Free The Pale Blue Eye: A Novel by Louis Bayard Page B

an American."

    "And you, Mr. Poe?" "An artist. That is to say, without country."

    He liked the sound of this, too. Let it revolve in the air, like a doubloon.

    "Well, now," I said, standing to go. "I do thank you, Mr. Poe. You've been a great help."

    "Oh!" He grabbed my arm and drew me back down. (Great force in those slender fingers.) "You'll want a second look at a cadet named Loughborough."

    "Why is that, Mr. Poe?"

    "At evening parade last night, I happened to notice his steps were amiss.

    He repeatedly confused "left face' with "about face." This indicated to me a mind laboring under distraction. In addition, his demeanor at mess this morning was altered."

    "And what would that tell us?"
    "Well, if you were acquainted with him, you would know that he jabbers more than Cassandra, and to similar effect. No one listens, you see, not even his best friends. Today, he desired no listeners."
    As though to dramatize the scene, he draped his face with an invisible veil and sat there, as wrapped in thought as Loughborough himself. There was this difference, though: Poe brightened in a flash, as though someone had tossed a match into him.
    "I don't think I mentioned," he said. "Loughborough was, in former days, Leroy Fry's roommate. Until they had a falling out, the nature of which remains uncertain."

    "Strange you should know of this, Mr. Poe."
    A lazy shrug. "Someone must have told me," he said, "for how else would I know? People do tend to confide in me, Mr. Landor. I hail from a long line of Frankish chieftains. From the dawn of civilization, great trusts have been placed in us; these trusts have never been misplaced."
    Once again, the head was thrown back in that accent of defiance--the gesture I remembered from the superintendent's garden. He would brave any scorn.

    "Mr. Poe," I said, "you'll pardon me. I'm still getting a fix on the Academy's comings and goings, but it seems to me more than likely you're expected somewhere."

    He gave me the wildest look just then, as if I'd jostled him from a fever dream. Shoved his glass away and sprang to his feet.

    "What time is it?" he gasped.

    "Ohhh, let's see," I said, drawing the watch from my pocket. "Twenty... twenty-two minutes past three."

    No reply. "p.m.," I added.

    Behind those gray eyes, something began to kindle.

    "Mr. Havens," he announced, "I shall have to make good next time."

    "Oh, there's always next time, Mr. Poe."
    As calmly as he could, he put the leather pot back on his head, rebuck-led the yellow-brass bullet buttons, grasped his musket. Easily done: five months of cadet routine had left their stamp on him. Walking, though, this was another thing. He crossed the floor with great care, as though he were stepping over a creek bed, and upon reaching the door, he steadied himself against the lintel and, smiling, said:
    "Ladies. Gentlemen. I bid you good day."

    Then he flung himself through the open door.
    I don't know what drove me after him. I would like to think I had some concern for his welfare, but more likely, he was a story that had not ended. And so I followed... hard on his heels... and as we passed up the stone steps, I heard a measured tramp of boots, echoing from the south and fast converging on us.
    Poe was already running toward the sound. And when he reached the topmost step, he turned and gave me a fractured smile and put a finger to his lips before twining his head round the trunk of an elm tree to see what was coming up the butt road.
    There came the familiar rattle of the drum and then, through the frames of the trees, the silhouettes of bodies. It was a double rank of cadets, mounting a long hill and already, by the looks of things, halfway through a day march. Slowly they came, bodies tipped forward, shoulders slumping beneath knapsacks. So exhausted they gave us not a sidelong glance as they passed, but simply threaded by, and only when they were nearly out of sight did Poe set off in pursuit, gradually shrinking the distance