The Case of the Petrified Man (3 page)

That made me mad.

Then I saw some other articles by Sam Clemens, a.k.a. “Josh,” that made me even madder. In return for the gift of his seven-shooter, I had given Sam Clemens permission to write an article
based on my experience of surviving a wagon-train massacre. When I saw a headline,
INDIAN TROUBLES ON THE OVERLAND ROUTE
, I knew it was his work, too.

As I read it, I got madder and madder. Mr. Sam Clemens had taken my story of being attacked by Indians and multiplied it by 12 or 15. He got many Facts wrong.

For example, he said it was Snake Indians that attacked the wagons. This got me riled because I am half Lakota and our enemies call us “Snake.” So that was an Insult. Also, it was Shoshone that attacked us, not Lakota. So that was a Lie.

He then told how those Indians had attacked a “Methodist Train” & how the “whole party knelt down and began to pray as soon as the attack was commenced” but despite this the Snakes killed all the men and carried off the women & children. That was a Lie, too, and an Insult to Methodists.

But what really riled me was his description of wagons “transformed into magnified nutmeg-graters” by all the holes made by arrows. I guess he thought some people might find that funny. But I did not. My ma was killed in such an attack, along with her friend Tommy Three & our Chinese cook, Hang Sung.

I was so mad that I snatched up those center pages of the paper and took them into my back room to the chamber pot, intending to use his article to wipe my bottom.

But as I was sitting there, fuming over his lies, I noticed some illustrated Advertisements on the same page.

Those Ads gave me an idea so good that I forgot to be mad at that Reporter.

I finished my business & went back into my office &
spread out the page of Advertisements & took a blank ledger sheet & carefully wrote upon it:

Then I drew an open eye and beneath it the words: We Hardly Ever Sleep.

The eye resembled a Potato somewhat, but I was confident the printers would do it better.

Then I braved the howling wind to take my Advertisement to the new offices of the Territorial Enterprise down on C Street. I paid them to put it in the next day’s paper & I also bought a three-month subscription including delivery.

Placing that Advertisement had revived my spirits.

My arm had stopped throbbing & my appetite returned.

“
Fortes fortuna iuvat,
” I said to myself. “Fortune favors the brave.”

I went back up to B Street & had a square meal at the Colombo Restaurant.

That night I slept soundly, certain that the next day would bring me my first real Client and my first real Case.

Little did I dream that Case would spell my Doom.

ON MY SECOND DAY
of business—Thurs Oct 2—I rose at dawn, said my prayers & cleaned my Smith & Wesson’s seven-shooter. Then I went next door to the Colombo Restaurant for a hearty Detective Breakfast of two mutton chops, eggs & buttered toast with marmalade. (I call this a “Detective Breakfast” because it is what Inspector Bucket favors in the novel
Bleak House
by Charles Dickens.)

Titus Jepson let me take a tin pot of coffee & a tin cup back to my office.

It was a fine morning. Yesterday’s wind had died & the dust had settled. People were sashaying down the boardwalk and wagons were driving up the
street. From some sage bushes on the mountainside a quail called out, “Chicago! Chicago!” That quail was reminding me of my vow that one day I would go to Chicago and work for the National Detective Agency of my uncle Allan.

A new saloon had opened across the way & although it was only 7:30 a.m., I could hear a piano clanging out a song I seemed to hear everywhere. I reckon that if Virginia City had its own anthem it would be “Camptown Races.” Some music entrances me but this song had become so familiar that I could hum it with no danger of falling under its spell.

I found Thursday’s
Territorial Enterprise
lying on the boardwalk outside my office. I put down the coffeepot & cup for a moment so that I could turn the handle of my office door. (I had not locked it because there was nothing much in there to steal.) I left the door wide-open to encourage business & I put the newspaper under my arm & took the coffeepot & cup inside.

As soon as I came into my office, the little hairs on the back of my neck prickled up.

Every time I step inside I can smell tobacco. But this time, I also caught the faintest whiff of horse manure & ammonia & another sweet smell that I could not identify. Lavender? Cloves? Opium?

“Hello?” I said. “Is anybody here?”

There was no reply.

I sniffed again, but now all I could smell was my Big Tobacco Collection.

Little did I realize that someone was Lying in Wait for me behind the counter at the back of my shop. I should have listened to my instincts, but I was excited by the prospect of
seeing my Advertisement, so I shrugged away the prickly premonition & poured myself a cup of coffee & carefully spread out the paper on top of my Big Tobacco Collection & eagerly scanned the pages.

The front page contained news of a great Battle at a place called Antietam back east & of a new “Proclamation” by President Lincoln.

Those things were of little interest to me so I turned over the page.

There was my Advertisement on page three.

They had copied my drawing of an Eye. It still resembled a Potato, but aside from that I thought the Advertisement a good one. I was confident it would bring me my First Client in no time.

Near my Advertisement was a Notice of interest to me. It concerned a shocking crime that had occurred the week before: the Brutal Murder of a Soiled Dove named Miss Sally Sampson.

I do not have the paper in front of me now, but I can replicate most of that notice. You show me something once, I never forget it. It read as follows:

Notice is hereby given by an order of the Probate Court of the 1st day of October,
A.D.
1862, in the matter of the estate of SALLY SAMPSON, a.k.a. “SHORT SALLY,” deceased.
The undersigned Administratrix of the estate of said deceased will sell the following items at public auction, to the highest bidder, for cash, on SATURDAY, the 4th day of October, a.d. 1862, at one o’clock p.m. at the auction room of J.C. Currie & Co. in the city of Virginia, viz: Various High-quality dresses, capes, bonnets & parasols; 1 fireman’s helmet; 2 whale-bone corsets & assorted undergarments; 1 Double Bedstead; 1 Double Spring Mattress; 1 Parlor Table; 3 Maple Chairs; 1 Mahog Whatnot; 2 white Mares; 1 buggy with red upholstery and black lacquer. (Mares & Buggy may be viewed at the Flora Temple Livery Stable.) Signed Mrs. Zoe BROWN, Administratrix of the Estate of Sally Sampson, deceased.

I had just finished reading this interesting notice when someone came in through my open door.

No, it was not the Client whose case would lead to my Demise. That person was crouching behind the counter at the back of my shop, though I did not discover that until later.

The person who came through my door was Becky “Bee” Bloomfield, the daughter of the man who had sold me my premises. She is 11 years old and claims to be the only girl in her class who has never been kissed. That is all she ever seems to want from me: a kiss.

I am not in the business of giving kisses.

I am in the Detective Business.

“What do you want?” I said without rising. “Shouldn’t you be in school?”

“Good morning to you, too, P.K.!” Bee was wearing a green & white calico dress. She had a bonnet on her head and a parcel in her hands. “I am on my way to school now. What is that?” She was looking down at my desk.

“The
Daily Territorial Enterprise,
” I said.

“No, underneath. All those pieces of cigarrito paper with writing and tobacco on them.”

“That is my Big Tobacco Collection,” I replied.

“P.K.,” she said, “you are mighty peculiar. But I will still allow you to kiss me.”

I folded my arms across my chest & tipped back my chair. “I am not in the Kissing Business,” I said. “I am in the Detective Business. Do you have a Mystery for me to solve?”

“No, but I do have a parcel for you,” she said. She plunked it on my desk so hard that some of my Big Tobacco Collection jumped onto the floor.

That made me mad & I stood up.

She said quickly, “It was on the boardwalk outside your door. Didn’t you see it sitting there?”

The parcel was about the size of a cigar box. It was crudely wrapped in brown paper & twine with the words
FOR THE DETEKTEVE
scrawled in pencil.

I opened the parcel.

It was a wooden cigar box. Inside was a baby made of rocks resting on a bed of sawdust.

Yes. A Baby made of six smooth lumps of gray granite. There was an oval rock for the body, a round one for the head and four longish ones for the arms and legs. You could tell it was meant to be a baby because of the crude face painted on
one. The worst thing about it were the blood-red letters painted on its rock belly:
R.I.P.

“Rest In Peace,” said Bee & brought her face close to the rock baby. “Is that
blood
?”

“No,” I said. “It is paint. Blood turns brown when it dries.”

“Ugh!” Bee shuddered. “It is ghastly.”

I nodded. Then I reached down & picked up a small roll of paper lying next to the Stone Baby. It was a Page torn from a book.

“What does it say?” asked Bee as I unrolled it. “Does it say who it’s meant for?”

I shook my head. “It is a page torn from a book,” I said. “
Rock me to sleep, Mother, rock me to sleep.
”

Bee’s forehead smoothed out. “I know that song.”

“Song?”

“Yes, it is the chorus from a song about a dying soldier who wishes his mother was there to comfort him.” She sang, “
Backward, turn backward, O Time, in your flight, Make me a child again just for tonight; Mother, come back from the echoless shore, Take me again to your heart as of yore.
What do you think it means?” she said.

“I do not know,” I replied. “It is a Mystery.”

“What if it is not a Mystery?” she said suddenly. “What if it is a
Warning
? Rest in Peace is what they put on
tombstones
.” Bee’s voice kind of squeaked when she said that last word. “Is there anybody who has it in for you?”

I nodded. “Two Deadly Desperados.”

TWO DEADLY DESPERADOS
are after you?” gasped Bee Bloomfield. “How terrible!” Then she said, “What is a Desperado?”

I said, “A Desperado is a desperate outlaw. They are after me because I vanquished their boss.”

“Oh, P.K.!” Bee covered the base of her throat with her hand & lowered her voice. “What do they look like?”

I said, “Boz is short with a squinty left eye and a whiny voice. Extra Dub is tall and scrawny with a big Adam’s apple and a raspy voice. I thought they left town but maybe they returned to exact their revenge. They would probably like to gut me,” I added.

“Oh, P.K.!” Bee nipped round to my side of the desk & threw her arms around me. I froze. I do not like being touched. Also, my left shoulder was still sore from being shot with that .22 caliber ball.

“You are so brave,” said Bee. She pursed her lips & brought them closer & closer. I could smell minty Sozodont tooth powder.

I realized with horror that she was going to kiss me.

I writhed away just in time & ran around the other side of the desk. Bee pursued me.

Thankfully I was saved by the arrival of a man in a blue flannel shirt. He came stamping in through the open door, shouting, “Where is it? What have you done with it, you impudent puppy?”

Bee shrank back and I stepped forward with relief.