Not Quite Dead (11 page)

“He is dead. Herr Ryan is dead two years.”

“I am sorry to hear that.”

“Not the cheneral opinion. He vatered his viskey.”

“Might I ask who currently fills the shoes of that mendacious host?”

“I haff that honor.”

“Allow me to introduce myself. I am Dr. Chivers, from Washington College Hospital.”

“Doctor, I am fery glad you haff come.”

The barkeep reached over the bar, as though to shake my hand in welcome. As I began to reciprocate, he extended his right thumb, wrapped in a filthy rag. Having thus seized my attention, he unwound the rag to reveal a knife cut above the joint, festering so that the thumb had attained twice its normal size.

“Is it you haff you a medicine for pain, Doctor?
Ach
, how it keeps me awakened!” He extended the thumb closer to my face. It was a yellowish-black, distended bulb of pus. The thumbnail, the color of blood pudding, had begun to separate from the digit as though deserting a lost battlefield.

Having no alternative, I examined the inflamed digit. As always in such situations, I resented this. I do not understand the Hippocratic Oath. Why must doctors be burdened with a command that applies to nobody else on earth?

First
,
do no harm
. I beg your pardon? Nobody demands such a thing of a lawyer, or a teacher, or a businessman. And as for the command that a doctor must treat anyone who needs it, regardless of their ability to pay: What other citizen of America must eke out a living on his own, and function as a public servant at the same time?

Yet I complied. I always did. It is not only doctors who are held hostage to the neediness of the human race.

“I am glad that brought this to my attention, sir,” I said. “Two more days and the thumb would have to come off, without a doubt.”

“Two days only?”

“If that.”

“What vill you haff to drink, Doctor? Alles ist on the house.”

“A large of your best whiskey, if you please,” I replied without thinking, while digging into my bag for a vial of iodine tincture.

Immediately I realized what I had done, and was about to cancel my order when it occurred to me how poorly my vow of temperance had served me when it came to resisting Eddie—that sobriety and sanity are not necessarily the same thing.

Service was instant and enthusiastic. The whiskey was delicious.
I would tender my formal resignation to the Temperance Brotherhood at some future date.

I dabbed iodine on the thumb with a bit of cotton. The patient winced—as I would myself, for the stuff stings damnably. Yet he did not complain, for the pain of the swelling was worse. And in any case, the specter of amputation had gained his full attention.

“I wonder if you might know anything about a gentleman who collapsed outside on election night,” I asked, as casually as possible.

“Election night? Several chentlemen there vas over the bay. Stabbings and sings of that sort there vas—until the opponent of Riley foted against himself and conceded.”

A typical election outcome, it seemed to me. But when Eddie called out Riley’s name, was it significant? It would be typical for Eddie to invent a name for death, and to use the name of a politician.

“Did the name Poe come up at any time?”

“Neffer heard it.”

“Edgar Allan Poe?”

“Neffer heard of him eiser.”

I finished dressing the thumb—in all probability it would require amputation, if not the entire hand—and prepared to take my leave, having wasted my afternoon.

“Take this vial,” I said. “Put some on the wound twice a day after bathing it in hot water.”

The innkeeper looked at the vial as though unpleasantly surprised. Washing had not been a factor in his calculations.

“If it is not better in three days,” I continued, “come up to Washington College Hospital and ask for Dr. Chivers. Here is my card.”

“Might it haff to come off?” He asked, as though appealing to my better nature.

“Let’s hope for the best,” I replied, and raised my glass: “I drink to your thumb. To the health of thumbs everywhere!” I admit that the unaccustomed whiskey may have gone to my head.

The Bavarian frowned at his bandaged thumb as though one might an ill-behaved child. A trickle of tobacco juice took refuge in a whisker while he indulged in gloomy thoughts of amputation and death.

I left my card and turned to leave, when a sudden inspiration occurred—having to do with Poe’s reputation for handling his financial affairs.

“I notice that you have rooms to let.”

“Ve do, and chip they are at fifty cents.”

“Very reasonable indeed. Even so, have you recently had the misfortune of a nonpaying guest?”

The innkeeper’s face darkened. “Indeed we haff,
Herr
Doctor, and on election night too.”

“Would his name by any chance be Poe?”

“No that vas not the name.”

“Henri Le Rennet? Richard Perry?”

“Perry! It was the dodcher’s name.”

“And he rented the room on election night?”

“Ja
. Three nights he owes and this morning he vas gone, luggage vas gone …” The innkeeper’s face brightened slightly: “Is it you are knowing Mr. Perry? Haff you seen him?”

“As a matter of fact, I am after him myself. He owes me some money for treatment received.”

“Ah. I vas the luckier for that. He left a suit of clothes—no fest or shirt, but alles vas in good repair. I am getting two dollars for it.”

H
AVING ASSEMBLED A
clear narrative of Eddie’s activities on the nights surrounding his arrival and departure, I decided to wander down to the local constabulary. There I made inquiries and, as expected, there had occurred no incident with Negroes of the sort Poe described. Now it became perfectly obvious why he had worn a suit of old clothes: being scrupulous in his dress, and being short of funds, he wished to save his own!

After he left the hospital, leaving his oldest friend holding the bag, I imagined Eddie Poe returning to Ryan’s Saloon, changing into his own clothes, retrieving his trunk, and making his escape.

Somewhere near the harbor walked a man in a two-dollar suit, courtesy of a cadaver.

CHAPTER
TEN

Philadelphia

The shelves of booksellers are overgrown with Sambo’s Woes
done up in covers. A plague of all black Faces! We hate this
niggerism and hope it may be done away with.

—
Graham’s Magazine

J
ust above the waterfront, where Dock Street began one of its sweeping curves, next to a long series of buildings housing newspaper, magazine, printing, and engraving businesses, in a narrow building of red brick resided the offices of Topham & Lea.

Up and down the street in front of the building, a procession of drays, Dearborn wagons, coaches, and trotting wagons rumbled down the cobbles, amid the oaths of drivers and the continual cracking of long whips.

It being late afternoon, merchants’ sulkies and bankers’ carriages had begun to gather in front of the Exchange across the street. Messengers and clerks rushed in and out of the building to deposit and trade wild-cat money, state bank notes, and the increasingly common counterfeit bills.

Located on the third floor behind a heavy oak-paneled door, the outer office of Topham & Lea featured an impressive display of paintings by well-known English artists. A glass-fronted bookcase contained handsome leather-and-gilt editions of the Great Works of Literature, together with more daring volumes by Byron and the Romantics, and an edition of Baudelaire, in French. Nearby, a large window afforded a view of the forest of masts and sails on the riverfront, spiking above the blank, flat roofs of warehouses.

A brocade visitors’ couch sat against a wall, its cushions worn shiny by the buttocks of anxious authors. Next to the couch, a narrow Chippendale table contained the latest releases by Topham &
Lea: Thackeray, Scott, Tennyson, and Dickens. Also featured were the collected verses of Professor Longfellow and Dr. Holmes, a twenty-five-cent edition of Charles Brockden Brown and, incongruously, a set of Quaker abolitionist tracts.

Opposite the couch, a door to the inner office featured a brass plaque containing the legend:
Henry H. Topham, Esq
.

Beside the door to Topham’s office, behind a small desk piled high with manuscripts and letters, sat a precise, dark-complexioned gentleman with a set of close-trimmed whiskers and unfashionably short hair, wearing a high-buttoned frock coat and an immaculate white neck cloth. Removing a pair of silver pince-nez spectacles, he put aside the latest edition of
Graham’s
and rose to his feet, extending a ceremonial smile with the handshake, while his eye took in the visitor with an expression of pleasant evaluation.

“Good afternoon, sah. How may I assist you?”

“Finn Devlin is my name, sor, and I am here to see Mr. Topham. Would you be his secretary?”

“My name is Mr. Bailey. I am the administrator here at Topham & Lea. And I am an editor as well.” As Mr. Bailey observed the handsome young Irishman—dark hair, high cheekbones, eyes the color of the sky—his face revealed neither amusement nor insult. “Do you have an appointment, sah?”

“Mr. Topham and I met at Sportsman’s Hall, so we did. He expressed keen interest in meself and my work.”

Mr. Bailey glanced at the calendar on his desk. “That would have been at the Morrison-Hola match, I expect.”

“Aye, that it was. And a grand moment for Morrison too.”

“Quite so. You were at a boxing match together, and there you discussed your manuscript?”

“Not at the match, no. It was after the match. Mr. Topham was good enough to invite me to a gathering at his home. And a grand piece of work it is, too.”

“And I expect that sometime later in the evening, sah, very late in the evening perhaps, you happened to discuss your manuscript with Mr. Topham?”

“Aye, sor, that is correct.”

“And have you actually submitted this manuscript to him?”

“I have done. It has been in his hands one week to the day.”

“I am afraid that Mr. Topham is extremely busy. It is unlikely that he has read your work in such a short time.”

“That is possible, sor. Yet in any case, I should prefer to speak to him now.”

“Mr. Topham is at work in his office. He cannot be disturbed.”

“I am not satisfied by your answer, sor.”

“I beg your pardon, sah? You are not—”

“Satisfied. Sor.”

Something about the visitor’s demeanor, his calmness, his certainty of his position—whatever that was—caused the trim gentleman to reevaluate. “Very well, I shall disturb him,” he said, and rising from his desk, knocked on the door to Mr. Topham’s office, turned the knob, and slipped inside with liquid grace.

A long pause followed. Then the door opened briskly and the little man reappeared, followed by Mr. Topham, a flustered, ostentatiously busy man in a plum coat and a yellow waistcoat who put Devlin in mind of an overfed bird. The cheeks of a man who enjoys a glass of fine wine. A double chin disguised by a precise goatee. Above the smile of welcome, the eyes remained watchful.

At the sight of the visitor, however, Topham’s countenance formed a pleased expression. In the saloons and sporting clubs of Dublin and Liverpool and London it was common for flamboyant professional gentlemen—lawyers and businessmen—to seek out the company of athletic young men from the lower classes. Some of these men frequented football and boxing clubs for that purpose. It did not take forever for a well-favored young man of limited means to comprehend the basis for this enthusiasm for the hoi polloi.

“Splendid to see you, Mr….” Henry Topham paused, embarrassed, waiting for the visitor to supply a name to the void. “Oh dear, forgive me. Of course I remember the face, I never forget a face, but…”

“Finn Devlin is my name, sor. And at the Sportsman’s Hall it was.”

“Ah yes, Irish, of course. The Sportsman’s Hall, of course, of course. Smashing match it was, absolutely top drawer.” Devlin marveled at the publisher’s speech pattern, which suggested that there existed a place in the Atlantic midway between patrician America and patrician England where a man might acquire an accent.

“A grand donnybrook it was and for certain, Mr. Topham,” said Devlin. “I am the writer in whom you were kind enough to express some interest.”

“Indeed, of course. Of course. A most unusual circumstance, to discover a young writer at a boxing match. And of course you are the writer of …”

“
White Niggers of America
. My book dealt with the Irish question, sor. You expressed interest, if I may say so.”

“Of course. The Irish question.” The contents of the evening had begun to return to Topham’s mind. At the match and afterward, the editor had waxed eloquent over the sheer
manliness
of this country called America. In the course of the evening, he had spoken at length about the need for manly writers, writers who carried with them a genuine sense of the grit and the sweat of real American life.

“Whatever the reason for your interest, Mr. Topham, sor, you received the manuscript in your mailbox. Delivered it with my own hands, I did.”

“Indeed. Indeed you did just that, sir. Please take a seat.” The editor indicated the visitor’s couch, and not the inner office. For an aspiring author it was not a hopeful sign, so Devlin chose to remain standing.

“Oh dear,” said Topham abruptly, chuckling as though having misplaced his pen. “Ah yes. Allow me to introduce you to my partner, Mr. Bailey. Mr. Bailey, this is Mr. Devlin, a young writer who shows great promise.”

“Yes, we have met,” said the tidy gentleman, watching carefully. “And I agree that his writing shows promise.”

“Mr. Bailey, would you be so good as to retrieve the gentleman’s manuscript, entitled— Oh, what was it? Oh dear, there I go again …”

“White Niggers of America
is the title I believe,” said Mr. Bailey.

“That is correct,” said Devlin.