“You’re investigating Sally’s murder? Why, you’re just a child.” She was wearing a brown & white calico dress that was faded but clean. It had a lacy cream-colored collar and cuffs.
“I am twelve years old,” I said. “I am just small for my age.”
She gave a quick glance over her shoulder towards someone in the room behind her. I could not see who it was. “I have company at the moment,” she said, “but he is going soon. Can you wait?”
I said that I would wait.
I went and stood across the street in the shadows behind a barrel at the back of a saloon that had its main entrance up on C Street. I took some antelope jerky from my pocket because I had only eaten some cheese & crackers for lunch.
While I chewed the jerky, I opened my notebook and added some suspects:
SUSPECTS IN THE MURDER OF SALLY SAMPSON
(Tall, Slim Men with Fair Hair & Smallish Beards Known to Have Frequented Sally)
1. Ludwig Hamm, barkeeper, German
2. Pierre Forote, barber, French
3. John Dennis, miner, American
4. Yuri Ivanovich, telegraph operator, Russian
5. Isaac E. Brokaw, policeman, American
6. Isaiah Coffin, photographer, English
Others who fit the description but were not known to have visited her
7. Farner Peel, shootist, English
8. Absalom Smith, actor and punster, American
9. C.V. Anthony, reverend, American
After a while the cherry-red door opened and a man came out.
He was a man known to me.
It was Mr. Isaiah Coffin, my neighbor, the photographer.
He was also Suspect No. 6 on my list.
I waited until Isaiah Coffin was out of sight & then ran up to the red door with the No. 30 & pounded hard.
Would I find the beautiful Zoe Brown lying strangulated in her crib & staring bug-eyed at the ceiling with her mouth open?
Ledger Sheet 21
WHEN MRS. ZOE BROWN opened the door her eyes were staring a little, but I reckon that was because of my urgent knocking.
“Oh, it is you,” she said, and darted glances up and down the street. “I am sorry but I am so nervous since Sally got killed…Do please come in,” she added in her Southern accent.
Zoe Brown’s crib was the same layout as Sally’s & almost as bare. Instead of a Brussels Carpet, there were only raw planks. Instead of plaster, the walls were “papered” with cotton flour sacks all stitched together & stuck up in rows. Instead of lace curtains, hung more flour sacks. The only furniture was a narrow bed, a sagging couch, a potbelly stove & a traveling trunk being used as a table. Her being so pretty, I was surprised that she did not have lots of nice vases & doilies & mahog whatnots like Big Gussie.
And yet there was a hat rack along one wall with about six of the fanciest hats I had ever seen.
I deduced from this that she spent all her money on hats.
I could smell coffee. I also caught a whiff of Isaiah Coffin’s tobacco. He smoked St. James Blend in his meerschaum pipe. I noticed a few shreds of tobacco on the plank floor.
I said, “In the newspaper it names you as Mrs. Zoe Brown. Are you married?”
“I am a widow,” said Mrs. Zoe Brown in her softly accented voice. “I live alone.”
I nodded. Back in Dayton there were some women who called themselves “Mrs.” so as to seem more respectable.
She poured me a cup of coffee, then gestured for me to sit on the couch. “Have you found out anything about who might of killed poor Sally?” she asked.
I said, “I have just been to Big Gussie’s and the girls told me that Sally had lots of jewelry. But the Notice of Auction does not list a single piece. Do you think Sally might have come home that night and startled a thief and he strangled her to silence her? Maybe that was the motive.”
“No,” said Zoe Brown. “Sally sold all her jewelry a month ago so’s she could buy that sweet buggy and pair of horses. She had little at home for a thief to take.”
“If the motive was not robbery,” I said, “then do you have any notion of why she was killed?”
“She chose a dangerous profession,” said Zoe Brown. “Men easily get drunk or jealous or angry. But there was something about Sally that made it more likely that she’d get herself hurt. Her tongue was as tart as an acidulated drop. I did warn her…”
I said, “What is an acidulated drop?”
Zoe Brown said, “It is a type of candy, half sweet and half sour.” She got up from the sofa & went to the trunk-which-served-as-a-table & fetched a striped paper bag from on top & brought it back & held it out to me. Inside were some pale-yellow, marble-sized pieces of hard candy.
“Here,” she said, extending the bag. “Have one.”
I took one of the yellow marbles and put it in my mouth. It was sweet but also so tart that it made my jawbone wince.
“Just like Sally,” said Zoe Brown. “She had a tart tongue and was not shy to use it. Some men did not take kindly to being told what she thought of them.”
I wrote that down in my Detective Notebook. “Do you have any idea who killed her?” I said.
“I believe it was an old friend,” said Zoe Brown. “But I do not know his name. Sally stopped by here the night she died. It was late, about eleven thirty p.m. I was working on a hat and she must have seen my light. I invited her in. She was real excited. Her cheeks were pink & she was talking fast. She told me she had been to Topliffe’s—”
I said, “Do you mean the Melodeon on C Street across from the International Hotel?”
She said, “Yes. It is called Topliffe’s Theatre. They asked her to sit in the balcony with the other Soiled Doves instead of down on the floor with the Respectable Ladies. They would not even let her enter by the front door. She said she almost came home in a huff, but ended up swallowing her pride & going in the side entrance, the one for Actors and Doves, and she ran into an old friend there. She told me he was going to visit her after the show. That is a clew, I think,” she added. “I tried to tell the Deputy Marshal but he would not listen.”
“That is useful,” I said, making a note. “Do you know the name of this ‘old friend’ or anything else about him?”
“No,” said Zoe. “All I know is that he must have been the one as killed her. You see, she had not entertained any men in over a month. She was turning over a New Leaf.”
I flipped back to my list of suspects.
I said, “Could the ‘old friend’ have been one of her former Gentlemen Callers?”
“I suppose,” replied Zoe Brown, “but when she said an ‘old friend’ I thought she meant someone from her hometown in Alabama.”
I watched her carefully as she answered. She did not show any signs of lying and her feet were pointed straight towards me. I felt she was telling the truth.
“What New Leaf was she turning over?” I asked.
Zoe Brown stood up & went to the window & pulled back one of the flour-sack curtains & looked out.
“Sally was fixing to go to California with Martha. She had saved up her money, sold her jewels and bought a pair of horses and rig to take them. She was going to set up as a seamstress with little Martha as her helper. She planned to leave for San Francisco on the first day of October. That was yesterday. If she had come home in a huff that night instead of staying at the Melodeon, she and Martha might be on their way by now.”
“What happened to Martha?” I asked carefully.
“I don’t rightly know. She used to sleep in that little back room and she must have witnessed the deed. I hope she is hiding somewhere safe. She is a dear little girl.”
Even though she had her back to me, I noticed that she was pressing her right hand to the base of her throat. Jace told me women often did that when they were trying to hide something. But they also did it when upset or frightened, so I could not be sure she was lying.
All the same, I made a note in my Detective Notebook.
“Who gets the money fro
m the Auction of Sally’s things?” I asked.
“I do,” said Zoe Brown. “She left me all her possessions in a Will and made me ward of Martha. But because she still owed the final payment on the horses and gig, I cannot collect any of it until the goods have been sold and the Auctioneers have taken their commission. There are also some bills to be paid: the liquor bill, the doctor and the funeral. Also, the funeral cost me nearly two hundred dollars.”
I said, “Is that why so many people came to her funeral? Is that why some of the mines even shut down?”
Zoe Brown turned to look at me and I could see her eyes were brimming with tears. “No,” she said. “People came to her funeral because Sally was much loved in this town. There was a mine tunnel cave-in last year. Sally was very brave. She helped care for the men as they brought them out. The miners loved her for that.”
I closed my Detective Notebook & put it in my pocket along with my pencil stub. “I have one more question for you,” I said.
She looked at me with her big brown eyes, the thick lashes all sparkly with her tears. “Yes?”
“I noticed a fire helmet on the list of Short Sally’s possessions. Do you know why she owned such a thing?”
“Why, yes,” said Zoe Brown. “Sally loved men in uniforms and she had a special soft spot for firemen. She admired courage above all things. She made banners for all three companies and she was even an honorary member of the Young America Engine Company.” She looked up suddenly. “Perhaps you should investigate Mr. Ludwig Hamm.”
I flipped my Detective Notebook back to the list of suspects.
Mr. Ludwig Hamm was the first name on my list.
“But he is a barkeeper,” I said, “not a fireman.”
“All the firemen in Virginia are volunteers,” she said. “I believe he is with the Young America Engine Company.”
“Why should I investigate Mr. Ludwig Hamm?”
“Because he was in love with poor Sally. And love can make you do crazy things.”
Ledger Sheet 22
AS I AM SURE YOU KNOW, the Young America Engine Company No. 2 is located on South C Street. It shares a building with the Metropolitan Livery Stable between the Young America Saloon & a Gunsmith.
When I got there I went through a prodigious doorway beneath a sign reading YOUNG AMERICA NO. 2 to find a room containing in its center a strange & colorful contraption on wheels.
It looked like a covered vat on a wagon with some levered handles on either side. It was painted red & blue & gold.
Decorating the plank walls of the big room were a dozen colored prints showing “The Life of a Fireman” & some silk banners & hanging oil lamps. I also saw a shelf holding two trumpets & three heavy leather helmets with No. 2 on the front shield.
“What do you want?” said a gruff voice. “Come to report a fire? Or are you pranking us?”
It was a white-bearded man in a red shirt with canvas pants tucked into his boots. He had been polishing some sticking-out handles on the wheeled contraption. One side of his face was badly burned so that he looked as if he was winking at me. He had a chaw of tobacco in his other cheek.
I removed my hat and said, “I have not come to report a fire. Nor am I pranking you. I am hoping to speak to one of your firemen.”
I could not take my eyes from his face.
“What are you staring at, boy?”
“I am staring at your face,” I said. “Was it burnt in a fire?”
The man stared at me for a moment. Then he said, “Well, yes, it was. Bad fire in the Bowery in ’38.”
“Does it hurt?”
“Hurts every danged minute of every danged day.” He spat some tobacco juice on the floor.
“I am sorry,” I said.
He shrugged. “Most people ignore it,” he said. “Pretend not to see it. But I’m proud of it. I wear it like a medal. Fire is like war, you bet. You got to battle it hard and stand by your companions and not give in to Fear.”
“Fortes fortuna iuvat,” I said. “Fortune favors the brave.”
“You said it, boy! I may be half crispy but I am the president of the Young America Engine Company Number Two.”
I said, “Where is the Young America Engine Company Number One?”
“Ain’t no Young America Engine Company Number One.” The old fireman spat again. “Our rivals are the Virginia Engine Company Number One. They were here first. But we have a bigger enjine.” He pronounced the word as if it was spelled e-n-j-i-n-e so that the last part rhymed with “fine.”
I said, “You are rivals?”
He said, “Our enjine comes all the way from Frisco. It was built at a cost of six thousand dollars and it is the largest and most powerful enjine in the Territory. It is a fine machine.” He pronounced the last word as if it was spelled m-a-s-h-e-e-n.
He cut himself a chaw of tobacco. “Who you looking for, anyways?”
“Mr. Ludwig Hamm.”
“Well, you are in luck.” The old fireman popped the chaw in his mouth. “He just happens to work in the Young America Saloon right next door.”
“Thank you,” I said and turned to go.
“Wait,” said the old fireman. He went to the wall and gave a complicated knock on it. It was something like four quick taps, then two quick taps, then a scrape and a tap & finally two scrapes and two quick taps. I wondered if it was Morse code.
Then he put his finger to his lips & pressed his ear to the wall.
While he listened to the wall, I walked around the colorful vat on wheels. Was this the engine?
I examined its levers & fixtures & fittings, trying to figure out how it might work.
I could not do it.
I heard a faint knocking from the other side of the wall.
The old fireman pulled back from the wall and gave me a smile. I could not tell if it was a genuine smile or false, due to its lopsided nature. “He will be over directly,” he said.
I pointed at the four-wheeled contraption. “Is that the enjine?” I imitated his pronunciation. “I have never seen one like that.”
The old fireman puffed up his chest in the manner of a pigeon. “Why, yes, that is our ‘Big Six.’”
I said, “How does it work? Do you put the water in that covered vat?”
“No, the water goes through the tank. Pistons pump water out of the ground and into the hoses. Did you know there are cisterns beneath the boardwalks of Virginia?”
“What is a cistern?”
“It is a pit full of water.”
He pointed to one side of the box. “You attach this suction pipe here and put one end into one of them water cisterns. Then you attach some long hoses to the other side of the tank and point their nozzles towards the flames. When you got six strong men pumping the brakes, that is to say, these handles, the enjine sucks the water up out of the cistern and squirts it out of them hoses. We can sometimes get a jet of water higher than the flagpole on the International Hotel.”
I said, “Do horses pull this enjine? Is that why you are here in a livery stable?”
“Horses don’t pull it. We do.”
“On account of horses are scared of fire?”
“That, but mostly on account of we need at least eight men there to pump the enjine and point the hose, so we might as well tote it up there ourselves.”
Suddenly he stood up a little straighter. “Newt Winton,” he said, introducing himself. “President of the Young America Engine Company Number Two.” He held out his right hand. I noticed it was burnt, too, and the flesh all mottled and puckered.
I put my hat under my left arm & tried not to shudder as I shook his hand. “P.K. Pinkerton, Private Eye.”
“Pinkerton!” he said. “I saw your Advertisement in the newspaper. You solve mysteries, don’t you?”
“That’s right,” I said. “I am investigating the Murder of Miss Sally Sampson last Friday evening.”
“Poor Miss Sally,” said Newt. “See that Marker?” He pointed to one of the silk banners on the
wall. “She sewed that for us all herself. Paid for that silver and gold thread herself, too.”
A man in a white apron came in through the open door of the engine house.
He was tall & slim & blond with a billy goat beard!
“What you want, Winton?” he asked. “I am working.” When he spoke he made his w’s sound like v’s. From that I could tell he was German. We had traveled behind a family of Germans on the wagon train west.
“Sorry, Ludwig,” said Newt Winton. “This here’s that new Detective the boys was talking about. His name is P.K. Pinkerton. He is looking into the murder of Short Sally. Wanted to ask you a few questions. I thought you’d rather do it private like.”
Mr. Ludwig Hamm narrowed his eyes at me. It was Expression No. 5: Suspicion or Anger. Or maybe both.
I tried Ma Evangeline’s Trick to remembering his name and face. Ludwig was Beethoven’s first name so I imagined this man playing a joint of ham instead of a piano: Ludwig + Ham = Ludwig Hamm.
“What you want to know?” he growled. He came up so close that I took a step back.
I looked up at him & said, “I understand that you were one of Sally’s Gentlemen Callers. You also match an eye witness description of the Murderer. I would like to know if you have an alibi for last Friday night.”
“Impudent whelp!” said Mr. Ludwig Hamm. He took a deep breath, and cuffed my ear. I had to sit down.
“Ludwig!” cried Newt. “What you doing? Why, he’s only a porch baby.”
Hamm stalked out of the firehouse without replying.
Newt came over to me and helped me stand up.
Something like bright gnats seemed to be floating around between my eyes and his horridly burnt face.
“Don’t be mad at Ludwig for knocking you down,” said old Newt. “You see, he was mighty fond of Miss Sally Sampson. He used to ask her to marry him pretty near every day of the week, but by gum, she just would not have him.”
I felt swimmy-headed & sick.
But I was also happy.
I was about 95 percent certain that I had solved the mystery of who had strangulated Miss Short Sally Sampson.
Ledger Sheet 23
The Case of the Petrified Man Page 8
