The Case of the Petrified Man

by Caroline Lawrence

  A moment later I heard the deep-voiced man say, “Follow me, miss!”

  Once again I was heaved up and jounced and jostled. I could hear footsteps on wooden stairs and I heard Belle’s voice say, “Easy there!” and then, “Bring it in here,” and finally, “That will do fine, right there.”

  The footsteps of my porters receded and I heard the voice of an auctioneer, loud but muffled through the doors of the wardrobe.

  A moment later one of the doors squeaked open and Belle’s whispered voice said, “Come on out. It is safe.”

  I emerged into a dim area cluttered with furniture, boxes and other such things. I could hear the auctioneer’s voice clearly now. He was just up ahead. We were right on stage!

  Belle was crouched down behind a black walnut rolltop desk with her finger in front of her lips.

  Then she beckoned me and I followed her through a forest of furniture towards the auctioneer’s rapid voice.

  “Eight-fifty, eight-fifty, eight-fifty, NINE!” cried the auctioneer.

  He was a man in a top hat and blue-velvet frock coat standing behind a podium. He had a wooden mallet & he looked very high-tone.

  “Nine, going once,” he said. And then, “I have nine-fifty!”

  We both moved forward at a crouch. Belle’s hoop skirt kept getting shmooshed so I led the way to a heavy walnut dresser with a mirror on top. There was about a one-inch crack between the top of the dresser and the mirror. We both brought our faces closer to that long & narrow spy hole.

  “Nine-fifty, nine-fifty, nine-fifty, TEN!” The auctioneer’s voice was very loud.

  Peeking through the crack, I saw a big bright room with two big west-facing windows showing buildings across the street and the steep side of Mount Davidson. The auction room was three quarters full, with about equal parts men & women. Belle and I were up on a stage near the auctioneer so the audience’s faces were gazing up at us, or rather the furniture we were hiding behind. That meant I could identify lots of people I knew.

  “Ten! Ten! Ten!” said the auctioneer. “Ten-fifty! ’Leven! ’Leven-fifty!”

  I saw Big Gussie & her four Girls. Mrs. Zoe Brown was standing with them, dressed in black with a black-feathered hat to match.

  I saw my Lawyer, Mr. William Morris Stewart. He was hard to miss as he stood about a head taller than anyone else.

  “’Leven-fifty, ’leven-fifty, ’leven-fifty, TWELVE!”

  I saw four of the men from my List of Suspects:

  Mr. Isaiah Coffin, photographer.

  The Rev. C.V. Anthony, Methodist pastor.

  Mr. Absalom Smith, actor & punster.

  And Langford Farner Peel, shootist.

  One of them looked different than he usually did because he was in disguise, but I knew him by his pipe & tobacco, and by his eyebrows.

  He was the Killer.

  Ledger Sheet 48

  THE AUCTIONEER WAS SAYING something but I was not listening to him.

  I was watching the Killer. He was disguised as a miner, with a long linen duster coat over a red flannel shirt, pantaloons tucked into boots, a small slouch hat and a big black fake beard. He had his hand in the pocket of his duster coat & he seemed to be looking right in my direction!

  I thought, “Surely he cannot see me in the shadows back here.”

  Then I thought, “He will not dare shoot me in front of a hundred people. He is a coward and a poltroon.”

  Just to be safe, I started to sink back down behind the dresser.

  BANG!

  I nearly jumped out of my skin as the auctioneer brought down his gavel. “Sold!” he cried. “To Miss Gertrude Holmes for twelve dollars! One hardwood whatnot.”

  That bang had made me jump and the auctioneer must have seen the movement out of the corner of his eye. He turned his head & for the first time he noticed me & Belle scrouched down behind the black walnut chest of drawers. His eyes got wider. Belle put a lace-gloved finger to her lips & then pointed to me in my Martha-disguise.

  The auctioneer gave us a very slight nod & then turned back to the audience. I reckoned he was Mr. J.C. Currie, the proprietor of the auction house, whom my Lawyer had promised to brief about our plan.

  “That completes the sale of the estate of Miss Sally Sampson,” said Mr. J.C. Currie in his carrying voice. “Like many of us, she was not perfect, but she was brave and beloved of many.”

  “What is this,” came a man’s Southern-accented voice, “an auction or a eulogy?”

  There was a smattering of laughter, then some women hushed him.

  Mr. Currie bowed his head until people were quiet. “I know you were all saddened to hear of the untimely demise of Sally Sampson last week, of her brutal murder.”

  Some people nodded. I heard men’s voices and women whispering, too.

  “You might have heard the rumor,” said Mr. Currie in his auctioneer’s voice, “that there was a witness to this dastardly crime.”

  Some people gasped and their voices grew louder.

  Mr. Currie banged his gavel to obtain silence. “Some of you might have heard the rumor that Miss Sally Sampson’s serving girl was an Eye Witness to the crime. Or you might have seen the broadsheet in the windows of some local businesses.”

  As Mr. Currie held up one of these notices, there came another big gasp. The notice read as follows:

  SALLY SAMPSON’S MURDERER EXPOSED!

  Today at Currie’s Auction House at around 2 p.m.

  Following the auction of Sally Sampson’s goods

  An Eye Witness to the Crime will tell Who Done It!

  My lawyer & I had dashed off half a dozen that morning and put them in our own windows & anywhere else we thought the suspect might see them. The presence of the Killer showed that our plan had worked.

  “Until now,” said Mr. Currie in his big auctioneer’s voice, “that girl has been in hiding, in fear of her life, but she is now willing to come forward and reveal who committed the dastardly crime.”

  Everybody said, “Oh!” & all heads turned to the door at the side of the auction room. The Killer looked in that direction, too.

  Then all heads swiveled back as I clumped out onto the stage in my oversized shoes. Pretending to be a frightened girl about to expose a Killer was not too hard as a man intent on murder stood only a few feet away. I had assured Martha he would not try anything in a public place but now I was not so sure. I made my knees knock together and pretended to tremble and you can bet I kept my head down.

  “Oh!” came a woman’s cry. There was a commotion among Big Gussie’s girls and a moment later I saw why.

  Mrs. Zoe Brown had fainted.

  The Killer did not look much better. His face was white as a sheet under the brim of his slouch hat and behind his hook-on beard. I do not think he was expecting to see the Eye Witness of his crime even though he must have come for that very purpose.

  Mr. Currie’s loud voice came from my right. “Yes,” he said, “the courageous girl has appeared at the eleventh hour.” He turned to me. “What do you have to tell us, Martha? Who done it?”

  I spoke up in a voice as much like Martha’s as I could muster. “The killer was a Reb deserter,” I said loudly, “name of Deforrest Robards. He froze during a pitch battle and then run off. They are after him.”

  “Do you see that man in this room?” said Mr. Currie.

  I saw the Killer smile behind his beard. He did not know that I recognized his pipe and eyebrows.

  I pointed at him. “He is right thar!” I cried. “Under that fake hat and beard!”

  There was a clatter as half the Killer’s pipe fell to the wooden floor. He had bit the stem in half.

  Big Gussie stood near the Killer. “Fake beard?” she cried. “Why, so it is!” She ripped it off and whipped away his hat, too.

  The coward stood frozen, his blond hair and billy goat beard now visible for all to see.

  “It was him!” I shouted. “He strangulated Miss Sally!”

  Behind me Belle gasped, “Absalom
Smith!”

  I said, “Yes! He calls himself Absalom Smith but his real name is Deforrest Robards.” I repeated it so that everyone could hear. “Dee Forrest Ro-bards! He strangulated Miss Sally and I saw him do it!”

  Mr. Absalom Smith stood petrified by fear.

  “Miss Sally knows you from Alabamy,” I cried. “You killed her ’cause she was gonna tell on you. And on account of she was taunting you.” Then I screwed my voice up an octave & cried out, “Flicker, flicker! Yellowhammer!”

  “Shut your mouth!” he cried at last.

  And then, “Stop saying that!”

  And finally, “If I have to go, then by God I’m taking you with me!”

  I saw his nostrils flare & his chest heave up & he reached into the pocket of his duster coat & pulled the revolver from his pocket & took aim at me & fired.

  Ledger Sheet 49

  EVERYTHING HAPPENED REAL QUICK.

  Thanks to me seeing his nostrils flare and his chest heave up, I hit the ground.

  Behind me a mirror shattered into a thousand pieces & Belle cried out. I had forgot she was standing nearby. All around the room other people hit the floor. Men shouted & women screamed.

  “Belle!” cried Isaiah Coffin, and he ran forward as a second shot rang out.

  I did not have time to get my gun from the medicine bag beneath my nightdress, so I reached out & grabbed the nearest piece of light furniture & hurled it at the Killer.

  It was a kind of tall thin table with three legs & three triangular shelves.

  It was a Mahog Whatnot.

  It hit Absalom Smith smack dab on his elbow a moment before he pulled the trigger.

  Bang! His shot splattered harmlessly into the ceiling.

  Within moments another five shots rang out.

  Bang!

  B’dang!

  Bang de bang!

  BANG!

  Absalom Smith, a.k.a. Deforrest Robards, shrieked & spun around, riddled with bullets from every side.

  Everything was confused & wild, but through a cloud of gunsmoke I saw four of my acquaintances brandishing smoking guns.

  Langford Farner Peel had got off the first shot with his ivory-gripped Navy.

  Big Gussie was holding a smoking pearl-handled Deringer.

  William Morris Stewart also held large-bore Texas Deringers. One in each hand. Both of them were smoking, too.

  And the Colt’s Army had been discharged by Deputy Marshal Jack Williams himself.

  My ears were ringing but I heard Langford Farner Peel cock his revolver & address the Killer in his cool English accent. “Drop your piece, Smith,” he said.

  Despite being riddled with balls, Absalom Smith was still on his feet. Frozen with fear, he stared at Farner Peel.

  But only for a moment. Then he showed his true color.

  He dropped his gun & turned & staggered for the door, spattering great drops of blood as he did.

  Those people still on their feet parted, squealing, before him. Only one man stood firm: my Lawyer, Mr. William Morris Stewart. He stood blocking the doorway & brandishing his Deringers. I observed they were double barreled, so he had a ball left in each.

  “Hold, sir!” he said.

  Absalom Smith, a.k.a. Deforrest Robards, did not “hold.”

  Instead, he swerved right & crashed through one of the two big windows, to the accompaniment of more screams and a couple more gunshots.

  For a heartbeat or two there was silence.

  Then we heard shouts & barking from the street below & everybody in the room ran to the window in order to look out.

  I ran, too, but the flapping sole of my shoe tripped me up & I almost fell flat in a pool of Smith’s blood. However, I managed to regain my balance & I squeezed between hooped skirts to the window & looked out through the broken panes of glass. I could only see a crowd of people gathered around something down in the street by some wagons, so I followed the crowd downstairs.

  Out on B Street I elbowed my way through the gathered populace until I got to the front of the crowd.

  There a Terrible Sight met my eyes.

  Justice had caught up with the coward Deforrest Robards in the shape of a mule-drawn Quartz Wagon.

  When he leapt out the window he must have rolled down the slanted awning and fallen right in front of the wagon, for he was lying under the wheel. His chest was crushed and there was blood everywhere. But he appeared to be living still. A burly & bearded man in a red flannel shirt was standing there, holding a small dog in his arms. “I didn’t even see him,” said the teamster. “One moment he warn’t there and the next he was. It was as if he fell from the sky.”

  I went over to Absalom Smith, a.k.a. Deforrest Robards, & scrouched down & looked at him. He squinted back up at me & then his eyes widened in surprise & recognition. “When is a lady’s maid not a lady’s maid?” he murmured.

  “When she is P.K. Pinkerton in disguise,” was my answer to his conundrum. “Do you have any last words?”

  He nodded weakly, “Do not let them publish my real name. It would kill my mother. Father, too. The shame…”

  His eyes closed and I thought he was a goner.

  Then they opened again. “All I ever wanted to do was be an actor,” he said. “I could have been happy here if only she hadn’t recognized me.” Tears were squeezing out of his eyes & I almost pitied him.

  “Do you repent of your Sins?” I said.

  “Yes!” he cried. “Oh yes, I repent. May the Lord forgive me!”

  I nodded. “I promise I will not let them publish your real name.”

  “Bless you,” said Lieutenant Deforrest Robards, and with that he breathed his last.

  Ledger Sheet 50

  WITHIN MOMENTS SOME MEN had pulled the Killer’s body out of the road and onto the boardwalk. He lay there, awaiting the undertaker.

  I stood gazing down at the corpse.

  I wondered if he had made his peace with God or was roasting in the fiery place. His handsome face in repose looked about 10 years younger & almost peaceful, so I guessed maybe it was the former. His tobacco pouch had fallen out of his pocket and I bent down and picked it up. It smelled like Pa Emmet and, together with the sight of his boyish face, made my throat feel tight. I automatically started to put it in the pocket of my buckskin trowsers, but remembered I was wearing a white nightdress. Instead I tucked it up beneath my night bonnet.

  “War is the real criminal,” said the husky voice of Big Gussie behind me. “Not all men are cut out to be soldiers.”

  “And yet every man has the potential to kill,” came the deep voice of Mr. William Morris Stewart.

  That reminded me about JAG, his three motives for murder.

  But Absalom Smith, a.k.a. Deforrest Robards, had not killed because of Jealousy, Anger or Greed. No, he had killed a brave & outspoken Soiled Dove because of cowardice, shame & the desire to be an actor.

  I guess you cannot always simplify people.

  Suddenly I was gripped by the shoulders & pulled to the fragrant & ruffled bosom of a woman in black.

  “Oh, Martha!” said Zoe Brown as she hugged me. “I’m so glad you are safe. I felt so bad after I told you to run and hide somewhere else that night! If anything had happened to you I would never have forgiven myself!”

  I reckon she mistook me for Martha but she found out her error when she put a finger under my chin and lifted my face in order to give me a kiss.

  “Why, you ain’t—” she began, giving me Expression No. 4: Surprise.

  I said, “It is me, P.K. Pinkerton. I am personating Martha on account of she was too scared to come.”

  “Oh no!” cried Zoe Brown. “Is she hurt?”

  “Do not worry about Martha,” said Mr. William Morris Stewart. “Thanks to P.K., she is safe and sound.”

  “Where is she?” Zoe asked. “Where is the poor little thing?”

  “She is in a Safe Haven,” I said. “I can take you to her now.”

  “Oh yes!” cried Zoe. “Please take me to her
and let us not delay a moment longer. I feel so guilty about what I did.”

  As we walked down to Chinatown, Zoe Brown told us how Martha had come seeking refuge the night of Sally’s murder.

  “I told her she couldn’t stop with me because everybody knew Sally and I were friends and my crib was the first place the Killer would look. I told her she must hide where nobody would find her.” Zoe hung her head. “But the real reason I turned her away was that I am a coward. I was afraid he would kill me, too. When I came to my senses, I tried to find her. I felt so bad.”

  I reckon it was around 3 o’clock in the afternoon when we reached Hong Wo’s laundry down in the Chinese quarter of town. There we found Ping, and he took us to see Martha.

  She was in fine spirits. She was wearing the pink calico dress and the button-up boots & sitting in her nest of sheets with a little Chinese boy of about two or maybe three years old beside her. They were both eating chow-chow with chopsticks.

  Martha looked up, laughing, but when she saw me with darkened skin & dressed in her nightdress & bonnet she gave a kind of squawk & put down her bowl & clapped her hands.

  “Oh my!” she cried. “It is like gazing in a mirror.” Then she said, “Look, P.K., Woo is teaching me how to eat chow-chow with chopsticks.”

  I said, “Woo?”

  “This sweet li’l boy here. Ain’t he the cutest thang?”

  Then Mrs. Zoe Brown came in behind me & Martha gave another squeal.

  “Oh, Miz Zoe!” she cried. She leapt up from the sheets & ran to her & threw her arms tight around Zoe’s slender waist.

  Mrs. Zoe Brown hugged Martha back for a long time & begged her forgiveness for turning her away & said that she was to live with her as long as she liked. Martha could not believe this at first but when it sank in she started crying. That set Mrs. Zoe Brown off weeping and soon Ping’s sister and little Woo joined in, too.

  Ping looked at me & I looked at him.

  He held out his hand. “That will be forty dollar,” he said. “For two day.”

  I fished around in my Medicine bag & gave him two gold coins.

  I was almost out of cash. I would have to go down to Wells, Fargo & Co. first thing Monday morning.