The Case of the Petrified Man (8 page)

“I see that piece in your pocket,” said the blond gunman.

I glanced over at Absalom Smith’s right-hand trowser pocket. Sure enough, it was bulging, and I was close enough to see the brass trigger guard of an Augusta Revolver, which some folk called the “Confederate Colt.”

(Although I do not have a Gun Collection, I know a lot about firearms.)

“I see your piece,” repeated the blond youth, “so I know you’re heeled. Now draw!”

Absalom Smith made no reply.

“What is wrong with you?” said the young man. “Why won’t you draw? Ain’t you Farmer Peel? Chief of the Desperados?”

Absalom Smith still made no reply.

I spoke up. “He ain’t Farner Peel,” I said. “His name is Absalom Smith.”

The young gunman’s eyes flickered towards me. They were very blue, with thick eyelashes. “You keep out of this, kid!” But after a moment his eyes flicked back. “You sure it ain’t him? He fits the description.”

I looked at Absalom Smith. It was true: he did look a bit like Peel, but no more than the dusty gunman himself. And of course he did not have the scar of a bullet below his right cheekbone.

I said, “Farner Peel has a bullet scar below his right cheekbone. That is how you can tell them apart.”

Absalom Smith finally spoke. His voice was shaky. “The boy’s right,” he said in his Southern accent. “I am not Farmer
Peel. I admit I carry a gun, but so does everyone in this place.”

“Whew!” The young man exhaled & took off his hat & ran his hand through his dusty hair. Then he flashed his white teeth in a broad grin. “I’m mighty sorry about that. Don’t I look a fool?”

People in the saloon started moving again.

The gunman stepped towards Absalom Smith with his right hand extended. “My name is John Dennis,” he said. “But you can call me El Dorado Johnny. Let me buy you a whiskey.” He turned to Mr. Leahigh, who had resumed his standing position. “Two whiskeys,” he said, replacing his hat at its rakish angle. “And a drink for the little Indian, too.” He shone his smile on me. “What’s that you’re drinking, kid?”

“It is soda water with sarsaparilla syrup,” I said.

I bent over & picked up the briar pipe & handed it to Absalom Smith, Actor and Professional Punster.

“Thank you, P.K.,” he said. He took the pipe with a shaky hand.

“What brings you to Virginia, Johnny?” asked Mr. Leahigh, as he put down a new whiskey glass.

“Oh, I ain’t new to these parts,” said Mr. El Dorado Johnny. “I got me a placer mine in Flowery Canyon, about two miles from here. I just heard you got a position vacant here in Virginia.” He looked around to make sure everybody was listening.

“What position might that be?” asked Mr. Leahigh, filling his glass.

“Chief of the Desperados,” announced the youth. He was
smiling again & showing his pearly teeth. “Yes, I aim to be Chief of the Desperados hereabouts.”

Some people laughed at that. But not Jace, nor Mr. Leahigh neither.

El Dorado Johnny knocked back his whiskey and put the small glass back on the bar. Then he turned and faced the people in the saloon, who were still watching him with interest.

“Can any of you recommend a good bath house and barber?” he said in a carrying voice. “I intend to call out Farmer Peel today or tomorrow at the latest. If he kills me, I want to make a Good-Looking Corpse.”

Some more people laughed & this seemed to please El Dorado Johnny.

“That’s right,” he said, hooking his thumbs in his gun belt & looking around with a grin. “I aim to be either Chief of the Comstock or a Good-Looking Corpse.”

There was more laughter.

Mr. Leahigh filled Johnny up again. “Your best bet for a bath and barber,” he said, “is Selfridge & Bach’s just a few doors down. They will make you look real pretty.”

El Dorado Johnny knocked back his second whiskey, put a silver dollar on the bar, touched the brim of the dainty slouch hat with his finger & clanked out of the saloon in the direction of the bath house.

“By God, I need another whiskey, too,” said Absalom Smith.

Mr. Leahigh poured it & Mr. Absalom Smith took it with trembling hand. “What is the difference between roast beef and pea soup?” he asked us.

Before we could answer, he downed his whiskey in one. “Anyone can roast beef,” he said & hurried out the back door of the saloon.

Mr. Leahigh gave a rare chuckle.

Then his smile faded & he shook his head. “I sure hope that durn fool El Dorado Johnny don’t end up a good-looking corpse.”

The card players at Jace’s table had finished their hand. They were all rising to depart, shaking hands with Jace and each other.

Jace saw me looking at him and he tipped his head towards the back of the saloon.

I was not sure what he meant at first, but when he disappeared out the back a few minutes later, I followed.

I had not seen him for nearly two whole days. I hoped he did not think I was ignoring him.

I went out the saloon’s back door and down some wooden stairs to the steep slope. When I reached the bottom, I could see no sign of him. Apart from some woodpiles & heaps of garbage, there were only a couple of privies out there: the one with a moon cut in the door for women & the star one, for men.

Then I smelled Jace’s Cuban cigar & saw a wisp of smoke emerge from the star hole in the door of the right hand privy. Jace smokes a brand called “Mascara,” which means “mask” in Spanish. This is fitting, as his face is usually a mask.

I went over to the outhouses & squeezed between them so that unless you were standing right in front of them or right behind them you would not see me.

“Jace?” I said, in a low voice. “You in there?”

“Yeah,” came his voice from within. “I’m in here. You did the right thing back there when you spoke up. Defused a nasty situation. But I been thinking…Might be better for our partnership if we ain’t seen together in public. How about you join me and Stonewall for dinner this evening about eight? After dinner you can help me play a few hands of poker over at the Virginia City Saloon. All right?”

“All right,” I said. I glanced around. “Can I just ask you something?”

“Ask away,” came his voice after a moment. “But make it quick.”

I HAVE BEEN HIRED
to find the Murderer of Short Sally,” I told Poker Face Jace through the wall of the privy out back of the Fashion Saloon. “My client says Sally was strangled but you told me her throat was cut.”

His voice emerged through cracks in the planks along with wisps of cigar smoke. “You sure you want to take on the biggest mystery in Virginia?” he said. “Ain’t the Law investigating?”

I said, “If I can solve this mystery then people will respect me and stop pranking me. Who told you her throat was cut?”

“Don’t recall. Heard it in a saloon.”

I said, “How can I find out if my client is telling the truth or not?”

Jace’s answer came along with another wisp of smoke. “Ask the Coroner. He operates out back of a saloon down on South C Street.”

I knew a Coroner was an official who investigated deaths, but I had never heard of one operating out back of a saloon.

“Which saloon?” I asked.

“The Washoe Exchange Billiard Saloon. There is a kind of vault built into the mountain there,” explained Jace. “Sometimes they use it as a morgue.”

I was surprised to learn there was a coroner’s office and a morgue out back of the Washoe Saloon. I figured they must be right underneath my bedroom window.

“P.K.?” said Jace.

“Yes, sir?”

“You take on this case you better be careful not to cross the Coroner or the Deputy Marshal. I do not think they would be favorably disposed towards you.”

“Yes, sir,” I said. “That is good advice.”

“Now skedaddle,” said Jace. “I got business to attend to.”

I left Jace to finish his business.

It was now past noon and I was hungry.

On my way to see the Coroner, I stopped by the Colombo Restaurant & asked Titus Jepson if he had any old copies of the
Daily Territorial Enterprise
newspaper with reports of Short Sally’s murder. He sent Gus to look and he brought a plate of cheese & crackers to my usual table along with a glass of sarsaparilla—my new favorite drink. By and by, Gus
brought over a three-day-old, grease-stained newspaper, dated Monday September 29.

It contained a short notice of Sally Sampson’s death:

On Saturday morning a sporting woman known as “Short” Sally Sampson was found murdered in her crib on D Street. There was no evidence of robbery and the motive remains a mystery. Her ten-year-old servant girl is missing but is not considered dangerous as neighbors said she “would not hurt a fly.” Hundreds of men turned out for Miss Sampson’s funeral yesterday, including all three Volunteer Fire Companies and a brass band. Most mines shut down for a few hours as a mark of respect. The Reverend Samuel B. Rooney gave his final eulogy before leaving this Territory. He spoke most eloquently of Sally’s bravery and compassion. Virginia City and this newspaper eagerly await the results of the inquest. Crimes such as this one should not go unpunished.

That brief report did not say whether Sally had been cut or throttled. But at least it seemed accurate. If Mr. Sam Clemens had written it, he probably would have subjected Short Sally to death by a thousand arrows from marauding Shoshone, or had her peppered with balls like a “nutmeg-grater.” I closed the paper & finished my sarsaparilla & thanked Mr. Titus Jepson and Gus, too.

Then I headed down to the Coroner’s office at the back of
the Washoe Exchange Billiard Saloon. I decided to take the normal route even though the ladder below my back window could have taken me directly there.

I went down Taylor and turned right and sure enough, there it was: the Washoe Exchange Billiard Saloon, a sturdy building in fireproof brick. As I stood there looking at it, I noticed a big, red-faced man with bushy brown whiskers & a silver-tipped walking stick go down the alley I had used several times. He was unlocking a door. As I came closer, I saw the words
G.T.
SEWALL,
CORONER
painted on it. I had been following Martha’s footprints with my nose down, which is why I had not noticed the sign before.

The man with the walking stick left the door ajar, so I followed him inside. The office consisted of an unplastered brick room with a large desk & a couple of chairs & some books on a shelf. In one corner of this room was an open door to another room from which wafted a dank breeze carrying nose-prickling traces of mysterious chemicals.

The man turned to put his stovepipe hat on a peg. He did not appear to notice me so I kept on going towards the room with the strange smell.

It was so cool & clammy in there that it made my skin crawl. There were a couple of narrow wooden tables lined up. On one of them lay the body of a dead person under a sheet. I could tell he was dead because the feet sticking out were bloodless & very still.

I thought, “This must be the morgue Jace told me about.”

It was the strangest room I had ever seen for it had curved walls made partly of brick and partly of rock, as well as a roof
two stories high. I tipped my head back and looked up. I could see threads of light where sunshine showed gaps in the planks. That roof was not very sturdy. If I had jumped onto it from my window, I might have crashed right through & fallen two stories & landed on one of the corpses.

I looked at the body more closely.

There was something not quite right about the corpse beneath its sheet. I tilted my head to one side, to try to figure out what.

Then I had it: the body seemed to be in two parts.

I went over to it & lifted the sheet to make sure.

The man had been cut in two at the waist. The division was straight, but not a neat cut such as a saw would make. It was messy. I reckoned the poor man had been run over by the wheel of a Quartz Wagon or a Stagecoach.

“What the h-ll are you doing in my morgue?” A man’s angry voice made me jump & I whirled to see the man with the bushy whiskers & the walking stick. “Who the h-ll are you?” he said.

“My name is P.K. Pinkerton,” I said. “Are you Mr. G.T. Sewall, Coroner? If so, I would like to see the report of the inquest on Miss Sally Sampson. I want to know if she was strangulated or cut.”

He stared at me goggle-eyed, opening and closing his mouth like a trout. I reckoned that was Expression No. 4: Surprise.

Getting no reply, I said, “I am a Private Eye. I have been hired to find the Killer of Sally Sampson.”

“What?” he spluttered. “A Private Eye? By God! I’ll bet that
dam varmint Clemens put you up to this, didn’t he?” He strode out of the morgue & went to the window of his office & peered out into the alley. “I told him not to show his face again. Is he lurking out there?” He returned to the morgue & raised his walking stick. “Where is he? Tell me or I’ll thrash you!”

“Mr. Sam Clemens had nothing to do with this,” I said.

“Then how the h-ll do you know that varmint’s Christian name?” he cried. He drew back his silver-tipped walking stick & swung for me hard.