Free Beyond Rue Morgue Anthology by Paul Kane Page A

isn’t in my religion. The dead man’s face was lividly pale, his lips blue rather than a healthy red. His face was twisted in a desperate travail, the eyes bulging half out of his head. All in all, it looked like death when it finally came for him might have been something of a relief.
    “Poor bastard,” I muttered.
    “Oui, le pauvre gosse,” Dupin said. He moved the candle from face to face. “They all seem to have died in the same way. Or at least, they all display the same symptoms.”
    “It’s known that working in the caissons is dangerous,” Sittingbourne said. He was hovering at my elbow, nervously wringing his hands. “There’s a condition...”
    “Caisson sickness,” I said.
    “Caisson sickness, to be sure. And we’ve had our fair share of it. But nothing like this. Nothing on this scale. I honestly... I don’t know what to say. I really don’t.”
    He was talking to Dupin’s back. Dupin was still examining the bodies, his mouth puckered into a grimace. “The light is inadequate,” he commented.
    Sittingbourne looked around, startled. “Get your candles over here!” he called out to the other men. They clustered round us looking like they were about to burst into a Christmas carol.
    Dupin stood. “Who turned out the lanterns?”
    “I don’t know,” Sittingbourne confessed.
    “Then find out.”
    The Frenchman swept past us and headed back for the ladder, but he couldn’t climb up because there was a whole posse coming down. It was hard to tell in the sepulchral light of the candles, but they looked to be in uniform. Once they touched down, I was able to identify them as New York City cops—the Eastside variety called spudpickers elsewhere in the City because they’re bog Irish and Tammany men to a fault.
    The two in the vanguard were Sergeant Driscoll and his lackey, Flood. Driscoll looked as saintly as a christening cloth, and Flood looked like a nasty stain that somehow got smeared onto it, but I knew for a fact they were as bad as each other and a good deal worse than most.
    “What are we having here?” Driscoll asked mildly. “Mr. Nast, is it? You must have sneaked past us all quiet like, when we were quelling the angry mob.”
    “I’m sorry, sergeant,” I lied emolliently. “I didn’t realize you were restricting access. But I’m here as a representative of the press.”
    “A guy who draws funny pictures!” Flood sneered.
    “My associate makes a cogent argument,” Driscoll said. “You can’t be painting pictures in the dark, Mr. Nast, so I’ll thank you to bugger off out of this.” To the room at large, he added, “These workings are hazardous, and they’re not being properly maintained. I’m closing them down, herewith. You can apply at City Hall for a new license, subsequent to a complete overhaul of the safety procedures and a thorough inspection at the contractor’s expense.”
    “But...” Sittingbourne protested. “Please, sergeant. If I can consult Mrs. Roebling, I’m... I’m sure we can...”
    “I’m sure you can’t,” Driscoll told him, deadpan. “Not unless you want to go around Boss Tweed.”
    That shut Sittingbourne up, instanter. You could go around William Tweed, of course. Topographically speaking, I mean. He was a mighty obstacle, but you could do it. The trouble was, you’d need to be properly provisioned for a journey like that, and your troubles would set in as soon as you were out of sight of the high road, as it were. I knew men who’d tried it. I even knew where some of them were buried.
    “Might I inquire as to why this is being done?” The voice was Dupin’s, the tone was sharp, and nobody was more surprised to hear it than I was. Well, maybe I was runner-up. Driscoll’s face was a picture. He made a show of peering around on his own eye level for a little while before he looked down and found Dupin a foot or so below.
    “Who the hell are you?” he demanded.
    “Le Chevalier Auguste Dupin, at your service. I repeat, why