The Case of the Petrified Man (21 page)

I ESCAPED THE CORONER
by dashing in the tradesman’s entrance of the International Hotel & up the wooden stairs & out its B Street entrance. Nobody took any notice of a breathless little girl in shawl and bonnet.

As I emerged onto B Street I was almost knocked off my feet by a tide of off-duty miners & shopkeepers & even some women hurrying south along both sides of the street.

“Gonna be another duel!” I heard someone say.

I offered up a prayer of thanks and let myself be carried away by the swirling tide of people.
Presently I found myself outside the Niagara Hall & Billiard Saloon.

I squeezed through the crowd so I could hear what the people at the front were saying.

“He is crazy,” said a man.

“Do you think he will do it?” said another.

I emerged into open space at the front of the crowd. My bonnet had got shmooshed down over my eyes. When I adjusted it, I saw nothing but the doors of a saloon.

I tugged the frock coat of the man to my right. “What is it?” I asked him. “What is happening?”

“You run along home, now, li’l gal,” said the man. “They is going to be trouble here in not too long.”

“What trouble?” said a man’s voice behind me.

“Some crazy Irishman,” replied another. “Pat Lynch was sweeping the front when this fellow comes up and says, ‘Pat, what sort of a corpse do you think I’d make? Do you think I’d make a good-looking corpse?’”

“He calls himself El Dorado Johnny,” said another man. “He’s packing a pair of Colt’s Navy revolvers.”

“Pat tried to stop him from going inside but he would not listen,” said the first man.

“Who is he looking for?” asked a woman.

“That Farmer Peel!” said the first man. “The one who has been calling himself Chief of Virginia City.”

The crowd gasped & took a communal step back as a man swung out through the saloon doors.

But it was only a red-bearded, flannel-shirted miner.

“Trouble’s afoot,” he said. “I’m skedaddling.”

Instead of dispersing, the crowd shuffled forward. I was right at the front with a good view.

Nobody told me to go home now. Everyone was too intent on trying to hear what was happening inside. It had gone so quiet that we could all hear a young man’s voice.

“I said are there any Chiefs around here?” came the too-loud voice of a drunk. “My name is John Dennis. They call me El Dorado Johnny.”

There was a pause. Then another voice replied, too soft for us to hear.

“Anyone can take it as likes!” said the loud first voice.

For a moment there was utter silence apart from the rhythmic thudding of the mountain & the distant tinkle of piano music coming from another saloon. Then the doors of the saloon swung open and a hatless young man with slicked-back hair & silver spurs backed onto the boardwalk, fumbling with his holster. Sure enough, it was the young man who had come into the Fashion Saloon the day before: El Dorado Johnny. Everybody scattered like quail when the hawk lands, but I stuck to my spot.

Bang! Bang! Bang!

Farner Peel burst through the swinging doors with his guns blazing.

The young man fell at my feet, his guns only half out of the holsters.

A woman screamed and three men uttered profanities not fit for publication.

Two of Farner Peel’s shots had struck El Dorado Johnny in the chest. One ball still had a piece of burning wad
attached & a little flame burned on his lapel. But it was the third bullet smack dab in the middle of his forehead that had killed him. He had fallen off the boardwalk and landed in the thoroughfare right at my feet. For a moment I saw the look of puzzlement in his long-lashed blue eyes. Then the spark of life faded. I guess my upside-down, bonnet-framed face was the last thing that met his dying gaze.

“Dang!” A man knelt over Johnny’s body & patted out the fire on his coat. He turned & glared up at Peel, who was still up on the boardwalk. “That ain’t fair! You did not fight by the rules of duello. You were supposed to wait till you were both outside and facing each other.”

“Are you making an official complaint?” said Farner Peel, his smoking pistols still in his hands.

“No,” said the man, lowering his gaze. “No, I guess I ain’t.”

Farner Peel looked around. I could tell by the way he was swaying slightly that he was “tight.”

“Anybody else?” he said in his English accent. “Anybody else want to come at me with guns or knives or forks, or anything else?”

Nobody uttered a peep, so he holstered his guns & turned & went back into the saloon.

People were just starting to talk again when he came back out through the swinging doors of the saloon.

Everybody fell silent.

“I do not believe I will frequent this saloon in future,” he said, and started off north towards Union Street.

A man in an apron followed Farner Peel out and watched him go. Then he looked down at the corpse & shook his head.

“Bring poor Johnny in here, boys,” he said in an Irish accent. “Put him on the billiards table. He wanted to be a good-looking corpse and he will get his desire. Free drinks for the first four men to carry him in,” he added.

Instantly, four men lifted El Dorado Johnny’s corpse & carried it into the saloon.

I went in after them & watched them lay him out. The barkeep gently closed the eyes of the corpse & after that he looked better. More peaceful. Less surprised. Good-looking, even.

I thought, “I’ll bet Mr. Sam Clemens will be happy to hear about a shooting duel between Farner Peel and El Dorado Johnny, who is now a good-looking corpse.”

Then I thought, “This is even better than a Yank forked by a Reb.”

And finally, “I wonder if he has any information for me.”

I hated running in those too-tight white boots & breezy bloomers while holding down my bonnet with my left hand & clutching my purple shawl with my right.

But news like this could not wait.

WHY, HELLO, MAISIE
,” said Dan De Quille as I flung open the door of the Enterprise. He gave me a wink. “How are you today?”

Most of the desks were unoccupied, but Dan sat at a rolltop desk near the window.

“Is Sam Clemens here?” I was somewhat breathless from running in the thin Virginia City air.

“Why, no, he has gone down to Silver City to do some research. He won’t be back until this evening.”

That surprised me. I thought Sam Clemens was interviewing witnesses for me. Dan’s statement
should have given me pause for thought, but I thought he was wearing Expression No. 1—a Genuine Smile—so I did not question it at the time. Also, I was distracted by the intense stares of some of the reporters and especially by Horace, the Printer’s Devil. He was coming towards me with a strange look on his face. He must have been setting print, for his apron & fingers were covered with ink & he had a smudge of it across his freckled nose.

“Hello, Maisie,” said Horace. “How are you today?”

“Not now, Horace,” said Dan De Quille, and turned back to me. “What do you want with Sam?”

“Nothing,” I lied.

“You must want something,” he said. “You came running in here as if pursued by desperados.” His smile vanished & he half rose from his chair. “You ain’t being pursued by desperados again? Will I be obliged to flee to Carson City and live there under an assumed name?”

That reminded me of something.

I said, “Is your real name Dan De Quille?”

“Why, no,” he said, settling back into his chair. “That’s my Nom de Plume.”

“Your what?”

“Nom de Plume.” He wrote it out on a slip of paper & held it up for me to see. “It is French for ‘pen name.’ Lots of writers and reporters have them. It is the done thing. Mine is ‘Dan De Quille.’ It is not only a false name, but it’s also a pun. Do you get it?”

I shook my head.

He held up a quill pen and said, “It sounds like ‘dandy quill.’”

“Oh,” I said. And then, “What is your real name?”

“William Wright,” said he.

I thought about this for a moment.

“Is Charles Dickens his real name?”

“Yes, but he sometimes writes under the name ‘Boz.’”

“What about Mr. Sam Clemens?” I said.

Dan laughed. “That’s Sam’s real name. But he has got a quiver full of pen names. Can’t seem to settle on one yet. My favorite is ‘W. Epaminondas Adrastus Blab.’ But around here he usually signs off as ‘Josh.’”

“I did not know that writers and reporters could have other names,” I said.

“Not just writers and reporters,” said Dan De Quille. “Desperados often adopt an Alias, while actors and actresses call it a Stage Name. Soiled Doves and other such sporting ladies are liable to put on a colorful name, too. You don’t suppose Belle Donne is her real name, do you?”

I stared at him.

“Pseudonym,” he said. “Some people call a false name a ‘Pseudonym.’”

“Sioux what?” I said.

“Pseudonym,” said Dan. He wrote that out for me, too. (I never would have guessed a word that sounded like soodoe-nim had a P at the front.)

“Yes,” said Dan, “anybody can rename themselves if they so desire. Especially if they have a past or a secret life.”

I said, “I guess P.K. Pinkerton is a sort of Pseudonym.”

“Oh?” he said, lighting his pipe. “What is your real name?”

“The name my Indian ma gave me when I was born,” I said. “Glares from a Bush.”

“Ha-ha,” said Dan De Quille. “That is amusing. Now, tell me why you really came here.”

I said, “I came to help Sam Clemens as part of a deal we struck, but I reckon he was pranking me.”

Dan nodded. “Sam does love a prank.” He puffed his pipe a little and then said, “Why don’t you tell me your news?”

For a moment I hesitated.

Then I thought, “Why not?” Sam Clemens had let me down. Dan De Quille got first crack at Shootings anyway.

I reckoned I might as well tell him.

I took a deep breath & spilled it out. “Farner Peel and El Dorado Johnny just had a duel at the Niagara Music Hall & Billiard Saloon up on B Street,” I said. “Johnny went along to the barber yesterday. He said he wanted to be either the ‘Chief of the Comstock’ or a ‘Good-Looking Corpse.’ Peel put a Navy ball in Johnny’s forehead & killed him outright. Another ball set his vest on fire. Johnny is now laid out in state on the billiard table in the saloon.”

“By God, Pinky!” cried Dan, leaping to his feet. “A good-looking corpse with a smoking vest. That is pure gold!” He flipped me a silver half-dollar, grabbed his hat from the rack & cried, “Bless you, my child!”

And he was out the door.

Horace had not gone away. He was still standing & gazing
at me. Now he stepped closer. “Are you all right, Maisie?” he said. “You ain’t hurt?”

“No,” I said, backing towards the door. “No, I am right as rain.”

“Why did he call you ‘Pinky’?” said Horace. “Is that your nickname? It is real purty. Almost as purty as you are.”

He was advancing as he said this & I was retreating. I clutched my shawl around me for protection.

He swallowed hard. “Miss Pinky? Do you suppose I could have a kiss?”

“No,” I said, groping behind me for the doorknob. “I do not like to be touched. Good-bye.”

I found the handle & turned it & flung open the door & fled into the chilly October morning.

As I hurried along the clattering C Street boardwalk, I thought, “What is it about Virginia City? Folk either want to kill you or kiss you.”

When I was certain I was not being pursued, I slowed to a walk, which in those tight boots was more like a limp.

I limped back to my office & went into my back room & changed back into my buckskin trowsers & flannel shirt.

I felt grumpy and low.

My shot arm ached & my ear was still sore.

That varmint Sam Clemens had let me down.

Now I would have to interview the French barber Pierre Forote, the American policeman Isaac Brokaw & the Russian telegraph operator Yuri Ivanovich, to strike them from my list of suspects.

Unless Martha was awake.

If she could tell me what kind of accent the Killer had, it would be a simple way of eliminating suspects.

I sent up a prayer that Martha would be conscious & I made my way down to the Extra-Safe Haven.

My client’s surroundings were unusual, but she was awake & conscious.

“Martha!” I said. “You are awake!”

Martha nodded weakly. She was propped up in a makeshift bed in the corner of a room. She was clean and there was no straw in her hair.

I said, “How do you feel? Do you still have a fever?”

She shook her head.

“Are they looking after you?”

She gave a small nod, then said in a faint voice, “Only the food they’s giving me is mighty peculiar.”

“Martha,” I said, “I need more help figuring out who killed Miss Sally. I have a list of suspects and each of them would have spoken with a different accent. Yuri Ivanovich would have used a Russian accent, Pierre Forote is French, Isaiah Coffin is English and Ludwig Hamm is German. Or the killer might have been an American.”

Martha closed her eyes. “Why you telling me all them names? I done told you his name already.”

“You what?” I came closer to hear her better.