SERIES 2: THE HUMBOLDT INCIDENT PART II OF III ---------------- This section immediately follows Series 2, Part I of the Secret Chapters. ---------------- If the steward and my petty rival had their way, the urgent task awaiting us in Baltimore could be in jeopardy. Duponte was taken to the captain's cabin and shown the "cipher" by the ship steward. "Tell us what this means," the steward insisted. "How should he know?" I demanded impatiently. "He is a translator by occupation, yes?" asked the captain. "He was," I replied. "And you agree that he is the smartest man aboard the ship?" the steward asked. "Absolutely." "Then if he did not write it, he should be able to tell us what it means. And if he does not tell us, it can mean only that he wrote it!" While I listened to this twisted chain of logic from the steward, Duponte had stood, saluted and returned to the stateroom. I should add a word or two about why the steward's fear and suspicion of Duponte and myself had lingered. The ratiocinator appears to those uninitiated observers to possess powers that are nearly divine – or demonic – divine, I say, because it is a talent wholly inaccessible for most. Many talents do not provoke similar excitement. Think of persons who, when asked to draw a man, will draft some uneven geometrical shapes; yet, these persons without power to draw do not think Mr. Millet, born in humble conditions at Greville, an agent of the devil! We think to ourselves, "I could paint like Millet, if I did not lack the talent." The difference between someone like Auguste Duponte and the ordinary person is quite as natural in the arena of ratiocination. Even the smallest child carries some kernel of capacity for ratiocination in the recesses of the consciousness, yet our own grasp of it is so slender we rather conclude it belongs to such phantoms as intuition or coincidence when we have discerned something we should not have. You will often hear of some happily married person who, for pure amusement and jest, says to his wife (or, if a lady, says to her husband), that he is well aware of her recent scandalous infidelity. Her face then blanches and his jest is at once known to be the truth. We think that a strange coincidence, rather than notice an act of ratiocination by the questioner. The ratiocinator comprehends and applies these abilities to an extent alien to any ordinary understanding. This is the difference. When Duponte had described to me, that afternoon in Paris near the Jewish cemetery, his reasoning regarding my heritage, I had sat in silent turmoil. I had not been upset by his knowledge. But after the explanation had been given, I felt immediately remorseful for begging to be enlightened on that point. Immeasurably greedy at having forced him to explain. That is why at the later episode of the discovered stowaway, I did not inquire to Duponte about his chain of reasoning. Whatever it was, it was unique and private to him. We should no sooner absurdly ask the great poet how he wrote his verses than ask Duponte how he had ratiocinated. Rather, as we settled on the great steamship Humboldt, in the afterglow of the stowaway's ejection, the general thoughts of excitement breeding inside me had recurred. Yet, now Francis' petty suspicion turned nearly the whole ship against Duponte. He was ignored by the passengers and neglected by the crewmembers. Around this time, the captain had announced that Poseidon had given us "fresh blow." The result of this humor on Poseidon's part was increased speed, a welcome development, but also a cause of chopping seas and constant tossing. Many passengers had been touched by sickness and nausea and confined to their curtained berths. "I cannot endure it," I said to Duponte in our stateroom. "Fools! Accusing you so!" "They are correct about one thing. Nobody aboard this ship except for me could craft any acceptable secret writing." "But you did not write it, Monsieur?" "Of course I did not," he said. "But recall, Monsieur Clark, letters cannot write themselves, nor can symbols." "Worry not," I said (although, to say the truth, he did not appear to worry). "I will prove to the entire Humboldt that you did not write that cipher!" * This was my opportunity to demonstrate to Duponte that I was a worthy associate, and that his decision to involve himself with me in examining Poe's death was a wise one. There was aboard the ship one lady of different character from the others, a Mrs. Barrington. An attractive widow perhaps in her fortieth year, she spoke favorably about Duponte in several instances in my hearing, and was tender toward him in defiance of our shipmates. She could see his true character as easily as the others believed they saw his meanness. I believe Mrs. Barrington and myself had a true common spirit. We could see the Dupontes of the world while others saw only ghosts of their own lost potential. We were comfortable because we shared this gift in common, this gift of sight. I never asked for any abilities in life. That I have them, and understand them, is only in part my own doing. On the other hand, I frankly appreciate them – it is at the time I am engaged in them that I feel most who I am. Separate, I mean, from everyone. Most men only seek to be aware of how they resemble others and maintain that resemblance. Because of this, they cannot distinguish the commonplace from the singular – in the arts, in theater, in letters, in the characters of their fellow man and woman. Thus do most people attempt to gain breadth. I never wished to see every item of fine art, every Doric column of noteworthy design or every worthy composition. This is the cataloguer's work. If I entered a museum the size of the Louvre, it was my gift that I could find the one truly distinctive artwork in each massive division – although to the rest of the onlookers it might seem more of the same. This is the worthiest skill of which I had some custody. Nor does it waver. Inconsistency is the one failing from which nature excused me completely. Even the greatest genius on the earth requires someone to believe in him and watch him, and Auguste Duponte was no exception. Perhaps a number of us had done so for Poe in some small way before he died, had made him believe there would be another chance he would be recognized. I sat with the widow Barrington on a bench in the main saloon and confessed my distress. "I do not trust that Francis, Mr. Clark," she said. "I do not want Monsieur Duponte to think I cannot assist him in a troubled time. His confidence in me is of the utmost importance." "About that Mr. Bailey…" Mrs. Barrington looked around and waited for the only other man in the saloon to step outside to smoke his cigar. "About Mr. Bailey. After Mr. Francis saluted that awful Mrs. Bailey, I saw Francis in the passageway in an argument with Mr. Bailey." "Bailey must have heard Francis had been meddling with his wife, and reprimanded him." "That is what I would have thought. Except it seemed Mr. Francis was doing most of the talking, and Mr. Bailey only standing there dumbly," she said. "That is odd. What should Francis wish to say to Bailey? I should think he would have avoided him with all of his energies." "Another thing," she said, looking around again. "I have not showed anybody else this, Mr. Clark." She removed a small square of paper on which the ink was smudged. The stationary it had come from had been of a thick, heavy quality. There were only a few words legible in it, which I read with interest. "Did you find this near Francis's stateroom?" I asked eagerly. "No. Up on deck." Later that day, I circled around the staterooms and silently peered behind each curtain. Satisfying myself, the next morning I approached the steward after breakfast and requested leave to see the cipher once again. The steward hesitated. "I do know what you think you can see in it, anyway." "I can do much that is unexpected, as you recall," I said, hinting at the stowaway that the steward had believed I had uncovered at the beginning of our passage. The steward relented, taking me to the captain's quarters where he handed me the paper. "Well?" he asked. I did not reply. "I did not think so. What could a man like you make out of it?" "Yes, you were quite right," I said, hiding my excitement, "I cannot make anything of it."