Matthew Pearl - The Poe Shadow

As I searched my own pockets for a coin to contribute to this lovely vision, I bumped into the next table, knocking a player as he shot at a ball.

"What in hell?" It was the roguish red-haired fellow. The best player in the arrondissement. Standing near him was a beautiful, but pale woman, with dark hair, who consoled him by stroking his arm.

The other nymphs I had encountered pointed and giggled at me from across the room. "Monsieur Englishman!" they kept repeating.

"You've ruined my game," he said. "I'll crack your skull into two! Get back to England."

"Actually, monsieur, I come from America. Accept my apologies."

"A ‘Yankee Doodle,' are you? Maybe you think you're back with the Indians then? What do you want here, stirring trouble?"

He shoved me hard several times. I nearly fell backward, barely regaining my balance. Somewhere during this ordeal-whether here or in the more dire later stages-my hat disappeared. With the next shove, I lost my balance, falling against a table, and watched myself sink to the floor in the café's mirrors.

In my next bit of memory, I was flat on my back. I thought it best to remain low, looking up to the ceiling where the old cigarette smoke of the place peacefully collected and continued forever in the mirrors like a fog rolling over the ocean.

A pair of arms broke through the cover of smoke and yanked me to my feet. The room seemed hotter, louder, smaller. Shouts and laughter floated in the background-though part of the raucousness was directed to one of the nymphs, who was now on top of a table and tripping the light fantastic with a dance. These shouts emboldened the Red Rogue. His sloppy mouth formed a sickly grin right against my face.

His breath was painfully sharp. "My best game ever," he said threateningly. Or at least whatever it was he was saying, it had a threatening ring, as I cannot be sure of the words-he was, naturally, speaking French and, for the moment, that language was all but lost to me. I hoped the elegant girl with the flower basket was not watching.

Then a voice came from behind me. "Monsieur, if you please!"

The rogue looked over my shoulder.

"I challenge you in a game of billiards, monsieur," said the same voice behind me. "And we shall wager whatever amount you choose."

Red Rogue seemed to forget me altogether, and pushed aside his girl, who wheeled around anxiously at the scene and pulled at his elbow.

"At my table?" said the rogue, pointing to the billiards table where we had collided.

"None other would be as suitable," replied Duponte, bowing precisely.

An amount of money was called out. This scene quickly attracted an audience, not only because an unknown player had dared to take on the champion, but because there was money-rather than the customary drinks-at stake, and significant money.

As though this might be a second Duponte, I looked around the café to make sure he was not somewhere else. Though overwhelmed with relief at my escape from harm, I instantly felt Duponte's mistake. In the first place, I knew from my observations of Duponte that he had no money should he lose. Secondly, there was the matter of this fellow's talent for the game of billiards. As if to remind me of this, one of the bystanders behind me whispered to his friend, "Red Rogue is one of the best players in Paris." Except he used the fellow's real name, which, from the mayhem of events, I no longer remember.

Red Rogue slapped his money on a chair. Duponte was busy selecting his stick.

"Monsieur?" the rogue demanded, banging three times on the chair.

"The money is my reward," explained Duponte. "Not yours."

"And what if I win?!" shouted his opponent, the red in his face turning purple.

Duponte motioned a hand at me. "If you are the winner of our game without forfeit," replied Duponte, "then you may resume your business with this gentleman unhindered."

Much to my despair, the rogue turned to me and seemed to savor the barbaric license that would be afforded by a victory. He even offered Duponte the honor of beginning the game. I tried desperately to think if Poe's stories had ever mentioned skill in billiards on the part of the analyst hero; on the contrary, Dupin professed a dislike for mathematical games like chess and pronounced the superiority of simple matches of whist in showing the real skills of ratiocination.

Duponte opened with a shot so terrible that several onlookers laughed.

Red Rogue became perfectly serious, even graceful, as he struck the ball with ease turn after turn. If I had ruined his best game ever, surely this was his second best. I held on to the hope that Duponte would suddenly grow skilled, or reveal that his ineptness was but an act of trickery. Not so; he became worse. And then there were only three or maybe four turns left on the part of Red Rogue before the game would be finished to his advantage. I was searching my pockets, with the thought of replacing my part in the wager with silver, but I hadn't brought more than a few francs with me.

This was most remarkable: through all of this, Duponte remained utterly composed. With each awful turn, his expression stayed perfectly untroubled and confident. This was increasingly upsetting to his opponent, though it did not in the least affect his excellent play. One reward of triumph is to watch the loser deflate. And Duponte was refusing to comply with this. I believe Red Rogue even slowed his victory in order to attempt to induce the proper degradation.

Finally, the villain turned to the table with renewed speed and a flash of anger at Duponte. "Here we finish," he said, then directed a boiling gaze of hatred at me.

"Yes? Very well then." Duponte, to my horror, shrugged.

In my state of fear, I did not at first even hear the commotion at the street door. In fact, it did not gain my attention until there were several people pointing in our direction. Then there burst in a man with a bushy orange beard who, other than the beard and a much larger frame, looked similar to Red Rogue. I saw Red Rogue's greedy, flushed face whiten pathetically and I knew something was wrong. My French had returned enough to make out the fact that Red Rogue had, according to this enraged newcomer, directed his romantic passion toward this man's lover, the girl standing nervously near the table. She now screamed at the larger man to forgive her, and Red Rogue fled into the streets.

Duponte had already collected the money from the chair and was departing by the time I regained my bearings.

If you are the winner without forfeit… The words circled my head. Forfeit. He had known-from the beginning-how this would turn out. I followed Duponte into the street.

"Monsieur, I might have been killed! You could have never won the game!"

"Certainly not!"

"How did you know that man would come?"

" I didn't. The girl on Red Rogue's arm had earlier been peering out the window every few moments but, if you observed, always keeping herself away from view of someone outside the window. Moreover, she did not merely hold Red's arm; she squeezed it, as though to protect him, and upon my challenge pleaded with him to leave-certainly not because she thought anyone could defeat him at this child's game. She knew-from having encountered him earlier in a state of anger, or having carelessly left one of Red Rogue's letters on her dresser, perhaps-that her other lover was looking for her. I merely observed her, and counted on the fact that he would soon enough come. When someone else knows something, it is usually unnecessary to discover it for yourself. There was nothing to worry about."

"But what if he had come only after you had lost the game?"

"I see you are of a very sensitive constitution."

"Would he not have committed some monstrous violence against me?"