The Poe Shadow

plate. I watched his feast happily, for his performance at the gardens had pleased me greatly.

'I did not think, at first, cake would work,' I admitted to him. 'I thought it a strange choice! Yet you managed quite well with that boy.'

'No, no, monsieur!' he said. 'I had nothing to do with that boy. The cake was truly stolen from me!'

'What do you mean?' I asked.

The chiffonnier said that he had planned to position his umbrella in some concealed spot and report the missing umbrella to Duponte to fulfill our agreement. It had been during the time he searched for a hiding place for the umbrella near the bench that his cake had vanished.

'How did he know what happened to it?' he asked. 'Had you told your friend to watch me that whole time?'

'Of course not!' I shook my head. 'I wanted to see if he would solve the mystery, and that would spoil the experiment, wouldn't it!'

The incident had clearly weighed on his mind. 'He is an odd stick. Yet I suppose when a body is hungry, he shall do what he must.'

I reflected on this axiom after parting from the man. I had been too excited about Duponte's promising behavior to consider why Duponte had performed his task of analysis. Perhaps Duponte, who had skipped dinner, had just been hungry for the cake, his share of the spoils, all along.

This was hardly the end of that line of attempts on my part to provoke Duponte into renewing his abilities. I had brought from America the pamphlet of The Prose Romances of Edgar A. Poe. I marked the first page of 'The Murders in the Rue Morgue' and left it for Duponte, hoping that his interests would be captured. I rejoiced when it seemed that all my tactics were having an impact. The first true indication that Duponte was changing in some extraordinary way came one evening when I followed him to Cafe Belge. Two or three times a week he would sit on a bench, ignoring the billiards games and the chatter, comfortably lost in the ugly bustle and brawls around him. I had followed him here before. Something seemed different as soon as I saw him this time. His glance had already become less vacant.

I lost sight of him after he turned into the small, narrow cafe. Mirrors lining the walls exaggerated the confusion of people inside. This was where the best billiards players in the city congregated to play. There was one roguish fellow who was said to be the best of all the players. He was wildly red all over-his hair, his brow, his irritated, picked skin. He almost always played his game alone, I suppose because he was too good for the others who came only for leisure and gaiety. He shouted encouragement to himself on a good shot, and cursed himself mercilessly when he fell short.

Cafe Belge was the only billiards cafe in the city to allow women to play-though, it will surprise many who have not visited Paris, it was not the only cafe to permit the smoking of cigarettes by ladies. True, the unsuspecting American might blanch just by walking past many of the illustrations displayed in the windows of print-shops, or after witnessing scenes of maternal activities, usually confined to the nursery, displayed for all the world to see in the middle of the Tuileries gardens.

As I searched for Duponte, a young lady threw her hand on top of mine.

'Monsieur, you wish to play a game with us?'

'Mademoiselle?'

She pointed to the three other nymphs at her table. 'You wish to play billiards, I suppose. Come, here is a stick. You are an Englishman?'

She propelled me in front of the table. 'Do not fret. Nobody plays for money in Paris, only for drinks!'

'You see'-I leaned in to speak as quietly as possible-'I am not married.' I had learned that in France unmarried women were to be seen with single men at great risk to their reputation; the compensation was that married women could freely be seen doing all manner of things.

'Ah, that is all very well,' the damsel reassured me in a loud, smoked whisper. 'I am.' She and her companions laughed, and their French grew too rapid for me to follow. I struggled to cross the room, colliding with the elbows of a few of the men surrounding the billiards tables.

After a few moments, I noticed another young woman in the room, standing apart from the others. Although she looked to be of the same modest class, she held herself up with elegance unknown to her peers in the cafe. And unknown, for that matter, to the 'unrivaled beauties' that paraded themselves along Baltimore Street. She was shorter than me, and her deep-set eyes seemed almost to anticipate my path through the crowd. She carried a basket with blooming flowers and stood quietly. A man would raise his hand and she would walk close, where the man would toss a copper coin or two into the basket.

As I searched my own pockets for a coin to contribute to this lovely vision, I bumped into the next table, knocking a player as he shot at a ball.

'What in hell?' It was the roguish red-haired fellow. The best player in the arrondissement. Standing near him was a beautiful, but pale woman, with dark hair, who consoled him by stroking his arm.

The other nymphs I had encountered pointed and giggled at me from across the room. 'Monsieur Englishman!' they kept repeating.

'You've ruined my game,' he said. 'I'll crack your skull into two! Get back to England.'

'Actually, monsieur, I come from America. Accept my apologies.'

'A ‘Yankee Doodle,' are you? Maybe you think you're back with the Indians then? What do you want here, stirring trouble?'

He shoved me hard several times. I nearly fell backward, barely regaining my balance. Somewhere during this ordeal-whether here or in the more dire later stages-my hat disappeared. With the next shove, I lost my balance, falling against a table, and watched myself sink to the floor in the cafe's mirrors.

***

In my next bit of memory, I was flat on my back. I thought it best to remain low, looking up to the ceiling where the old cigarette smoke of the place peacefully collected and continued forever in the mirrors like a fog rolling over the ocean.

A pair of arms broke through the cover of smoke and yanked me to my feet. The room seemed hotter, louder, smaller. Shouts and laughter floated in the background-though part of the raucousness was directed to one of the nymphs, who was now on top of a table and tripping the light fantastic with a dance. These shouts emboldened the Red Rogue. His sloppy mouth formed a sickly grin right against my face.

His breath was painfully sharp. 'My best game ever,' he said threateningly. Or at least whatever it was he was saying, it had a threatening ring, as I cannot be sure of the words-he was, naturally, speaking French and, for the moment, that language was all but lost to me. I hoped the elegant girl with the flower basket was not watching.

Then a voice came from behind me. 'Monsieur, if you please!'

The rogue looked over my shoulder.

'I challenge you in a game of billiards, monsieur,' said the same voice behind me. 'And we shall wager whatever amount you choose.'

Red Rogue seemed to forget me altogether, and pushed aside his girl, who wheeled around anxiously at the scene and pulled at his elbow.

'At my table?' said the rogue, pointing to the billiards table where we had collided.

'None other would be as suitable,' replied Duponte, bowing precisely.

An amount of money was called out. This scene quickly attracted an audience, not only because an unknown player had dared to take on the champion, but because there was money-rather than the customary drinks-at stake, and significant money.

As though this might be a second Duponte, I looked around the cafe to make sure he was not somewhere else. Though overwhelmed with relief at my escape from harm, I instantly felt Duponte's mistake. In the first place, I knew from my observations of Duponte that he had no money should he lose. Secondly, there was the matter of this fellow's talent for the game of billiards. As if to remind me of this, one of the bystanders behind me whispered to his friend, 'Red Rogue is one of the best players in Paris.' Except he used the fellow's real name, which, from the mayhem of events, I no longer remember.