Poe must die

FOURTEEN

Poe eyed Flgg with all the hatred he could muster. “I shall see you dead, sir. On my honor, I shall see you dead.”

Figg held his nose and gently shaved under it with an ivory-handled straight razor, making his voice when he spoke, oddly nasal. “Dear me, I think it’s complainin’.”

Poe, oversensitive and unstable at the best of times, was ready to scream, to claw a hole in the hotel wall and crawl through. Never had he been so humiliated in his life. “I am walking through that door. You may shoot me if you choose, but I cannot stay in your company any longer, not after what you have done to me.”

Figg, face half covered with shaving soap, turned to look at him. “Oh you means my tying your wrists together, then stickin’ a towel in yer yap and forcin’ you at the point of a gun to get on the floor and me tyin’ you to the bed and tellin’ you if you woke me up, I was gonna punch a hole in yer skull. Is that what you are referrin’ to, squire?”

Poe burned with rage.

Figg said, “Go. Turn the knob and walk. Done had me three-hour rest and I feels shiny as a new penny. Go on, I ain’t gonna put a ball in yer knee. Not now. Ain’t gonna knuckle you either.” Figg grinned, a hideous sight that reminded Poe of gargoyles perched on top of medieval French cathedrals.

Poe gripped the end of the brass bed. The shame of being tied like a calf on the way to a slaughterhouse. Damn it all to hell! “I shall leave, sir and when I return, I shall not be alone. The police-”

“Oh dear, oh dear, oh dear.” Figg turned back to the mirror and resumed shaving.

“Now squire, first let us jaw about the police of this fair city. Mr. Bootham tells me they do not do a good job, that they ain’t the best when it comes to solvin’ crimes or protecting honest citizens like yours truly. Mr. Bootham says the police of New York are corrupt, incompetent and leave much to be desired. Says they get knuckled muchly by your local footpads and thugs, sorry to say. Fact is, your police have such a tough time of it that they no longer wear them nice new shiny uniforms with nice new shiny brass buttons. Tried that a while back and your very own criminal classes thought it was quite comical and they attacked your police. So now, your New York police dress up like you and me so as not to get too heavily damaged and I hear they wears a copper shield so’s somebody will know they are police.”

Poe, curious as to the direction of Figg’s ramblings, looked into the mirror to see Figg grinning back at him. If only he’d slice his throat, then Poe would grin as well.

“Oh, I should say that with your reputation as a man known to down a dram or two, it is bloody unlikely that anythin’ you tell a copper, see I know the word, anythin’ you tell a copper will be taken too seriously. It will be your word against mine about what I done and I’m thinkin’ your word ain’t comin’ directly from the New Testament.”

Poe watched Figg put down the razor, bend over the washbasin and bring large hands cupped with water to his face. “Hot water. The miracle of progress. This here is some palace. Beg pardon. Hotel, you Americans call it. John Jacob Astor’s House, who Mr. Bootham says got too old and sick to walk about, so his servants would toss him up and down in a blanket to get his circulation goin’ Mr. Bootham says John Jacob is dyin’ and when he goes, he will leave behind him some twenty millions of dollars seein’ as how he owns half of Manhattan.”

Figg began towelling his face. “Now squire, allow me to tell you why you ain’t gonna leave my side and of your own free will, I might add. Allow me to say why you will not set foot in that hall without me. You and me is wed, little friend.”

Poe sneered. “A consummation is devoutly not to be hoped for.”

“Don’t know what all that means, seein’ as how I am a plain man and cannot hope to match your lordship’s way with words. But this I do know: During the three hours I was sleepin’, Jonathan has had an opportunity to make a few plans concernin’ the two of us. His spies are everywhere, which is the reason I do not plan to spend more than one or two nights in any one place. Jonathan and that Hamlet Sproul fella you mentioned, both are probably on the hunt for you. Lookin’ for me too, I might add. There is the matter of two dead men in a stable which might also be tied up to you, but what I think is that if you go walkin’ “round New York town on your lonesome, somebody just might do you a bit of harm. I can also do me best to see that no harm comes to your lady Rachel, knowing how much you care about her an’ all. This is a sticky business we are about and Mrs. Coltman is in what I would call extreme danger from Jonathan. If you care about her, you will give me your aid.”

Poe immediately knew the boxer was right. And that only made him hate Figg more. “And you, I suppose, plan to protect us with all your might and main.”

“That I do, squire, that I do. That is, so long as you are of some use to me.”

Poe sat down on the edge of the bed. This wasn’t the way he wanted to visit the Astor House, Manhattan’s largest and most spectacular hotel. A pet dog had more freedom and dignity than Poe had at the moment, but Figg’s assumption about his immediate future had more than a ring of casual truth to it. It was night and the streets of Manhattan were normally dangerous and worth your life to stroll upon. Somewhere out there in the darkness, Jonathan, Hamlet Sproul and god knows who else, were indeed on the hunt for Poe. Jonathan, who removed hearts and livers and burned them as offerings to the demon god, Asmodeus.

To keep Rachel alive, Poe was now forced to help Figg. There was no choice but to associate with this most wretched man.

Figg sat on the bed, pulling on his boots. He was disgustingly cheerful, whistling tonelessly through cracked teeth, pushing air through them as though it were a Bach cantata. He also acted as though Poe had already agreed to stick by him. You and me is wed, little friend.

“Oh Mr. Poe, I have a query. When we was comin’ in this room, I sees all them holes in the door, sort of near the lock. Can you explain please?”

Poe dropped his shoulders and sighed. “Those guests unused to gas light would blow out the flame, not knowing they were leaving the gas on. Gas is without color and can also be without odor. Inhaled in large doses, it can be fatal and since the ignorant blew out the flame upon retiring, they lay in bed and eventually died of asphyxiation.”

“As what?”

“Call it a form of strangulation. Strangulation by chemicals.”

“Oh dear, oh dear. Go on, squire.”

“Those holes in the door, plugged up now as you can see, represent previous locks. The locks were pulled out to allow the police in to remove the bodies.

Figg smiled. “I’ll be keepin’ that in mind. Are you acquainted with Mr. Barnum?”

Poe, who still wanted to scream, nodded his head.

“’Ere now,” said Figg, “that’s nice to ‘ear. You seem to have made the acquaintance of quite a few people in your time, Mr. Poe. Must be nice to be a writer and have so many folks come up to you and say how much they likes what you write. Very convenient, the hotel bein’ across the street from Mr. Barnum’s American Museum. Some people over there we gots to talk with.”

Poe shook his head, chin on his chest. Figg was stupid, insensitive, with no more culture than you would find in a tree stump and he reeked of a horrible cologne that smelted like cornbread and kerosene. When would these nightmares end?

Figg finished wrapping his long tie around his neck. “Tell you what, squire. Why don’t we go downstairs and have ourselves somethin’ to eat, then go across the street and jaw with Master Barnum. You and him can talk about old times and I can have a look around for some of them play actors what my wife was involved with. I could eat me a whole goose, feathers and all.”

Poe snorted, mumbling almost to himself. “Try an entire ox and do keep the hooves on.”

“What was that, squire?”

“I would like to leave the room now,” Poe hesitated. “In your company, of course.”

“Squire, them’s me thoughts exactly. You do look a little peaked and the night air would do you good, I expects.” Figg tucked the two pistols in the pockets of his long black coat. When he saw Poe looking at him, Figg frowned, “you don’t expects me to go ‘round naked, does you?”

Poe turned his back to him and walked to the door. “Why not? This is our wedding night, I am told.”

Figg laughed and continued to laugh as the two men walked down the hall, the boxer with an arm around Poe’s shoulders. “Say squire, did I tell you that Mr. Dickens stayed at this hotel when he comes over in eighteen and forty-two? Says to me, he says “Mr. Figg. Do make sure you guard your ears against that awful gong the Americans use to summon guests to the dining room. It horribly disturbs us nervous foreigners,’ he says.”

And you nervous foreigners, thought Poe, irritated by the weight of Figg’s right arm across his shoulders, horribly disturb us native Americans, which seems to concern no one quite the way it concerns your obedient servant, E. A. Poe.