by Jim Musgrave
“What, pray tell, do you have in mind to entrap this man? I hope it’s better than my plan,” said Becky, smiling behind her mug.
“I actually believe Reynolds is now afraid to go after me in person. He saw that I had a bodyguard, and I would assume he would believe this to be the case in the future. What is really in it for him? If he gets me, all right, then he receives whatever reward this murderer of Poe is willing to pay him. I don’t believe Reynolds will do it. He has proved himself more interested in the financial gain than he is in the danger of the assignment itself,” I said, sipping at my brew.
“I see what you mean,” said Becky. “Why endanger years of successful business for just one job?”
“Yes. As a result, I believe if he does attempt to kill me, he will sub-contract it out to some other thug. If this is the case, then I should have an easier time of it. The danger will be minimized, one would hope,” I said.
“But how does this allow you to get the necessary information about who hired Reynolds to kill Poe?” Becky was the ever-present fly in the ointment.
“It does not help my case, quite true, but I may be able to find out something from this person, if I can capture him alive,” I said.
“Have you determined anything about your suspects? Who do you think had the best motive to get rid of Poe?” Becky asked.
I was afraid of that question. I was not certain that I had eliminated all the major suspects because I had not made the vital connection between the murder of Mary Rogers and Poe.
“I don’t believe the two writers had any motive to have killed Poe. That leaves us with Crommelin, the lawyer, McKenzie, the gangster, Anderson, the tobacco millionaire, Moran, the doctor, and you,” I said, with my face as serious as I could make it.
“Me?” Becky was quite aghast, as I expected she would be.
“Yes, I was curious as to why you came up with this plan of yours. Could it be you know Mister Reynolds from before this rendezvous? Could it even be true that you really have a rivalry with McKenzie about business? Did Poe discover what you were up to?” I watched her face as I asked these questions. She seemed surprised at first, and then her expression changed to one of extreme rage.
She stood up and gathered her shawl about her lovely white shoulders. “I have underestimated your hatred of women, Patrick James O’Malley. You have become the worst misogynist I have ever had the displeasure to know! I do not want you to visit me from this day forward. Is that understood?”
“Becky, you know I must put my work before any personalities. I needed to know whether you have had any dealings with McKenzie or Poe. Have you?” I moved toward her, but she backed away from me.
“I shall not dignify that question with a response!” she said, through clenched teeth, and then she was gone. I watched her figure move quickly down the middle of the tavern aisle, pushing past drunken hands that reached out to her, grabbing the door before the young black lad could open it for her.
“Waiter!” I shouted over the din.
The red suit came quickly and stood beside me.
“Bring me a whisky!” I ordered.
“At your request!” he said, and he turned to go.
This called for a stare-down with the grand master from Ireland. Whisky had caused rebellions and had propelled politicians into office. It had destroyed the Natives in America so that they were easily defeated by their white conquerors.
“Here you are, sir,” said the waiter, setting down the shot glass in front of my eyes on the table.
I handed him money for the dinner and drinks and enough to give him a night out on the town of his own.
“Thank you, sir! I hope you have a rewarding evening!” said the waiter as he cleared the table. “I’m sorry about the lady,” he added.
“Do not fret, young man,” I told him, staring hard at the amber liquid. “She followed me onto the battlefields of hell itself. I do not believe she has deserted me completely,” I said.
“Good on ya, sir! That’s the spirit!” the lad said, hauling away the dishes and glasses on his tray.
As I stared at the whisky, I tried to logically arrange my case’s puzzle pieces, so I could make meaning out of them. One piece that kept popping up into my visage was the infernal black cat! How did she fit into this complete mess? Who could have had an interest in this animal, and what was she used for? Poe was the only owner of a cat, and her name was “Cattarina.” She was not black, however; she was a tortoiseshell color. I saw it many times in Virginia’s lap on the bed when I would come to the cottage to deliver and pick-up a manuscript. Was it Poe who killed Mary? I did not want to believe it! There must be some other proof that showed there was animosity toward Poe by one of these suspects.
Again, I was at the mercy of any one of these suspects. In my worst nightmare, it could even be Becky. It seemed my only hope was to ensnare this would-be murderer by capturing his pawn and then going to his rook, Reynolds.
I picked the whisky shot glass up and brought it to my nose. “This is what killed my brother, yes,” I said, “but I will be damned if I believe it killed Edgar Allan Poe! And I’ll prove it yet!” I set the whisky back down on the table with a thud. Some of the liquid spilled over the sides.
That is when a curious thought came to my mind. What if I were the one being maneuvered? Perhaps this killer was waiting to plant the final piece of the puzzle right in front of my eyes so I would jump for it, as a cat jumps for a moving mouse. I felt strangely calm, as if my body had been lowered into an early grave. This was another of the “Divine Edgar’s” common intrigues. I am like the man who is buried alive, without a chance to show his answer to the mystery to those living personages up above the worms and dirt below. I had my intuition about the cat, and I had my suspects, but I was lacking the final connection that would allow me to escape being buried alive along with my benefactor, E. A. Poe.
As I left the Fraunces that evening, my senses were on high alert. “Come for me now, you blackguard!” I whispered, as I strolled down the street toward the Bronx cottage waiting for me in the silent gloom. “It’s now or never!”
Chapter 10: The Maiden
As I sat inside my cottage, it came to me. Why should I go out to endanger myself in strange environs, when I could stay inside Poe’s cottage and have the killer come to me? It is with this idea in mind that I proceeded to concoct my trap for this paid intruder.
In order to plan the most ingenious subterfuge, I sat at Edgar’s writing desk to think. The night was windy, and the sounds of the whippoorwills, owls and other night creatures massaged my dark mental processes in a most delightful way. I had a fishing net used to drag the Hudson. Poe was a resourceful man, and this was one of the tools he used to supplement his meager author’s income. As a Southerner, Poe knew that fishing was a certain way to increase one’s menu, and the netting I found was quite wide and long, exactly what I needed to create my booby trap door apparatus. It was not exactly the pendulum or the cask of Amontillado, but it would have to do.
I was able to stand on a chair and hang the fish netting above the door frame. I placed the netting inside a bucket and then attached a fishing line to the handle on the pail. This line was then brought down to fasten on the doorknob. When the door was opened, the line would pull the bucket over, and the wide netting would fall onto the intruder, rendering him helpless, as I pulled the netting tightly about his form.
It was with this trap that I set about to wait for my prey. I moved Poe’s chair over to a place in the center of the parlor, and I sat down in it. I kept my LeMat revolver on my lap during this reconnoiter, eating all my meals in the chair, and leaving my watch station only to use the privy out back.
For three days and nights, I sat by my duty station, waiting patiently for my pursuer to arrive. This was the only way for me to find out the missing link in my case. I had exhausted my leads, interviewed all the suspects, and alienated my best female friend. What more could I ask for?
He did not come in t
he night. It was early morning, about five AM, when I saw the black knob on the front door begin to turn. I thought he would be stupid, but this was a killer who was obviously expecting me to be asleep and dreaming of black cats. When the door opened, as I had not locked it, the line became taut, and then it pulled at the bucket above the door frame. As the intruder stepped through the doorway, the bucket overturned, spilling the fishnet down upon his body, covering him completely with an array of strong netting. I noticed, with interest, that he had no gun in his hands.
I stood up slowly, pointing my revolver at him. “Good morning. Let me get that netting off of you. As a mackerel, I don’t believe you can speak as well,” I said, walking over to him and pulling the net up and over his body.
This was a short man, in his early forties or fifties. He was dark, with walrus-style mustaches and long sideburns. He wore a brown gabardine suit and no hat.
“We can get this over with quickly,” I told him, keeping my pistol aimed at his head. “Get on your knees!” I said, and he obliged at once.
“No, I think you should get on yours to pray!” A voice said. It was coming from behind me. I was just about to turn and roll across the floor to come up with my pistol firing, but it was I who was hit first.
The projectile entered my back, just below my shoulder blade. I was immediately immobilized by whatever was injected into my body. I felt my knees buckle under me, my gun fell from my hand, and I fell to the hardwood and into darkness.
* * *
I awoke to a scene out of the Middle Ages. It was a torture chamber unlike any I had ever seen. I had visited Andersonville Prison when we invaded Atlanta, where there were many torture devices used to get information from Union prisoners, but this room had some instruments of torture that went beyond the pale of human suffering and indignity.
My body was stretched out upon a flat surface of wood, extended about ten feet long, with ropes on either end tied to circular metal bars. My head and arms were inside what looked to be two planks of polished wood with the holes cut through to accommodate my appendages. I felt my blood throbbing inside the crooks of my arms and on my neck due to the confinement they were in. I could not ascertain how this device worked, but I feared my imagination would soon meet the reality of experience.
To my left, I could see another torture instrument. It was all-metal and had a frame about six feet square. Inside this frame, suspended above a bar at the bottom, was a circular helmet device that was attached at the top by a metal piston-screw, which obviously was used to compress this helmet downward upon the head of a human. This helmet had the added luxury of sharp spikes on the oval piece where the helmet met the head. I could picture the result very clearly. The torturer turns the screw and presses the bar and cap together. This would naturally compress the cap down onto the bar at the bottom, causing pressure on the skull, probably resulting in the shattering of the victim’s teeth and the eyeballs would eventually pop out of their sockets.
To my right, I was aghast at what I saw. There was already a victim tied securely on the wooden plank by strong hemp, and he was dead, with blood and intestines extending outside his naked form from wounds that came from a small cage tied to his stomach. I could hear the hideous squeals from a rat, which had been tortured itself by the red coals burning above the cage in a wire container. The result was that the victim had perished due to the rat trying to escape the horrendous heat by devouring the man’s entrails!
I heard the rolling wheels first. My back was now aching, and my skin was chafing where it met the wood. A tall cabinet of some sort was being rolled into the room. At first, I could not ascertain what it was, but, as it rolled closer, I saw that it was a casket with the image of a woman on the outside door facing me. The woman had a halo above her head, and her face had the angelic smile of none other than the Mother of Jesus. As the hooded man rolled the upright casket close to the side of my vertical prison, I heard the sound of laughter coming from the side of the room, in some kind of vestibule or closet.
Another hooded figure walked Becky into the main room, and it was she who was laughing. She was, in fact, giggling like a school girl, and this was, obviously, highly inappropriate considering our predicament.
“Nitrous oxide! It’s the cosmic wonder of the universe! I enjoy it when a little lady can have a good time, don’t you? This scourge to womanhood deserves a little laughter before she gets to meet our Blessed Virgin’s exotic squeeze. Halleluiah, brother! Say, amen!”
“Who are you? What are you going to do to Becky?” I screamed.
“How sweet! I knew this would be a marriage made in Hell! Joshua Reynold’s the name, and I am a member of the new underground Confederacy! General Jackson never made me higher than a corporal rank, but in my army, I’m the general! Yes, this here little room’s where I practice my persuasive arts. Y’all should feel quite honored to be here! Most of the losers I kill get tossed in the alleyway or out in the river. I save this room for my most cunning adversaries. Welcome to my kingdom, Mister O’Malley. I’m really sorry we could not meet during our little foray on the fields of battle, but this will do just as well; don’t you agree?”
“You were in the war? What regiment? Who did you fight under? Stonewall Jackson?” I asked, as I wanted to stall for more time.
Reynolds began to pace across in front of the giggling Becky. He wore suspendered overalls and a plaid shirt. I could not see any of his face through the thick black hood. “I fought on my own! I killed many Yanks in the war, and I still kill them. Of course, most of my prizes are monetary rewards.”
“What do mean to do with us?” I asked, and my throat constricted. I had completely underestimated the cunning of this fellow. He was quite dangerous and intelligently so.
“The only regret that I have from the killing of Edgar Allan Poe is that he is no longer alive to write. I am probably the most loyal reader and collector of Poe memorabilia who exists in the world today. Honestly, I cried after I did it. I am not a writer, and so I have humbly attempted to duplicate his genius by incorporating these devices into my business. In some small way, I hope I can recapture the vivid fear and terror of our immortal Poe!”
He had killed Poe, and now I had the proof. If I could just find a way to get out of this lair of insanity, then perhaps I could even find out who employed Reynolds.
“Sorry to be in such a rush, boy. I would love to chat with y’all, but I must take care of my business. Let me describe the Holy Maiden for y’all. Don’t worry about Miss Becky here. She’ll be a laughin’ it up regardless of what I say and do. I don’t like torturin’ women folk, but when they do what she did, I have to make an example of her. You can understand that, right O’Malley?”
“You can go to hell,” I said.
“I shall accept that as a negative. Now, look here at our Maiden. She was developed to put the fear of Christ into folks like the Jews and Muslims who never wanted to accept the power of our Lord. What’s a better lesson than gettin’ stabbed by the Holy Mother of God?” Reynolds pulled open the door to the casket and displayed the inside of the door. The door contained removable spikes that jutted outward so that when the door closed they would come into contact with whomever was placed inside.
“Now, let me move Miss Becky up in here so we can fit her for her conversion to saintliness! She’s been a sinner all these years, but now she can repent like those heathens who were tortured in the Inquisition! Repent all ye sinners! The kingdom of God’s at hand!” Reynolds took a rag from his back pocket and placed it over Becky’s mouth, and she renewed her uncontrollable fits of laughter. Her hands were tied against her back and her feet were bound together as well by strong rope. Reynolds was a big man, and he lifted Becky bodily up into the inside of the Maiden with no trouble.
“Damn you! Take me instead!” I shouted.
“Oh, no. This little lady needs to repent, Yankee boy! She won’t even notice what with her laughing so much. Will you, gal?” Reynolds moved the spikes on the inside
of the door so they would come into contact with non-lethal parts of Becky’s body. The gray ghost butcher of New York then closed the door to see where the spikes would hit her before leaving the door ajar for my benefit and for his own brand of horrendous drama.
“It is now time for the moment of repentance! If y’all want to pray a bit, then do it. She won’t be wantin’ to pray. She’s havin’ too much fun. Aren’t ya, darlin’?”
“Stop it! You fiend!” I shouted.
“Don’t get impatient, O’Malley. I’ll get to you in a minute. Let me move Becky Charming over to this hole in the floor. See? She won’t be dyin’ just yet. She needs to bleed a whole lot before she can do that. Then, faster than a greased piglet, she’ll get dropped down a trap door I built inside the Maiden and she’ll plop right down into the river below!”
River? This was odd. That meant we were somewhere near the docks.
Suddenly, there was a great commotion outside. “Reynolds! O’Malley! Yer in there! We’re breakin’ down the door right now!”
“Who hired you to kill Poe?” I asked Reynolds, as he pulled a gun from his holster and began firing into the door that was cracking asunder from the weight of the Plug Ugly gang who were forcing their way in.
He glanced my way for a second. “I want to enjoy killing you, O’Malley. And your little lady’s not worth the effort. Who hired me to kill Poe? Let me tell you this. The cat’s already out of the bag. If y’all don’t know, then why all the fuss? I killed the Divine Edgar. That’s all that matters to history. I will see you soon, Yank, you can bet your medal on it!”
Reynolds shoved his pistol into his holster and broke into a run. He was out the trap door below Becky’s Maiden before McKenzie and his men could completely break the door down. There was a small boat below; I could hear him rowing away.
I was wondering why Reynolds let us live another day. Did he really just want to enjoy the moment of the kill without any disturbances? I think not. He was, after all, a business man. Even if he did kill us now, he would risk being caught, and his timetable for executions did not have limitations. Whoever was paying to have me killed was not worried about how long it would take. Reynolds knew he had the information to link his employer to the murder of Poe, and he played his cards well. Perhaps he really did believe he was doing the great author justice by toying with me.