?”
“It’s certainly not a religion in any traditional sense.” The knight spoke with quiet gravity. “Although it shares the notion of faith. Without a profound personal belief no religion could exist for long. Certainly spiritism is not incompatible with any existing religion. I know of many practicing and devout Christians who regularly attend séances.”
“And do you regard your current work in this country as ‘spreading the faith’?”
Sir Arthur wiped his mustache with his napkin. “I can only relate the great degree of comfort and serenity my belief has brought to me. At the risk of sounding altogether immodest, I feel it is my duty to share this profound solace with as many who will listen to my message.”
This time, the newspaperman’s glacial gaze met Sir Arthur’s eyes directly; his voice cracked like a whip. “And how do you feel about the pain and suffering caused by your words of faith?”
“I beg your pardon.”
“I’m talking about the rash of suicides that have occurred as a direct result of your recent lectures.”
“Suicides? I’m not aware of any suicides.”
Damon Runyon’s predatory shark-slit smile softened just a touch. “They’ve been front page news back home. Even the august New York Times devoted three inches above the fold to the Maude Fancher affair. Haven’t you seen any clippings?”
“My manager, Mr. Keedick, sends me the reports from the press. I don’t recall reading anything about anyone by the name of Maude Fancher.”
“Odds are he only sends the good news. Maude Fancher murdered her two-year-old son and then swallowed a bottle of Lysol.”
“Good heavens. How utterly horrible.”
“You might say that. It took her a week to die. She left a letter stating she was inspired by your lecture on spiritualism.”
“Surely she must have been mad.”
“Maybe so. She had plenty of company. There was the guy who killed himself and his roommate. His note said there were no gas bills in the great bye-and-bye. Another character over in Brooklyn, a potter name of Frank Alexi, he stabs his wife in the forehead with an ice pick while she is sleeping. He tells the coppers there is an evil spirit shaped like
a raven sitting on her head. Said it flew over from Carnegie Hall while you are giving your talk.”
Sir Arthur’s face reddened with anger. “I certainly hope you don’t mean to imply I am responsible for these deplorable incidents.”
“I’m just a reporter. My job is to get the story. I leave the sermonizing and finger-pointing to the Bible-thumpers.” Damon Runyon pushed his plate aside. He enjoyed this immensely. “Quite a story, don’t you think?”
“It is a grotesque story. Clearly these people were not in their right minds. I have every sympathy for the tragedy involved, but you must understand that such actions as you have described to me represent a complete misunderstanding of what spiritualism is meant to be.”
The newspaperman stuck a Sweet Caporal in the corner of his mouth. “So, you tell me, just what exactly is spiritualism meant to be?”
Sir Arthur appeared distracted. He ignored Runyon’s last question while he pursued another thought. When at last he spoke, an edge of incredulity shaded his voice. “Did you say that man, the chap who murdered his wife, did I hear you say he thought he saw a raven on her forehead?”
“ ‘Once upon a midnight dreary …’ “ Damon Runyon thumbed a flame from his gold Dunhill, exhaling a plume of smoke through his nostrils. “You still working on that case? The Poe murders?”
“That was a misunderstanding. But surely, this raven business must be of interest to the police?”
“Even odds they gave Alexi a little taste of the third degree. But, it’s no dice, far as I know. The bit with the ice pick was strictly a family matter.”
The knight stared off into the drifting smoke above the reporter’s head. “A raven,” he muttered. “How extraordinary.”
Damon Runyon tapped his cigarette ash into the saucer of his coffee cup. “So, I gather Houdini had it all wrong, touting you as your own Sherlock?”
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