The Case of the Petrified Man (22 page)

She opened her eyes. “I done told you his name yesterday, before you run out on me. I remembered Miss Sally call him Dee Forest. Lieutenant Dee Forest Robards.”

I stared at her in disbelief & dismay.

Martha hadn’t told me that she would be hiding in a
forest. She hadn’t mentioned a “bear” or a “bar.” She had told me the Killer’s name: Dee Forest Robards.

For a whole day and a half I had been trying to find a man whose name I should have known all along.

I thought, “Of all the Detectives in the world, I must be the worst.”

DEE FOREST ROBARDS?
” said the Rev. C.V. Anthony, whom I had unfairly suspected. “No, that name does not ring a bell.”

I heaved a deep sigh. I had been asking everyone I knew if they had heard of Dee Forest Robards. They hadn’t. The Methodist pastor was my last chance.

“I am sorry,” said the Rev. C.V. Anthony, “I have only been here in Virginia a few weeks. That is why I am not familiar with all my parishioners yet. However, I do have some records left by my predecessor. Let me look. By the way,” he added, “it’s probably spelled D-e-f-o-r-e-s-t. One word.
Southern folk often give their children family names as Christian names.”

I nodded & offered up a silent prayer as he went over to a big leather book. He was puffing a cherrywood pipe.

They had told me about the possible alternate spelling of the name over at the Territorial Enterprise, but none of them had ever heard of him. The Virginia Directory had no record of a Dee Forest or D. Forest Robards or Deforest or any combination of those names. Doc Pinkerton and his wife had never heard the name. Nor had Isaiah Coffin nor Titus Jepson nor any of the girls down at Big Gussie’s Boardinghouse nor any of the barkeepers at the saloons near my office.

Worst of all, the two people I relied on the most had left town. The man at the International Hotel told me that Jace and Stonewall had gone to Carson City and he did not know when they would return.

So the Rev. was my last hope.

“People come and go in a mining camp like this,” said the Rev. C.V. Anthony as he leafed through the crinkly pages of the fat leather volume. “These records are already out of date.” By and by he turned to me and shook his head. “I’m sorry but I can’t find anybody with the name Robards or Deforest, or even Forest. Do you suspect this man in your murder investigation?”

I nodded dejectedly. “Martha remembered his name.”

He frowned and said, “P.K., you should leave this investigation to the Law. I don’t think a child your age should be interviewing Soiled Doves and frequenting saloons in search of a murderer. How is Martha, anyway?”

“She is better. She is in a Safe Haven.” I sighed again. Would I ever understand people? “Reverend Anthony, sir,” I said, “why do people kill each other?”

“You mean ‘murder’ as opposed to ‘kill’ in self-defense or wartime?”

“Yes, sir,” I said.

“Because we are sinful, P.K.,” he said. “Men kill because they covet their neighbor’s possessions or because they are thwarted in love. They kill to defend their wounded pride and sometimes even their vanity. In this town, men often kill each other merely because they are inebriated.”

I nodded even though I did not understand most of what he had said.

“Hello, Charles!” boomed a voice behind me. The Reverend and I both turned to see a tall, big-bearded, well-dressed man come into the church.

“Hello, Bill,” said the Reverend. “How are you today?”

“Capital!” cried the man. “Capital! And you?”

“Very well, thank you. We were just discussing the nature of evil and why men kill other men.”

“Why, I can tell you that,” said the big-bearded man called Bill. “Man kills for three reasons: love, anger and greed.”

I liked his answer & I liked him. He was about 6 & ½ feet tall & skinny with a beard the size of a small sagebrush. I was pretty sure I would not confuse him for anybody else. I took out my Detective Notebook and wrote down:
love, anger & greed.

“You don’t really mean ‘Love,’ do you?” said the Rev. C.V. Anthony.

“All right,” said Bill. “Lust then. Or Jealousy as a result of love or lust.”

I crossed out
love
and wrote down
jealousy
in its place.

So now my Detective Notebook said:
jealousy, anger & greed.
That would be easy to remember because the first letters spelled out
JAG
.

The sagebrush-bearded man said, “Who is the miniature philosopher with whom you are discussing such important topics, Charles?”

“This is P.K. Pinkerton,” said the Rev. C.V. Anthony. “He is Virginia’s newest private detective.”

“Great Caesar’s ghost!” exclaimed the tall man. “I saw your shingle go up across the road but I had no idea you were so young. I do not believe I have ever encountered a Child Detective before.”

“Now you have,” said I.

“P.K.,” said the Rev. C.V. Anthony, “please allow me to introduce Mr. William Morris Stewart, the ‘great lawyer’ of the region.”

I stared at him. According to my dead pa, Lawyers were worse than gunmen or desperados. He called them the “Devil’s Own” & said they were smooth-talking crooks bent on making you give them all you had.

I said, “According to my dead pa, Lawyers are worse than gunmen or desperados. He called them ‘the Devil’s Own.’”

Mr. William Morris Stewart stared at me openmouthed for a moment. Then he tipped back his head and roared with laughter.

The Rev. C.V. Anthony raised one eyebrow at me. “P.K.,” he
chided. “That is a rather hurtful thing to say right to a man’s face. Even a Lawyer’s.”

“Not at all!” cried Mr. William Morris Stewart, wiping tears of laughter from his eyes. “Not at all! That is about the first honest thing anybody has said to me in this town. Son,” he said, “if you are ever in need of a Lawyer, please come to me. I enjoy your refreshing approach to life. One day I might even have use for a Private Eye such as yourself. And if you ever have need of my help”—here he handed me a business card—“my Virginia City office is right across the street from you.”

As I pocketed his card, I wondered if despite all Pa Emmet’s warnings the Lord might possibly be inclined to use a Lawyer for good and not evil.

“There is something,” I said.

“Name it!” he cried.

“Have you ever heard of a man called Deforest Robards?”

Mr. William Morris Stewart tipped his big head on one side & pursed his lips. “Why, no,” he said presently. “No, cannot say as I have. But I have contacts in Washington and Richmond. I will telegraph them at once. However,” he added, “I would not get my hopes up if I were you.”

It appeared the trail had gone cold. My quarry had eluded me. I miserably nodded my thanks & trudged back up to my office.

BACK AT MY OFFICE,
I sat at my desk and rocked back and forth, humming quietly. I was hungry but there was no food in my office and I did not feel disposed to go shopping.

I was too low.

I thought I had solved my first big case but it appeared I was dead wrong. I had not even come close to identifying the man who killed Sally Sampson.

I had gone to the Scene of the Crime.

I had looked for Clews.

I had interviewed witnesses and listed the suspects, first narrowing it down to six & then adding a few to make nine.

But now it appeared that the Killer was none of these. It was someone so clever that nobody had even heard of him. It was as if he had disappeared, and yet he must still be in town for he had tried to burn down Martha’s hiding place.

I was in a “brown study.”

To take my mind off my troubles, I took out my Big Tobacco Collection & started to arrange it across my desktop. As I worked, I observed interesting details, viz: “Banana” brand Cuban cigars have slightly yellow tobacco, like a banana. Connecticut “Cinnamon Blotch” cigars are reddish-brown with white specks. “Maple Leaf” snuff has a faint whiff of maple syrup.

The varying shapes & colors of the cigars consoled me. The different smells of the plug tobacco comforted me.

I had over 100 different samples and I could match the shreds to their boxes and/or tags real quick now. For those tobaccos with no store-bought label—like Sam Clemens’s Killickinick—I made my own from carefully folded & torn pieces of loose ledger pages.

I was just making a label for the Reverend’s “Cavendish Gold” pipe tobacco when the door flew open with a bang.

In came Isaiah Coffin, my next-door neighbor.

“You have wounded me!” he said. “And I am hurt.”

“Where?” I said. “Where did I hurt you?”

“Here!” he said, pressing his hand to his heart. “I have been a good neighbor and supplier of disguises. And how do you repay me? By putting me on a list of murder suspects.”

I opened my mouth to reply but I did not get a chance to speak.

“Furthermore,” he said, “you told Belle that I frequented Miss Sally Sampson and that I am a suspect in her murder. That is a lie, sir. A dam lie!”

“Then why did you visit her?” I said.

He slapped down a passel of little photographs onto the Tobacco Collection spread on my desk.

“I was taking Cartes de Visite of her. Fully clothed, as you see. She did not want to soil her frocks and gowns by trudging them up to B Street.”

I stared at the photos. They showed a pretty blond woman in a variety of dresses. At the bottom of one, someone had printed
SALLY
SAMPSON
SEAMSTRESS
.

“What about Mrs. Zoe Brown?” I said. “You called on her. I saw you.”

“I was buying Belle a hat.”

“From a Nymph of the Night?”

“Mrs. Zoe Brown is not a Nymph!” said Isaiah Coffin. “She is the best milliner in Virginia City.”

“Millionaire?” I repeated, stupidly.

“Milliner! It means ‘hat-maker.’”

“What about your ‘Secret Meeting’ that Friday night?”

At this he took a step back & stood up extra straight & looked down his nose at me. I saw his nostrils flare as he puffed out his chest.

At that, I crouched down behind my desk but he did not hit me or shoot me.

He only said, “That was a secret meeting to discuss the formation of a new chapter of Yoof.”

“Yoof?” I said, resuming my seat.

“Yoof, sir. Yoof!”

Seeing my blank look, he sighed & rolled his eyes heavenward & spelled it out. “I-O-O-F!” he said. “The Independent Order of Odd Fellows. It is a venerable order not unlike that of the Masonic Temple.”

Now I did feel bad. Foolish & bad.

He turned & stalked to the door & went out.

Before the door had closed completely, someone else shoved it open.

It was Sam Clemens.

His eyes were narrowed and he was clamping his pipe stem with his teeth.

“Dang you, P.K.,” he said, pulling the pipe from his mouth. “This time I am really mad at you. Spitting mad! You gave that story to Dan after I struck a bargain with you. I went and interviewed the Russian, American and Frenchman and eliminated them as suspects and have been patiently sitting at my desk waiting for your Scoop!”

“You have?” I said. “You did? But I’ve been to the Enterprise twice today and I did not see you.”

“Well, I was probably still interviewing your suspects. Anybody would have told you that if you had asked.”

“They told me you were down in Silver City.”

“Why would I be down in Silver City when I have been laboring for you?” Sam Clemens spoke so forcefully that some drops from his mouth sprayed out. I guess that is what they mean when they say “spitting mad.”

“You know those boys love pranking me,” he continued. “You should have persisted. And what about the Coroner? What happened when you went down there?”

I hung my head. “He saw through my disguise,” I said. “He drove me out with his walking stick.”

“Doggone it, P.K.! How do you expect to be a Detective if you cannot even fool a fool like Sewall? You are a miserable detective. Worst I ever seen.”

Then he caught sight of my cigar butts and tobacco crumbs spread out in alphabetical order on the desk. “You and your foibles and eccentricities!” he cried. “This is all flapdoodle!” He drew back his arm and with one motion he swept the Big Tobacco Collection off my desk and onto the floor.