In the Shadow of the Master Read online

  I said to him: “My dear Fortunato, you are luckily met. How remarkably well you are looking to-day! But I have received a pipe of what passes for Amontillado, and I have my doubts.”

  “How?” said he. “Amontillado? A pipe? Impossible! And in the middle of the carnival!”

  “I have my doubts,” I replied; “and I was silly enough to pay the full Amontillado price without consulting you in the matter. You were not to be found, and I was fearful of losing a bargain.”

  “Amontillado!”

  “I have my doubts.”

  “Amontillado!”

  “And I must satisfy them.”

  “Amontillado!”

  “As you are engaged, I am on my way to Luchesi. If any one has a critical turn, it is he. He will tell me—”

  “Luchesi cannot tell Amontillado from Sherry.”

  “And yet some fools will have it that his taste is a match for your own.”

  “Come, let us go.”

  “Whither?”

  “To your vaults.”

  “My friend, no; I will not impose upon your good nature. I perceive you have an engagement. Luchesi—”

  “I have no engagement;—come.”

  “My friend, no. It is not the engagement, but the severe cold with which I perceive you are afflicted. The vaults are insufferably damp. They are encrusted with nitre.”

  “Let us go, nevertheless. The cold is merely nothing. Amontillado! You have been imposed upon. And as for Luchesi, he cannot distinguish Sherry from Amontillado.”

  Thus speaking, Fortunato possessed himself of my arm. Putting on a mask of black silk, and drawing a roquelaire closely about my person, I suffered him to hurry me to my palazzo.

  There were no attendants at home; they had absconded to make merry in honor of the time. I had told them that I should not return until the morning, and had given them explicit orders not to stir from the house. These orders were sufficient, I well knew, to insure their immediate disappearance, one and all, as soon as my back was turned.

  I took from their sconces two flambeaux, and giving one to Fortunato, bowed him through several suites of rooms to the archway that led into the vaults. I passed down a long and winding staircase, requesting him to be cautious as he followed. We came at length to the foot of the descent, and stood together on the damp ground of the catacombs of the Montresors.

  The gait of my friend was unsteady, and the bells upon his cap jingled as he strode.

  “The pipe?” said he.

  “It is farther on,” said I; “but observe the white web-work which gleams from these cavern walls.”

  He turned toward me, and looked into my eyes with two filmy orbs that distilled the rheum of intoxication.

  “Nitre?” he asked, at length.

  “Nitre,” I replied. “How long have you had that cough?”

  “Ugh! ugh! ugh!—ugh! ugh! ugh!—ugh! ugh! ugh!—ugh! ugh! ugh!—ugh! ugh! ugh!”

  My poor friend found it impossible to reply for many minutes.

  “It is nothing,” he said, at last.

  “Come,” I said, with decision, “we will go back; your health is precious. You are rich, respected, admired, beloved; you are happy, as once I was. You are a man to be missed. For me it is no matter. We will go back; you will be ill, and I cannot be responsible. Besides, there is Luchesi—”

  “Enough,” he said; “the cough is a mere nothing; it will not kill me. I shall not die of a cough.”

  “True—true,” I replied; “and, indeed, I had no intention of alarming you unnecessarily; but you should use all proper caution. A draught of this Medoc will defend us from the damps.”

  Here I knocked off the neck of a bottle which I drew from a long row of its fellows that lay upon the mould.

  “Drink,” I said, presenting him the wine.

  He raised it to his lips with a leer. He paused and nodded to me familiarly, while his bells jingled.

  “I drink,” he said, “to the buried that repose around us.”

  “And I to your long life.”

  He again took my arm, and we proceeded.

  “These vaults,” he said, “are extensive.”

  “The Montresors,” I replied, “were a great and numerous family.”

  “I forget your arms.”

  “A huge human foot d’or, in a field azure; the foot crushes a serpent rampant whose fangs are imbedded in the heel.”

  “And the motto?”

  “Nemo me impune lacessit.”

  “Good!” he said.

  The wine sparkled in his eyes and the bells jingled. My own fancy grew warm with the Medoc. We had passed through walls of piled bones, with casks and puncheons intermingling, into the inmost recesses of the catacombs. I paused again, and this time I made bold to seize Fortunato by an arm above the elbow.

  “The nitre!” I said; “see, it increases. It hangs like moss upon the vaults. We are below the river’s bed. The drops of moisture trickle among the bones. Come, we will go back ere it is too late. Your cough—”

  “It is nothing,” he said; “let us go on. But first, another draught of the Medoc.”

  I broke and reached him a flagon of De Grâve. He emptied it at a breath. His eyes flashed with a fierce light. He laughed and threw the bottle upwards with a gesticulation I did not understand.

  I looked at him in surprise. He repeated the movement—a grotesque one.

  “You do not comprehend?” he said.

  “Not I,” I replied.

  “Then you are not of the brotherhood.”

  “How?”

  “You are not of the masons.”

  “Yes, yes,” I said, “yes, yes.”

  “You? Impossible! A mason?”

  “A mason,” I replied.

  “A sign,” he said.

  “It is this,” I answered, producing a trowel from beneath the folds of my roquelaire.

  “You jest,” he exclaimed, recoiling a few paces. “But let us proceed to the Amontillado.”

  “Be it so,” I said, replacing the tool beneath the cloak, and again offering him my arm. He leaned upon it heavily. We continued our route in search of the Amontillado. We passed through a range of low arches, descended, passed on, and descending again, arrived at a deep crypt, in which the foulness of the air caused our flambeaux rather to glow than flame.

  At the most remote end of the crypt there appeared another less spacious. Its walls had been lined with human remains, piled to the vault overhead, in the fashion of the great catacombs of Paris. Three sides of this interior crypt were still ornamented in this manner. From the fourth the bones had been thrown down, and lay promiscuously upon the earth, forming at one point a mound of some size. Within the wall thus exposed by the displacing of the bones, we perceived a still interior recess, in depth about four feet, in width three, in height six or seven. It seemed to have been constructed for no especial use within itself, but formed merely the interval between two of the colossal supports of the roof of the catacombs, and was backed by one of their circumscribing walls of solid granite.

  It was in vain that Fortunato, uplifting his dull torch, endeavored to pry into the depths of the recess. Its termination the feeble light did not enable us to see.

  “Proceed,” I said; “herein is the Amontillado. As for Luchesi—”

  “He is an ignoramus,” interrupted my friend, as he stepped unsteadily forward, while I followed immediately at his heels. In an instant he had reached the extremity of the niche, and finding his progress arrested by the rock, stood stupidly bewildered. A moment more and I had fettered him to the granite. In its surface were two iron staples, distant from each other about two feet, horizontally. From one of these depended a short chain, from the other a padlock. Throwing the links about his waist, it was but the work of a few seconds to secure it. He was too much astounded to resist. Withdrawing the key I stepped back from the recess.

  “Pass your hand,” I said, “over the wall; you cannot help feeling the nitre. Indeed it is ve
ry damp. Once more let me implore you to return. No? Then I must positively leave you. But I must first render you all the little attentions in my power.”

  “The Amontillado!” ejaculated my friend, not yet recovered from his astonishment.

  “True,” I replied; “the Amontillado.”

  As I said these words I busied myself among the pile of bones of which I have before spoken. Throwing them aside, I soon uncovered a quantity of building stone and mortar. With these materials and with the aid of my trowel, I began vigorously to wall up the entrance of the niche.

  I had scarcely laid the first tier of my masonry when I discovered that the intoxication of Fortunato had in a great measure worn off. The earliest indication I had of this was a low moaning cry from the depth of the recess. It was not the cry of a drunken man. There was then a long and obstinate silence. I laid the second tier, and the third, and the fourth; and then I heard the furious vibrations of the chain. The noise lasted for several minutes, during which, that I might hearken to it with the more satisfaction, I ceased my labors and sat down upon the bones. When at last the clanking subsided, I resumed the trowel, and finished without interruption the fifth, the sixth, and the seventh tier. The wall was now nearly upon a level with my breast. I again paused, and holding the flambeaux over the mason-work, threw a few feeble rays upon the figure within.

  A succession of loud and shrill screams, bursting suddenly from the throat of the chained form, seemed to thrust me violently back. For a brief moment I hesitated—I trembled. Unsheathing my rapier, I began to grope with it about the recess; but the thought of an instant reassured me. I placed my hand upon the solid fabric of the catacombs, and felt satisfied. I reapproached the wall. I replied to the yells of him who clamored. I re-echoed—I aided—I surpassed them in volume and in strength. I did this, and the clamorer grew still.

  It was now midnight, and my task was drawing to a close. I had completed the eighth, the ninth, and the tenth tier. I had finished a portion of the last and the eleventh; there remained but a single stone to be fitted and plastered in. I struggled with its weight; I placed it partially in its destined position. But now there came from out the niche a low laugh that erected the hairs upon my head. It was succeeded by a sad voice, which I had difficulty in recognizing as that of the noble Fortunato. The voice said—

  “Ha! ha! ha!—he! he!—a very good joke indeed—an excellent jest. We will have many a rich laugh about it at the palazzo—he! he! he!—over our wine—he! he! he!”

  “The Amontillado!” I said.

  “He! he! he!—he! he! he!—yes, the Amontillado. But is it not getting late? Will not they be awaiting us at the palazzo, the Lady Fortunato and the rest? Let us be gone.”

  “Yes,” I said, “let us be gone.”

  “For the love of God, Montresor!”

  “Yes,” I said, “for the love of God!”

  But to these words I hearkened in vain for a reply. I grew impatient. I called aloud:

  “Fortunato!”

  No answer. I called again:

  “Fortunato!”

  No answer still. I thrust a torch through the remaining aperture and let it fall within. There came forth in return only a jingling of the bells. My heart grew sick—on account of the dampness of the catacombs. I hastened to make an end of my labor. I forced the last stone into its position; I plastered it up. Against the new masonry I re-erected the old rampart of bones. For the half of a century no mortal has disturbed them. In pace requiescat!

  Under the Covers with Fortunato and Montresor

  BY JAN BURKE

  Some years ago, I heard concern voiced over the fact that children seemed to adore a series of horror books written for that audience, and recently a parent told me she feared Harry Potter was “too intense” for her fifth-grader. I’m not a parent, so I would never attempt to judge what a child of today could cope with, but I do recall who scared the socks off me at the age of ten: Edgar Allan Poe.

  Upon hearing how much I had enjoyed being terrified by “The Tell-Tale Heart,” my father suggested I read “The Cask of Amontillado.” It had been a while since he had read it, but as he said the name of the story, he gave a little shiver in reminiscence. Naturally, I hurried to search out a copy of the story. Like many young book-lovers, I used to read with a flashlight under the bedcovers long after I was supposed to be asleep. For reasons you’ll understand as you read “The Cask of Amontillado,” those covers got tossed back when I read this one. For some weeks after I read it, I repaid my father the favor of his recommendation by refusing to sleep with the bedroom door closed.

  Every time I’ve reread “The Cask of Amontillado” as an adult, I’ve found it’s still a tale guaranteed to incite claustrophobia. Now, though, I better appreciate how skillfully Poe told this tale. “The Cask of Amontillado” is a master’s lesson in storytelling. Every element—the voice of the narrator, the setting, the interplay between characters, even the clothing of the victim—contributes to its mood, its tension, and its relentless drive to its conclusion.

  Consider how we are lured into a journey with a killer, much as Fortunato is lured into doing the same. At first, we feel sympathetic to Montresor. Who among us has not known a Fortunato and wished him his comeuppance? A pompous connoisseur of fine wines, he easily represents the know-it-alls we’ve encountered in our own lives. Perhaps we’ve also known someone who has dealt us a “thousand injuries” or insults we’ve been forced to bear in smiling silence.

  Soon we realize, though, that Montresor is a madman, not to be trusted. He’s prone to exaggerating slights all out of proportion, and he’s bent on revenge. We begin to fear for Fortunato, dressed as a fool and behaving like one. We descend with this pair from the street, where the carnival season is in full swing, down into the catacombs beneath the Montresor palazzo. Every step inexorably takes us away from the excesses and frivolity of the celebrations above—down into a dark and chill place, where even the bells on a fool’s cap become fuelfor nightmares. We may have seen more graphically violent representations of the mind of a killer in fiction, but Montresor, capable of mocking both his victim’s prayers and his screams, is as heartless as any.

  With the power of a conjurer, Poe knew exactly how to summon our fears. Read “The Cask of Amontillado.” Then feel free to sleep with the light on and the bedroom door open.

  Jan Burke is the Edgar-winning author of twelve novels, including Bones, Flight, Bloodlines, and Kidnapped. Her newest is a supernatural thriller, The Messenger. She is currently at work on the next Irene Kelly novel.

  The Curse of Amontillado

  BY LAWRENCE BLOCK

  I knew I wanted an Edgar Award back in 1961, when my good friend Don Westlake failed to win one.

  He’d just published The Mercenaries, and it was nominated for an Edgar for Best First Mystery. Someone else took home the statuette (for what was in fact a first mystery by a veteran science-fiction writer, which made it eligible under the letter if not the spirit of the rule), and we all assured Don that it was honor enough to be nominated, and he pretended to believe us. We don’t need to feel sorry for the man, though; he has a whole shelf full of those porcelain busts now, plus a sheaf of nominations. Anyway, this isn’t about him.

  It’s about me.

  I began publishing paperback original crime novels in 1961 and hardcovers a few years later. And while I can’t say I was obsessed with the idea of winning an Edgar, I had my hopes. One book I published in the mid-1970s, under a pen name (Chip Harrison) that was also the name of the book’s narrator, was dedicated “To Barbara Bonham, Newgate Callendar, John Dickson Carr, and the Edgar Awards Committee of the Mystery Writers of America.”

  Barbara Bonham was the chief fiction reviewer for Publishers Weekly. Newgate Callendar was the pen name that music critic Harold Schonberg used for his crime column in the New York Times Book Review. And John Dickson Carr, master of the locked room, reviewed mysteries for Ellery Queen’s Mystery Magazine.

  I was s
hameless, and to no avail. Well, not much avail anyway. The book got a mention in the Callendar column, where its dedication was quoted and its literary merits overlooked. Carr and Bonham paid no attention, and when Edgar time rolled around, Chip Harrison was left out in the cold.

  But a year or so later one of my Matthew Scudder novels, Time to Murder and Create, picked up a nomination for Best Paperback Original. I went to the dinner somehow convinced I was going to win, and I didn’t. Someone else did. I sat there stunned, barely able to assure people that it was honor enough merely to be nominated.

  A couple of years later I was nominated again, this time for Eight Million Ways to Die, short-listed for Best Novel. “Honor enough to be nominated,” I muttered and went home.

  It took years for me to realize what was holding me back. It was, quite simply, a curse.

  The curse of Amontillado.

  I realized the precise dimensions of this curse only recently, when Charles Ardai was editing an early pseudonymous book of mine for his “Hard Case Crime” imprint. He pointed out that I’d referred to “The Cask of Amontillado” as having been written by Robert Louis Stevenson. Gently he asked if my attributing Poe’s story to Stevenson was deliberate, indicating something subtle about the character who’d made the error.

  The mistake, I replied, was not the character’s but my own, and he should by all means correct it.

  And not a moment too soon. Because it was clearly responsible for a long train of misfortunes.

  This misattribution, I must confess, was not an isolated slip-of-the-keyboard confined to a single forgettable book. While that may have been the only time I publicly handed Poe’s classic tale to Stevenson, I’d been confused about its authorship ever since I read the story. Which, if memory serves (and you can already tell what ill service it tends to provide), came about in the seventh grade, some fifty-seven years ago.

  One of our textbooks in English class was a small blue volume of short stories, one of which was “The Cask of Amontillado,” and one was something by Stevenson. (I seem to recall the title of the Stevenson story as “The Master of Ballantrae,” but that’s impossible, because that’s the title of a novel. So I don’t know what the Stevenson story may have been, and, God forgive me, I don’t care either.)