The Case of the Petrified Man

by Caroline Lawrence

  I thought, “This Detective business is mighty expensive.”

  The women & Woo were still crying, so Ping led me out of the maze & back to F Street.

  “Thank you, Ping,” I said as I turned to go.

  He only grunted but I thought I detected the trace of a smile.

  On the way back up to B Street, I was getting strange looks & realized I was still in blackface & wearing a thin nightdress and night bonnet. I stopped at a pump & tried to wash the burnt cork off my hands & face.

  Plain water had little effect, so I went back to my office & into my back room & took off the shoes & nightdress & sleeping cap. Then I put on my own clothes & went to find a bath house to see if hot water would do the job.

  Ma Evangeline had taken me to a bath house once, somewhere outside Salt Lake City, but that had been over two years ago. I had not been to a bath house since, and never by myself.

  I headed north on B Street to Selfridge & Bach’s Bath House, which was recommended by many local citizens as being one of the nicest.

  As I went in, a thin Chinaman carrying crumpled towels came out of a door & before it closed I caught a glimpse of a big steamy room full of naked, hairy & dangling men.

  “Negroes got to bathe privately,” said a fat man behind a counter.

  “A private bath suits me just fine,” I said. “How much?”

  “Two dollars.”

  It was only then that I saw a sign behind him. It read:

  HOT WATER 25¢

  CLEAN HOT WATER 35¢

  SOAP 10¢ EXTRA

  TOWELS 10¢ EXTRA

  CLEAN HOT WATER, SOAP & TOWEL 50¢

  PRIVATE BATH $1.00

  I pointed at the sign. “It says one dollar for a private bath.”

  “Negroes is extra,” said the man. “Double in fact.” Only he did not say it so politely.

  I handed him two dollars.

  He said, “That will be another four bits if you want soap, towels and clean hot water.”

  I stared at him for a moment, then fished in my pocket and pulled out a silver half-dollar.

  He took it & pointed to a wooden door opposite and said, “In there.” Then he shouted, “Hung Lee? Get in here now!”

  I went over to the door & opened it slowly, fearful of the sight of more naked men. But it was just a small wood plank room with a galvanized bathtub in the center & a single wooden chair & some wooden pegs on the wall & a small, high window. There was nothing in the tub except a damp white linen sheet plastered to its bottom & sides & hanging over. I was about to go back out and complain that I could not bathe with only a damp sheet when the door opened & the thin Chinese man came in with a steaming bucket. I reckoned he was Hung Lee.

  He poured hot water into the bath, then turned and held up three fingers. “You wait,” he said. “Three more bucket.”

  I nodded and waited as he went out & came in three more times until he had finished filling the bath.

  When the bath was full of steaming hot water, he went out and I started to unbutton my shirt. I froze as the door opened once more. But it was only Mr. Hung Lee. He was carrying a folded bath sheet & a wash cloth & a small cake of yellow soap.

  He placed these on the chair and gave a little bow. “I leave you now. Enjoy.”

  “Wait,” I said & fished in my pocket and gave him two bits.

  “Hung Lee thanks you!” he said, smiling & bowing again. He held up a single finger. “One more thing,” he said. He hurried out & returned & looked around & quickly emptied a fistful of powder into the bath. “Bath Salt,” he announced. “Lavender.” Mr. Hung Lee had some trouble saying this final word, but I knew what he meant because of the smell that was filling the room along with the steam.

  He brushed his hands together over the steaming bath & bowed. “Now I go,” he said. On his way out he showed me a small brass hook on the inside of the door so I could lock it.

  I used the little brass hook to lock the door. Then I got undressed & hung my pants & shirt & hat & medicine bag on the pegs. Next I climbed into the steaming hot bath & lowered myself slowly in. The gunshot wound in my left arm stung a little at first but then it settled down & I began to relax.

  Back in Temperance, Ma Evangeline used to curtain off a part of the cabin and fill a tin tub with hot water for our weekly bath. She always let me go first but the water was never so hot as to require a sheet. Nor did she ever let me indulge in Bath Salts. Also, our tub in Temperance was only half this size.

  This bath was a steaming luxury. I felt it was almost worth the princely sum of $2.75 (if you include my tip to the Chinese bath attendant). I could sink right down underwater & blow bubbles up & close my eyes.

  When I sank underwater & closed my eyes, I saw an image of Lieutenant Deforrest Robards lying on the boardwalk. It was a sad image so I did what Ma Evangeline always told me to do when I thought of something bad: replace it with something nice. I conjured up the memory of Mrs. Zoe Brown hugging Martha and it made me feel floaty & warm.

  When I poked my dripping head back up above the surface of the water, I could hear tinkling piano music leaking in through the small, high window. It was a sentimental song called “Kiss Me Good Night, Mother.” That & the bath made me think of Ma Evangeline, who had taught me so much and who had always insisted on kissing me good night despite my protests. Even though I do not like to be touched, I regretted the fact that she would never kiss me good night again.

  My cheeks were wet but I never cry, so I guess that was because I had just dipped my head under the water.

  I stayed soaking in that bath until the steam dispersed and the water went from hot to warm. Then I reached over to the chair and got the small cake of yellow soap & wash cloth and scrubbed my face & hands.

  The black came off pretty easy. A lot of other dirt came off, too, in a very satisfying fashion.

  I was just about to get out when I heard the chink of spurs & a voice from the other side of the door.

  “He ain’t anywhere in there!” the voice was saying. “Ain’t you got any other rooms?”

  It was a voice that made my blood run cold.

  It was a Raspy Voice.

  It was the voice of Extra Dub Donahue, my mortal enemy.

  He had tracked me down.

  Ledger Sheet 51

  THE NOISE OF A FIST pounding on the door filled the small private room in Selfridge & Bach’s Bath House.

  “Open the door, you galldarn varmint!” rasped Extra Dub. “I know you are in there!”

  I was sitting stark naked in a tin bath with nothing to defend myself but a small cake of yellow soap & a wash cloth.

  BANG!

  The door shook & his spurs jangled as he kicked it from the outside.

  BANG!

  The door groaned on its hinges. The small brass hook-and-eye lock would not hold much longer.

  I leapt out of the bath & lunged for my medicine bag & pulled it off the wooden peg & ran back to the tub & crouched behind it.

  CRASH!

  The door burst open & there stood Extra Dub. He was wearing his black slouch hat & a biscuit-colored duster coat. In his right hand he brandished a Colt’s Navy Revolver. It was cocked and ready for action.

  As I peeped up from behind the bathtub my panicky wet fingers were fumbling to open my leather medicine bag.

  “There you are, you dam whelp,” he rasped. Then he threw down on me.

  Bang!

  I ducked down just as a loud report filled the room & made the bath shudder & my ears ring. But my slippery fingers had finally opened the leather pouch & I tipped my seven-shooter into my right hand. I cocked it & popped my head up & got some shots back at him.

  Pop! said my Smith & Wesson. Pop! Pop!

  His curse showed that at least one of my shots had not been in vain.

  Bang! Bang! said his Colt’s Navy.

  Pop! I replied.

  Something warm ran down my cheek. For an awful moment I thought it was my own blood.

  They say tha
t when you are shot you do not always feel it right away.

  I reached up and touched my cheek and looked at my fingers.

  But it was only bath water.

  I had not been shot.

  Above the ringing in my ears, I heard Dub’s spurs clank as he moved forward to get a better shot at me.

  He aimed again and click!

  Misfire! His cap & ball Navy revolver had let him down.

  My Smith & Wesson seemed to have had no effect on him so I tried something else.

  Quick as a whip crack I lifted up my end of the tub, sending a cascade of soapy water crashing over the wood plank floor towards his feet.

  “Whoa!” he cried and—Bang!—his fourth shot hit the ceiling as his legs flew out in front of him & he slammed down on his bottom with a jangling thud.

  Extra Dub was sitting and I was now standing, stark naked & using the empty tin bath to shield my Modesty.

  For a moment Extra Dub did not move, but sat with his legs straight out & wide apart & his smoking Colt still in his hand. His slouch hat had slipped down over his eyes. He flung the hat away & looked up to see me peeking out from behind the empty tub. I was pointing my seven-shooter right at his heart.

  I said, “Drop your piece, you murdering varmint, or I will kill you where you sit. My gun does not misfire like yours.”

  He sneered at me, “You have hit me twice but your little balls are no more harmful than a mosquito bite.” Despite his bold words, he made no move.

  I stood firm. “Drop your piece!” I repeated.

  His nostrils flared, he cocked his revolver and—

  Pop! I shot the gun right out of his hand. But in so doing I had to let the tin bath drop, thus revealing my Modesty.

  He stopped cursing in mid-profanity & his eyes opened wide. “Why, you ain’t a—”

  CLANG!

  Mr. Hung Lee brought an empty metal bucket down hard on Extra Dub’s bare head. The Desperado remained sitting, but his eyes rolled back & drool dribbled from his mouth. His Colt’s Navy lay nearby, but the quick-thinking & helpful attendant kicked out with his wooden clog & sent it spinning across the soapy floor towards me.

  I lunged for it & grabbed it & scrouched down behind the tub again & cocked it & threw down on Extra Dub with his own piece.

  But he was still groggy and did not protest when Mr. Hung Lee brought the bucket down like a hat, completely covering Dub’s head. Next, the quick-thinking Mr. Hung Lee undid the Desperado’s own belt and used it to bind his hands behind him.

  “There!” said Mr. Hung Lee, brushing his hands together. “Very good. Yes?”

  “Yes,” I agreed. Apparently he had not noticed my Modesty. I said, “There is a reward for him. Shall we split it fifty-fifty?”

  “Yes, please!” said Mr. Hung Lee. He smiled from ear to ear and began to drag the still-seated Desperado back out of the room. “I leave you now,” he said. “You get dressed. Then we go collect reward.”

  He shut the door behind him and although it did not close completely I put down the tin bathtub & toweled myself dry & started to get dressed. As I was fumbling to button my shirt, I noticed that there were three lead balls embedded in the linen sheet still stuck to the inside of the tin bathtub.

  When I saw that, my knees began to wobble & I had to sit for a spell & take deep breaths.

  By and by I went out of the bath room. Mr. Hung Lee stood beaming & gripping Extra Dub, who was now standing but still wore the tin bucket on his head.

  “We go see Marshal?” asked Hung Lee.

  I thought about this for a moment and then shook my head. “Might be better to take him to Judge Atwill. The Marshal is still out of town and his Deputy does not like me.”

  “Judge Atwill good,” said the helpful bath attendant. “I know where.”

  As I turned to follow Hung Lee & our prisoner out the door, I noticed that the fat man behind the counter was staring at me open-eyed & openmouthed. I reckon it was one of the most extreme examples of Expression No. 4 that I had ever seen.

  Ledger Sheet 52

  EARLY THE NEXT MORNING I came back from a tasty Sunday Morning Pancake Breakfast at the Colombo Restaurant to find Mr. Sam Clemens lurking outside my front door. He had something under his arm. It looked like a large, flat, wooden desk drawer divided up into shallow pigeonholes.

  “What is that?” I said.

  “Good morning to you, too,” he drawled, his speech even slower than usual. “This here is a present for you.”

  As I unlocked my front door, I scrutinized his face using my Detective skills. His chin was unshaved & the whites of his eyes were red & his dead-critter pipe smoke was mingled with whiskey fumes.

  “You have not been to bed yet, have you?” I said, as I went in.

  “Your deduction is correct,” he said, following me inside. “I have been running with Dan, Joe, et al. Ain’t you open for business today?” he asked, seeing that I had not turned the sign in the door window from CLOSED to OPEN.

  “Heaven forfend,” I said. “Today is the Sabbath. My foster ma and pa taught me to keep the commandments, especially the fourth.”

  Sam Clemens looked around. “Is today Sunday?” he said, and squinted at the bare shelves, as if something there might provide the answer.

  “Yes,” I said. “Today is the Sabbath.”

  He nodded. “That explains why there was nobody from the newspaper over at the Old Corner Saloon.”

  “Why? Do your fellow newspapermen observe the Sabbath?”

  He shook his head. “They observe the Hebrew Sabbath: Saturday. We work on Sunday.”

  He plunked the thing like the big wooden drawer onto my desk. It was divided up into about 90 small, shallow compartments of varying size. I had seen some of these in the offices of the Territorial Enterprise.

  “It is a type tray,” he said, taking the pipe from his mouth and knocking it on his heel to dislodge the old tobacco.

  I said, “A type tray?”

  He nodded. “It is old and got a bit damaged in our recent move. I thought you could use it for your Tobacco Collection,” he added.

  As he filled his pipe with fresh Killickinick, I examined the wooden tray. I could put shreds of tobacco or cigar stumps in the compartments & avoid them getting mixed up with each other. This flat tray would greatly aid me in my study and cataloging of tobacco.

  I said, “This flat tray will greatly aid me in my study and cataloging of tobacco.”

  “You are most welcome.” Sam Clemens sat in my Client’s chair & crossed one leg over the other & struck a match on the heel of the lifted boot. Then he held the lit match to his pipe & got it going.

  “Thank you,” I said, remembering my manners. “But why did you do this?”

  “First of all, to apologize for flinging your tobacco collection to the ground,” he drawled. “Second of all, to say thank you.”

  “You said my Big Tobacco Collection was ‘flapdoodle,’” I reminded him.

  “That was before I heard how your ability to identify over one hundred kinds of tobacco helped you bring a Criminal to Justice and save the life of a poor serving girl. I am now a convert to the merits of collecting tobacco. You have inspired me!”

  “I could use another two or three of these,” I said.

  The door of my office opened. It was Bee in her bonnet. I observed some of the bounce had gone out of her step.

  “Hello, P.K.,” she said. “I see you have company so I will not linger.”

  Sam Clemens twisted around to see who it was. He did not rise from his chair but he touched the brim of his slouch hat. “Morning, miss,” said he.

  Bee gave him a polite nod, then came forward & placed a parcel about the size of two bricks on my desk. “It is tobacco from Pa’s shop,” she said. “Samples of thirty brands I do not think you have. They are labeled and everything.” She chewed her lower lip & looked at the floor. Then she blurted out, “I feel real bad I didn’t help you the one time you asked. I felt sorry for that little girl & w
ould have thought of a way to help if you had not taken me by surprise. That is my way of apologizing,” she added.

  She looked at Sam Clemens & then she looked back at me. “I will not pester you any more about you know what,” she said. “If you need help again, please will you give me another chance?”

  Before I could respond, she turned & hurried out of the shop.

  Sam Clemens turned and watched her go.

  I could not read his expression.

  He looked at the parcel Bee had left. “Well, ain’t you going to open it?”

  “Not now,” I said. “I will save it for later.”

  Sam Clemens nodded & pulled a notebook from his pocket. “Then listen to this,” he said. “I want to hear your opinion of this article I have just penned about the death of the coward Absalom Smith.”

  “I promised him we would not reveal his true identity,” I said.

  “And we shan’t,” he said. “Nowhere do I mention his real name. Listen.” He read, “About two o’clock Saturday afternoon Justice finally caught up with a Confederate deserter posing as a Music Hall Entertainer. Absalom Smith met his Maker during an auction of goods on B Street. At the inquest it was shown that he was shot several times before leaping from a second-story window and then being crushed by a quartz wagon. After due deliberation, the jury, sad and sober, but with intelligence unblinded by desire for revenge, brought in a verdict of death ‘by the visitation of God.’ The foreman also made this comment: ‘A cowardly deserter and professional punster has met the end he deserved: he was riddled to death.’”

  Sam Clemens guffawed & slapped his thigh with the notebook. “Ain’t that bully?” he said. “With this sort of article, I feel I have found a vein I can mine for years.”

  Here he stood up & leaned over the desk & grasped me by both shoulders.

  I winced & wished people would stop grasping me by the shoulders.

  “P.K.,” he said, “I never had but two powerful ambitions in my life. One was to be a riverboat pilot and the other a millionaire. I accomplished the one but failed miserably in the other, but now I have had a ‘Call.’”

  “A Call?” I said, trying to squirm out of his grip.