The time has come to relate a new story about the life of the writer Edgar Allan Poe. The account presented here was given by Poe himself to an elderly police officer in Baltimore. Perhaps because he feared that most people would think it was the hallucination of a public servant who was desirious of obtaining his pension, never before had this discreet gentleman ventured to tell the story of the murder of Edgar Allan Poe’s double. My own role has merely been to give narrative form to another’s personal experience.

I

Baltimore, April 1847. Beyond than this exact date, other details of the event are unknown. What is in fact known, is that it took place on a very dark night, from beginning to ending in the same street. At one end of the street was a tavern, then came a bank, next to this the post office, and at the other end, the offices belonging to a newspaper. On that night, the emptiness and dim lighting were likely to interfere with any absolute vision of reality.

From the corner nearest the newspaper building a man appeared; he took two steps forward and paused, his legs attempting to hold the weight of his body. Presently (and just in time) he breathed deeply, took a step backwards, and felt the wall against his back. Only then was he able to release his difficult, tense, damned breath. The man looked up, nervously: it was Edgar Allan Poe.

On the corner across the street there was a huge tree, very well-known to all in the area. The sound of footsteps approaching could be heard; footsteps that were slow and firm. From among the shadows loomed a man carrying a leather valise. He paused at the tree; one could not see his face, only just discern his free hand lightly caressing some branches. He soon resumed his walk, crossed over to the left and disappeared down the street. Poe had witnessed what was surely the most absurd thing he had ever seen in his life: the man had the smile, the walk and the clothes of a successful businessman, but also a sad, tormented look in his eyes, curly hair and absent-minded expression so similar to his own; in fact, that man, in a different suit, was himself, another Edgar Allan Poe. Any average student of literature might well suppose that the narrow valise contained, not figures, but stories and poems.

The next day, the writer awoke on the ground, next to the wall he had leant on hours earlier. Daylight, and the looks given to him by passersby, bewildered him. He sprang up, muttered something (Never more!, perhaps), straightened his jacket and joined the people walking in the street. Very soon he managed, (with a brusque shove), to close the doors of memory and allow himself to be carried along by the air of hope that envelopes crowds in the mornings: he smiled at the gay lady in the ostrich-feathered hat, and also at the embittered maiden who was out to find work wearing her dead grandmother’s clothes. The poet greeted people, and walked on; the episode with the supposed double only a demon escaped from his drunken state.

Edgar Allan Poe stopped at the end of the street (a man with a leather valise in hand stopped to observe what for him was the beginning), saw the tavern, put his hands in his pockets, counted the coins and, gritting his teeth into a morning smile, discreetly entered the place. Not half an hour had passed since he ordered his beer, than he was jolted by the sound of a voice he knew well, so very well, that he daren’t raise his eyes to the speaker. “I am truly amazed! You really do look my double!” That voice, and the significance of the words uttered, fell like an axe upon the table. Poe dared look up: before him stood the elegant man he had seen on the previous night who was now announcing, his face wreathed with smiles, how much he looked like himself.

The stranger extended his right hand in greeting: “Edgar Allan Poe, at your service!” The man sitting at the table raised his eyebrows and hid his hand (perhaps his identity too), surprise annihilating the attempt at cordiality. “It must be some kind of venemous joke!” But- was his indubitable physical resemblance to the man also a joke?

The gentleman with the cordial smile did not sit down. Neither did Poe offer him a seat. The newcomer continued his presentation. “I am a writer, just like you are!” The man at the table swallowed the question he would have shouted at the intruder: “Who is this presumptious wretch who says he is a writer and also assures me I am one too?” But the only thing he ventured to ask was: “How do you know I am a writer?”

“Very simple! Some time ago, a friend informed me that in Baltimore there was a man who was physically exactly the same as I. At the time, I did not believe him, but less than fifteen minutes ago he called me to say that if I desired to prove his affirmation correct, I should immediately come to this tavern”.

The two Poes looked at one another for several minutes, the silence between them attacking the most tormented of the two. The other, the elegant one, gazed on with his assured look and cordial smile, saying much without uttering a word. “I do not believe you are a writer!” said Edgar Allan Poe in a hardened voice. The eyes of the gentleman with the cordial smile gleamed; it was his habit to anticipate with gestures what he would then put into words. “Tell me then, who else, other than myself, is able to begin a story with these lines: For the most wild, yet most homely narrative which I am about to pen, I neither expect nor solicit belief. Mad indeed would I be to expect it, in a case where my very senses reject their own evidence. Yet, mad am I not-and very surely I do not dream”!

The surprised man on the chair lowered his gaze, tried to hunch his head into his shoulders and began to tremble as if overcome by some mortal sickness. The self-named Poe pointed his index finger at him and threw out a fearful accusation: “I refuse to believe that this is another absurd story of ghosts and phantoms; no, my dear sir, this is a vulgar story of robbery, and you are the thief!” “Thief?” The man thus accused sank further into the chair. The accuser continued his attack, first banging on the table and shaking Poe, and then with the fury of his speech: “Yes sir, I know all. My informer told me the truth. I know that you go about the streets of Baltimore saying you wrote The Black Cat, from corner to corner proclaiming you are a genius; furthermore, as if this were not enough, assuring all and sundry that you invented The Gold-Bug, even that you won a contest with the story. Did you not, by any chance, also write The Bells, The Murders in the Rue Morgue and The Raven? Do you fancy yourself the creator of Auguste Dupin? But your madness does not stop here. Those who have seen you entering taverns say that with infinite sadness you assumed the death of my beloved Virginia, and even dedicated a poem to her. What right have you to assume another’s loss? Perhaps on some not too distant date, you will have the audacity to write to my Aunt Clemm asking her to die at your side? Instead of stealing other people’s stories, pray God pity your miserable soul!”

As if instead of a speech of accusation he had expelled a powerful fever, the self-named Poe stood drenched in sweat. Clearing his throat, he took a step backwards, furtively trying to straighten his clothing. But the man in the chair did not take advantage of the situation; on the contrary, his back increasingly approached the level of the table.

Fortunately or unfortunately for the protagonists, there were only four customers in the tavern. Although shortly we shall be describing these characters, it is important to mention at this point, that they did not appear to constitute a group, that they were standing and looking on with curiosity, from various angles, and, strangely, that none was holding a glass. One could see that they were a woman, two very young men, and an older man, none of whom had any further intention than to observe the lives of others. From behind the counter, the waiter too looked forward to the dénoument of the confrontation.

The elegant gentleman, who had now quietened down, glanced round, passed his right hand over his head, cleared his throat and said serenely: “However, I do not like problems!” The man at the table gave his adversary a look out of the corner of his eyes, and in the silence appeared to be asking “Do you intend to forgive me?” The self-styled Poe, as if reading his thoughts, looked at him firmly and replied:

“I shall not mention this disagreeable matter to the police, on the sole condition that tomorrow, at this same time and at this same tavern, you bring your original manuscript of The Black Cat. For my part, I shall bring my own original, which, undoubtedly, is the only one in existence in the world; only this and nothing more will prove who the authentic Edgar Allan Poe is!”

The man who affirmed he was the author of The Black Cat, turned on his heel and walked to the door. Before leaving, he put his head round the door and gave his final warning. “Tomorrow it will be necessary for all you four customers to be present. You shall be the jury; the waiter will guard the door so no-one else enters the court. I expect all of you punctually at eight tomorrow morning!”