Not Quite Dead (32 page)

Lacking proper springs, when the prairie schooner swerved off the main road (which was plenty rough in itself), Dickens was afraid that if this sudden spate of violent, unpredictable lurching continued for any length of time it would do his back an injury. As the ponderous carriage tumbled from ditch to pothole, the jolts seemed enough to
dislocate all the bones in the human body; at one point Dickens and his captors were flung together in a pile, like rugby players.

Eventually, at the command of the driver, the wagon rumbled to a halt with a great amount of snorting from the horses and the creak of leather harnesses. Immediately his young companion hoisted Dickens to a semi-upright position and, together with his fellows, slid him like a pole off the back of the wagon, where he promptly fell in a heap on the ground.

Above and around him a number of young men had gathered, dressed in the rakish way of his abductors, as well as a number of crones wearing wide bonnets and dresses the color of rats. Prominent among the former was the spare, handsome young Irishman, and another fellow of about the same age who appeared to be missing an eye. Beside the one-eyed man stood a young rowdy with the face of a codger. Dickens knew that face; he had seen many like it in the blacking factory, where he worked as a child.

Miss Genoux was nowhere to be seen.

“Charles Dickens, sor,” said the man with one eye. “There is a fellow writer in the house. You might fancy meeting him.”

CHAPTER
TWENTY-FIVE

Philadelphia

I
nspector, I am expecting that you know what our meeting concerns.

“Yes, sir. The Henry Topham inquiry. I have prepared a full report.”

A deep weariness came over Councilman Grisse as Shadduck reached into an inside pocket of his ridiculous uniform and produced a sheaf of paper about as thick as the end of his thumb. Grisse noted that it was written in the same indecipherable hand as the last.

“Mein Gott
, Inspector, I cannot read that.”

“Sir, I would not have taken you for a commander who don’t read his reports.”

“Inspector, I am not to be questioned from you as my inferior.”

“Pardon, sir. Right you are, sir. Still and all, you did ask for an explaining.”

“What I wish is that you please to give me the, what you call the
jist
of it.”

“Yes, sir. Well the jist is that we’ve got a deal of trouble, sir. When it comes to trouble we’ve got the whole elephant.”

Grisse’s eyes became glassy with incomprehension.
“Gott in Himmel
, what is that you are saying?”

“It is the Irish behind it after all, sir. Behind the murder of Mr. Topham. I calculate it to be one of their gangs.”

Grisse nodded gravely, though he felt a slight sense of relief, that at last they were on familiar ground. “How are you knowing this?”

“An informant, sir. I cannot speak of his identity for he is in a tight spot himself.”

“But of course. We would not wish to be troubling one of your informants.”

“He is with a gang, sir, with an Irish name I cannot pronounce.”

“A gang of Irish criminals? They must be arrested for this wrongdoing.”

“Indeed so, sir. But it is a bigger pickle on account of the fact we have no reason to arrest them.”

“A gang of criminals and you have not a reason to arrest them? Then how is it you know they are criminals?”

“That is a fair question, sir. You have tackled the jist of it again.”

“I do not see how have I done this.”

“I reckon it is a political crowd—leastways for the time being. Most of your criminal gangs have political origins of some breed or other, sir.”

“What is this you mean by politics?” asked the councilman, feeling apprehensive. “Surely you are not suspecting a political party.”

“Irish
politics, sir. What they have over in Ireland. We have seen this happen before, as you know.”

“Sure, when it is between Irish the fighting
es ist sehr greisslich.”

“This crowd is led by a Fenian-type feller who heads up an effort called the Irish Brotherhood. Gives a darn good speech too. An informant heard him address the Hiberian Society, so I went myself.
Darn
good speech. But what stood out in my reckoning was the times he mentioned publishing. Still, a real firebrand, that feller. It is all in the report, sir.”

“Yes, of course, of course it is in the report.” Grisse slipped the document into a drawer and closed it firmly. “Please continue, Inspector, I wish to be hearing it wery much.”

“Turns out the Fenian has a partner. One-eyed feller, gouged out probably, saw action, officer class, claims to be. Rounded up a herd of street Arabs then staked claim to some doings in Moyamensing.”

“Were you knowing this officer? In the war maybe?”

“Sir, a good many men were in the war. But I reckon that explains the mess at the Topham place. He weren’t mad at Mr. Topham, sir. He darn well
harvested
him.”

“Greislich!”

“The rest was to impress the competition, is my judgment.”

That is
nicht
possible!”

“Oh, it is an open secret, sir. Ask any dentist.”

“This is not politicals it is
cannibals
!
“

“In a way of speaking, yes, sir. Then I got to cogitating. A couple of days ago we had parley with Mr. Topham’s second. Name of …” Here Shadduck checked his notebook, which was so thumbed it resembled
a small brush. “A Mr. Bailey was his name. Feller had nothing to say, but he was plumb scared shitless. More a-feared than you’d expect in a feller with nothing to say.”

“How were you knowing that he was so frightened?”

“As a veteran I have seen fear before, sir. Just as I seen them other things.”

“Of course.
Das ist gannonk”

“What?”

“I ask pardon.”

“That is all right. Well, the fear in him told the tale. Told me for certain a political type gang was involved, don’t you see? As I said, the manner of Mr. Topham’s disposal was a sign of that.”

“How could you ever be concluding that?”

“A criminal-type gang would either shoot Mr. Bailey dead or pay him a sum of money. A happy silence either way, don’t you see? That is how criminals do their business. But the political breed makes a different piece of calico. Your political type puts a powerful terror in people, takes pleasure in it. If it is political, we are in a tight pinch, with no telling how it will come out.”

“What is it about the publishing business,” asked Grisse, “that is making for such wrongdoing?”

“That is the question in my mind, sir, you have penetrated the heart of it.”

Grisse sat back in his chair with a mournful sinking of his own heart. Philadelphia, the birthplace of the nation, was reverting to a savage state. There was no doubt about it. One day this deterioration will be noted by the press and the public, and officials who presided over the mess will be out on a rail. All the more reason, thought the councilman, to continue his reluctant support of Shadduck. Surely one day there will be a need for someone to blame.

“I think you are having the situation well in the hands, Inspector.”

“It is all in the line of work, Mr. Grisse, sir.”

“Then as part of your work I am asking what you are thinking of doing about
this.”

Extracting a small, thick envelope from an upper drawer, the councilman upended it on the table.

Out of the envelope rolled a human eye.

CHAPTER
TWENTY-SIX

Philadelphia

O
f late, it had not been an uncommon condition for me to awaken in a bad state, yet this one beat all. As I surfaced into consciousness, despair and hatred poured over me like a pail of vitriol—brought on by my oldest friend, who had ravaged my life and career, and had stolen from me the only two women I had ever adored. Even putting aside the former complaint, my mother and Elmira Royster were plenty enough to provoke a man to homicide.

But there was another logic, however twisted, at work in my mind. By dedicating myself to killing Eddie as my archenemy, I shielded myself from the overwhelming alternative—that I had somehow brought these disasters upon myself. In other words, the enemy was either Poe or Chivers. It was him or me.

As though to confirm my position, from the moment when I decided that I must kill Eddie I experienced no more thoughts of suicide. With Poe dead I could rest easy, if not happy, and die content, if not at peace. And if I died by dangling from a gallows, when the trap beneath me collapsed and I plummeted through space with a rope around my neck and my head in a sack, my last thought here on earth would be a happy one:
Eddie Poe is gone
.

However, if I wanted to murder Eddie, first I was going to have to find him.

Lying on the carpet in my room in the United States Hotel, I became aware of the letter beside my hand. I rose carefully to my feet, reread the letter (reading was easier with two eyes), then tore it into strips and ate it, washed down with a tumbler of whiskey. Then I entered the bathroom, took the bandage off my eye, and examined myself in mirror. My head looked like something that had been dredged from the bottom of the sea.

The eye throbbed menacingly, but it could perceive light and
shadow and discern vague patterns. On the other hand, it bulged like the eye of a fish, bloodred, with splotches of orange for contrast.

As well, and not surprisingly, my face appeared deranged. Seen in my present condition I would drive women and children shrieking from my presence. This would not do. If I were to find and kill Eddie Poe, I would have to somehow impersonate a normal man.

I pulled the bell for service. I fetched my bag, opened it, and applied a dressing to the eye, which I covered with a clean bandage just as the valet appeared, a fleshy, young fellow in his late teens, with an armful of towels and an array of tiny boils on his forehead.

“I should like my bath drawn at once,” I said.

“Certainly sir. What did you do to your eye, sir?”

“Don’t you know better than to pry into a man’s affairs?”

“Yes, sir. Beg pardon, sir.” The valet eyed me warily, he knew I was a bit off. I was going to have to come up with a better response to inquiries about the eye, for it was bound to come up again.

From this point forward, I set about impersonating a rational man, by doing what a rational man would do. I bathed. I put on clean linen. I shaved my face and filed my fingernails (ragged fingernails will give you away every time); I trimmed my sideburns and removed the pathetic sprigs of hair from my bald scalp. I applied cologne. I put on my suit, freshly brushed by my valet, and tied my cravat with no assistance and no mirror.

Grooming: the sign of a sociable, reasonable man, the disguise of a savage. Beware the man who has something against you, and has recently been to his barber.

I paid my valet a generous gratuity, which relaxed him somewhat, but he remained leery of me. To glimpse madness in a man is a bit like watching him vomit: you can never look at him in quite the same way again.

Having disguised myself as a civilized gentleman with a bandage on one eye, I made my way down to the reception area—the bandage gave me a rakish air, I thought—and surveyed the company. And took in much, for there is nothing like being out of one’s mind to stimulate the perceptions.

The lobby buzzed with newspapermen as usual, but there was a strained feeling to everything, the drawn agitation you sense in
crowded hospital waiting rooms, and on the faces of rail passengers following the announcement of an indefinite delay.

“I am Mr. Le Rennet in Room 207, and I wish to make certain inquiries.” I said this to the watchful, uniformed Negro behind the counter.

“I see you did an injury to you eye, sah?”

“I have a stye.”

“A stye, sah. Had un meself. Dandelion poultice go good fo it. Draw out the poison like a worm.”

“Thank you for the medical advice, sir. I appreciate it.”

“No mention, sah. And what else do you want knowing?” The smile remained reassuring while the black eyes drilled into me.
Does he know?
I thought.
Does he know I am mad?

Nothing for it but to go the whole hog.

“Sir, I wish to ask you a private question concerning my wife, Mrs. Le Rennet. It is of a confidential nature and you may expect a substantial gratuity. Do you recall seeing my wife leave the hotel?”

“Yessa. She had a small bag—an overnight bag—and she was in the company of an Irishman, sah.”

“Did she leave with this Irishman willingly?”

“That is a hard one to judge, sah. Fo’ sure, if I thought otherwise he’d of been shot.” The desk clerk glanced meaningfully downward, which I took to mean a weapon under the counter.

The Irish. How many times had the Irish come into the discussion for no apparent reason, and with sinister implication? Or did the Irish figure into any sort of unrest in America—just as the Mexicans did a few years earlier, and the Apaches, and the Negroes of course?

Perhaps every era has its Problem People—underdogs who cause trouble for everyone else. To be sure, the complaint is invariably legitimate, their grievance just; in some other place and time someone has done them inestimable harm. Yet human time passes in a blur, sufficiently fast to elude the fastest draw, the speediest revenge, so that the victim’s wrath falls upon the head of someone who has done him no harm, someone who remains unaware of his own symbolic nature, why he should have been singled out for attack.

“Pardon, sir,” said the young man at the end of the reception counter. “I wonder if I could take a moment of your time.”

The police? If so, he was one of a special sort, to judge by his dress and grooming, and by the bulge beneath his coat. “By all means, sir,” I said, calmly and reasonably. “I am at your service.”

“Did I hear you happen to mention the Irish there, sir? Mind telling me what made you do that?”