Poe must die

three bottles of liquor. She would be most appreciative, I am certain.”

“Ask her.”

“She understands English, Mr. Figg.”

“Yeah, I guess she does.” Figg tipped his hat to her. “You will ‘ave it, miss. And I am thankin’ yew muchly.”

She smiled. Her eyes were too bright, Figg thought. She’s addled, but thank dear Jesus, she ain’t too addled. “Mr. Poe, please find us a waiter gal for Missus Montaigne.”

The old woman spoke in French to Figg.

Poe said, “ ‘Sit we upon the world’s highest throne, sit we upon our own asses. ’It is from her namesake, her way of telling us that we have no right to look down upon her, for all of us are mortal and ordinary and none too elevated, despite our vanity.”

Figg nodded to her. She nodded back.

Poe leaned closer to the boxer. “We could leave now, Mr. Figg. Flee before plans are finalized for our destruction.”

“If we do not find Mr. Sproul, your lady friend is that much longer in the clutches of Jonathan.”

Poe sighed. “Too true. Then what are you suggesting we do, sir?”

“Continue sittin’ on this ‘ere bench and listenin’ to that sorry lad with the horn in his mouth.”

“We shall die if we remain, sir!” Poe leaned away from Figg.

“Mr. Poe, get one of them waiter gals so’s we can get Missus Montaigne her just desserts. If we flee, we learn nothin’. And about dyin’, well, I got me own thoughts on that. Yes, squire, indeed I do.”

TWENTY-THREE

Ten minutes past midnight. For the second time tonight, Poe watched fire bring death to someone.

An hour ago in Five Points, he’d been near enough to feel the heat from flames that had killed Johnnie Bill Baker. He’d been sick to his stomach at watching the Irishman die. But there was that part of him always drawn by violence and the dark side of life, so he’d fought hard against admitting to himself the fascination he’d felt witnessing Baker shriek as fire crawled all over him. Fascination, then guilt.

Now Poe and Figg stood with the crowd looking at the Ann Street boarding house go up in flames Witnesses said that some of the Renaissance Players had gotten out alive. Some hadn’t. The three who’d survived were not those Figg had been searching for.

The disappointed boxer’s whisper came from the corner of his mouth. “Convenient little business, this. Now it appears there will be nobody to converse with.”

“You wanted them dead. Circumstance appears to have spared you the labor involved.”

“’Nother road leadin’ nowhere, squire. If I coulda got me ‘ands round the neck of one of them players, it wouldna been long before me ‘ands were around Jonathan’s neck as well.”

Damn them, thought Poe of the chattering crowd around him. They conduct themselves as if this were a sporting event. Mothers hold babes up to see the terrible beauty that is fire and men share their bottles with strangers, a sudden harmony engendered by gazing upon the misery of others. Colored stableboys point at the disaster, then jabber to each other as though they still swung from trees by their tails. Children crawl from warm beds for such an event as this, for it is a promise of more momentous occasions to come, a false promise I could tell them, for too soon misery will be theirs to embrace and others will stare at them and point.

“You are silent, Mr. Poe.”

“Tonight, sir, I have seen too much of such things as this.” He desperately craved alcohol. The guilt was now mingled with disgust.

“No sense dwellin’ on Mr. Baker. It was ‘im or us. Don’t the bible say that ‘im what digs a hole for others gets to fall in it ‘imself?”

Two small boys ran out of the night and at Figg, throwing themselves to the ground just in front of him, then turning to watch the fire.

Figg gave the boys a half smile. “When I was their age, would ‘ave given a king’s ransom for such a fire as this. I-”

He looked around.

Poe was gone.

Damn his eyes! Figg angrily pushed through the crowd, looking left, right. That sneaky little bastard. What the bleedin’ hell was upsetting his tender soul-seeing Johnny the Gent turn into a cozy fireplace in front of his eyes? Seeing the boarding house get toasted to a crisp? That was it. Too much burnin’ for the little man.

Maybe he was back at the Astor Hotel. Maybe. But not bloody likely. Little Mr. Poe of the sad gray eyes was probably indulging himself in strong beverage and weepin’ like some old woman. Well, maybe he’s got a right to his tears. Ain’t every day you see a man burn to death, and you close enough to spit on him.

They were beneath the Louvre in a dark, damp storeroom dug from the earth. Around them were opened barrels of homemade whiskey, along with stacks of dark green unlabeled bottles in which to put it. The air was musty, breathing was an effort. Rats squeaked and ran in terror and twice bats had flown low over their heads, flapping their wings, then disappearing into the black tunnel straight in front of the four people who’d just entered the storeroom. Poe held the only light, two cheap whale oil lanterns.

Figg shoved the muzzle of the flintlock into the ear of Johnnie Bill Baker, who faced an earthen wall, leaning forward on tiptoe and touching the wall with just his index fingers. Black Turtle, beside him, did the same. Seconds ago, Baker had followed Figg’s order and climbed into, then out of, a barrel of whiskey, submerging himself in it up to the neck. Now he reeked of alcohol, his expensive clothing drenched and ruined.

“Speak softly, Johnny Gent,” said Figg. “How many’s up ahead waitin’ fer us?”

“Three. They are waitin’ in a tiny room at tunnel’s end.”

“I would like to inquire why you was plannin’ to kill Mr. Poe and meself?”

“Mr. Figg, now who said anythin’ about killin’.” The Irishman, clinging to his courage and charm, attempted to turn around slowly. Figg pressed the flintlock harder against his ear, his other pistol still aimed at Black Turtle.

“Ah, Mr. Figg, I get your point. Very well, me bucko, I shall remain in this most uncomfortable position, though I admit the smell of me own whiskey is not as pleasin’ as I once thought. Now I had not planned for you and Mr. Poe to die. Hamlet Sproul wants you to die, but not me. You have me word on that.”

Poe coughed. The dampness down here sent a chill deep in to his bones. “Why does Sproul require your assistance to kill us?”

“He blames you and Mr. Figg here for the deaths of his woman and his two sons. Asked me ‘elp in gettin’ him a few good boys to accompany him in some little scheme he’s got to get back at you. When I sees you both, I figured no sense turnin’ you over to him. I’d turn ye over to Captain Collect and make a shillin’ or two for meself. I’d let them crimp you, then tell Sproul I killed ye both meself and he’d have to live with that. He doesn’t know you’re here.”

Poe’s anger made his hands shake and the light from the two lanterns sent jiggling shadows across the backs of Baker and Black Turtle. “Crimping means drugging and kidnapping men to serve at sea. The life of a sailor is miserable and Captain Collect is the most brutal sea captain of all. His real name is Z. C. Leap and men die on every voyage he makes on his whaler. No one sailswith him willingly, so he ‘collects’ them by crimping. Mr. Baker was going to sell us to him, Mr. Figg.”

Figg was quiet.

Baker, trembling from the effort of balancing himself on his toes and two fingers, closed his eyes tightly. He was less sure of himself now. “A re-regrettable error, Mr. Figg, one which I prefer to drown upstairs in champagne, if you would be so kind. Let us all retire into me dance hall.”

Poe’s anger had only grown. “Ido not trust him, Mr. Figg. Upstairs or down, we are at his