My Clockwork Muse (2 page)

To see him for the first time, you would give
him little credit for the sensitive intelligence I knew he
possessed. A Prussian cast in the mold of a von Stueben, he would
look more at home drilling troops than solving obscure murders.
When he spoke, his great drooping mustache fluttered in the gusts
of his breath. The mustache was intended to hide a pronounced
overbite, which produced a little too much spittle for his—and
normally his listeners'—comfort, and his similarly constituted side
whiskers his rather clownish ears.

What he lacked in good looks, he made up for
in wit. From experience, I knew he had a way of couching his
probing questions in the course of everyday conversation.
Intellectually, I strove to be on my guard. Emotionally, I felt I
was not up to it. Not today. Not with my temples still throbbing
and my increasingly nervous attention fixed upon the broken down
wall.

I steeled myself, resigned to my fate. "Well,
let's have a look then, Inspector," I relented, straightening my
jacket.

The policemen moved aside as Gessler led me
to the far end of the chamber. He replaced his scarf over his nose
and as the stench of death grew stronger, I drew my unbuttoned
jacket across my face. Eying me expectantly, Gessler grabbed a lamp
and held it to the jagged edge of the breach, illuminating the
interior of the narrow cavity. As I inclined my head toward the
opening, I gasped at what I saw inside. I let my coat fall from my
face in astonishment.

"Good God!" I cried. "It is Fortunato!"

Gessler cocked his head. "So you know the
man?" he asked, but I scarcely heard his words. I could not tear my
eyes from the face of the corpse. Its flesh had turned a dark shade
of green. Its swollen tongue protruded from its mouth, held in the
clench of teeth exposed by shrunken lips. But what filled me with
terror was the manner of the thing's dress—a fool's motley and a
conical hat, supporting a column of little bells.

Fortunato.

"From my story," I said, my voice barely
rising above a whisper.

I soon became aware of Gessler's voice behind
me. I turned and gazed at him in bewilderment. It was then that I
noticed he had been holding a rolled-up magazine in his fist. I saw
that it was an issue of
Godey's
. He began reading, his eyes
moving back and forth over the page.

"...
'A moment more and I had fettered
him'
...
'Throwing the links about his waist'
...
'I
soon uncovered a quantity of building stone and mortar'
... Oh,
yes, here it is.
'I began vigorously to wall up the entrance of
the niche.'
" He lowered the magazine and gazed at me from under
his heavy brow. "With the man inside, as you know, Mr. Poe ... With
the man inside."

I looked back to the corpse and saw that it
was indeed secured to the wall with a length of chain.

"Do you recognize the words?"

"Why shouldn't I? They are mine."

Gessler raised the magazine once again to the
level of his eyes. He shook his head, chuckling thoughtfully. "'The
Cask of Amontillado'," he read. "Masterful, Mr. Poe! Your best
work, if I may say. Not to be read after dark, though." He wagged a
finger humorously, as if to admonish me.

I was about to chuckle in reply when from
inside the niche there came a tinkling sound as that of jingling
bells. I jerked around with a start. Could the dead thing have
moved? My impulse was to run, but when I realized the sound was
merely the result of some unseen effect of the body's decomposition
and not its reanimation, I caught myself. The corpse had merely
shifted slightly, nothing more. Gessler, enjoying my anxiety,
laughed.

But to me it was no laughing matter. It was
the jingling bells that produced the story's most evocative effect.
No sound from within the ever-shrinking aperture but the jingling
of the bells. That was the image that propelled me through the
writing of the story. Imagine it! Left to die alone in the dark,
thirsty and frightened, to lose one's mind before losing one's
life.

Fortunato
! By God, it was cruel. But
what choice had Montresor? Injuries were one thing. But insults
heaped upon insults—these could not be suffered!

"What's this you say about insults?" Gessler
inquired, spoiling my reverie.

I composed myself quickly, though it bothered
me that I had spoken aloud without meaning to. I feel my stories
deeply, and to see one come alive, so to speak... Well, it's not
something a man can prepare for. I said in a measured tone, "I am
merely quoting from the story.
'... injuries I had borne as best
I could; but when he ... when he ...'
"

"
'...ventured upon insult'
," Gessler
provided the words when he found me struggling.

"
'...ventured upon insult'
," I resumed
in a loud voice. "
'I vowed revenge.'
Yes, thank you,
Inspector. A clue to a motive, perhaps."

"Ah, very good, Mr. Poe." He turned to the
Irishman. "Officer, are you recording this?"

"Yes, sir, Inspector," the Irishman said and
he began scribbling in a little notebook.

Gessler turned back to me. "Tell me, Mr. Poe.
I am no man of letters, nor a scholar, but a simple policeman.
Could you translate this for me, please?
'Nemo me impune
lacessit'
," he read from the text of the
Godey's
story,
pronouncing each word with difficulty.

"It is Latin," I said.

"Meaning...?"

"
'No one attacks me with impunity.'
It
is the motto of the Montresors."

"Montresor...The architect of Fortunato's
demise, you might say." Gessler paused to laugh at his little pun.
"In your story, that is. The murderer. The man who walls Fortunato
up alive and leaves him to die."

"Yes, yes," I said. "It is a tale of the
imagination, sir."

"Of course. But I wonder. Would the writer of
such a tale be likely to harbor fantasies of revenge in his own
right?"

The implication of his words stunned me. I
had recovered from the shock of a man murdered after the method of
my story. Perhaps I had not yet come to grips with the fact of
two
murders committed in such a fashion, for the former 'Rue
Morgue' affair had momentarily slipped my mind. But I was not
prepared for the shock of being accused of this heinous act.

"It is literature, you oaf!" I cried with
such force that the cops around me straightened for action. "The
writer invents, dreams and imagines," I went on, "often out of
whole cloth. What you have here is an imitator, an impressionable
lunatic who has chosen to murder after the style of my story—a
story, need I remind you, that is published and known to all." My
fury slipped suddenly to mocking sarcasm. "Even so—Ha-Ha!—do you
think I would commit a crime from my own story? I'm no fool,
sir!"

Now, it was Gessler's turn to be stunned.
"Oh, my dear Mr. Poe!" he exclaimed when his shock had worn off.
"Certainly you do not think..." He let his voice trail off as he
gazed at me curiously. I stood with my fists clenched. "Oh, you do!
My poor fellow." Then he started to laugh and I began to relax.
"Oh, no, no! It is not my intention to accuse you, sir, but only to
elicit your aid." He held the rolled-up
Godey's
under his
eye and gave me a wink. "It is not Montresor I seek, but
Dupin."

"Dupin again!" I said with a mixture of
relief and astonishment. I was beginning to think the inspector
truly was an oaf. "A character in a story having no more connection
to me than that poor fellow in this wall has to Fortunato." I
thrust my head in the direction of the corpse.

"But I need your help, Mr. Poe. Tell me what
Dupin would say of the perpetrator of such a crime."

I laughed. "What Dupin would say! You fancy
this man—this character of mine—a genius! Ha! Inspector, would you
like me to tell you the secret of Dupin's brilliance?"

"By all means, Mr. Poe! I would be
honored."

Gessler leaned close.

"He knows who the perpetrator is before the
crime has ever been committed," I said gravely.

Gessler knit his brow. "How is this
possible?"

I gave my temple a tap with a forefinger.
"Because it's all my invention, Inspector. I create the crime, I
position the victims. I plant the clues to point in only one
direction—the perpetrator. Dupin has only to follow. Now, if this
were a story, I could simply tell you how it ends."

"You mock me," Gessler said, standing back
again with an embarrassed smile. "Very good, Mr. Poe. A fine jest.
But, no matter what you might think, I do not summon you here
lightly. I now have two unsolved murders committed in the manner of
your stories. I have come to an impasse on the first and I fear
that unless I act quickly the same fate awaits me on the second. I
must find this fiend before he strikes again. Who but you would
better understand the criminal mind behind these vile acts? If I
knew what the man was thinking, I might be able to catch him. If I
had access to the kind of deductive reasoning exhibited by your man
Dupin, I might be able to save someone's life. You, Mr. Poe, can
help me."

I immediately felt ashamed and apologized to
the man for my mockery. I bore the inspector no ill will and once
he had reminded me of the 'Rue Morgue' killing, I understood the
gravity of the matter as well as my place in it. I determined that
I would help him however I could, since, as he pointed out,
someone's life might be at stake. I decided to approach the issue
as if I were constructing a story.

"First of all, Inspector," I began, "you must
determine the identity of the victim. Of course, you have no doubt
already thought of this, so please forgive me if—"

"No, no, think nothing of it. Please
continue."

I noticed the Irishman scribbling again on
his pad. "If the murderer is indeed the same man, and if he is
indeed following my stories, then he is killing for similar
motives, I should think. In 'Amontillado', the motive is revenge
for long-standing injuries and insults. In
'Rue Morgue'
, the
victims were chosen by pure chance. Therefore, I would
say—
Dupin
would say—the murderer knows
this
man, but
chose the 'Rue Morgue' victim at random. Hence, there is more to be
learned of the murderer here than there."

"Very good, Mr. Poe. Yes, I see..."

In a way I began to feel as if I were in a
story. Strange to say, but I began to
feel
Dupin. To
Gessler's credit, I actually found myself wondering how Dupin would
set about solving this crime. If he could work backward, from
murderer to victim, perhaps he could work forward as well. I took
Gessler's lamp from him and approached the hole in the wall. The
stench struck me hard and I pulled a handkerchief from my pocket
and held it over my nose while I spoke.

"The man was walled up alive," I said. "You
can see the fingernails on his right hand are turned back. I
imagine when you examine his left, you will find the same. In his
madness, he had no doubt clawed at the wall."

"He was also chained," Gessler said. "And who
would bother to chain a dead man?"

"Indeed! But here's another thing. The wall
was erected within his reach."

"Yes..." Gessler said, apparently not
noticing that fact before. "Meaning what exactly?"

"Meaning the victim was unconscious while the
murderer erected the wall."

"Drunk, perhaps?" Gessler asked. "As in the
story?"

"Or under the influence of some kind of
calming drug. Perhaps you can find traces of it in the corpse. The
killer will be a man the victim had insulted and who had access to
such a drug, if one is found"

"And who is intimately familiar—and, I might
say,
obsessed
—with your work," Gessler added.

"Yes," I said absently as I lifted my lamp to
better regard the corpse's face. In my fright, I had not yet
examined its features in anything more than a broad—and utterly
horrified—manner. It was ghastly. At first glance, the identity of
the corpse seemed hopelessly obscured by patches of loathsome
putrescence. But when and I leaned forward into the niche and my
light fell upon the face, I felt as if I were subject to a body
blow of some magnitude.

"Good God!" I exclaimed, nearly dropping my
lantern inside the cavity.

"What is it, Mr. Poe?" Gessler asked with a
start.

A wave of nausea overcame me. The reek of the
body coupled with the sight of the ghastly visage caused me to
double over in involuntary spasms.

"I must have air!" I cried, retching as
Gessler directed his men to assist me. They grabbed my shoulders
and I continued to spasm as they ushered me up the stairs.

I needed air, yes, but I needed even more to
be away from the chamber, and to be away at once—
for I had
recognized the man's face
.

When Gessler's men released me, I tumbled to
the sidewalk. I fell to my hands and knees and remained for some
time gasping for breath. There I was the object of much bemused
scrutiny from passersby on the busy street, no doubt thinking me
some drunk expelled to the curb.

I suspected that I must have looked the part,
for my clothes and hair were as disheveled as those of a days'-long
binger, and my eyes, still blinking in the garish light of day, no
doubt reflected the feeling of desperation that overwhelmed me.
When I looked up, I saw only indistinct black shapes of men walking
and wagons clattering in the street beyond. Though I knew I was
probably recognized by many who saw me, I did not care. Giving no
thought to my dignity, I scrambled to my feet and hurried back to
my office just as quickly as my unsteady legs would carry me.