The Case of the Petrified Man (27 page)

“It was him!” I shouted. “He strangulated Miss Sally!”

Behind me Belle gasped, “Absalom Smith!”

I said, “Yes! He calls himself Absalom Smith but his real name is Deforrest Robards.” I repeated it so that everyone could hear. “Dee Forrest Ro-bards! He strangulated Miss Sally and I saw him do it!”

Mr. Absalom Smith stood petrified by fear.

“Miss Sally knows you from Alabamy,” I cried. “You killed her ’cause she was gonna tell on you. And on account of she was taunting you.” Then I screwed my voice up an octave & cried out, “Flicker, flicker! Yellowhammer!”

“Shut your mouth!” he cried at last.

And then, “Stop saying that!”

And finally, “If I have to go, then by God I’m taking you with me!”

I saw his nostrils flare & his chest heave up & he reached into the pocket of his duster coat & pulled the revolver from his pocket & took aim at me & fired.

EVERYTHING HAPPENED REAL QUICK.

Thanks to me seeing his nostrils flare and his chest heave up, I hit the ground.

Behind me a mirror shattered into a thousand pieces & Belle cried out. I had forgot she was standing nearby. All around the room other people hit the floor. Men shouted & women screamed.

“Belle!” cried Isaiah Coffin, and he ran forward as a second shot rang out.

I did not have time to get my gun from the medicine bag beneath my nightdress, so I reached out & grabbed the nearest piece of light furniture & hurled it at the Killer.

It was a kind of tall thin table with three legs & three triangular shelves.

It was a Mahog Whatnot.

It hit Absalom Smith smack dab on his elbow a moment before he pulled the trigger.

Bang!
His shot splattered harmlessly into the ceiling.

Within moments another five shots rang out.

Bang!

B’dang!

Bang de bang!

BANG!

Absalom Smith, a.k.a. Deforrest Robards, shrieked & spun around, riddled with bullets from every side.

Everything was confused & wild, but through a cloud of gunsmoke I saw four of my acquaintances brandishing smoking guns.

Langford Farner Peel had got off the first shot with his ivory-gripped Navy.

Big Gussie was holding a smoking pearl-handled Deringer.

William Morris Stewart also held large-bore Texas Deringers. One in each hand. Both of them were smoking, too.

And the Colt’s Army had been discharged by Deputy Marshal Jack Williams himself.

My ears were ringing but I heard Langford Farner Peel cock his revolver & address the Killer in his cool English accent. “Drop your piece, Smith,” he said.

Despite being riddled with balls, Absalom Smith was still on his feet. Frozen with fear, he stared at Farner Peel.

But only for a moment. Then he showed his true color.

He dropped his gun & turned & staggered for the door, spattering great drops of blood as he did.

Those people still on their feet parted, squealing, before him. Only one man stood firm: my Lawyer, Mr. William Morris Stewart. He stood blocking the doorway & brandishing his Deringers. I observed they were double barreled, so he had a ball left in each.

“Hold, sir!” he said.

Absalom Smith, a.k.a. Deforrest Robards, did not “hold.”

Instead, he swerved right & crashed through one of the two big windows, to the accompaniment of more screams and a couple more gunshots.

For a heartbeat or two there was silence.

Then we heard shouts & barking from the street below & everybody in the room ran to the window in order to look out.

I ran, too, but the flapping sole of my shoe tripped me up & I almost fell flat in a pool of Smith’s blood. However, I managed to regain my balance & I squeezed between hooped skirts to the window & looked out through the broken panes of glass. I could only see a crowd of people gathered around something down in the street by some wagons, so I followed the crowd downstairs.

Out on B Street I elbowed my way through the gathered populace until I got to the front of the crowd.

There a Terrible Sight met my eyes.

Justice had caught up with the coward Deforrest Robards in the shape of a mule-drawn Quartz Wagon.

When he leapt out the window he must have rolled down
the slanted awning and fallen right in front of the wagon, for he was lying under the wheel. His chest was crushed and there was blood everywhere. But he appeared to be living still. A burly & bearded man in a red flannel shirt was standing there, holding a small dog in his arms. “I didn’t even see him,” said the teamster. “One moment he warn’t there and the next he was. It was as if he fell from the sky.”

I went over to Absalom Smith, a.k.a. Deforrest Robards, & scrouched down & looked at him. He squinted back up at me & then his eyes widened in surprise & recognition. “When is a lady’s maid not a lady’s maid?” he murmured.

“When she is P.K. Pinkerton in disguise,” was my answer to his conundrum. “Do you have any last words?”

He nodded weakly, “Do not let them publish my real name. It would kill my mother. Father, too. The shame…”

His eyes closed and I thought he was a goner.

Then they opened again. “All I ever wanted to do was be an actor,” he said. “I could have been happy here if only she hadn’t recognized me.” Tears were squeezing out of his eyes & I almost pitied him.

“Do you repent of your Sins?” I said.

“Yes!” he cried. “Oh yes, I repent. May the Lord forgive me!”

I nodded. “I promise I will not let them publish your real name.”

“Bless you,” said Lieutenant Deforrest Robards, and with that he breathed his last.

WITHIN MOMENTS SOME MEN
had pulled the Killer’s body out of the road and onto the boardwalk. He lay there, awaiting the undertaker.

I stood gazing down at the corpse.

I wondered if he had made his peace with God or was roasting in the fiery place. His handsome face in repose looked about 10 years younger & almost peaceful, so I guessed maybe it was the former. His tobacco pouch had fallen out of his pocket and I bent down and picked it up. It smelled like Pa Emmet and, together with the sight of his boyish face, made my throat feel tight.
I automatically started to put it in the pocket of my buckskin trowsers, but remembered I was wearing a white nightdress. Instead I tucked it up beneath my night bonnet.

“War is the real criminal,” said the husky voice of Big Gussie behind me. “Not all men are cut out to be soldiers.”

“And yet every man has the potential to kill,” came the deep voice of Mr. William Morris Stewart.

That reminded me about JAG, his three motives for murder.

But Absalom Smith, a.k.a. Deforrest Robards, had not killed because of Jealousy, Anger or Greed. No, he had killed a brave & outspoken Soiled Dove because of cowardice, shame & the desire to be an actor.

I guess you cannot always simplify people.

Suddenly I was gripped by the shoulders & pulled to the fragrant & ruffled bosom of a woman in black.

“Oh, Martha!” said Zoe Brown as she hugged me. “I’m so glad you are safe. I felt so bad after I told you to run and hide somewhere else that night! If anything had happened to you I would never have forgiven myself!”

I reckon she mistook me for Martha but she found out her error when she put a finger under my chin and lifted my face in order to give me a kiss.

“Why, you ain’t—” she began, giving me Expression No. 4: Surprise.

I said, “It is me, P.K. Pinkerton. I am personating Martha on account of she was too scared to come.”

“Oh no!” cried Zoe Brown. “Is she hurt?”

“Do not worry about Martha,” said Mr. William Morris Stewart. “Thanks to P.K., she is safe and sound.”

“Where is she?” Zoe asked. “Where is the poor little thing?”

“She is in a Safe Haven,” I said. “I can take you to her now.”

“Oh yes!” cried Zoe. “Please take me to her and let us not delay a moment longer. I feel so guilty about what I did.”

As we walked down to Chinatown, Zoe Brown told us how Martha had come seeking refuge the night of Sally’s murder.

“I told her she couldn’t stop with me because everybody knew Sally and I were friends and my crib was the first place the Killer would look. I told her she must hide where nobody would find her.” Zoe hung her head. “But the real reason I turned her away was that I am a coward. I was afraid he would kill me, too. When I came to my senses, I tried to find her. I felt so bad.”

I reckon it was around 3 o’clock in the afternoon when we reached Hong Wo’s laundry down in the Chinese quarter of town. There we found Ping, and he took us to see Martha.

She was in fine spirits. She was wearing the pink calico dress and the button-up boots & sitting in her nest of sheets with a little Chinese boy of about two or maybe three years old beside her. They were both eating chow-chow with chopsticks.

Martha looked up, laughing, but when she saw me with darkened skin & dressed in her nightdress & bonnet she gave a kind of squawk & put down her bowl & clapped her hands.

“Oh my!” she cried. “It is like gazing in a mirror.” Then she
said, “Look, P.K., Woo is teaching me how to eat chow-chow with chopsticks.”

I said, “Woo?”

“This sweet li’l boy here. Ain’t he the cutest thang?”

Then Mrs. Zoe Brown came in behind me & Martha gave another squeal.

“Oh, Miz Zoe!” she cried. She leapt up from the sheets & ran to her & threw her arms tight around Zoe’s slender waist.

Mrs. Zoe Brown hugged Martha back for a long time & begged her forgiveness for turning her away & said that she was to live with her as long as she liked. Martha could not believe this at first but when it sank in she started crying. That set Mrs. Zoe Brown off weeping and soon Ping’s sister and little Woo joined in, too.

Ping looked at me & I looked at him.

He held out his hand. “That will be forty dollar,” he said. “For two day.”

I fished around in my Medicine bag & gave him two gold coins.

I was almost out of cash. I would have to go down to Wells, Fargo & Co. first thing Monday morning.

I thought, “This Detective business is mighty expensive.”

The women & Woo were still crying, so Ping led me out of the maze & back to F Street.

“Thank you, Ping,” I said as I turned to go.

He only grunted but I thought I detected the trace of a smile.

On the way back up to B Street, I was getting strange looks & realized I was still in blackface & wearing a thin
nightdress and night bonnet. I stopped at a pump & tried to wash the burnt cork off my hands & face.

Plain water had little effect, so I went back to my office & into my back room & took off the shoes & nightdress & sleeping cap. Then I put on my own clothes & went to find a bath house to see if hot water would do the job.

Ma Evangeline had taken me to a bath house once, somewhere outside Salt Lake City, but that had been over two years ago. I had not been to a bath house since, and never by myself.

I headed north on B Street to Selfridge & Bach’s Bath House, which was recommended by many local citizens as being one of the nicest.

As I went in, a thin Chinaman carrying crumpled towels came out of a door & before it closed I caught a glimpse of a big steamy room full of naked, hairy & dangling men.

“Negroes got to bathe privately,” said a fat man behind a counter.

“A private bath suits me just fine,” I said. “How much?”

“Two dollars.”

It was only then that I saw a sign behind him. It read:

I pointed at the sign. “It says one dollar for a private bath.”

“Negroes is extra,” said the man. “Double in fact.” Only he did not say it so politely.

I handed him two dollars.

He said, “That will be another four bits if you want soap, towels and clean hot water.”

I stared at him for a moment, then fished in my pocket and pulled out a silver half-dollar.