Raven the Little Rascal Page #5

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Why are you doing it?

Please don't let me die in here.

Miss Hamilton...

No! No! No!

Mr. Poe.

I'm afraid I found myself

without lodgings.

Yes, I heard.

I don't mean to impose.

Oh, yes, of course.

Forgive me, please. Come in.

It appears to Baltimore I've become

one of the very demons I conceived.

- The fire was intentional.

- Yes, I heard.

The town is angry.

The mayor wants results.

Another set of unsolved murders?

Is that it?

He was inc-hes away.

If I hadn't drapped my weapon

Perhaps.

But we have made some headway.

According to theater records, the

sailor's name is Maurice Robichaux.

Does that mean anything to you?

No.

Cantrell and I made some inquiries

at the docks.

He was signed on to a trading vessel

which made port five days ago.

The start of the murders.

And, like many sailors,

he took employment in the theater,

working the backstage riggings.

But, as we know,

he wasn't there today.

Everything down to our entrance

was prearranged.

Look, it may be arduous,

but I've learned, in order

to find a needle in a haystack,

you have to go through the hay.

- These ship's records I think...

- Ship's records?

I must remind you, Mr. Poe,

every detail here is essential.

Tell me, are you not piqued

by your abject failure

to ferret out this assassin?

Your reputation is at stake.

Look at me.

Four people are dead!

An angel breaks on the rack

of some depraved beast,

but this clerk squints over his

eyeshades at ledgers and timetables!

Is this a f***ing joke?!

What else should we do?!

Run around all of Baltimore

screaming out her name?!

Now, please, think.

Start with the sailor.

Have you ever written

anything about a sailor'?

No.

Did you speak with the ship captain?

- I did.

- And?

Robichaux was a valued crewman.

Well liked.

Had a family back home.

- Where?

- In France.

Nmes.

- Anything?

- No.

Yes. Possibly. Who knows?

You see, what I keep asking myself

is... why Baltimore?

The Fortunato had docked

in ports around the world.

- The what?

- All over the world.

- The name of the ship, say it again.

- Fortunato.

"The thousand injuries of Fortunato

I had borne as I best could."

What is that?

The first sentence of

"The Cask of Amontillado.

- Go on.

- A story I wrote about revenge.

A man kills his rival by walling him

up. Fortunato is entombed alive.

- Where?

- In the catacombs of a palazzo.

- The story is set in Italy.

- There are no catacombs here.

No, but there are tunnels

underneath the city.

Tunnels?

The waterworks.

You are looking for anything that

would indicate recently laid masonry.

We will be timing this.

I will blow my whistle as such...

We will then shout her name in unison

from all areas of the tunnels.

Emily!

There'll be a pause

often seconds of absolute silence

when we will listen

for the smallest sound.

Anything to indicate movement

from behind the walls.

If an officer detects something,

he will blow his whistle

and we will examine the wall

at that point.

- Are we clear?

- Yes, sir.

Then move out.

Emily!

Emily!

Emily!

Shh!

Emily!

Emily!

EMILY!

Over here.

They're down here.

The mortar's a different color.

Look.

Hold that.

Here. Stand back.

What is it? Do you have hen'?

- Give me that.

- What is it, Inspector?

- Keep digging.

- Yes, sir.

Halt!

Aaarghhh!

Get the doctor.

"Do not bemoan the sailor's life.

"He was always sure to die anyway.

"But his demise did serve a purpose

of leaving you clues.

"Godspeed, Poe.

Emily weakens by the hour,

"both physically and spiritually."

I will kill him.

No matter how this ends,

I will kill this perversion of a man.

"Godspeed"?

Even his prose is barbaric.

Why dress him up like Miss Hamilton?

For the thrill of watching me suffer.

Here, John. Bring the light closer.

I think I've found something.

What is that?

Help me turn him over.

I think we've found

our missing sailor.

It's a sextant.

Natural choice for a seaman,

I suppose.

My brother, he went to sea.

A lot of men,

they get these in the Orient.

This notch in the esh is fresh.

It's still clotted.

The killer did this.

Think it was part of the struggle?

- Too deliberate.

- It's a latitudinal co-ordinate.

If you mark the angle of the sun

at its highest point

it shows you how far you are

from the equator.

It's useless without longitude.

Even in the army

they teach basic navigation.

I went to West Point.

I was expelled, don't worry.

Fields, look there.

Get me a scalpel.

Here.

His tongue has been removed.

And this...

has replaced it.

What's it for?

Longitude.

Pen and paper.

He's giving us a location.

Open up! Open the door!

Where's Hamilton?

- Hamilton!

- What's happened?

We need your navigational maps

and celestial almanacs.

- Why?

- He gave us the location of Emily.

This watch is mine.

I thought I'd lost it.

- The kilter left this?

- On the dead sailor.

- In, to be more exact.

- The utter gall.

Along with

the latitudinal co-ordinates.

Incredible.

Forgive me. I have no background

in navigational techniques.

To plot an exact position,

you need three things:

a sextant, an accurate chronometer

and a celestial almanac.

The almanac tells the exact time

at which the sun hits its zenith.

- Exact noon.

- Shall I bring more?

Leave it! Please.

It's all right, Percy. Get another.

If your watch is set to Greenwich

Mean Time, you can calculate

how far east or west

of Greenwich, London you are.

Twelve... twenty-seven.

Twenty-eight, rather.

- Which one, damn it?

- Twenty-eight.

- Twelve twenty-eight, right?

- Yes.

Longitude is a measure of time

east or west.

Latitude, distance from the equator.

That's north or south.

Seventeen degrees north.

The West Indies? It can't be.

He couldn't have

transported her that far.

Here. St. Croix.

That's impossible. The Danish

West Indies is a two-week journey.

It's not an island, St. Croix.

Holy Cross.

Holy Cross!

Holy Cross Church.

That's our parish.

Giddap!

Cantrell, you and the others

around back.

Spread out. If need be, break

a window. We must get inside!

- Emily!

- Come on!

Emily!

North-west corner!

John!

Don't move, John.

Argh!

He's over here!

There! Black horse!

Steady.

- Fields?

- Get him!

Find him, Edgar! Go!

Your name!

You coward!

Who are you?!

Poe!

Poe!

The killer escaped.

My horse is gone.

What about Fields? He was shot.

He's at Doc Clements'.

What of you?

The paper goes to press

in three hours.

There was an empty grave.

It had Emily's name on it.

That was his clue.

That's why he sent us there.

Perhaps, or to kill again.

I'm sorry, Poe. This is my fault.

E should never have gene ahead

with the hall.

These were my stories.

Your daughter's love for me

is the reason another man's dead.

Go to Doc Clements.

I have one more story to write.

Edgar

for today, she's still alive.

Doctor, let me go!

Let me go!

We're running out of time!

For God's sake,

a bullet is in your chest!

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