I helped Stick lock up, and by that time I couldn’t feel any stupider, so I walked around to the sheriff’s desk, sat down, and put my feet up.
Stick grinned at me. “You’re a lot prettier sight back there than Harlan is, that’s for sure.”
“Shut up,” I said cordially, and his grin widened.
Stick comes by his name honestly. He’s about average height, but he seems a lot taller than he is because he’s so skinny. The bullet that hit him in the leg smashed the bone there mostly because there wasn’t much else to hit. He was the top puncher around, though, or he wouldn’t have been top hand for Lucius Jenkins. He was good-natured in a cynical sort of way, and with his straggly light hair and moustache, looked boyish, even though he was past forty.
“How are the prisoners?” I asked.
“They’re fine. I threw Franklin out of here, like you said. He was hungover and wanted to sleep some more, but I booted him.”
“Sure,” I said. “No sense a poor drunk burning up if the mob comes back and tries to torch the place.”
“You really think that will happen?”
“According to the great Lobo Blacke, not as long as Quinn Booker, Legend of the West, is upholding the law around here.”
“It’s funny when you say it like that.”
“Good,” I said, “because it’s downright terrifying if you say it or think of it any other way. Quiet so far, then?”
“In a manner of speakin’.”
“What do you mean?”
“Since you talked to Burkhart and I chased Franklin, nothin’ from the outside’s come by. But those two ladies...” He wiped his forehead. “I want to tell you. Before they even went upstairs—they’re still there, by the way—they took a look at the cells, curious I guess, about the poi—I should say the accused poisoners—and they get a look inside.
“Well, right away they turn on old Stick, as if I ever been in this building before this morning in my entire life, and Miss Rebecca says, ‘Mr. Witherspoon, this place is not fit for human habitation,’ and the other one just makes a face, and before you know it, I’m playing musical chairs with the prisoners, leadin’ them from cell to cell while the ladies scrubbed.
“I had them cuffed and leg-ironed the whole time I was moving them around, but they took it nice as pie. Doc Herkimer, he just says he quite understands, and the princess, she don’t say anything, but she gives me a smile.”
“Yeah?” I said. “I’m jealous, Stick. I didn’t know she could smile.”
“Oh, yeah. Gives her a whole different look, maybe not as... different...”
“Exotic?” I offered.
“Yeah, not as exotic, but a whole lot more human.”
“Well, treasure it, Stick.”
“Oh, I will.”
“Have you had anything to eat?”
“Well, the ladies brought me some pie.”
“Go get some lunch. We’ll get the money back from Lucius Jenkins later. I’d send you over to the Witness, but anybody who could feed you over there is here.”
“Sure thing, Booker. If I’d known this lawman stuff was so interestin’, I might have taken it up long ago.”
We rendered the door passable, checked the street, and I let him out. Then I took a look at the prisoners. They were asleep in their freshly scrubbed cells. They were well and truly scrubbed; the smell of lye soap could almost make your eyes tear. That might have accounted for the heavy snoring coming from Dr. Herkimer. The princess, for her part, was curled up on her cot (fresh linen, too) with her knees up and her hands together up under her head. Forget her being sixty-seven years old; she looked six or seven.
Let them sleep, I thought; they’d had a rough night.
I went upstairs and heard the bustle before I got there. The living quarters for the sheriff was a blizzard of mop and broom, of suds and fresh linens. Mrs. Sundberg was down on her hands and knees, scrubbing the floor. Rebecca was standing on a rag that had been placed carefully over the seat of a chair, washing high up on the wall.
“What are you doing here?” Rebecca demanded.
“Apparently, I live here now,” I said.
“Not for another two hours, you don’t,” she said. “It will take that long for all this to dry and air, won’t it, Mrs. Sundberg?”
“At least,” said the woman on the floor.
“We thought you’d still be asleep,” Rebecca said. “How much sleep did you get?”
“About two hours.”
She sniffed. “Uncle Louis should have sent you right back to bed.”
I laughed. “Instead, he sent me right back over here.” There was silence for a moment. Then I said, “Rebecca?”
“Yes, Quinn?”
“Stop scrubbing for a moment. Come down from the chair. Of course, you can stop, too, Mrs. Sundberg.”
She waved a brush at me. “I don’t stop a job till it’s finished,” she said. “It’s the only way to get anything done.”
Rebecca came down from the chair anyway. “Yes, Quinn?” she said primly.
“Well, I just want to thank you—both of you—for what you’re doing here. For what you’ve done for the prisoners.”
“You’re quite welcome. But there’s something I have to say to you, Quinn Booker.”
“Wait just a second, okay? I also want to thank you for what you did for me this morning.”
“I just told the truth.”
“To a bunch of armed madmen. Who had every intention of killing me. I know it made a difference, and I’m really grateful.”
“Well, I live in this town, too. I’m not going to let them act that way if I can possibly do anything about it. Now, about what I wanted to tell you.”
“Yes?”
“You can’t possibly expect a woman to stay in a cell like that.”
“It’s the only kind of cell I’ve got.”
“She has no privacy! It’s indecent.”
“You sound as if you have an idea.”
“Yes, I do. There is another small room on the floor above this one. The windows are barred, as are all of them. If you and Stick Witherspoon, and Uncle Louis, can figure out a way to secure the door, then she can be here in decency. After all, these people haven’t actually been charged with anything, have they?”
“Not by the law. The idea of the cells was to keep them handy while Blacke and I are looking into this, and even more, to keep other people out. You know, the armed madmen.”
“Then you’re not going to go all masculine and stupid about this?”
“I’ll take a look at the room. If it’s suitable, you can give it the treatment.”
“Oh, we already have.”
“That’s what I like about being a sheriff. You get so much respect.”
“You are getting respect,” Rebecca insisted. “We respected your decency and intelligence and we went ahead.”
“Maybe I ought to pin the star on you,” I said. But I went up and checked the room, and it was fine. I went back and told Rebecca that Stick and I would rig up some sort of lock and move the princess right after she woke up.
Stick had gotten back from lunch by the time I got back, and was waiting patiently outside for me. I went out as I let him in. I was going out because I was a newly born disciple of Mrs. Sundberg’s. The only way to get anything done was to work on it without quitting.
I went out to pretend to be a lawman for a while.
15
IN MY DIME NOVEL days, I had written frequently of the “lonely life” of the lawman. Now I was learning that that much of my work, at least, had been true, even for such a trumpery excuse for a lawman as I was.
The badge and the gun made a difference. I had always before perceived Le Four as a friendly place, and frequently stopped in the course of my travels to pass the time of day with my fellow citizens.
Now the look in their eyes—not hostile, exactly, but wary and apprehensive—gave me to know that there was no topic suitable for small talk between us.
> And I was different, too. I was scared, and trying not to show it, shooting my eyes all around me, trying, in my unexpert way, to spot trouble before it started.
The first thing to do was to find out how bad the current situation was. Dr. Mayhew was in his office, drinking a cup of coffee so powerful that it felt as if you had to push the aroma of it aside to make room for yourself inside the door. He asked me if I wanted a cup, but I told him I could get all the stimulation I needed smelling his.
“What’s the count now, Doctor?’ I asked.
He rubbed his eyes. I had been feeling pretty sorry for myself with my two miserable hours of sleep; I don’t think the doctor had had any.
“Fourteen, Mr. Booker, and ten more very sick but recovering. Virtually everyone within reach has been warned, and under lock and key in my laboratory is a vast hoard of confiscated bottles. A sampling has shown me that only about a fifth of the bottles sold last night had been tampered with, for which thank God, otherwise this town and the surrounding area would have been an absolute charnel house.”
I was puzzled about something. “Only a fifth of the bottles, you say?”
“Roughly. A little less in my sample. I tested sixteen; three held the arsenic.”
“Now why would someone go through the stock, poisoning bottles at random...?”
“I’m sorry, Mr. Booker, you are on your own. I am very fatigued. Habit and training allow me to carry on the mechanical tasks of my profession, but the drawing of conclusions is beyond my current capabilities.”
I smiled at him and he managed a weak one in return.
“This town owes you a lot,” I said. “Can I make one more demand on the mechanical tasks of your profession?”
“Of course.”
“Herkimer’s wagon, and therefore both his inventory and his pharmacy, if you will, are locked up in the livery stable. Would you take whatever it is you might need and go examine it?”
“Looking for arsenic, I presume.”
“Of course. And anything else of interest. When Blacke and I talk to Herkimer about this, I would like to be able to cut through the claims of Ozono’s being compounded according to the secrets of the ancients.”
The doctor struggled wearily to his feet. He was so tall and so bony that it took a long time, and the time seemed to be filled with painful sounding creaks, but he made it, and walked with me to the door.
“I heard what you did this morning,” he said.
“I suspect,” I said ruefully, “that the story was difficult to avoid.”
“Merton was sorry he missed it. But my point is this: I abhor lynching, and what you did was the only course open to a man of conscience.”
“Thank you.”
“But I also want to say that this poisoning is as drastic and foul an act as any that I’ve ever heard of, and the author of it must be found and made to pay for it.”
I met his eyes. “Whoever that might be,” I said.
“Of course. But if it turns out to be the medicine man, do not be swayed by his persuasiveness or by the charms of the so-called princess.”
“I’m not going to be swayed by anything but facts and logic,” I told him. “Besides, I’m just filling in for Harlan, remember? And on top of that, it’s the jury that does the swaying around here.”
Mayhew was silent for a few moments.
“I’ve offended you,” he said.
“No, you’ve astounded me. Everybody around here is acting as if I’ve thrown over journalism to become the deputy sheriff. Nonsense. It was an emergency measure that has carried on past its time already, believe me. There’s something else you can do for me, Doctor. Get Harlan well enough to be propped up behind his desk, and let me get this silly badge off my chest.”
“I’ll do the best I can.”
“I know you will. Thanks.”
Now it was time to go ask some people some questions.
I decided on the old schoolmarm, Mrs. Simpkins, first, for two reasons. First, her husband was the first to die, and second, being old and small, she was least likely to get violent.
She lived at the far end of Main Street, in a big house that Big Bill had also used as headquarters for his ranching and business interests. In a town that lacked a Lucius Jenkins, Big Bill Simpkins would have been the leading citizen, and according to some old-timers, he had been before Jenkins had settled in these parts.
Fortunately, both men realized there was enough wealth to go around in the West, and that kind of rivalry frequently ends destroying a whole town.
I say “fortunately.” It might have been that. It might also have been, as Blacke once theorized, that Lucius Jenkins arrived and made things very plain to Big Bill that if Big Bill wouldn’t try to get in the way of any of Lucius’s empire building, Big Bill could live a long and happy life, prospering off his own lucrative, if less ambitious, ventures, and that Big Bill had the brains to agree.
She answered the door herself, but I’d been expecting that. When, late in life, one of the rich men in town had made her a bride, Gloria Simpkins had declared she’d have no other woman living under her roof, maid or cook or otherwise. She did her own cooking, and most of her own cleaning, although there was an Indian woman who came once a week to help her with the heavy stuff.
The kerchief on her head and the smudge of dust on her cheek told me that she was continuing the tradition in the face of death.
I took off my hat before I spoke. “Good afternoon, Mrs. Simpkins,” I said. “I’m sorry about your loss.”
She smiled lightly. I expected her face to be ravaged, but there were no red eyes or tear tracks to be seen. Her face was as white and smooth as always.
“Why, thank you, Mr. Booker. It’s ever so kind of you to come and see me, especially since I know how busy you must be.”
“How’s that, ma’am?”
“Why, with your new job as sheriff.”
It was either smile or scream, so I chose the former. “Just a deputy, ma’am, and only temporary. Though I would like to ask you a few questions, if you wouldn’t mind.”
“Not at all,” she said. “Do come in. Mind you wipe your feet, now.”
I obeyed, and walked into the most pleasant room in Le Four. There were two modes of decor in the Wyoming Territory—dirt-floored poverty, and overstuffed imitations of what people imagined rooms were like back east, with chintz and antimacassars and lace panties for furniture legs.
But this was different. This room looked like a room of the West, and I don’t mean just because of the pair of horns and the puma heads mounted on various parts of the walls. There was space between the furniture, and the furniture itself had been built for comfort and simplicity. It was a pleasure to sit in one of the chairs.
As soon as I was down, though, Mrs. Simpkins popped right back up. “Where are my manners? What can I get you, Mr. Booker?”
“Nothing just now, ma’am. I’d just like to talk to you a little. Please sit down. I like this room,” I added.
She looked around, still smiling. “Thank you. It does have possibilities. You must come back when I get some proper furniture in here.”
“I sort of like this furniture,” I said sheepishly.
“You mustn’t fib to an old woman, Mr. Booker. You can’t possibly like these monstrosities.” She shuddered. “They have no sophistication. They have no elegance. My husband insisted on hanging on to them simply because they were made by his son.”
I hadn’t met Big Bill’s son. “Oh. Is he around? Perhaps I should talk to him as well.”
Mrs. Simpkins sighed. “No, he’s not here. But he will be, as soon as he hears what has happened. Willie Simpkins was always one to cut in where he saw an opportunity for himself. I taught him at the school here, you know. A willful and stubborn child who was always undermining my authority, asking impertinent questions.”
“I suppose it’s just as well he’s not around, then.”
She smiled again. “Well, of course it won’t do to talk ill
of a member of the family, but I doubt I would have married my William if his son hadn’t decided to try his luck elsewhere. He’d never mind his father, either.”
I felt a sudden empathy with William Simpkins. “How old was he?” I asked.
“Thirty-three. He’d be forty-seven now. But a son must always be subject to his father’s wishes, don’t you agree?”
“I believe we owe all the respect we can give to the ones who deserve it,” I said carefully.
She beamed at me, apparently thinking that I agreed with her.
“Very, very good, Mr. Booker,” she said, as though I were an unpromising pupil who’d suddenly delivered the right answer. “Now, what was it you wished to talk to me about?”
“First, I’d like to congratulate you. You’re bearing up very well.”
“Yes,” she said. “I shall miss my William, but at least now he is at peace. His health was failing, you know, and if this thing hadn’t happened, he would have passed away, with much more suffering, before winter could come again.”
“How did he come to take Ozono?”
“Well, you know, he asked me to get him some. William was very stubborn and foolish (though not as much so as that son of his) and he refused to see a proper doctor. Just would not have it, no matter how he suffered.
“And yet, he had such a weakness for these patent nostrums, he was sure the next one would do the trick. ‘What do doctors know?’ he used to say. ‘Never met one who’d made any money. Give me what a businessman sells.’
“I had long since given up arguing with him, and, now that illness had such a hold of him, I was just trying to find something that might ease his suffering for a while. So I went up there and I watched that... display, and when I got jostled in the throng for what seemed the longest time, bought the product, and came home and gave it to my William.”
Her face clouded up. “I suppose it did ease his suffering, at that. It’s vanity to try to fathom the workings of the Lord, Mr. Booker.”
Fatal Elixir Page 10
