POE MUST DIE (35 page)

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.”

“M-Miles Standish. Hugh-Hugh Larney and Volney Gunning.”

Figg looked up at Poe, who nodded.

Poe said, “Rachel could have told them where we were. We must find the conductor, the bearded gentleman with the nervous twitch. He is somehow involved, for he is the one who prevented others from entering this car.”

“After that,” said Figg, “it’s me for Miles Standish and his fop friend, Mr. Larney. If they have any connection with Jonathan, I am all for beatin’ Jonathan’s whereabouts out of ’em.”

Poe nodded, chewing a corner of his mouth. “I fear for the safety of Mrs. Coltman. Events are moving swiftly and it is possible she is caught in this most treacherous current. When we reach New York, you seek out Miles Standish at his office and I shall go to the home of Mrs. Coltman. If she is well, I shall join you at the home of Miles Standish as quickly as possible.”

Figg grunted, getting up from his seat and walking back down the aisle to the body of the man whose throat he’d cut. After looking down at it for several seconds, Figg stepped between the seats and opened a window. Returning to the body, he folded his frock coat into a crude pillow, placed it beneath the dead man’s head, then suddenly drew it away, letting the man’s head fall sharply to the floor.

Gently touching the dead man’s forehead, Figg stared at him for a few more seconds, then stood up. When he saw that Poe had been watching him, he blushed as though embarrassed. Wiping the tiny knife on the dead man’s chest, Figg then stuck it back into his belt. “Let us be gettin’ on to look for that conductor, Mr. Poe.”

He pushed past Poe, found his flat wooden box, then reached up into an overhead luggage rack for his carpetbag. Without a further word, the boxer limped up the aisle, his broad back to Poe who silently watched Figg walk away from him.

Figg is an extension of the ancient tribes, thought Poe. The rituals still live within him and customs lie deep within the recesses of his mind and he knows nothing of how they came to be there.

Pierce James Figg. He opens the window in order that the soul of the dead man can easily depart. He makes simple the soul’s departure by
Drawing the Pillow,
using his own coat and he
Touches the Dead
in a most respectful manner, to show that there is naught but harmony between the two of them.

His face reddens with shame at having me see him do these things, for he does not like to be reminded of what he and Jonathan share, what all mankind shares, for we here on earth are unified in more things that we choose to believe.

Poe followed Figg down the aisle and into the next car.

TWENTY-NINE

J
ONATHAN’S FINGERS TREMBLED
with excitement, making it difficult for him to strap the scalpel to his left wrist.
The Throne of Solomon.
Within days, it could be his.
Days.

“Sproul has Mrs. Coltman in the Old Brewery. Yes it is a fortress against the outside world, but Sproul is not secure from me. I shall enter the Old Brewery and kill him.”

He held out his right wrist so that Laertes could strap a second scalpel there. Laertes said, “And you believe the body of Justin Coltman is there?”

Jonathan’s eyes were bright. “Yes. Sproul is where he feels totally safe. He is grief-stricken and his thinking has become more accessible to me, more predictable, though I did not foresee him revenging himself upon Poe, particularly in this manner. And note Poe’s penchant for survival. In tandem he and Figg removed the crosseyed Johnnie Bill Baker from this vale of tears. Our Sproul is making a final stand of sorts, therefore all that he considers dear or valuable must be near him. The body of Justin Coltman is not far from Hamlet Sproul. I shall have Sproul and he shall tell me the location of Mr. Coltman’s current resting place.”