Free Poe shadow by Matthew Pearl Page A

Purloined Letter,” “‘Thou Art the Man,’” “The Gold-Bug”…I thought the subject matter of these tales of mystery, dealing in crime and murder, might hold special interest to a police officer.
    “That was his name?” The clerk who had greeted me upon my entrance interrupted as I recited my list. “Poe?”
    “Poe.”
I agreed, probably too sharply. The phenomenon had always vexed me. Many of Poe’s stories and poems achieved great fame, yet managed to deprive the writer of personal celebrity by overshadowing him. How many people had I encountered who could proudly recite all of “The Raven”
and
several of the popular verses parodying it (“The Turkey,” for instance) but could not name the author? Poe attracted readers who enjoyed but refused to admire; it was as though his works had swallowed him up whole.
    The clerk repeated the word “Poe,” laughing as though the name itself contained great, illicit wit. “You’ve read some of that, Officer White. That story”—he turned chummily to his superior—“where the bodies are found bloody and mangled in a locked room, the Paris police can’t turn anything up, and don’t you know, it ends up all of it was done by a sailor’s damned runaway ape! Imagine that!” As though part of the story itself, the clerk now slouched over like a simian.
    Officer White frowned.
    “There is the funny French fellow,” the clerk continued, “that looks at things with all his fancy logicizing, who knows the truth at once about everything.”
    “Yes, that is Monsieur Dupin!” I added.
    “I do remember the story now,” said White. “I shall say this, Mr. Clark. You couldn’t use that higgledy-piggledy talk from those stories to catch the most ordinary Baltimore thief.” Officer White topped this comment with a coarse laugh. The clerk, at a loss at first, then imitated his example in a higher pitch, so that there were two men laughing while there I stood, somber as the undertaker in war.
    I had little doubt that there were an infinite number of talents these police officers could have learned, or tried to learn, from Poe’s tales—indeed, the prefect of police whom Dupin embarrassed in the stories had more aptitude than my present companions for understanding that which is classed as mysterious, inexplicable, unavoidable.
    “Have the newspapers agreed with you that there is more to find?”
    “Not yet. I have pressed the editors, and will continue to use my influence to do so,” I promised.
    Officer White’s eyes wandered skeptically as I gave him further details. But he ruminated on our talk and, to my surprise, agreed it was a matter for the police to examine. He advised in the meantime that I dismiss it from my mind and not speak of it to anyone else.
     
    Nothing particular occurred for several days after that. Peter and I prospered with some important clients who had recently retained our services. I’d see Hattie at a dinner or on Baltimore Street as she strolled on her aunt’s arm, and we would exchange tidings. I would be blissfully lost in her restful voice. Then one day I received a message from Officer White to call on him. I rushed over to the station house.
    Officer White greeted me at once. From the twitch of his grin he seemed eager to tell me something. I inquired if he had made progress.
    “Oh, there has been much of it. Yes, I should say ‘progress’!” He searched a drawer and then handed me the newspaper clippings I had left in his possession.
    “Officer, but you may wish to refer to these further in your examination.”
    “There will be no examination, Mr. Clark,” he said conclusively as he settled back into his chair. Only then did I notice another man gathering his hat and walking stick from a table. He had his back to me, but then turned around.
    “Mr. Clark.” Neilson Poe greeted me quietly, after a slow blink as though making an effort to remember my name.
    “I called on Mr. Neilson Poe,” Officer White said,