POE MUST DIE (36 page)

Laertes said, “It is a shame about Mrs. Coltman. Even the police cannot help her.”

Jonathan sat down, extending a leg so that Laertes could pull a boot on it. The hunt was almost over and all that he had ever dreamed of was almost within his grasp. First Sproul, then the corpse of Justin Coltman. And the Throne of Solomon. He closed his eyes, dizzy with the thought of it all.

“Servants have described the Irish looters to the police and it is a dolt who does not know where Irish thugs run to ground. The constabulary has detected her whereabouts as being in Five Points, but it has not pinpointed her as being in the Old Brewery. The police, as usual, will refuse to enter that building under any circumstances, preferring to live as cowards rather than die as underpaid heroes.”

Boots on, Jonathan stood up. He felt strong, invincible. Asmodeus would be pacified. One way or another, Jonathan would hold the demon at bay until he could complete the ritual. Just get the body from Sproul. That’s all. And he now knew where Sproul was.

“Be grateful for the vices of men, Laertes. In Five Points, the looters of Rachel Coltman’s richly furnished Fifth Avenue mansion are selling their ill-gotten gains to buy the swill that passes for alcohol.”

Jonathan reached for his cloak. “And drunken men talk, Laertes. They talk of a beautiful woman with long red hair, who is held prisoner in the Old Brewery. And those
I
pay talk to
me.
Yes, Laertes, one must drink a toast to vice.”

He paused. “Sarah is overdue. Should she return while I am gone, tell her to remain here. She is to forget about Lorenzo Ballou until I come back, for if I have the body of Justin Coltman, then the ritual must begin at once. I will need help.”

Laertes nodded.

Jonathan sneered. “I look forward to hearing of Sarah’s visit to Poe cottage, where our indigent poet shares quarters with his aged mother-in-law. Did you know, Laertes, that scandalmongers are busy with the tale of a romantic liaison between our Poe and his dear Muddy?”

Laertes snorted.

Jonathan said, “Mr. Poe avoids pleasures of the flesh, showing a discipline in this area that is missing in other parts of his life. I suspect, Laertes, that our poet is, forgive me, untouched. I suspect he is as virginal as new fallen snow, for his history indicates a lack of interest in carnal matters.” Jonathan chuckled. “He
is
ill, after all and where would he find the strength.”

He threw back his head and laughed. The laughter was the sound of Jonathan’s triumph, for he
would
conquer, he
would
survive, he
would
get the Throne of Solomon.

First Sproul. Then Justin Coltman. Leave one dead body behind in exchange for another.

And suddenly Laertes was alone in the room, never having heard or seen Jonathan leave.

THIRTY

T
HE ARGUMENT BETWEEN
between Poe and Figg was bitter; they were contemptuous of each other once more.

The two stood near a water pump on a crowded Broadway corner, keeping their voices low. Each was hot with his own anger.

Poe’s eyes were those of a madman. “You fool! I
know
the danger she is in. I have just come from her home and I demand you do as I say!”

“Demand?” Figg snorted. The little bugger had gone mental again.

“Yes,
demand.
Hamlet Sproul led looters in her home and now he has Rachel with him in Five Points. The servants told me—”

“Told you
instead of bloody tellin’ God almighty.” Figg jabbed a thick finger in Poe’s chest. “I been out ’ere in the bleedin’ cold and I ain’t departin’ until Miles Standish shows ‘is bloody face,
if
that is alright with you,
Mr.
Poe.”

Figg looked over Poe’s shoulder at the building housing Miles Standish’s office. The building was towards the end of the block and just a short walk from where Figg stood.

Poe. The little man had come running up to Figg with the tale of Rachel Coltman’s house being robbed and the lady herself taken along as part of the booty by Hamlet Sproul and some of his Irish brethren. Poe wanted Figg to leave with him now, to go to Five Points and look for Rachel.

Figg didn’t see matters quite that way. Twice Standish had tried to kill him and now Pierce James Figg was going to put a stop to any future attempts. Standish was not in his office. Attending a medical demonstration, according to the clerk in his office. Watching a cut up, Mr. Poe would say and when that was over, Standish would return. The law clerk was alone, his desk and stool drawn up close as possible to the fire.

Time for hard questions to be put to Mr. Standish. Time for him to tell Figg exactly where Jonathan was. If a man wanted Figg’s life, the boxer was not going to turn tail and run, especially when he knew where to lay hands on the man. Meanwhile Poe was acting like a man crazed. Carrying on about Miss Rachel. Well, it was hard cheese to the lady until Figg concluded his business.

The two men moved aside to allow an old man to pump a pail full of brown water, water to be used in drinking and cooking. Even though the Croton Reservoir at 42nd Street and Fifth Avenue had brought water to Manhattan, pumps were still being used in some neighborhoods, with a risk to pump users of diseases that were often fatal.

Poe clutched Figg’s sleeve. “I insist you come.
Now
!”

“Insist, ‘e does.” Figg jerked his sleeve free. “Me feet’s in place right ‘ere, mate and ‘ere they stay.” A carriage splashed mud on his leg. Mud and cold. Figg was up to here in both and he didn’t like it one bit.

“She will die!” hissed an angry Poe.

“She will keep. Leastwise for a little time longer.”

Over Poe’s shoulder and through the crowd he saw a cab stop in front of Miles Standish’s office. Three well-dressed, attractive young women stepped from it, stood on the sidewalk and looked up at the lawyer’s office which overlooked the street on the second floor. One of the women carried a suitcase.

Figg shifted his eyes to Poe. “You ‘ave been a right nasty sort over this Miss Rachel business. I ‘ave given me word to aid you, so why in ‘ell can’t you wait a minute or two?”

Poe raised his voice. “If she dies, I shall kill you. My word on that, sir.”

“Kill me? You’re daft. Fail to get your way and what ‘appens? Turns into a snake, you does. Best watch yer temper, little man. Ain’t had no food in me belly for a time and I got no love for this flippin’ cold, so you just best watch your step.”

Poe was a nutter. The man had gone mental, that’s all there was to it. Next he’d be foaming at the mouth. Look at him now, stabbing Figg with his eyes and breathing like a man who’s just had a nightmare, which he does too often.

“I saved your life,” said Poe, drawing himself up as tall as he could. “And this is how you repay me.”

Figg’s patience was at an end. “You were bleedin’ drunk, mate. You didn’t know
who
the bloody ‘ell you was savin’.”

Poe stiffened. And Figg immediately regretted what he’d just said.

The boxer softened, laying a hand on Poe’s shoulder. “Lookee, I give you me word and I will stand by it. Just a wee big longer, that’s all I’m askin’. Let me talk to Standish—”

“Once more, sir. Will you accompany me?” Now people passing by were slowing down to listen and watch.

Over Poe’s shoulder, Figg saw him. Standish. Stepping from his carriage, tying the reins, then walking into the building.
Standish who could lead Figg to Jonathan.

The boxer tried to step around Poe, who blocked his way.

“Outta me way, Mr. Poe. Standish just went—”

Poe swung at him.

Figg caught the small fist with his hand, squeezed it and said nothing. His eyes were slits. He spoke from between clenched teeth. “With any other man, I’d ‘ave—”

He didn’t finish the sentence. Instead, he shoved Poe aside into the people watching the argument. Quickly, Figg limped towards Miles Standish’s office. Damn that little bastard Poe. Why did he have to go and do that? Could have got himself knuckled good. Got the boot put to him. Why did he have to go and do that? Miss Rachel was turning Poe into a lunatic.

Jonathan could be at Figg’s fingertips; he could be
that
close, Mr. Standish would sing a pretty song. Figg would see to that.

At the bottom of the narrow staircase, Figg waited while three young men hurried down, passing him then rushing out into the street, disappearing into the crowd. One of the men carried a suitcase.

Damn Poe and his rotten temper.

At the top of the stairs, Figg waited until his eyes were used to the dim gaslight in the hall. Then he found Miles Standish’s office and opened the door.

The clerk lay facedown under his high desk. Blood seeped from under his head and chest and his crushed spectacles, lying between his legs, glittered in the golden sunlight shining through the window.

Miles Standish also lay facedown. His head was in the fireplace, submerged in orange flames and the smell of burning hair and flesh was sickening to Figg. In the fireplace and near the dead lawyer’s head, a woman’s yellow bonnet crumpled and blackened in the fire. Standish’s arms were spread wide, as though he were being cruicified. Both of his little fingers had been removed and his hands dripped dark pools onto the wooden floor. Somewhere behind Figg, a grandfather’s clock chimed two o’clock in the afternoon. The boxer blinked, then covered his nose against the smell coming from the fireplace.

Outside on Broadway, a nervous Figg breathed in cold air deeply, eyes darting left and right as he looked for Poe.

The poet had disappeared.

THIRTY-ONE

R
ACHEL COLTMAN, NUMBED
with fear and naked under the blanket casually tossed to her by one of the Irishmen, cringed in a corner of a filthy room in the Old Brewery.

She kept her eyes closed and listened.

“No laddie, she is not sleepin’,” said a male voice. “She has her nose turned to the wall so she’ll not be smellin’ the likes of you, Sean.”

The three men laughed.

“Bleak moll she is wouldn’t you say?” Murmurs of agreement.
Bleak moll,
a handsome woman.

“Love to give that one a flimp.”

“Sproul would drive steel through the back of yer neck and out yer mouth.”

“That’s a truth, me friend. Dear Hamlet is not a fellow to cross.”

“’E’s not a fella what holds his liquor. Flat on his face, Sproul is, huggin’ the earth down the hall. Grievin’ does that to a man, it does.”

More murmurs of agreement.

And then a harsh voice. “Hands off me diddle or I’ll snitchell yer gig.”
Hands off my liquor or I’ll break your nose.

“’Ere now, we all took her clothes off so we all owns the liquor. Jesus God, what miserable stuff I’m drinkin’, but you know somethin’ boys? I love it, God in heaven above I love it.”

They all laughed.

Rachel shivered. Her clothing, the little jewelry she’d been wearing, all of it torn from her by the three Irish thieves as soon as they’d brought her to this small, dark cellar room. She burned with shame at the memory of their hands on her body, their leers, the vile things they’d said to her. Her clothing and jewelry had been sold for “Blue Ruin,” bad gin, which the men now drank as they sat around a table and played cards.

Dear God, dear God, she would die here. Die in the midst of the most terrifying nightmare she’d ever known.

She was a prisoner somewhere in the Old Brewery where men and women were stabbed for a handkerchief, where a child’s throat was cut for a penny. Her bare flesh rested on damp, black earth and she now guessed she was in the basement of the building, somewhere close to the hidden underground passages connecting the Old Brewery to the tenements scattered throughout the slums. The people living in this hellhole had long ago burned as firewood the floor that had once covered the ground beneath her.

He had said that Rachel would die here. Sproul who wore that monstrous knife on a leather thong around his neck, who claimed that Eddy Poe and this mysterious Jonathan had slaughtered his woman and two sons.

A liquor-slurred brogue came from dangerously close to her. “Warms ourselves with this goddam ‘Blue Ruin,’ we does and you know why? ‘Cause we ain’t got no gold-plated fireplace or fur trimmed cloak or no nigger servant to put the warmin’ pan in our fuckin’ beds like her in the corner has.”

“That’s ‘cause we ain’t got no fuckin’ beds.” More laughter.

“Seamus, come away from her. Come on, leave her alone.”

He was standing over her. Rachel smelled him. Liquor, the tobacco juice that had dripped down his shirt front. She clenched her teeth, arms wrapped tightly around her knees. Dear God, don’t let him—

A hand clumsily stroked her hair.

“Seamus, I’ll be tellin’ you no more to come away from her.”

“Lovely little morsel, she is. I’m thinkin’ I would like a bite of her.”

“Hamlet would kill you, Seamus. Interfere with his revenge and you’ll end up on the sharp end of his knife. Know this for a fact.”