The Case of the Petrified Man (28 page)

He took it & pointed to a wooden door opposite and said, “In there.” Then he shouted, “Hung Lee? Get in here now!”

I went over to the door & opened it slowly, fearful of the sight of more naked men. But it was just a small wood plank room with a galvanized bathtub in the center & a single wooden chair & some wooden pegs on the wall & a small, high window. There was nothing in the tub except a damp white linen sheet plastered to its bottom & sides & hanging over. I was about to go back out and complain that I could not bathe with only a damp sheet when the door opened & the thin Chinese man came in with a steaming bucket. I reckoned he was Hung Lee.

He poured hot water into the bath, then turned and held up three fingers. “You wait,” he said. “Three more bucket.”

I nodded and waited as he went out & came in three more times until he had finished filling the bath.

When the bath was full of steaming hot water, he went out and I started to unbutton my shirt. I froze as the door opened once more. But it was only Mr. Hung Lee. He was carrying a folded bath sheet & a wash cloth & a small cake of yellow soap.

He placed these on the chair and gave a little bow. “I leave you now. Enjoy.”

“Wait,” I said & fished in my pocket and gave him two bits.

“Hung Lee thanks you!” he said, smiling & bowing again. He held up a single finger. “One more thing,” he said. He hurried out & returned & looked around & quickly emptied a fistful of powder into the bath. “Bath Salt,” he announced. “Lavender.” Mr. Hung Lee had some trouble saying this final word, but I knew what he meant because of the smell that was filling the room along with the steam.

He brushed his hands together over the steaming bath & bowed. “
Now
I go,” he said. On his way out he showed me a small brass hook on the inside of the door so I could lock it.

I used the little brass hook to lock the door. Then I got undressed & hung my pants & shirt & hat & medicine bag on the pegs. Next I climbed into the steaming hot bath & lowered myself slowly in. The gunshot wound in my left arm stung a little at first but then it settled down & I began to relax.

Back in Temperance, Ma Evangeline used to curtain off a part of the cabin and fill a tin tub with hot water for our weekly bath. She always let me go first but the water was never so hot as to require a sheet. Nor did she ever let me indulge in Bath Salts. Also, our tub in Temperance was only half this size.

This bath was a steaming luxury. I felt it was almost worth the princely sum of $2.75 (if you include my tip to the Chinese bath attendant). I could sink right down underwater & blow bubbles up & close my eyes.

When I sank underwater & closed my eyes, I saw an image of Lieutenant Deforrest Robards lying on the boardwalk. It
was a sad image so I did what Ma Evangeline always told me to do when I thought of something bad: replace it with something nice. I conjured up the memory of Mrs. Zoe Brown hugging Martha and it made me feel floaty & warm.

When I poked my dripping head back up above the surface of the water, I could hear tinkling piano music leaking in through the small, high window. It was a sentimental song called “Kiss Me Good Night, Mother.” That & the bath made me think of Ma Evangeline, who had taught me so much and who had always insisted on kissing me good night despite my protests. Even though I do not like to be touched, I regretted the fact that she would never kiss me good night again.

My cheeks were wet but I never cry, so I guess that was because I had just dipped my head under the water.

I stayed soaking in that bath until the steam dispersed and the water went from hot to warm. Then I reached over to the chair and got the small cake of yellow soap & wash cloth and scrubbed my face & hands.

The black came off pretty easy. A lot of other dirt came off, too, in a very satisfying fashion.

I was just about to get out when I heard the chink of spurs & a voice from the other side of the door.

“He ain’t anywhere in there!” the voice was saying. “Ain’t you got any other rooms?”

It was a voice that made my blood run cold.

It was a Raspy Voice.

It was the voice of Extra Dub Donahue, my mortal enemy.

He had tracked me down.

THE NOISE OF A FIST
pounding on the door filled the small private room in Selfridge & Bach’s Bath House.

“Open the door, you galldarn varmint!” rasped Extra Dub. “I know you are in there!”

I was sitting stark naked in a tin bath with nothing to defend myself but a small cake of yellow soap & a wash cloth.

BANG!

The door shook & his spurs jangled as he kicked it from the outside.

BANG!

The door groaned on its hinges. The small brass hook-and-eye lock would not hold much longer.

I leapt out of the bath & lunged for my medicine bag & pulled it off the wooden peg & ran back to the tub & crouched behind it.

CRASH!

The door burst open & there stood Extra Dub. He was wearing his black slouch hat & a biscuit-colored duster coat. In his right hand he brandished a Colt’s Navy Revolver. It was cocked and ready for action.

As I peeped up from behind the bathtub my panicky wet fingers were fumbling to open my leather medicine bag.

“There you are, you dam whelp,” he rasped. Then he threw down on me.

Bang!

I ducked down just as a loud report filled the room & made the bath shudder & my ears ring. But my slippery fingers had finally opened the leather pouch & I tipped my seven-shooter into my right hand. I cocked it & popped my head up & got some shots back at him.

Pop!
said my Smith & Wesson.
Pop! Pop!

His curse showed that at least one of my shots had not been in vain.

Bang! Bang!
said his Colt’s Navy.

Pop!
I replied.

Something warm ran down my cheek. For an awful moment I thought it was my own blood.

They say that when you are shot you do not always feel it right away.

I reached up and touched my cheek and looked at my fingers.

But it was only bath water.

I had not been shot.

Above the ringing in my ears, I heard Dub’s spurs clank as he moved forward to get a better shot at me.

He aimed again and
click!

Misfire! His cap & ball Navy revolver had let him down.

My Smith & Wesson seemed to have had no effect on him so I tried something else.

Quick as a whip crack I lifted up my end of the tub, sending a cascade of soapy water crashing over the wood plank floor towards his feet.

“Whoa!” he cried and—
Bang!
—his fourth shot hit the ceiling as his legs flew out in front of him & he slammed down on his bottom with a jangling thud.

Extra Dub was sitting and I was now standing, stark naked & using the empty tin bath to shield my Modesty.

For a moment Extra Dub did not move, but sat with his legs straight out & wide apart & his smoking Colt still in his hand. His slouch hat had slipped down over his eyes. He flung the hat away & looked up to see me peeking out from behind the empty tub. I was pointing my seven-shooter right at his heart.

I said, “Drop your piece, you murdering varmint, or I will kill you where you sit. My gun does not misfire like yours.”

He sneered at me, “You have hit me twice but your little balls are no more harmful than a mosquito bite.” Despite his bold words, he made no move.

I stood firm. “Drop your piece!” I repeated.

His nostrils flared, he cocked his revolver and—

Pop!
I shot the gun right out of his hand. But in so doing I had to let the tin bath drop, thus revealing my Modesty.

He stopped cursing in mid-profanity & his eyes opened wide. “Why, you ain’t a—”

CLANG!

Mr. Hung Lee brought an empty metal bucket down hard on Extra Dub’s bare head. The Desperado remained sitting, but his eyes rolled back & drool dribbled from his mouth. His Colt’s Navy lay nearby, but the quick-thinking & helpful attendant kicked out with his wooden clog & sent it spinning across the soapy floor towards me.

I lunged for it & grabbed it & scrouched down behind the tub again & cocked it & threw down on Extra Dub with his own piece.

But he was still groggy and did not protest when Mr. Hung Lee brought the bucket down like a hat, completely covering Dub’s head. Next, the quick-thinking Mr. Hung Lee undid the Desperado’s own belt and used it to bind his hands behind him.

“There!” said Mr. Hung Lee, brushing his hands together. “Very good. Yes?”

“Yes,” I agreed. Apparently he had not noticed my Modesty. I said, “There is a reward for him. Shall we split it fifty-fifty?”

“Yes, please!” said Mr. Hung Lee. He smiled from ear to ear and began to drag the still-seated Desperado back out of the room. “I leave you now,” he said. “You get dressed. Then we go collect reward.”

He shut the door behind him and although it did not close completely I put down the tin bathtub & toweled myself dry & started to get dressed. As I was fumbling to button my shirt, I noticed that there were three lead balls embedded in the linen sheet still stuck to the inside of the tin bathtub.

When I saw that, my knees began to wobble & I had to sit for a spell & take deep breaths.

By and by I went out of the bath room. Mr. Hung Lee stood beaming & gripping Extra Dub, who was now standing but still wore the tin bucket on his head.

“We go see Marshal?” asked Hung Lee.

I thought about this for a moment and then shook my head. “Might be better to take him to Judge Atwill. The Marshal is still out of town and his Deputy does not like me.”

“Judge Atwill good,” said the helpful bath attendant. “I know where.”

As I turned to follow Hung Lee & our prisoner out the door, I noticed that the fat man behind the counter was staring at me open-eyed & openmouthed. I reckon it was one of the most extreme examples of Expression No. 4 that I had ever seen.

EARLY THE NEXT MORNING
I came back from a tasty Sunday Morning Pancake Breakfast at the Colombo Restaurant to find Mr. Sam Clemens lurking outside my front door. He had something under his arm. It looked like a large, flat, wooden desk drawer divided up into shallow pigeonholes.

“What is that?” I said.

“Good morning to you, too,” he drawled, his speech even slower than usual. “This here is a present for you.”

As I unlocked my front door, I scrutinized his face using my Detective skills. His chin was
unshaved & the whites of his eyes were red & his dead-critter pipe smoke was mingled with whiskey fumes.

“You have not been to bed yet, have you?” I said, as I went in.

“Your deduction is correct,” he said, following me inside. “I have been running with Dan, Joe, et al. Ain’t you open for business today?” he asked, seeing that I had not turned the sign in the door window from
CLOSED
to
OPEN
.

“Heaven forfend,” I said. “Today is the Sabbath. My foster ma and pa taught me to keep the commandments, especially the fourth.”

Sam Clemens looked around. “Is today Sunday?” he said, and squinted at the bare shelves, as if something there might provide the answer.

“Yes,” I said. “Today is the Sabbath.”

He nodded. “That explains why there was nobody from the newspaper over at the Old Corner Saloon.”

“Why? Do your fellow newspapermen observe the Sabbath?”

He shook his head. “They observe the Hebrew Sabbath: Saturday. We work on Sunday.”

He plunked the thing like the big wooden drawer onto my desk. It was divided up into about 90 small, shallow compartments of varying size. I had seen some of these in the offices of the Territorial Enterprise.

“It is a type tray,” he said, taking the pipe from his mouth and knocking it on his heel to dislodge the old tobacco.

I said, “A type tray?”

He nodded. “It is old and got a bit damaged in our recent
move. I thought you could use it for your Tobacco Collection,” he added.

As he filled his pipe with fresh Killickinick, I examined the wooden tray. I could put shreds of tobacco or cigar stumps in the compartments & avoid them getting mixed up with each other. This flat tray would greatly aid me in my study and cataloging of tobacco.