“I could get him,” I said. My voice was tentative. It was just possible that Dr. Mayhew had gone over the edge of sanity along with me and practically everybody else in this town, and planned to produce a derringer and shoot Herkimer dead as soon as he saw him.
I hesitated in order to give Lobo Blacke’s legendarily keen lawman’s instincts a chance to work, and to tell me not to fetch the prisoner. However, either those keen instincts had sniffed out nothing wrong or they were taking a nap, because Blacke just sat there with a look of bland expectation on his face.
“Right,” I said. “I’ll go get him.”
Herkimer was sitting on his bunk, not looking at much of anything. He didn’t even seem to notice me as I came by.
“Mr. Herkimer?” I said. I wasn’t about to call him “Doctor” with Mayhew in the building.
He jumped. “What? What? Oh, yes, Mr. Booker. I’m sorry. I was daydreaming.”
“Put on your boots and come along with me. Somebody wants to talk to you.”
“What do you mean? Where are we going? Mr. Booker, please don’t—”
“Listen. From the time I got to your camp, before sunup, and friend Feathers let off a rifle shot at me, I have been risking my life all day to keep you safe. With that much invested in you, I’m not about to let anything happen to you now. So put on your boots and come along with me. All right?”
“How is my—how is the princess?”
“She’s in a proper room upstairs. The man who was here this afternoon tells me she ate a good dinner. Since then, she’s been left alone. As have you. Right?”
“Yes. No one has bothered me.”
“Well, they’ve bothered the hell out of me. So please trust me the way you did this morning, and do what I ask.”
“Yes, I will. I’m sorry, it’s just that I’ve nothing to do all day but think about those poor people who died, and realize the people are all blaming it on me.”
“We’ll get you something to read. Take your mind off it. Come on.”
He was ready now, and I brought him out. He blinked in the brighter light of the office proper as I made introductions.
Dr. Mayhew hardly waited for me to finish.
“Dr. Herkimer,” he said sternly. “I have just one question to ask you.”
Herkimer was shrewd. He had noticed, as had Blacke and I, that Mayhew had called him “Doctor.”
I wondered what that could mean, but it took only a second before I found out, because Mayhew went on to add, “Where did you qualify?”
Herkimer said, “I don’t know what you’re talking about.”
“You know very well what I’m talking about. I have spent most of the day examining your wagon, wherein you make up your Ozono, as well as analyzing the Ozono recovered from those who bought it yesterday. Dr. Herkimer, I state to you categorically that the substance you call Ozono could only have been formulated by a qualified physician, or a pharmacist at the very least”
“Wait a minute,” Blacke said. “You’re telling me this character is a real doctor?”
“I have every reason to believe so. I also believe,” he said, turning to Herkimer, “that I owe you an apology. I began the day convinced that through some combination of evil, ignorance, and carelessness, you caused the death of fourteen innocent people. I no longer believe that. The man who formulated Ozono could not possibly have done such a thing.”
“Why?” Blacke wanted to know. “What’s in the stuff?”
“In short? Medicine. Good, wholesome, effective medicine in moderate doses. Would you like to hear more detail?”
“Would I understand it?” Blacke asked at the same time I said “Yes.”
Blacke shot me a look. “Oh, yeah, I forgot. Dr. Booker of New York.”
“I’m interested,” I said.
“Ozono is based in neutral grain spirit—liquor, in other words—which helps the patient sleep. It contains oil of cocillana, which soothes the throat, tincture of opium for narcotic and anesthetic effect, powdered willow bark, which is known to reduce fever. Shall I go on?”
Blacke looked at me.
“No, that’s enough,” I said primly.
“There is,” Mayhew said, “none of the chalk, none of the turpentine, none of the other worthless or worse ingredients I have found in all the other patent medicines I have tested. I would not hesitate to prescribe this product to patients of my own.”
Herkimer seemed to grow and change color as he heard that, as if growing back into the spellbinder he’d been the first two times I’d seen him.
“That’s quite a testimonial, Doctor,” he said. Even his voice was coming back. “Do you mind if quote you in the future?”
“Relax,” said Lobo Blacke. “We’re still trying to determine if you have a future.”
Herkimer visibly deflated once more.
“So, Doc,” Blacke went on. “Why don’t you tell us what you’re all about.”
“I—I am a medical doctor,” Herkimer said.
“My God, man,” Mayhew exploded. “You say it as if it’s something to be ashamed of.”
“No. I have my share of shame, but that is not part of it. I qualified in Indiana in ‘58. I have never been stricken from the rolls, so far as I know.”
“But why, man?” Mayhew demanded. “Why do you degrade yourself with this charade of a life?”
“Because it is lucrative, Dr. Mayhew. Because I have reasons for wishing to lay by a quantity of money before I die. I was never successful at building a practice. I have never been able to have the rapport with an individual somehow that I can attain with a group.”
“And so I created Ozono, confident that whatever fantasies I might spin to sell it, it was at least a product that would do those who took it good. And now look what has happened.”
Blacke was nodding. It was easy to see he was enjoying this. “Yeah,” he said. “Someone added arsenic to the formula.” He turned to Mayhew. “How? In the powdered willow bark?”
Mayhew goggled at him. “How did you know?”
I sometimes think that Blacke lives for moments such as those.
“It stands to reason. I know enough about arsenic to know it doesn’t dissolve in liquids, even alcohol. If the poisoner put it in the willow bark—that doesn’t dissolve either—it would be harder to see. And since everybody who bought and took the stuff didn’t get sick, it’s obvious it had to be in one of the components of the stuff, to go into that extra batch Herkimer had to make when he ran out.”
Herkimer put his face in his hands. “I thought of just closing up shop, business had been so good. But I didn’t want to lose that last knot of customers. If only I hadn’t listened to my greed—”
“Then people in the next town would be dead,” Blacke said. “And a whole lot more of them than there are here. And you might not have found law enforcement so dedicated to stopping lynch mobs as Mighty Deputy Booker, here.”
“Very funny,” I said. “But now that you mention it, how could the poisoner have known that Herkimer was going to whip up another batch?”
Herkimer’s eyes went wide in surprise. “He couldn’t have. I didn’t know myself.”
“Then maybe,” I said, “the poison was intended for the next town.”
“Could be, Booker,” Blacke said. “Herkimer, where were you going next?”
“We hadn’t decided. We never decide where to go next until we determine how much distance we want to put between ourselves and the next town.”
“That’s practical,” I conceded.
Blacke said, “So the poisoner just didn’t care where or when people started to die. Which brings us right back to a lunatic.”
“A smart one,” Mayhew pointed out. “As you yourself have said, he knew where to put the arsenic for best effect.”
“A very smart one. You want to ask anything, Booker?”
“Yes,” I said. “We’ve got two witnesses who said they saw a small, shadowy figure in a cloak or something like it, sneaking down from
your wagon before the show. Did you see or hear anything?”
“No, but—two witnesses? Are they reliable?”
“I believe them,” I said. “One’s our retired schoolteacher, widow of the first victim. The other was the leader of the lynch mob that met us outside town this morning. I don’t think either one of them would lie to save you.”
“But then...” It took a moment to get the words out, they were so big. “...I’m in the clear. I’m in the clear.”
“It would be reasonable doubt in a court of law,” Blacke said. “But, God help us, a court of law isn’t what we’re worried about here. It’s going to take a lot more than a shadow to be settling things for good around here.”
“Yes, but at least now I can hope.”
“That you can do,” Blacke said reassuringly. “Just don’t hope for too much, too soon. There are complications that even the heroic deputy here doesn’t know about.”
“And it’s high time,” the heroic deputy said, “that he did.”
18
IT WASN’T UNTIL ALMOST a quarter after eight that we heard McGruder’s buckboard pull up in front. Dr. Mayhew had gone home to check on his patients and, if possible, get a little rest. A happier Dr. Herkimer had been led back to his cell, refreshed with the hope that the Great Lobo Blacke was on his way to proving his innocence to the satisfaction not only of the law but of the whole town.
I went to the door and began the rigmarole of opening it. Jennie Murdo, all in black, was waiting patiently there. I stood aside and let her in.
She was like a walking corpse. There was no spirit in her eyes, none in her voice when she said, “I almost didn’t come, you know. I had decided not to.”
“Thank you for changing your mind,” Blacke said.
“Mr. McGruder wouldn’t go away. He just sat outside and waited. And I realized it didn’t make any difference. If I stayed, if I came. If I let you tell me whatever mysterious thing you have to tell me, at the end of it, my son will still be dead. Because I killed him.”
“He was killed,” Blacke said, “by whoever it was who put the poison in the patent medicine. Not by you. You couldn’t have known.”
“I should have known.”
“How?” I asked.
“A mother should know. I should have taken some of the medicine first.”
“Then you’d both be dead,” Blacke said. A little brutally, I thought. “It works that fast, you know.”
“There’s no reason for me to live.” There was still no emotion in her voice.
“Your husband doesn’t have that problem,” Blacke said.
“What do you mean?” Jennie Murdo demanded.
“News of your son’s death caught up with him at Buffalo Butte, and—”
“Where is that?”
“Montana. Three days’ ride north and west of here. Two if you ride hard, and I expect he will.”
“He’s coming here?”
“Yes.”
“How do you know?”
“He said so. He’d been riding with the Gabus brothers, Sam and Elmer, when they’d seen a paper in Buffalo Butte, who picked up the story from the wires. He saw his son’s name and told the brothers he was heading south to ‘kill the bastard’ who’d killed his son. Soon after he left them, a posse caught up with the Gabuses. They talked. The sheriff there, who’s an old friend of mine, figured I’d want to know, and he wired me.”
“I see. And what has this to do with me, Mr. Blacke?”
Blacke leaned back in his chair.
“The other day, Mrs. Murdo, you told Booker here that you wanted your husband gunned down on sight. Now that he’s on a mission of revenge over his boy—and yours—maybe you don’t feel the same way about things.”
“Mr. Blacke,” she said. “My attire proclaims my grief. My other feelings are my own business.”
“Mrs. Murdo,” I said, “from everything I’ve heard about your husband, I never got the impression that he was any great shakes as a detective. If he blows into town intent on killing somebody, he is almost certain to get the wrong people.”
Suddenly a little light went on in her eyes. “You mean he didn’t—the man you have in jail didn’t—”
“I’m not saying that. I am saying there is cogent reason for thinking he may not have. We all want the real killer, and we all want what vengeance the law, I repeat, the law, can afford. We don’t need Paul Muller riding in here with blood in his eyes. Who knows how many other innocent people may wind up dead.”
That reached her. The idea of more innocent people dying brought some humanity back into her outlook.
“No. We most certainly do not need that. But what can I do? If I had any influence on the man, he would be the husband I thought he was instead of a robber and a killer.”
“It’s possible,” Blacke said, “even likely, that he’ll try to establish contact with you when he first gets back here. He doesn’t really know how you feel about him, does he?”
The realization surprised her. “No. No, he doesn’t. Oh, my Lord, if that man thinks I have been sitting around waiting for him... But how would he know I’m here?”
Blacke made a wry face. “Someone would have told him,” he said, the someone, of course, being Lucius Jenkins, letting Muller know the bargain guaranteeing a decent living for wife and son in return for silence was being kept.
“Now, if he turns up,” Blacke said, “don’t make him mad. Just string him along, then make sure Mr. Booker knows what he’s up to.”
“I—I can do that.”
“There’s an alternative,” Blacke said.
“What do you mean?”
“Well, my conscience won’t stand for my letting you agree to this before I tell you it could be dangerous. Very dangerous.”
“Whatever he has done, Mr. Blacke, Paul has never hurt me.
“He was supporting a double life in those days. In any case, you don’t have to do this. I have some friends down in Boulder—”
“Colorado?”
“No. Wyoming Territory. They’d take you in and watch you until this blows over.”
“I see.” She took a deep breath. “No, thank you, Mr. Blacke. That won’t be necessary. My life is not so dear to me anymore. I shall risk it, gladly, if it will help to save others. I ask only one thing in return.”
“Name it,” Blacke said.
“It must come from Mr. Booker.”
“Yes?” I said.
“You must never rest until you find the person who did this. You must find the evidence, and this person must be hanged!”
“I’ll never draw a peaceful breath until I do,” I said. As I did, I realized to my horror that what I’d said was the absolute truth.
“Very well,” said Jennie Murdo. “Is there anything else you wish of me?”
“That’s it for now,” Blacke said. “Mr. McGruder will take you home. And thank you.”
“No, gentlemen. Thank you. You have given me something I haven’t had—a reason to go on living, at least for the next few days. Mr. Booker, I will let you know as soon as there is anything to tell you.”
She rose and pulled on her black lace gloves as I let her out.
Blacke and I sat there looking at each other until we heard McGruder’s whip.
“This, I take it,” I said, “was the complication I didn’t know about yet.”
“That’s it.” He seemed rather satisfied with himself.
“If that marshal doesn’t get here before Muller does, I’m going to kill myself.”
“What the hell, if the marshal doesn’t get here before Muller does, you probably won’t have to.”
Blacke saw my face and started to laugh. “Oh, don’t worry so much, Booker. I haven’t got you killed yet, have I?”
“Not through lack of trying.”
“Come on, I’ll get you through this.”
“If you don’t, I swear I’ll come back and haunt you.”
“You’re doing fine, so far. But I’ve got to ask
you something urgent.”
“Yes?”
“What the hell does cogent mean?”
“Forceful. Compelling.”
He smiled and shook his head. “It’s so damned educational just to know you, Booker.”
“You, too, Blacke,” I said. “You too.”
19
BLACKE AND I HAD just finished discussing my agenda for tomorrow (although I much rather would have discussed steps taken to ensure my personal safety, to say nothing of my life) when Rebecca came and took him home.
I locked up (I was so sick of that door) and decided to go upstairs and go to bed.
First, I checked on Herkimer, who was once again asleep. Another indication that the old man was innocent. Nobody who’d just poisoned fourteen people to death could possibly sleep as much as he did.
Before retiring, I knocked on the princess’s door. “You all right in there?”
In reply, a piece of paper slid out from under the door. At first glance, it might have been Egyptian hieroglyphs, but a closer study revealed it to be crude English letters reading “please come in.”
“Now what?” I muttered. I told the door to wait a minute, I went down to Harlan’s room, transformed by the magic of Rebecca and Mrs. Sundberg into a room fit for human habitation, and got rid of my gun belt and my vest, hat, and jacket. For all I knew, the princess was fixing to jump me again, and I didn’t want to have a weapon handy for her to grab. I also wanted freedom of movement if she had to be suppressed.
Back upstairs with the key, I knocked again and told her to get back across the room, over by the window. Then I undid the big padlock Stick Witherspoon had fixed and lifted the heavy oak bar that crossed the door.
The princess was standing by the windows, still in the demure dress she had put on that morning. The problem was, on her, nothing could be demure. She stood, lit by the single lamp, looking like all the allure and mystery of the East; for a moment, I could almost believe all the cock-and-bull stories Herkimer told about her.
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