I turned back. “Yes?”
“Do not be discouraged. Fortes fortuna iuvat.”
“Beg pardon?”
He took out a pencil and wrote it down on the margin of my newspaper.
“That is Latin,” he said. “It means ‘Fortune favors the brave.’”
Ledger Sheet 4
WHEN I GOT BACK to my office I spread the newspaper out on top of my Big Tobacco Collection & studied the article by Sam Clemens that had inspired the miners to prank me.
It was obviously a passel of lies but there it was in black & white.
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:
THE FIRST PRIVATE DETECTIVE AGENCY IN VIRGINIA CITY
P.K. PINKERTON, PRIVATE EYE,
South B Street nr Taylor
No Job too Small, No Challenge too Big, Reasonable Rates
Specialties: Tracking Lost Animals, Solving Mysteries, Shadowing Suspects
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.
Ledger Sheet 5
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:
SALE OF PERSONAL PROPERTY
OF SALLY SAMPSON, DECEASED
SEPTEMBER 26TH, A.D. 1862
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.”
Ledger Sheet 6
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.
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?”
&n
bsp; “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.”
Ledger Sheet 7
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.”
The Case of the Petrified Man Page 2
