Authors: Marc Olden
POE MUST DIE (4 page)
Dickens began pacing the study, marching up and down in front of Figg, warming to the task of performing before an audience. “One barters or pays in gold. Oh, there is
some
paper currency, but it is neither respected nor highly prized. The national government, the governments of local cities, banks, railroads and private citizens, each, sir, issues its own paper funding. One need not be a seer to realize that such an overabundance of financial paper cannot retain excessive value.”
He clapped his hands together once, stopping in place. “Gold matters in the new world, dear friend, and you now are possessed of a tidy sum. I can well afford to share my good fortune for I have prospered far beyond my wildest dreams, far beyond my worth some would say. I am told and believe that no English author, nay, no author in any language, is as highly paid for his labors as I, for which I thank both providence and my own ability to drive a hard bargain. Publishers. They are the bloodsuckers of our day.
“Now Mr. Figg, you are in my house and I beg you to do me the courtesy of agreeing with me in this matter. The money is yours, I lay no further claim on it and I refuse to entertain the slightest contradiction from you as to whether or not you are going to accept it.”
Figg attempted to interrupt. ”I had planned to sell me academy. There’s a person what’s interested. Wants to turn it into a hokeypokey factory. That’s a popular sweet at the moment, sir. Americans call it ice cream.”
“Mr. Figg, you also planned to place yourself in the hands of the Jews, did you not?”
Figg nodded. He had talked to the money lenders.
“Keep your academy, Mr. Figg. And keep the sovereigns. They will allow you to travel to America and seek out this man who kills as easily as I sharpen a quill pen. I recommend you sail on Samuel Cunard’s steamer
Britannia,
which also was my conveyance to America. Forty guineas passage money, I believe.”
“I have got most of that, sir. Thanks to your generosity, I’ll have no trouble with the rest.”
“Good. The journey will take two weeks, possibly less if the sea is smooth. It’s a most swift passage, but it has its adventuresome moments. I remember the ship’s cook got drunk on my crossing. Captain had him beaten with the fire hose. And we played whist on a day when the sea was in utter turmoil. Had to put the tricks in our pockets.
“Well Mr. Figg, to the matter of these envelopes. One is a letter of introduction to Titus Bootham, an Englishman who is editor and publisher of a small newspaper for Britons living in New York. Call upon him for any assistance in my name. He will gladly extend himself.”
Dickens smiled at the ceiling. “The other letter. Ah, the other letter.” His throat was worse, the pain was strong but he had to talk now, for he was speaking of—
“Edgar Allan Poe. Remember that name, Mr. Figg, for you will find Mr. Poe one of the experiences of your lifetime. He is an American writer who is also poet, critic and very much an individual. I met him in Philadelphia during my tour of America six years ago. At that time, let me see, yes he was a journalist.
Graham’s
Magazine, I believe. Yes,
Graham’s.
Highly intelligent, supremely cultured, though I cannot in truth describe him as the most lovable man on God’s earth.”
“Poe, sir?” Figg narrowed his eyes.
“Poe. Little Mr. Poe and his black cape. His enemies, of whom he has more than a few and his friends, of whom he has but a few, have bestowed upon him the nickname ‘Tomahawk,’ in tribute to his sharp tongue and aggressive talent for cutting up one and all in print. He can be most murderous when writing of those whom he considers inferior in ability to himself, which I am given to understand is everybody. He is possessed of a rather magnified opinion of himself. He is bitter, he can be amusing and it is my opinion that he is a man of some literary worth.”
“Poe,” repeated Figg.
“He knows the underbelly of New York. Underworld, theater, those consumed by the new fad of spiritualism, which I believe to be utter nonsense. He is a man of darkness, our little Mr. Poe, but not like Jonathan. Poe’s darkness lies in his mind, in his soul and he has effectively placed it on the page. At least that is my opinion. He is far from being a prosperous man and he is bitter because of it.”
Dickens coughed. “He, I feel, best knows the haunts Jonathan will be drawn to. We have corresponded on occasion and I fear his health is none too good. His wife died a year ago and he still carries that pain. This letter will introduce you and I trust he will be of service.”
“Yes sir.” Figg had doubts about service from such a man as Mr. Poe, but Mr. Dickens was trying to help him, so the boxer remained respectful.
“One further matter, Mr. Figg. The belt. Can you get it around your waist?”
Figg stood up, taking off his black frock coat. The belt did surround his waist, barely. Dickens nodded in approval.
Figg said, “Seems a bit firm near the buckle, I would have to say.”
“It is indeed and not from the added coinage. You’ll notice you do not slip the end into the buckle as you do most belts. It fastens onto a catch on the inside, leaving the buckle free. Now do as I say. Grip the buckle, then press that outside stud. Yes. Now pull sharply, Mr. Figg.”
Figg did as he was told. The buckle came free and he now held a dagger in his hand. The blade was small, but it could kill.
Dickens smiled. “Assassination has always been a national sport in Italy, which is where I purchased this belt for reasons which elude me to this day. As you have told me, the Italians are experts with knives and stilettos. Should stand you in good stead, I dare say.”
“Thankin’ you sir.”
There was a knock on the study door, and a woman’s voice said, “Charles?”
When the author opened the door, Figg saw a fleshy, large-breasted woman holding the small, white-haired dog in her arms.
“Mr. Figg,” she said.
“Mrs. Dickens.” Figg quickly slipped the dagger-buckle back into the belt and watched husband and wife whisper.
Then Dickens turned to Figg. “Mrs. Dickens says the dog has been barking at three men who have passed in front of the house more than once tonight. The men have now disappeared into Regent’s Park across the street.”
Figg said, “Jonathan’s men.”
“Are you sure?” Dickens walked towards him.
“Mrs. Dickens,” said Figg. “did you ‘appen to catch a glance at the men yeself, mum?”
Kate Dickens said, “I did, Mr. Figg, though it is dark and I cannot swear clearly to what I might have seen.”
“Is one carryin’ a small lantern, mum?”
“Why, why yes, he is.”
“Is one carryin’ a quarterstaff and wearin’ a high beaver hat?”
“I did see the staff, yes. The hat I cannot swear to.”
“Jonathan’s men,” said Figg. “Been on me since the hangin’.”
Suddenly Dickens was afraid and Figg knew it.
He said, “Sorry I am, sir, for bringin’ them into your home.”
“Don’t be sorry, dear friend. I can rush for the constable if you’ll stay here with Kate and the children.” Dickens placed his hands behind his back to keep them from trembling.
Figg picked up his black top hat. ”It is me they will be wantin’ and it’s me they will be gettin’.”
Kate Dickens said, “How can you be sure it’s—”
“I know, mum. ‘Tis my business to know such men.”
Dickens said, “There’s three of them, Mr. Figg.”
“Fightin’ is me trade, sir.” The boxer placed the black top hat neatly on his shaven head. “Jonathan would as soon do for me here as have me racin’ up his back in America. Perhaps I can convince one of the gentlemen in the park to tell me a thing or two. Thankin’ you, sir.”
Dickens clutched at Figg’s arm. “Please let me fetch a constable.”
“And what can we officially charge those three out there with, sir?”
Both men stared silently at one another.
“They have come into your home, Mr. Dickens. They shouldna done that. I haveta make sure your little ones are safe.”
Dickens took Figg’s hand in both of his. “Godspeed, dear friend.”
“God’s been somewhat delayed in helpin’ me of late, Mr. Dickens, so now I mean to take other measures, if you don’t mind.”
“Pray that we meet again, Mr. Figg.”
“You
pray, Mr. Dickens. I shall now go out onto the street and deal with my difficulties in a more direct manner. Thankin’ you once more and good evenin’ to you, mum.”
Figg touched the brim of his hat to Kate Dickens.
H
AMLET
S
PROUL SAID
of the dead man, whose body he had stolen from its grave two days ago and now held for ransom, “Let us call him Mr. Lazarus, for he too shall rise from the grave when you give us the money we ask.”
“I would like proof that you do indeed possess the body. At present, I have only your word and on that basis, I cannot ask his widow to pay ransom.”
“We could kill you, Mr. Poe, and place you beside the decayin’ Mr. Lazarus, You would then be close enough to ensure yourself that we do own the gentleman in question. You can count on your death at my hands should you play treachery with me.”
“Going into darkness and distance holds no terror for me, sir.”
“Explain, please.”
“Death. I am not afraid of it.”
“Darkness and distance.” Hamlet Sproul aimed his deringer at Poe’s forehead. “The poet’s touch.” Sproul squeezed the trigger.
Click.
The hammer fell on an empty chamber.
“One hundred thousand dollars, if you please, dear poet. And cash money. All in eagle coins. Paper money’s barely fittin’ for pluggin’ holes in a man’s boot, don’t you think.” Sproul’s smile was a quick glimpse of crooked yellow teeth surrounded by a blond beard streaked brown with tobacco stains.
Edgar Allan Poe blinked nervously. That filthy bastard Sproul.
The pistol was empty. And Poe had been afraid.
His small hands pushed down hard on the head of his cane, driving its tip deeper into the sanded floor.
He said, “You ask a lot in exchange for a dead man.”
Sproul’s brogue was slurred by liquor. “Poet, you must understand the ways of the heart. She’ll be lovin’ her husband ‘til hell freezes over. Actually, you both ought to be thankin’ me. Instead of her waitin’ to go to heaven to meet up with him again, I can deliver her man right here on earth.” Sproul snorted and the two other grave robbers supported him with sly grins. Poe could have calmly killed all three.
Hamlet Sproul was the leader, a small, bearded man in a red flannel shirt and eyes to match, thought Poe. Sproul’s floor length, green overcoat appeared to have been used in cleaning streets, and in addition to the deringer, which he fingered as a nun would beads, Sproul wore a bowie knife on a leather thong around his neck. The blade on the knife was a foot long and as wide as a man’s hand.
He was homicidal and almost drunk. Poe watched him drink his fourth
flip
, a sickening concoction of rum, beer, sugar and the touch of a loggerhead, a red hot iron dipped into the brew. Bartenders kept the loggerheads hidden to prevent the drinkers from having at each other with them. Sproul’s bloodshot eyes had the brilliance of barely controlled lunacy, thought Poe.
Poe, ill and hating the bitter winter weather, was in a grog shop, a disgusting gin mill in the Five Points slum. In this rum palace, which was no larger than a damp cellar, he sat at a table with the three Irish resurrectionists, who’d stolen the body of the wealthy
Mr. Lazarus
for ransom. At the widow’s request, Poe had agreed to arrange an exchange of money for the dead husband. Poe had once been in love with the woman, and loved her still.
“A large sum, poet.” Sproul aimed his empty deringer at a painted, ten-year-old whore who had just entered the grog shop and stood shivering near the door, her thin body wet with snow and unable to stop trembling. “But word has reached us that the lady is bee-reeved at the removal—”
“Theft.”
Sproul casually looked across the table at Poe and waited long seconds before smiling. “Heard about your sharp tongue. They say you’re a nasty little man of the pen, you are. I say
removal
of her husband’s corpus from its final resting place.” His voice dared Poe to challenge him.
“Theft.”
The word was in the air before Poe could stop it. Tonight, his courage came not from liquor, but from rage. Yes, he knew these ghouls would as soon spill his blood as spill more whiskey. Hamlet Sproul, Tom Lowery, Sylvester Pier. Three of Ireland’s worst exports. Paddy at his most loathsome. But in stealing Mr.
Lazarus,
they had harmed Rachel.
He said, “I am not here to agree to your demands unconditionally.”
“You are here as go-between for the weepin’ widow, are ye not?”
Poe watched Sproul’s eyes dart to the men on either’ side of him. Sproul would slaughter butterflies and gouge the eyes from newborn lambs if there was a shilling to be gained from it.
“I am here for proof that you have the body in your possession. Your note indicates that you stole it and indeed someone has, for it is no longer in place.”