for me to call on him before beginning my stay in the city. Mesmerized and strangely captivated by the sabers and elegant uniforms, I followed willingly. A different carriage, with a faster span of horses, brought us directly to the Rue de Jerusalem, where the prefecture was located.
The prefect, a jovial and distracted man named Delacourt, sat beside me in his chamber as had his functionary in the carriage and performed the same ritual of reading my passport. It had been properly made up by the French emissary in Washington City, Monsieur Montor, who had also provided a letter attesting to my respectable character. But the prefect seemed to have little interest in any written proof of my harmless intentions.
Was I here on "business," "touring," or "educational"? I responded in the negative on all counts.
"If not these, then how have you come to be in Paris this summer?"
"You see, Monsieur Prefect, I am to meet a citizen of your city regarding an important affair back in the United States."
"And," he replied, hiding his interest with a casual smile, "who is that?"
When I told him, he became quite still, then exchanged a glance with the officer sitting across the prefect's chambers. "Who?" the prefect then said, as though entirely moonstruck, after some moments had passed.
"Auguste Duponte," I repeated. "You do know him then, Monsieur Prefect? I have communicated with him by mail over the last months-"
"Duponte? Duponte has written you?" the other police officer, a small and fat old man, interrupted gruffly.
"No, of course not, Officer Gunner," said the prefect.
"No," I agreed, though irritated by the queer presumption of the prefect. "I have written Duponte, but he has not written in return. That is why I have come. I am here to explain myself in his private ear before it is too late."
"You shall have a hard time of that," mumbled Gunner.
"He is not...he is alive?" I inquired.
I think the prefect replied, "Almost," but he swallowed his word up whole and returned abruptly to his more jovial and freewheeling personality. (I had not noticed the reduction in his joviality, you see, until it was just then restored.) "Never mind this," he said of my passport, handing it to his colleague to be stamped with an apparently meaningful series of hieroglyphics. "A tool of the next Inquisition, no?"
He abruptly dropped the subject of Duponte, welcomed me to Paris, and assured me that I could call upon him if I should ever need assistance during my stay. On my way out, several sergents de ville regarded me with hard glares of suspicion or dislike, which provoked my great sense of relief upon reaching the anonymity of the busy street.
That same afternoon, I paid Madame Fouche, proprietress of the Hotel Corneille, for a full week's stay, though in fact I anticipated a quicker end to my business.
I suppose there were signs, though, that I should have noted. For instance, the attitude of the concierge at the grand Paris mansion where I had addressed my letters to Duponte. This was my first stop the morning after arriving. When I inquired at the door, the concierge narrowed his eyes at me, shook his head, and spoke: "Duponte? Why would you want to see him?"
It did not seem inconceivable to me that the concierge for a person of this stature would dissuade casual callers. "I require his skills in a matter of moment," I replied, at which a strange hissing sound emanated from the man and revealed itself as laughter as he informed me that Duponte no longer lived here, had left no further information, and that Columbus probably couldn't find him now.
As I took my leave, I thought about the "Dupin" I had known well. I mean from Poe's tales-that liaison who had opened the portal into Poe by convincing me the inexplicable must yet be understood. "My French hero" was Poe's reference to the character in one of the letters he wrote to me. If only I had happened to inquire to Poe about the identity of the real Dupin; if only I had exhibited more curiosity-it would have saved me the last year and more that had been required to trace this singular man to Paris!
In his tales, Poe never physically described the character of Dupin. I realized this only after freshly reviewing this trio of particular tales of detection with that question in mind. Previously, if asked of this, I might have answered, as if talking to a perfect ass, "Of course Poe