POE MUST DIE (18 page)

Poe immediately knew the boxer was right. And that only made him hate Figg more. “And you, I suppose, plan to protect us with all your might and main.”

“That I do, squire, that I do. That is, so long as you are of some use to me.”

Poe sat down on the edge of the bed. This wasn’t the way he wanted to visit the Astor House, Manhattan’s largest and most spectacular hotel. A pet dog had more freedom and dignity than Poe had at the moment, but Figg’s assumption about his immediate future had more than a ring of casual truth to it. It was night and the streets of Manhattan were normally dangerous and worth your life to stroll upon. Somewhere out there in the darkness, Jonathan, Hamlet Sproul and god knows who else, were indeed on the hunt for Poe.
Jonathan, who removed hearts and livers and burned them as offerings to the demon god, Asmodeus.

To keep Rachel alive, Poe was now forced to help Figg. There was no choice but to associate with this most wretched man.

Figg sat on the bed, pulling on his boots. He was disgustingly cheerful, whistling tonelessly through cracked teeth, pushing air through them as though it were a Bach cantata. He also acted as though Poe had already agreed to stick by him.
You and me is wed, little friend.

“Oh Mr. Poe, I have a query. When we was comin’ in this room, I sees all them holes in the door, sort of near the lock. Can you explain please?”

Poe dropped his shoulders and sighed. “Those guests unused to gas light would blow out the flame, not knowing they were leaving the gas on. Gas is without color and can also be without odor. Inhaled in large doses, it can be fatal and since the ignorant blew out the flame upon retiring, they lay in bed and eventually died of asphyxiation.”

“As what?”

“Call it a form of strangulation. Strangulation by chemicals.”

“Oh dear, oh dear. Go on, squire.”

“Those holes in the door, plugged up now as you can see, represent previous locks. The locks were pulled out to allow the police in to remove the bodies.

Figg smiled. “I’ll be keepin’ that in mind. Are you acquainted with Mr. Barnum?”

Poe, who still wanted to scream, nodded his head.

“’Ere now,” said Figg, “that’s nice to ‘ear. You seem to have made the acquaintance of quite a few people in your time, Mr. Poe. Must be nice to be a writer and have so many folks come up to you and say how much they likes what you write. Very convenient, the hotel bein’ across the street from Mr. Barnum’s American Museum. Some people over there we gots to talk with.”

Poe shook his head, chin on his chest. Figg was stupid, insensitive, with no more culture than you would find in a tree stump and he reeked of a horrible cologne that smelted like cornbread and kerosene. When would these nightmares end?

Figg finished wrapping his long tie around his neck. “Tell you what, squire. Why don’t we go downstairs and have ourselves somethin’ to eat, then go across the street and jaw with Master Barnum. You and him can talk about old times and I can have a look around for some of them play actors what my wife was involved with. I could eat me a whole goose, feathers and all.”

Poe snorted, mumbling almost to himself. “Try an entire ox and do keep the hooves on.”

“What was that, squire?”

“I would like to leave the room now,” Poe hesitated. “In your company, of course.”

“Squire, them’s me thoughts exactly. You do look a little peaked and the night air would do you good, I expects.” Figg tucked the two pistols in the pockets of his long black coat. When he saw Poe looking at him, Figg frowned, “you don’t expects me to go ‘round naked, does you?”

Poe turned his back to him and walked to the door. “Why not? This
is
our wedding night, I am told.”

Figg laughed and continued to laugh as the two men walked down the hall, the boxer with an arm around Poe’s shoulders. “Say squire, did I tell you that Mr. Dickens stayed at this hotel when he comes over in eighteen and forty-two? Says to me, he says “Mr. Figg. Do make sure you guard your ears against that awful gong the Americans use to summon guests to the dining room. It horribly disturbs us nervous foreigners,’ he says.”

And you nervous foreigners, thought Poe, irritated by the weight of Figg’s right arm across his shoulders, horribly disturb us native Americans, which seems to concern no one quite the way it concerns your obedient servant, E. A. Poe.

FIFTEEN

O
RDINARILY
, M
ILES
S
TANDISH
found it easy to dismiss Hugh Larney as useless, no more worth listening to than a crow cawing over a bit of rotten fruit. Larney talked too much and was a nouveau riche social climber with pretensions to culture; Standish cringed when Larney effected a British accent in a falsetto voice. Like others, he laughed behind Larney’s back when Larney lavishly spent his newly acquired riches in a desperate attempt to make friends among those he called “Manhattan’s quality elite.”

But as Water finds its own level, so did Hugh Larney find his. He was a gambler, preferring the sporting world of horse racing, dog fights and pugilists. He was a sensualist, preferring the company of child prostitutes, little girls procured especially for him by a blind Dutch pimp named Wade Bruenhausen. None of the wealth gained from selling impure food to thousands could hide the fact that Hugh Larney was weak and self indulgent.

This noon, however, Miles Standish hung on every word coming from Larney’s dime-sized mouth. Larney was telling him about a bizarre duel to the death about to be fought several feet from where the two men stood in ankle deep snow under a huge oak tree. Larney, thirty-five, little and dapper in customed British tailoring, with a clean shaven face of angles—long nose, pointed chin, thin triangle of blond hair for eyebrows—talked while sipping chilled champagne from a blue-purple goblet.

“A most unusual confrontation, dear Miles. Each duelist naked to the waist, clothed merely in trousers and boots, and seated inside that coach yonder, the one with abominable brown paint peeling from its side. Once inside the coach, left arms to be bound at the wrist and forearm and each man to be armed with a stiletto, honed steel I might add. Steel sharp enough to slice the wind and make it bleed. The morning cries out for a keen blade. ’Tis such a bore to watch grown men merely scratch each other like playful kittens.”

“’Tis indeed,” mumbled Standish, eyes on the brown coach, surprised at being so fascinated by what was to take place. A duel to the death in a coach. Why?

As Larney became more excited, his voice became more British. New York was still strongly English in matters from fashions to table manners, and this some seventy odd years after the war for independence. Snobs like Larney could keep that influence alive for another hundred years, thought Standish.

Larney sipped champagne, his long nose digging into the goblet. “Ummm, scrumptious stuff, this. Now dear Miles, do listen most carefully. The coach will travel twice around this rather dreary little racetrack, giving the two men inside ample time to kill one another. There is some snow as you can see, but the way is not impassable. We are having some of it cleared, hence the wait. Twice around, matter of minutes wouldn’t you say? Survivor of the journey to win twenty dollars in gold, said purse proffered by me. Oh do allow me to tell you how I conceived the idea.”

He swallowed champagne, patted himself gently on the chest with a hand covered by a doeskin glove. “I tell a lie. The idea is not mine. Occurred in Paris, actually. Twelve years or so ago. Two French army officers selected this method of settling differences. Right in the heart of Paris, can you imagine? Twice around a great square and to be expected, one officer suffered mortal wounds. Perished, poor fellow. The other was also seriously damanged. Close quarters, you see. Nowhere to run, each man in constant contact with the other. The beautiful part of this, Miles, is that no one can actually see what occurs in the coach. You watch, you wonder, your mind soars, your imagination races and perhaps, perhaps you hear a scream, a cry of pain, a plea for mercy and then the coach speeds by you and your heart pounds and you wait for the journey to end. Some of us here have placed a wager or two. Would you care to indulge?”

Miles Standish, repelled and attracted by the upcoming duel, shook his head. “I rode out into this godforsaken wilderness to talk with you and Volney Gunning about removing Poe.”

“Yes, yes. I know. Bear with me please. Let us not speak of that wretch until the duel is completed.” Hugh Larney took a perfumed handkerchief from his sleeve and gently touched his long nose with it. A puny little fop, thought Standish. Serves him right if Poe is the instrument to topple him from his precarious perch.

“Hugh, you sound like the Prince of Wales for God’s sake. By the way, do you mind telling me how you were able to find two men willing to die for twenty dollars and the amusement of your guests?”

Larney smiled, reaching down into the snow for the almost empty bottle of champagne. “In my travels, dear Miles—”

“Slumming, dear Hugh.”

“Slumming. Encountered two men, one Mr. Brown Boole and one Mr. Oliver Van Meter. They were in front of that rather colorful dance hall, the Louvre—”

“A hellhole of thieves, whores, cutthroats.”

“It amuses me and my friends. They had never seen such a place and as I am well known in all colorful quarters of Gotham, I escorted them there. In front of the place, Mr. Boole and Mr. Van Meter were arguing over the proceeds of a recent robbery in which they have been participants. The argument was over the division of eighteen cents they had removed from the victim and they were about to kill one another over this small yield. I had always wanted to see the Parisian duel, having heard so much about it from friends who have been to Paris. So I simply arranged it. I offered each man five dollars then and there to stop fighting, which they most eagerly accepted. Then I made arrangements for them to remain at peace with one another until I could arrange this duel and here they are today prepared to annihilate one another for more money than either man has ever seen in his life.”

Standish nodded, drawing his greatcoat tighter around his neck. Just the sort of thing one could expect from Hugh Larney and the type of people he attracted. Standish looked around at the dozen or so men who stood in small groups near carriages and sleighs, eating Hugh Larney’s food and drinking his champagne while waiting for the duel to begin. The small, private racetrack, located on an abandoned horse farm owned by Larney, was nothing more than a section of land crudely cleared of trees and stumps. The farm was several miles beyond New York City limits, which ended at 42nd Street. Beyond 42nd Street lay the two-thirds of Manhattan that was still farmland, woods, swamps and mountains.

On the property was a modest-sized wooden house, barn and two small shacks, all empty, gutted and stripped of anything useable, all crumbling, decayed and weather destroyed. Hugh Larney, who also made money in real estate speculation, had decided to stop breeding horses on this hundred acres and wait until Manhattan inevitably expanded northward, thus greatly increasing the value of his farmland.

Miles Standish glanced at Hugh Larney’s carriage, catching a glimpse through an open door of Dearborn Lapham, the incredibly beautiful child prostitute Larney had brought to the duel as his guest. Dearborn’s expensive clothing was all paid for by Larney, who would occasionally allow her to keep one or two of the articles. Bruenhausen, the blind Dutch pimp, invariably sold the clothing, pocketing the money. In the carriage, Dearborn Lapham poured iced champagne and dispensed food to Larney’s male guests, accepting their smiles, playful taunts, soft-spoken lust. Standish knew that Larney was parading the girl in front of the men, showing her off for those who appreciated the charms of little girls.

Leaning against the carriage and never too far from Larney was another piece of flesh the food merchant owned and was proud of: Thor, twenty-five, a Negro boxer, 6’7” and Hugh Larney’s muscular bodyguard, driver and private man, a man who did as ordered and never asked questions. Miles Standish, despite abolitionist sympathies, found the confident Thor, with his controlled arrogance, to be annoying and intimidating. Thor’s grin and politeness were traits supposedly proper to his station as a colored, traits indicating that he knew his place.

But Standish found the Negro’s grin to be sly, his politeness to be sardonic. Hugh Larney won money matching Thor against other boxers, black and white, all of whom the Negro had easily and brutally defeated. There were rumors that Thor killed men at Larney’s request. It was no rumor that Thor had waited in darkness to give a bloody beating to anyone who had somehow irked Larney, which is why few dared to laugh at Larney’s pretensions to his face. Standish, like others, had no wish to receive a night visit from the terrifying Thor.

Police and other authorities had yet to investigate a complaint regarding Thor’s massive fists. Thor’s arrogance and immunity were firmly rooted in Larney’s money.

Hugh Larney wiped his dripping nose with his silk handkerchief, then pointed with his goblet of champagne to a tall man who walked through the snow towards Larney’s carriage. “Ah yes, dear Volney has returned. One wonders what masterful cash deal he has perpetrated while sitting in Prosper Benjamin’s carriage for lo these past few minutes.”

Miles Standish watched his own breath turn to steam in the cold air. Prosper Benjamin was a thief and a rascal and so was Volney Gunning. Prosper Benjamin owned ships which were faulty and deadly to sail in, sailing them out of European ports, filling them with immigrants desperate to come to America, crowding men, women and children into dark, narrow berths on board these “coffin ships.”