Matthew Pearl - The Poe Shadow

The Baron frowned patronizingly, but apparently could not help being flattered by the deference. "I must suggest you stay away from this matter and keep your handsome American pet on a leash-for he seems to have all the loyalty of a versatile monkey. I have already begun to gather the true facts of what befell Poe. Hear me now, Duponte, and you will remain safe. I must admit, my dear wife will slice the neck of any who try to inhibit me-isn't this love, though? Do not speak with any of the parties with information on the subject."

"What are you driving at?" I exclaimed, feeling my face redden, perhaps in defiance at his demand or perhaps in embarrassment at being called a pet. "How do you dare to talk to Auguste Duponte in this manner? Do you not know we have more mettle than that?"

Duponte's reply to the Baron, however, shook my nerves more than the threat itself.

"I'll exceed your wishes," said Duponte. "We shall not speak with any witnesses."

The Baron was insufferably pleased with his victory. "I see you do finally understand what is best, Duponte. This will be the greatest literary question of our day-and it will be my role to be its judge. I have begun a try at my memoirs. It shall be titled Memories of Baron Claude Dupin, the upholder of justice for Edgar A. Poe and the true life model for the personage of C. Auguste Dupin of the Rue Morgue Murders. Being a literary appreciator, I should be interested in whether that seems fitting-Brother Quentin?"

"It is ‘ The Murders in the Rue Morgue, '" I corrected him. "And here before you, Auguste Duponte, is the true source for Poe's hero!"

The Baron laughed. There was a hackney carriage now waiting for him, and a young black servant held the door for the Baron as though he were an actual royal personage. The Baron ran a finger across the door of the carriage and the spirals along its woodwork.

"A fine coach. The comforts of your city, Brother Quentin, are hardly to be surpassed, as is the case in all the wickedest cities in the world." As he said this, his hand shifted to grasp that of Bonjour, who was already sitting comfortably in the coach.

The Baron turned back to us. "Let us not be filled with so much friction. Let us at least be civil. Have a ride somewhere, rather than stumbling through the dark. I would take the reins myself, but since my London years I cannot remember to stay to the right side of the road. You see, we are not villains; you need not nullify fellowship with us. Come aboard."

"How about," began Duponte suddenly, in the tone of a revelation, drawing the Baron's full attention. "How about Duke ? Think of it: if they love a baron, they should love a duke to a correspondingly greater degree. ‘Duke Dupin' has a certain glorious ring to it in its double sound, doesn't it?"

The Baron's expression hardened again before he slammed the door.

For several minutes after their carriage rolled away, I stood bewildered. Duponte gazed with downcast eyes in the direction we had first seen the Baron approaching us.

"He was angry we did not go. Do you think he planned to take us somewhere to do us harm?" I asked.

Duponte crossed the street and studied an old building with a rudely constructed, plain brick façade. As he did, I realized that we were on the same block of Lombard Street as Ryan's hotel and tavern, where Poe was discovered and brought to the hospital. Muted sounds of nighttime gatherings could be heard from that building. Duponte now stood across from Ryan's. I joined him there.

"Perhaps the Baron was angry not because he wanted to take us somewhere, but because his aim was to take us away from somewhere," he said. "Is this the building where the Baron and the young lady came from?"

It was, but I had no answer when Duponte inquired about the ownership and character of that address. After having offered my expert services as guide to Baltimore! I explained that the building adjoined an engine house for one of the city's fire engine companies, the Vigilant Fire Company, and said perhaps it was part of the company.

The street door of the place from which the Baron and Bonjour had emerged was stiff but unlocked. It opened onto a dark corridor that slanted down to another door. A heavy-set man, perhaps one of the firemen from the adjoining company, opened the door from the other side. From the long stairwell behind him came down fleeting shouts of joy. Or of terror, it was hard to decide which.

The doorkeeper's sheer width was impenetrable. He stared menacingly. I thought to remain quiet and still. Only when he motioned with his hand did it seem necessary to move closer.

"Pass-word," he said.

I looked anxiously at Duponte, who was now peering down at the floor.

"Pass-word to go upstairs," the doorkeeper continued in an undertone that was meant to frighten-and did.

Duponte had entered a sort of trance, letting his eyes glide over the floor, around the walls, up the stairs, and to the doorkeeper himself. What a moment to lose attention! Meanwhile, from the doorkeeper's throat there could be heard a canine grumble as though at the slightest movement from us he would strike out.

With an explosive thrust, the doorkeeper grabbed my wrist.

"I'll ask you jack-dandies for the last time, 'cause I ain't joking. The pass-word! " It felt like the bone would snap if I tried to move.

"Release the young man, good sir," said Duponte quietly, looking up, "and I shall provide you with your pass-word."

The doorkeeper blinked dryly a few times at Duponte, then cranked open his grip. I pulled my arm to safety. The man said to Duponte, as though he had never pronounced the words before, and would certainly not pronounce them again without murdering someone, "Pass-word." The doorkeeper and I both stared at my companion doubtfully.

Duponte squared his body to his confronter and spoke two words.

"Rosy God."

EVEN WITH MYunshakable faith in Duponte's analytic talents; even with the breathless tales I had heard of his achievements from newspapers, commissionnaires, and policemen in Paris; even remembering what I had witnessed in the Parisian gardens and in the revelation of the stowaway on the steamship; even remembering that Poe himself had pointed in his direction through his tales as a genius separate from all others; even with all this, still I could not believe what happened in the damp corridor of this building. The doorkeeper glared, stepped aside, then motioned us forward to the threshold behind him…

The signal that had admitted us-as in some nursery tale of magic-this "Rosy God," I had heard occasionally on the street as a low phrase for red wine. What extraordinary cipher could have been seen in the floors, in the walls, in the stairs, in the doorkeeper's countenance or dress, that had led Duponte to decipher the code of entrance-a password that might change with the season or every hour-into this private and well-guarded den?

"How did you," I said, stopping midway on the creaking stairs. "Monsieur, the pass-word-"

"Aside! Aside!" A man lurching over the stairs from above squeezed past us. Duponte accelerated our climb. The raucous shouts from above became clearer.

The upper floor was a small room filled with smoke and noise. Firemen and tottering rowdies sat at gaming tables and called for more drinks from thinly clad bargirls, dresses only barely covering the milky white of their necks. One rogue sprawled out flat on a bed of sharp oyster shells, while one of his comrades kicked him over to the left for a better place to stand for a billiards game.

Duponte found a small, broken table more or less right at the center, where we were conspicuous. Heated stares followed us into our rickety chairs. Duponte sat and nodded to a waitress as though entering a respectable café on the sidewalks of Paris.