The Case of the Petrified Man (4 page)

It was the new reporter in town, Sam Clemens, a.k.a. “Josh.” I recognized him by his muttonchop whiskers and the faint smell of dead-critter tobacco that clung to his person.

He was of medium height & build with dark reddish-brown hair and flashing greenish-blue eyes. Usually he drawled, but today he spoke fast.

“Dang it, Pinky!” he said. “I am mad at you.” Sure enough, he was wearing Expression No. 5, with his eyes narrowed.

“I am mad at you, too,” I said. “And don’t call me Pinky.”

At this his expression changed entirely. It went straight from No. 5 to No. 4: Surprise. His eyes opened wide. “
You?
Mad at
me
? Why? And how am I supposed to tell when your expression never changes? You are as inscrutable as the wooden Indian down at Bloomfield’s New Tobacco Emporium.”

I folded my arms across my chest. “I am mad,” I said, “because of two articles you wrote. One called ‘A Gale’ and one called ‘Indian Troubles on the Overland Route.’ Both articles contain statements that are Not True.”

“Not true?” he said. “Not TRUE?” Then he burst out laughing. “Well of course they ain’t true,” he said. “It is journalism. I had to fill two columns. I had hoped that one about Indian Troubles would make the front page,” he added. “And am bitterly disappointed that I was pushed back to page three.”

“You said it was Sioux that attacked our train,” I said, “when in fact it was Shoshone.”

“Your wagon train was attacked by Indians?” gasped Bee.

I nodded. “Two years ago. They killed my Indian ma and her friend Tommy Three and also our Chinese cook.”

“You are half Indian?” said Bee. She had a strange expression on her face. I could not read it.

“Course he is,” said Sam Clemens. “Can’t you tell by his dusky complexion and snapping black eyes?” He did not wait for her reply but said to me, “Sioux are all the fashion on account of the fact that they butchered about a thousand settlers over in Minnesota last month. I just combined a couple of stories.”

“But I thought you were obliged to print the Truth,” I protested.

“Ye gods, no!” drawled Sam Clemens. “Our only obligation is to make it interesting. The public wants matters of thrilling interest for breakfast! Mush-and-milk journalism gives me the fantods.”

Bee was still staring at me. She had a new expression on
her face now. It was a kind of wide-eyed half smile. I could not read that one neither.

But I could read Sam Clemens. He had now narrowed his eyes into Expression No. 5—Anger or Suspicion.

“So where is it?” he demanded.

“Where is what?”

“An anonymous note was waiting for me at the Enterprise this morning.” Sam Clemens rattled the piece of paper in his hand. “It said Virginia’s newest Detective had my most precious possession. That’s you, if I am not mistaken.”

“You are not mistaken,” I said. “Let me see that note.”

He showed me a crude note. It had these words scrawled on it in pencil.
VURJINEES NEWIST DETEKTEVE HAS YUR MOST PRESHOUS POZESHUN
. It was unsigned.

My deductive skills immediately told me that the same person wrote this and the note on my stone baby.

I said, “I believe the same person wrote this and the note on my stone baby.”

“Stone baby?” said Sam Clemens. “What stone baby?”

“That stone baby,” I said, pointing to the half-unwrapped cigar box on my desk.

“I found it outside P.K.’s front door a few minutes ago,” said Bee. She shivered. “It gives me the fantods. We believe it is a warning message to P.K. from some Deadly Desperados bent on
revenge
.” She spoke the last words in a dramatic whisper.

Sam Clemens took a few steps forward & leaned over the cigar box. “Dang my buttons,” he drawled, “if it ain’t a petrified baby bearing a sinister message.”

“Petrified?” said Bee. “What does that mean?”

“It means turned to stone,” said Sam Clemens. “There has been a spate of reports of people turned to stone in some of the papers back east.”

“It is not a petrified baby,” I said. “It is six rocks arranged to look like a baby.”

Sam Clemens gave me a look. I could not read it.

“Part of a song came with it,” I said, and held out the torn-out page with the words of the song.

Sam Clemens read the note. “Dang it!” he cursed. “I’ll bet someone is pranking me. I hate that song.”

“How could you hate it?” cried Bee, clasping her hands over her heart. “It is a beautiful song &
so
sentimental.”

“That is exactly what I hate about it,” said Sam Clemens. He stuck his forefinger in the rock baby’s sawdust bed & poked around in there.

“Eureka!” he cried a moment later. “Here it is! My most precious possession.”

SAM CLEMENS HELD UP
an old corncob pipe with a bamboo stem.

“Found it!” he said. “It was buried in the sawdust.”

“
That
is your most precious possession?” said Bee, wrinkling her nose in Expression No. 3: Disgust.

“Yes,” said Sam Clemens. “The boys at the Enterprise have dubbed it ‘The Pipe of a Thousand Smells.’”

“It does smell like the remains of some dead critter,” I observed.

“Well, I guess they agree with you there. I
reckon they hid it in this box as a prank against me: Virginia’s newest reporter.” He looked at me. “And possibly against you, too, being Virginia’s newest Private Eye. They probably wanted to kill two birds with one stone baby.”

I said, “I reckon I would rather be pranked than threatened.”

Sam Clemens narrowed his eyes at the box. “On the other hand,” he said. “That is a mighty ghoulish baby. Maybe it
is
a threat. Do we have any enemies?”

I nodded. “Whittlin Walt’s pards.”

“That’s right,” he said. “I forgot. I hoped they had vamoosed the ranch.”

He opened a muslin pouch of tobacco and pressed some into the bowl of the “Pipe of a Thousand Smells.” He struck a match & lit it & puffed thoughtfully. Immediately the smell of dead critter got stronger.

“Ugh!” cried Bee, crinkling her nose into Expression No. 3.

“What kind of tobacco is that?” I asked. “I do not recognize the smell nor appearance.”

“Yes,” said Bee, tossing her curls. “I would like to know, too. I will warn my papa
never
to stock that brand in our Tobacco Emporium.”

“It’s called Killickinick,” drawled Sam Clemens. “It’s an Injun blend. It is composed of equal parts of tobacco stems, chopped straw, old soldiers, oak leaves, dog-fennel, corn-shucks, sunflower petals, outside leaves of the cabbage plant, and any refuse of any description whatever that costs nothing and will burn.”

Bee was staring at him openmouthed.

“I know it is rank,” added Sam Clemens, “but it summons
fond memories. It reminds me of what I used to smoke when I was a boy in Hannibal, Missouri. That tobacco was so cheap that we used to trade newspapers for it. It was called ‘Garth’s D-mnedest,’” he added.

“Oh!” cried Bee, covering her ears with her hands. “I refuse to stay and hear such
language
!”

She marched out of the shop, stamping with the heels of her button-up boots.

Sam Clemens watched Becky Bloomfield flounce out of the shop & puffed thoughtfully on his pipe.

“This pipe is special, too,” he said. “You will see it is a corncob pipe. This pipe and the smell of the tobacco in it are about my only links with my past.”

I said, “The smell of Green’s Irish Flake always reminds me of Pa Emmet.”

“Yes,” he said, “the bond of a man and his tobacco is a sacred one. And a man’s first tobacco forever holds a special place in his heart. Like his first love.”

At this I remained silent. I have never been in love, nor do I intend to be.

Sam Clemens puffed and exhaled the smoke up. “Yes, a man may exchange one wife for another, but rarely is he unfaithful to his tobacco.”

He looked at me with a kind of glint in his eye. “Do you smoke, P.K.?”

“No,” I said. “But I am interested in different types of tobacco.” I removed the newspaper from my desk to show him my hundred or so labels with bits of tobacco on them. “This is my Big Tobacco Collection. Would you like to test me?”

“Beg pardon?”

“I will close my eyes,” I said, “and you hold one of these tobacco samples under my nose. I will tell you what brand it is.”

He puffed his pipe & shook his head. “P.K., you are a very eccentric person.”

“Yes,” I agreed. “I have many Foibles and Eccentricities. Plus my Thorn.”

He said, “What is your Thorn?”

I said, “I cannot read people easily. Sometimes I do not know whether they are pranking me or not.”

“Then let me console you with this.” He gave me a pinch of Killickinick and even told me how to spell it.

Then he departed, closing the door behind him.

I duly wrote down
KILLICKINICK
on a cigarrito paper and placed the crumbs he had given me upon it. I had arranged my Collection in Alphabetical order: Killickinick came about halfway between “Aardvark” snuff & “Zepeda” cigars.

Suddenly, a floorboard near the back of my shop creaked. All the little hairs on the back of my neck prickled again and I froze. For all this time, nearly half an hour, someone had been hiding behind my counter and I had not been consciously aware of it. Now I was.

Could it be the person who had left the ghoulish baby?

I leapt from my chair, pulled my Smith & Wesson’s seven-shooter from my pocket and whirled to face the back of my shop.

“Come out with your hands high,” I commanded. “Or I will fill you full of lead.”

AT THE BACK OF MY OFFICE
are two things.

Someone was hiding behind that counter. I reckoned they had come in when I was out to breakfast. I had nothing to steal so I had not locked the door. I did not figure someone would creep in to ambush me.

I thought, “Is it Boz back there?”

Then I thought, “Or Extra Dub?”

And finally, “Or maybe both?”

I heard that floorboard creak again.

I cocked my Smith & Wesson’s seven-shooter and repeated my warning. “Drop your weapons. Come out with your hands aloft!”

Although my voice was firm, my heart was batting hard against my ribs.

A head lifted up above the counter for a moment. I saw dark skin & a pale bonnet.

The head dipped down again, real quick. It was enough to show me it was a Negro girl of about my age. Her eyes were wide with terror, an expression even I have no trouble reading.

I uncocked my piece & said, “Do not be afraid. I am putting my revolver away.”

I put my revolver back in my pocket.

I was not scared anymore but my hands were still shaky.

“Please come out,” I said. “I am sorry I threw down on you. I will not hurt you.”

“Are you the detective,” came a trembly voice, “what finds lost animals and people and solves mysteries?”

I figured she must have seen my Advertisement.

“That is me,” I said. “P.K. Pinkerton, Private Eye. Do not be afraid.”

She came out from behind the counter: barefoot & shivering in a thin cotton nightdress & matching night bonnet. She smelled strongly of some kind of pomade made of cloves, lavender & ammonia, and faintly of horse manure & straw.

“You got to help me,” said the girl in a whisper. “He killed Miss Sal and now he is gonna kill me, too.” Her accent was about the strongest I ever heard, but I could just about understand her.

“What is your name and who is Miss Sal?”

She came a little closer. “Martha,” she whispered. “Miss Sal’s lady’s maid.”

I said, “Miss Sal? Do you mean Short Sally, the Soiled Dove who got her throat cut last week?”

Martha frowned. “She wasn’t no dove. She was a
Lady
. And she was strangulated, not cut.”

I said, “Strangulated? I heard she got her throat cut from ear to ear.”

Martha gave a kind of shudder. “Oh no, sir. I was there. I heard him do it. Saw it, too. She was a-choking an’ a-gasping.” Martha hugged herself. “It was awful. And then he came for me.”