office. Faster, faster, faster…
“Wait a minute, your names wouldn’t happen to be Edgar and Allan, would they?” the night clerk called out.
The boys stopped spinning the rack (though the rack continued spinning for some time without them) and returned to the front desk. They peered over the top. “Yes, we’re Edgar and Allan.”
“How did you know their names?” Aunt Judith asked.
“Somebody found a book this morning on the table here next to the doughnuts,” he answered. He disappeared under the front desk. The Poes could hear him rummaging around. “I could swear those were the authors.” More rustling among junk. “Let’s see, it’s got to be around here somewhere. Ah! Here it is.” He stood up and showed them the book.
“Oh, this explains it,” Uncle Jack said. He read the title aloud. “
Tales of Mystery and Imagination
by Edgar Allan Poe. This book’s written by Edgar Allan Poe, the famous author. Not Edgar
and
Allan Poe.”
The clerk narrowed his eyes. “But look what it says inside.”
Uncle Jack opened the book.
Edgar
and
Allan Poe? Uncle Jack and Aunt Judith looked at each other.
“Oh, that’s just a misprint,” Uncle Jack said.
“A typo,” Aunt Judith added. “A coincidence.”
But the boys didn’t believe in coincidence.
Edgar took the book.
“We’d like to keep it,” Allan said.
“Haven’t you two already read that?” Aunt Judith asked.
Naturally they had. And while some of the words their great-great-great-great granduncle used were old-fashioned, the stories were grievous, shuddersome, and horrific—in other words, perfect. The twins thought “The Black Cat” had the ideal plot, “The Masque of the Red Death” was outstandingly spooky, “The Pit and the Pendulum” utterly frightening, “The Cask of Amontillado”…well, Edgar and Allan thought that every story in the book was the best of one thing or another.
“We’d like to read it again,” they said.
But there was more to it than that.
Fifteen minutes later, Edgar and Allan sat cross-legged in their motel room on one of the two beds. The other bed was already a shambles, its covers and blankets tossed and scattered and the mattress crushed in the middle as a result of the boys using it like a trampoline, testing the elasticity of the memory foam and the torque of the box springs. The ceiling above the bed had been cracked by Edgar’s head—no damage done, as Edgar’s head was quite hard.
Now the boys held the book between them. It was heavy in their hands.
“This clearly contains a special message for us,” Allan said.
“Yes, but if you consider all the writing in it, there are thousands of messages,” Edgar observed.
“So how do we figure it out?”
Whoever had left it behind had used a tourist brochure, like those in the motel office, as a bookmark. The volume opened to a story called “The Purloined Letter.” It began with a short quote in Latin:
Nil sapientiae odiosius acumine nimio.
Of course they knew the translation: “Nothing is more hateful to wisdom than excessive cleverness.”
They looked at each other.
“That can’t have anything to do with us,” Allan said.
Edgar agreed. “We’re clever, but not
excessively
clever.”
“Actually, we’re just clever enough.”
They kept reading.
“The Purloined Letter” was one of their great-great-great-great granduncle’s most famous stories. In it, a detective is challenged to locate a valuable stolen letter that has been hidden in a particular room. Experts have already searched the room, tearing it apart but finding nothing. The detective immediately realizes that the letter must be hidden in plain sight. And he is right—there it is, in a rack full of visiting cards below the mantelpiece, not hidden at all. Simple! And yet only a genius would think to look in the open for a “hidden” object.
Just as only a genius would look in the open for a “hidden” message.
The twins looked around the room for
“Wait a minute, your names wouldn’t happen to be Edgar and Allan, would they?” the night clerk called out.
The boys stopped spinning the rack (though the rack continued spinning for some time without them) and returned to the front desk. They peered over the top. “Yes, we’re Edgar and Allan.”
“How did you know their names?” Aunt Judith asked.
“Somebody found a book this morning on the table here next to the doughnuts,” he answered. He disappeared under the front desk. The Poes could hear him rummaging around. “I could swear those were the authors.” More rustling among junk. “Let’s see, it’s got to be around here somewhere. Ah! Here it is.” He stood up and showed them the book.
“Oh, this explains it,” Uncle Jack said. He read the title aloud. “
Tales of Mystery and Imagination
by Edgar Allan Poe. This book’s written by Edgar Allan Poe, the famous author. Not Edgar
and
Allan Poe.”
The clerk narrowed his eyes. “But look what it says inside.”
Uncle Jack opened the book.
Edgar
and
Allan Poe? Uncle Jack and Aunt Judith looked at each other.
“Oh, that’s just a misprint,” Uncle Jack said.
“A typo,” Aunt Judith added. “A coincidence.”
But the boys didn’t believe in coincidence.
Edgar took the book.
“We’d like to keep it,” Allan said.
“Haven’t you two already read that?” Aunt Judith asked.
Naturally they had. And while some of the words their great-great-great-great granduncle used were old-fashioned, the stories were grievous, shuddersome, and horrific—in other words, perfect. The twins thought “The Black Cat” had the ideal plot, “The Masque of the Red Death” was outstandingly spooky, “The Pit and the Pendulum” utterly frightening, “The Cask of Amontillado”…well, Edgar and Allan thought that every story in the book was the best of one thing or another.
“We’d like to read it again,” they said.
But there was more to it than that.
Fifteen minutes later, Edgar and Allan sat cross-legged in their motel room on one of the two beds. The other bed was already a shambles, its covers and blankets tossed and scattered and the mattress crushed in the middle as a result of the boys using it like a trampoline, testing the elasticity of the memory foam and the torque of the box springs. The ceiling above the bed had been cracked by Edgar’s head—no damage done, as Edgar’s head was quite hard.
Now the boys held the book between them. It was heavy in their hands.
“This clearly contains a special message for us,” Allan said.
“Yes, but if you consider all the writing in it, there are thousands of messages,” Edgar observed.
“So how do we figure it out?”
Whoever had left it behind had used a tourist brochure, like those in the motel office, as a bookmark. The volume opened to a story called “The Purloined Letter.” It began with a short quote in Latin:
Nil sapientiae odiosius acumine nimio.
Of course they knew the translation: “Nothing is more hateful to wisdom than excessive cleverness.”
They looked at each other.
“That can’t have anything to do with us,” Allan said.
Edgar agreed. “We’re clever, but not
excessively
clever.”
“Actually, we’re just clever enough.”
They kept reading.
“The Purloined Letter” was one of their great-great-great-great granduncle’s most famous stories. In it, a detective is challenged to locate a valuable stolen letter that has been hidden in a particular room. Experts have already searched the room, tearing it apart but finding nothing. The detective immediately realizes that the letter must be hidden in plain sight. And he is right—there it is, in a rack full of visiting cards below the mantelpiece, not hidden at all. Simple! And yet only a genius would think to look in the open for a “hidden” object.
Just as only a genius would look in the open for a “hidden” message.
The twins looked around the room for
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