"But how did you know Dr. Moran would have sent such a shipment to Carter?"

"Oh, I did not suppose he had, which is why he would not have found my request odd. More likely, Dr. Moran sent all the effects to one of Poe's family members-possibly your acquaintance Neilson. He, in turn, would have attempted to return articles to their respective owners. As gratitude for the favor, my note to Dr. Moran made a gift of the other three Malacca canes I sent him. As I hoped, Moran has sent me one back. Do you find anything special about the cane, Monsieur Clark?"

"If Poe were assaulted in a robbery," I said, realizing its significance, "the thieves would surely have taken a stick this fine!"

"You have come closer to the truth by finding what is false." Duponte nodded approvingly. "And now this cane is yours."

My next errand in the city-to where, I cannot now remember-was also a good excuse to make use of my new walking stick. It was a very handsome ornament. It even inspired me to lend more attention to my dress, and I employed the deliberation of a statesman in selecting a hat and a vest that complimented the new accessory. Several representatives of the kinder sex, both younger ladies and those who watch after them, looked upon me with visible approval as I went through Old Town.

Oh yes, the errand-it was to two dronish men who had left word for me to call on them about various investments I held through my father's will. With a delay in the planned expansion of the Baltimore amp; Ohio Railroad to the Ohio River, various interests were affected, and they passed on to me a thick portfolio of papers that required my review. Naturally, I'd had little time during all else that was happening to peruse these papers very meticulously.

I found myself that afternoon again in the neighborhood where Poe was discovered on the third of October 1849. I decided to walk to the establishment, Ryan's hotel, where Poe had turned up in poor condition. I thought about what might have been done or said at that time-to save Poe, or at least to reassure him-in those crucial moments now two years ago.

My melancholy reverie was interrupted with shouting from around the corner. There was nothing of much consequence about stray noise in the streets of a city like Baltimore, where rattling fire engines and hollering continued through the nights and sometimes erupted into riots between rival fire companies or against groups of foreigners. But this lone scream, crackling like the death aria in an opera, sent chills straight through me.

"Reynolds…!"

"Reynolds!"

It was the word Poe had cried out in the hospital as he died.

Now, remember where this cry found me. Standing before the spot where Poe was removed to his hospital deathbed. Think of my disorientation, as though I had suddenly been lifted into someone else's life-someone else's death.

I crept forward. It rang out once more!

I turned onto the next street and stepped into the shadows of a narrow passage between two buildings, closing in on the sounds. A short man wearing spectacles and a morning coat walked right by, sending me jumping back, and now I recognized the voice of the man chasing him.

"Why, Mr. Reynolds!" the pursuer boomed out.

"Leave me be, won't you," replied the man-well, now we are free to say replied Reynolds.

"Good sir," protested the Baron Dupin, "I must remind you that I am a special constable."

"Special constable?" Reynolds repeated doubtfully.

"For the British crown itself," the Baron said patriotically.

"British crown!" Reynolds exclaimed. "Why would it harass me? To hell with their crown then!"

"Is deep concern a sort of harassment? One is the very opposite of the other. I wish only to know the full story, for your protection." The Baron Dupin grinned. He spoke in his usual dashing fashion; he was not in his shaggy disguise this time.

"But I haven't a story to tell anyone!"

"You don't realize you have one yet. My dear Reynolds, there are parties who are quite interested in how events came off that day, as you have seen lately in the newspapers. Your public reputation, your livelihood as a carpenter, your family's good name could be in jeopardy if the truth is not sufficiently extracted first. You were there that day at Ryan's. You saw-"

"I saw nothing," said Reynolds. "Nothing out of the ordinary. It was an election day. There was debauchery, of course! The year before, there was a large fuss over the election of sheriff-both sides with their supporters. Election days are rather wild in Baltimore, Mr. Baron."

"Just ‘Baron,' dear fellow. Poe called urgently for ‘Reynolds' as he lay dying in his hospital room." So the Baron had discovered that, too. "Do you not think that is out of the ordinary? Shall we say extraordinary? Was there some reason he would remember your part in his last hours?"

"I do not remember meeting any Poe there. You may ask the other judges. I insist you pardon me."

I leaned out far enough from behind the wall that hid me to see the Baron's face after Reynolds walked away. The Baron remained standing in place. His smile was contorted, as though he had tasted something sour or had just stolen Reynolds's wallet. (Would it have been surprising if he had?) In all his activities, the Baron looked smugly victorious. Though he was a disgraced attorney fleeing from creditors-and though now Reynolds wanted nothing to do with him-the Baron was generally confident in his prospects.

Standing alone in the street, the Baron ran his tongue over his lower lip several times, as if to slick up for future eloquence. His face and bearing looked dead when he was not barking, or cooing, at someone. His gears and pumps had to move constantly. The glimmer of his intellect shined out as he muttered one word to himself. This word:

"Dupin!"

He grinded out the word "Dupin" as though it were a curse. It no doubt seems strange for a man to jeer his own name in this way, much like punching oneself in one's own chin. It is less strange, perhaps, if you think about it not as his name, but his heritage and legacy that he admonished. The Baron, however, was the type to see himself as culminating rather than offshooting all that had come before him. When asked who were his ancestors, he might, like Emperor Napoleon to the royal potentates, reply: "I am an ancestor."

No. His imprecation of "Dupin" was directed at neither himself nor his family. The Baron meant to conjure up none other than the figure of C. Auguste Dupin. The persona over which he sought to prove paternity, authority. Why did he murmur in this way about the literary Dupin? This deception to which he had clung since my first meeting with him in Paris, that he could be the real Dupin, was now a specter too powerful for him-and this he could only admit, if at all, when completely alone, as he thought he was now on the street. He could not argue or intimidate or mask himself as the real Dupin, as he was used to doing in life and law. He either was, or was not. There was a desperation to the scene, a vulgarity to it. I thought perhaps he was conceding something there, preparing to cave in. I was wrong.

I leaned against a post supporting the awning of a daguerreotyping establishment. Soon, a carriage that I recognized drove up the street. It was the same hackney cab that had been waiting for the Baron and Bonjour the other night. I could only imagine how the Baron had cajoled or threatened the original coachman to gain private use of the carriage. Bonjour stepped down. The same lean, light-skinned black man sat in the driver's seat. I learned later that the Baron had secured the service of this slender slave still in his teen years, whose name was Newman, to drive and deliver messages for them. He had told Newman that if he performed well, he would purchase the slave's freedom from his master.