The Raven Page #4

that lies oating on the oor

Shall be lifted...

nevermore.

Who's next?

It's called

"The Buttery and the Bee".

An exquisite title, Mrs. Bradley.

"The buttery to her brother bee

did sing a song of spring.

'"Come, listen to my ode of thee,

thou honey-making thing..."

Stop, please.

It's terrible. I suspected it was.

"Thou honey-making thing"?

- I attempted to rhyme the lyric.

- You've succeeded.

The juxtaposition

of the beauty of nature

with the whores

of our recently mechanized society,

reducing brother bee to nothing more

than a "honey-making thing",

a meaningless cog

bound for destruction

within the machine of nature.

It's brilliant, Mrs. Bradley!

It's terrifying, but it's brilliant.

I'm so sorry to interrupt.

- Someone's here to see you.

- Excellent. Who?

Mr. Poe?

Barbarian with a badge.

What's going on?

- Why is hair attracted to a magnet?

- What?

Soot is merely carbon residue

from coal and wood.

Am I under arrest?

I'm Detective Fields.

Please, sit down, Mr. Poe.

Yes, the infamous Detective Fields.

Am I under arrest?

No. Not as yet.

Then I'd rather stand.

It makes it easier to leave.

I am...

I'm a reader of your work.

I admit my admirers have gone

to great lengths to meet me.

I didn't say I was an admirer.

And yet you read them.

The night before last a girl

and her mother were found murdered,

the daughter lodged in a chimney,

the mother's head nearly severed

with a straight razor.

The killer ed through a window

in which a lock was feigned

with a nail sawn in half.

Does any of this

sound familiar to you, Mr. Poe?

But you're talking about my story.

A work of fiction.

I'm afraid I'm not.

According to various witnesses,

you were seen drunk two nights ago

in a tavern near the harbour.

What time did you leave?

I don't remember.

My leaving was... involuntary.

Do you actually think

that I murdered these people?

May I see your hand?

Which one?

Either will do.

Perhaps with the aid of accomplices

such a scenario

might be conceivable,

however improbable.

Yet what cannot be disputed

is the fact that your imagination

has inspired a horrendous crime.

Am I to be charged, then?

Is imagination now a felony?

Come!

Inspector, can I have a word?

This is Henry Maddux,

editor of the "Baltimore Patriot".

He was brought in

to identify the body.

His name is... I mean, was...

Gris... Griswold.

- Ludwig Griswold.

- He worked for you?

- Freelance writer.

- What things did he write?

Some poetry. Mostly criticism.

You know, the easy stuff.

Rate this script:0.0 / 0 votes