Not Quite Dead (41 page)

“I don’t follow your drift.”

“No matter. My writing in the
Alton Observer
, up until my editor was lynched, had made a sufficient impression on them that my benefactors established the firm—as a platform for my essays and poems. Of course such an enterprise required an experienced publisher, and Mr. Topham’s name was well known, even then.”

“And who is Mr. Lea?” asked Shadduck. “I reckon I should speak to him as well.”

“There is no Mr. Lea,” replied Bailey. “Mr. Topham felt that a second name lent weight to the imprint. I need not tell you that the name
Bailey
was out of the question.”

“A sensible business decision. But I reckon it might make a feller a mite peevish.”

“Quite so. As did Mr. Topham’s next move—which was to devote the firm to other products, more remunerative than discussions about slavery and lynching and the coming Fugitive Slave Act. But of course as a policeman you know this side of it. Mr. Topham certainly paid you enough to look the other way—and of course he was a principal supporter of Councilman Grisse.”

Shadduck winced. “All this is well known to me,” he lied.

“Of course when it came to this … shift in priorities, I could say nothing to my benefactors. Can you imagine, sah? With Henry Topham’s word against mine, Sambo best hang himself on a limb, save hisself the indignities that goes wit’ a lynchin’.”

“There is no need to be sarcastic,” replied Shadduck. I get your drift.”

“And yet for all of my experience with white men, I was still susceptible …” With a small laugh Mr. Bailey poured himself another glass. Shadduck had not yet touched his.

“I confess to having been moved by a manuscript written by Mr. Finn Devlin.
White Niggers of America
was the title. Though I knew the term
white nigger
well (it is part of the no-nothing vocabulary), for the first time it occurred to me that the term might apply to something other than a man’s color. And so I arranged a private meeting with Mr. Devlin, at which I spoke more frankly than I ever had—he had created a metaphor you see, which created a rapport between us, albeit a false one.

“I spoke admiringly of the work, but made it clear that it required a good deal of revision. I mentioned also that Mr. Topham remained an impediment to its publication—I admit this to you—and I spoke frankly of Mr. Topham’s endeavors in the realm of fraudulent manufacture, and was specific about the profits that accrued. After all, it was my function to maintain two sets of books.

“When next we met to discuss the manuscript, Mr. Devlin introduced me to his partner, Lieutenant O’Reilly. Being of a more practical nature, Mr. O’Reilly presented me with a business plan that included a change of administration here at Topham & Lea. Upon acceptance, they murdered Mr. Topham.”

“Surely you could not see into the future, sir.”

“I did in this case.”

“He was a bad member, Mr. Topham.”

“Yes, sah. A corrupter of everything he touched.”

“He must have riled you fearful.”

“No, sir. One learns early on where anger gets you. I wished to continue my work for the betterment of my people. To do this I needed the protection of a white man. The Irishman had made a better offer, and Mr. Topham could go to the devil. And the queer thing of it is—he did.”

“He did what, sir?”

For the first time in their short acquaintance, Mr. Bailey allowed himself a small laugh. “He went to the devil. A black man does not
deal in money a great deal, sah, we trade on the barter system mostly among ourselves. Before knowing Mr. Topham, I did not imagine the lengths a white man will go to for money.”

Mr. Bailey drained his whiskey, set it in the precise center of his desk, crossed the room, and opened the door. “Shall we proceed to the jail, sah?”

Now it was Shadduck who took a generous sip of Mr. Bailey’s whiskey.

“According to my mother, sir, there are four kinds of homicide: felonious, excusable, justifiable, and praiseworthy. I have enough on my plate dealing with the first kind to be making distinctions over the other three.

“Let the big dog eat
, is another thing my mother used to say. By which token I think she would tell me to let the small dog eat too.”

Mr. Bailey shrugged. “As you like, sah. I believe I mentioned before that I am at your mercy.”

“I do not accept that, sir. For I would not want to be at yours.”

CHAPTER
THIRTY-SIX

Philadelphia

DICKENS DEPARTS
Farewell and Good Riddance to Outspoken Scribe
by Sanford W. Mitchell,
ThePhiladelphia Inquirer

Charles Dickens’s unlucky visit to America is finally at an end. Having been treated like a spoiled child throughout, and having thoroughly worn out his welcome, he leaves our shores in the humor that often follows too lavish a bestowal of sugarplums on spoiled children. Unlike his arrival, his departure for Boston will be a quiet one, with no special events planned. Mr. Dickens will depart by sailing ship from Boston Harbor on Friday next, in the company of his American secretary, Mr. Richard Perry.

T
he phaeton carriage containing the literary gentleman, his assistant, and their combined luggage clattered smartly over the cobbles of Chestnut Street, elbowed its way through the hansom cabs and the moving vans and the two-wheeled delivery carts, past the grandiloquent husk of the Bank of the United States, on its way to the railway terminal. There were no cheers in its wake among the small gathering of curious Philadelphians outside the hotel, only scattered criticism:

“Thinks a deal of hisself, don’t he?”

“Dresses like a tout, looks like to me.”

“He was of the lower sort, you know.”

“Swarthy too. It makes you wonder.”

“Bit of a skirt chaser I fear.”

“And tight as a chicken’s arsehole.”

Only when it turned out of sight did the small gatherings of curious Philadelphians (none of them in any way official) began to disperse.

“I believe Eddie will be happier in Europe,” said Elmira Royster.

“He certainly preferred it as a setting for his tales,” I said.

“Mr. Dickens will be happier over there as well,” said Putnam. “I reckon Europe is a better place for writers all round.”

On this occasion, Putnam wore a plain brown tweed suit of the type favored by railroad inspectors and Pinkerton men. When I remarked on the transformation, he explained that Dickens’s file had made mention of the authors flamboyant style of dress. On advice from his superiors and with a modest allowance, Putnam had affected a similar fashion in order to establish a rapport. “It was not something I enjoyed. It felt effeminate.”

“We are grateful for your assistance, sir,” said Elmira Royster to Putnam, taking my arm. “And we rely on your discretion on certain matters.”

“The requirement is even more imperative in your case, ma’am,” said Putnam. “In fact, it is of national importance. I am instructed that if either of you reveals a word about the events of the past few days, serious official consequences will ensue.”

“I will take it to my grave,” I said, feeling the warmth of her hand in the crook of my arm.

CHAPTER
THIRTY-SEVEN

Baltimore

Responsibility
,
n
. A detachable burden easily shifted to one’s neighbor.

—Ambrose Bierce

W
e sat in the dining room of the Exchange Hotel, looking into our glasses of whiskey.

“It is a dreadful business, Mr. Poe.”

“Dreadful indeed, Dr. Chivers.”

“It makes one wonder.”

“One does indeed wonder, that is true.”

“How far Americans have traveled down the road to hell.”

Neilson Poe ordered another brace of the amber liquid. He had already had four. “Exactly the point, sir. Down the road to hell.” And his finger hit the tablecloth with a thud.

“How are the relatives bearing up?” I asked. I had drunk less, in fact there were two full glasses on the floor by my ankle.

“Not well, Doctor,” he replied, and his beard wagged back and forth. “Not at all well.”

Seated at our linen-covered table in the dining room of the Exchange Hotel, I was once again struck by the family resemblance between Neilson Poe and my old friend Eddie—the sweep of the forehead, the large moist eyes. Then all at once it became clear to me, the intention behind his odd choice in hair color, which was to disguise the resemblance between them as much as humanly possible. If it were not for his dyed hair and his wispy little beard, the similarity between the two relatives would have been remarkable; they might have been twins.

“If what you say is true, Doctor—that Edgar has been sold to the
medical school for dissection …” At a loss for words to describe this enormity, Neilson Poe could only sigh, and shake his beard.

“It is a grisly business,” I replied. “And yet, when one considers the content of his work, somewhat ironic as well.”

“You have said it, sir!” Neilson Poe nodded vigorously; again I had managed to establish a rapport, with precious little effort.

Like Eddie, this was a man who longed for approval. But there were dissimilarities between them as well, not of blood but experience. Whereas Eddie’s mouth suggested sensitivity, Neilson’s mouth appeared sharp and defensive. Lines had burrowed into the skin at the corners until they threatened to cut his chin off from the rest of his face. And whereas Eddie had been pristine in his toilet and wardrobe even in impoverished circumstances, his second cousin, the prosperous lawyer, permitted himself dirty fingernails and linen that was less than fresh.

For several moments we contemplated the fate of Eddie’s cadaver, sold to an anatomy class as a subject for dissection. (In actual fact, the indignity was double—the corpse having been bought and sold twice.)

As a man who seeks agreement from those around him, for Neilson Poe any pause without an obvious explanation was cause for concern. Therefore, I maintained silence, while my companion wound himself up like the spring of a watch, until the toe of his highly polished walking shoe began tapping, and he could stand it no longer.

“Dr. Chivers, may I be frank with you about my second cousin Edgar?”

“By all means,” I replied. “It has not escaped my notice that there was some bad feeling between you.”

“The truth is, sir, my second cousin was a monster. As you say, for him to be dealt with in such a monstrous fashion is almost poetic irony. I see it as a positive sign—that there is such a thing as natural justice, don’t you see? That there is a God who cares about what men do.”

“Yes,” I agreed. “You as much as said so in your letter to him.”

My companion nodded, pleased with himself—but then my response caused him to stop and blink several times. Whiskey tends to make men a bit slow.

“
Written him a letter?
Dear heaven, why on earth would I do such
a thing?” Neilson Poe’s eyes narrowed suspiciously, an expression I would never have seen in credulous Eddie.

“I found the missing teeth a nice touch,” I continued. “It was obvious at a glance that the woman’s teeth were pulled after death—but
how long
after death was the question. Aware of the practice of selling teeth to denturists, I confronted the mortician with my observation. In exchange for my silence, and a small stipend, he was able to tell me who bought them. You have a striking appearance if I may say so, Mr. Poe. Every bit as memorable as your second cousin.”

Neilson Poe shook his head sadly. “One cannot trust anyone in America these days.”

“I wouldn’t go so far as all that,” I replied. “When a man is bribed once, it is no great surprise that he is willing to be bribed twice.”

“That is true. I had not thought of that.”

Now it was Neilson Poe who took a considerable pause, and myself who broke it.

“Believe me, Mr. Poe, I do not blame you in the least, nor do I hold you responsible for his fate. Eddie was, as you say, a monster. A disease. He infected the world.”

“Infected the world
. By God you have a way with words, Doctor!”

“As I see it, sir, your only act was to confront your second cousin with his own infectious morbidity. It was not your fault that the truth drove him mad.”

“Exactly so!” My companion nodded vigorously—but then for a second he stopped, aware of what he had just admitted to. Then came an almost imperceptible shrug as though to say:
What difference does it make now?

“Tell me, Doctor, what would you think of a man who stole a loved one from you as a child, then corrupted and destroyed her?”

“I would hate him for it, for certain. I would wish to do him harm.”

Neilson Poe nodded, with the look of a man whose mind is elsewhere.

It has been my experience that the urge to tell one’s story is well nigh universal. Under conditions of relative safety a man will reveal the most ghastly things about himself, almost with pleasure. Neilson Poe was no exception—indeed, his case would present an excellent case study for
Scientific American
.

“It began when Edgar moved in with Aunt Maria Clemm. At the
time he was one more burden in a troubled home. Cousin George— consumptive, coughing, and drinking himself to death. My great-aunt in bed, paralyzed and demented. My great-uncle, dying.

“Then there was little Virginia. Dear little Virginia. I had been her protector, don’t you see, almost from her birth. I shall forever regret that I could not have been with her twenty-four hours a day. I shall always regret that Edgar could.

“My Virginia was seven when he moved in. A rosy little girl in gingham and pigtails. Edgar was twenty. Her big cousin played with her. He helped her with her sums. She called him
Buddie
—is that not the limit?

“She grew helpless in her affection for him, and remained so to the last day of her little life.