Mr. Monk in Trouble

by Lee Goldberg

  "It strains the eyes and the sensibility," Monk said. "It could drive a person with a weak constitution into total madness."

  I was tempted to ask if that was what happened to him, but I bit my tongue.

  "Maybe that's what happened to them," she said.

  I turned to her, startled that she'd practically read my mind, though she referred to her tenants and not Monk.

  "You're not serious," I said.

  "Last night Mr. Durphy, one of the two dead miners, was drooling and dancing naked outside of my room doing birdcalls," she said. "I nearly shot him."

  "What do you know about the men?" Monk asked as we hurried along.

  "They worked in the mill room of the Big Rock mine," she said.

  The Big Rock was one of the biggest mine operations in Trouble. Their tunnels went deep underground to dig up the gold-laced ore, which was pulverized into dust, then mixed with mercury in the mill room. The mercury drew out the gold from the ore into a malleable amalgam. The amalgam could be heated, or simply squeezed with a cheese cloth, to separate out the gold.

  The mining company made every employee change their clothes before their shifts, then shower and change clothes again at the end.

  Monk admired the Big Rock mine owners for that practice alone, but it wasn't done in the interests of cleanliness. The owners wanted to make sure none of the valuable amalgam was being snuck out.

  The owners even made the miners leap naked over a stack of logs before showering to make sure no amalgam was secreted away in body cavities. They also searched the miner's lunchboxes, tobacco pouches, and any other containers they brought to the mine.

  "Besides the naked birdcalls, have the men been acting strangely?" Monk asked.

  "The other guy stayed in his room all the time. He only came out at night because the light hurt his eyes," Mrs. Cromartie said. "I guess that's what happens when you spend all day in a hole in the ground."

  "But he wasn't in the mine," I said. "He was in the mill."

  Mrs. Cromartie shrugged. "Then maybe it was the buildings on the street that made them mad as a hatter, like Monk was saying."

  Monk rolled his shoulders and tipped his head from side to side like he was trying to loosen a stiff neck. But I'd seen him do that before, right before he solved a murder.

  We reached her boardinghouse, a long, simple structure that was, essentially, several one-room shacks lined up in a row and sharing thin walls.

  "Which one are they in?" Monk asked.

  "Number seven," she said, pointing to the very last room.

  "No wonder they were ill," he said. "You should be ashamed of yourself, Mrs. Cromartie."

  "What did I do?" she asked.

  "You put an odd number on the door," Monk said.

  "It's the seventh room," she said. "There's nothing I can do about that."

  "You could build another room so you have eight of them," Monk said.

  "There would still be odd-numbered rooms, Mr. Monk," I said in her defense.

  "She could give them all even numbers," Monk said. "Instead of rooms one through seven, you should have rooms two, four, six, eight, ten, twelve, and fourteen."

  "Don't you think people would find that confusing?" Mrs. Cromartie said.

  "You wouldn't have as many dead tenants," Monk said.

  "You think that's what killed them?" she asked.

  "I'm sure it was a contributing factor, no matter what happened." Monk stepped up to the door of room seven and, using a handkerchief, pushed open the door.

  There was one bunk, a table, a bench, and two shelves. On the table was a large prospecting pan full of cigarette butts.

  The two men were lying on their backs on the floor. One of them was, indeed, buck naked. I noticed their pink cheeks and fingertips.

  "They're miners," I said. "But they've got shopkeeper's fingernails."

  Their nails were long, the better to snag an extra few granules of gold dust with each pinch from a customer's poke.

  Monk turned to me and smiled. "Very observant, Abby."

  Abby.

  It was the first time he hadn't called me Mrs. Guthrie. I felt my face flushing and I didn't know why.

  Monk crouched beside the dead miner who was dressed, reached into the pocket of his pants, and pulled out a tiny shingle nail, which he held up to his eyes. He nodded to himself, then turned to Mrs. Cromartie.

  "These men were gold thieves," he said. "And so are you. If you pay for their proper burials and build an eighth room with the gold you stole from these two, your transgression will be our secret."

  Her face became as red as a tomato. I was afraid she might pull her gun and shoot him.

  "They hadn't paid me rent this week," she said between gritted teeth. "I only took what I was owed."

  "You took far more than that," Monk said.

  "Wait a minute," I said. "How did you know they were thieves?"

  "It's stealing the gold that killed them," Monk said. "It was Mrs. Cromartie who solved the mystery before I even got here."

  "I did?" she said, totally perplexed.

  "You said they were 'mad as hatters,' " Monk said. "Indeed they were. These two miners died of mercury poisoning, just like the Huguenot craftsmen who went slowly insane making hats. Intolerance of sunlight, excessive drooling, pink extremities, and profuse sweating are just a few of the many other symptoms as the poisoning progresses."

  Monk explained that the two men probably dragged their long nails over the mercury tables at the mine every time they passed them, scooping up valuable flakes of amalgam. They stuck their hands in their pockets and worked the amalgam out from under their fingers with the shingle nails.

  "Wouldn't they have been caught with the amalgam in their pockets when they changed clothes?" I asked.

  "They put the little balls of amalgam into their tobacco and rolled them into the butts of their cigarettes," Monk said. "During their breaks, they smoked their cigarettes and tossed the butts in the trash. They collected the butts later, outside the mine, when the trash was hauled away and dumped."

  He reached into the bowl of butts and unpeeled one of them. Sure enough, there was a tiny bead of gold inside.

  "What happened to the mercury?" I asked.

  "They smoked the cigarettes too short," Monk said. "The heat vaporized the mercury and they inhaled it with the cigarette smoke."

  "So them dying had nothing to do with the odd-numbered room," Mrs. Cromartie said, sighing with relief.

  "Their scheme was insane," Monk said. "What do you think drove them to it?"

  "An odd number on the door?" she replied incredulously.

  "Undoubtedly. I hope you can sleep at night," Monk said and, oddly contented, walked away.

  It seemed to me that nothing made him happier than solving these little mysteries. Perhaps that was his true calling.

  Unfortunately, he had no luck helping the sheriff figure out who'd robbed the Golden Rail Express. We learned later that day from the sheriff that the train robbers had killed three men, shot two others, and made off with thousands of dollars in gold coins from the wealthy mine owners from San Francisco who traveled on the private railroad.

  Wheeler tracked the robbers back into town, where he lost their trail.

  Since hardly anybody ever used gold coins in Trouble, Wheeler figured the robbers probably hightailed it to San Francisco with their loot. Nobody there would look twice at someone spending gold coins. That's where the mint was and where most of the gold that was mined in Trouble and everywhere else in California was eventually sent.

  After a week or two, nobody gave the robbery much more thought and everything went back to the way it was.

  Except that Monk was still calling me Abby.

  Of course, that was his prerogative as my employer, but it meant much more to me. I wondered what would happen if I started to address him as Artemis.

  We were living under the same roof, after all. I washed and mended his clothes, I made his meals, and kept his
records, but he never treated me like his servant.

  I'd been saving my pay for a ticket back home to Kansas. But as my time with Monk went on, I felt less desire to leave. His home was beginning to feel more and more like mine, too.

  One morning I was helping Monk with his elaborate sketches for an underground sewer system in Trouble--modeled after the one in Paris, France--when a man in a fancy suit and hat came in. Two men in decidedly less grand, and far dustier, attire stood behind him carrying some large rocks in their arms.

  "Mr. Monk?" the dapper man asked, but he didn't wait for a reply. "My name is Jonas Dehner from San Francisco. I have a sample I'd like you to assay swiftly and at your earliest convenience."

  "Now is fine," Monk said.

  I pulled out our ledger, dipped a quill into the inkwell, and started to ask Dehner the usual questions.

  "Where is your claim, Mr. Dehner?"

  "It doesn't belong to me. It's the Jump Off Joe mine, which is presently owned by Mr. Ed Barkley and his associates."

  We knew Ed. He came to Trouble about the same time as Hank and I. He didn't have any money, so Zeb Graves, the owner of the general store, grub-staked him as he had so many others, in return for a share of any profits from the claim.

  So far, Ed and his partners had done modestly well. But it was common knowledge that he didn't have the means to fully exploit the mine's possible potential.

  It was a unique problem.

  Because Ed and his partners were itinerant prospectors with no business background and no local roots, there was no bank willing to loan them the money to finance the digging of deep tunnels, the purchase of a stamping mill to crush the ore, and the hiring of additional labor.

  So they either had to do it all themselves, slowly and laboriously over years, or sell out to someone with deeper pockets and move on.

  It seemed prospectors got the short end even when they got lucky and found a solid claim.

  "I know the mine," Monk said. "Are they looking to sell?"

  "Indeed they are," Dehner said. "But don't worry, Mr. Monk. I'm not some rube. I brought my own powder to the mine, drilled my own holes in front of my eyes, and blasted my own drift to expose virgin stone, which I have with me here now."

  "You're a cautious man," Monk said.

  "I didn't get where I am by being stupid," Dehner said. "How long will the assay take?"

  "A few hours," Monk said.

  Dehner nodded. "Your reputation for integrity is well known, Mr. Monk. I mean no offense, but I'd like to post my men around your office to make sure no one can enter and, through some clever form of chicanery, tamper with your results. I would be glad, of course, to compensate you for any lost business."

  "That won't be necessary," Monk said. "I admire your precautions."

  Monk took the samples and retreated to his laboratory. I busied myself with various chores and the hours passed quickly. He emerged in the late afternoon and sent one of Dehner's men to find his employer. In the meantime, Monk refreshed himself with a hot cup of coffee and a pastry.

  Dehner returned with Ed Barkley in tow. Ed looked more presentable than I'd ever seen him before. But with his new clothes and fresh-shaved face, he seemed gaunt and uncomfortable.

  "I have good news, Mr. Dehner," Monk said. "Your sample contains eighty ounces of gold per ton with some small copper and silver content. It's very rich ore."

  Dehner beamed and so did Barkley, who almost seemed relieved.

  "That's marvelous," Dehner said, clapping Barkley on the back.

  "But since you are a man who values caution," Monk said, "I suggest that you do one more blast under my supervision to confirm the result."

  "I don't see the point," Barkley said to Monk. "Unless you're looking to fatten yourself with another fee."

  "There's no additional charge," Monk said. "I'm offering my counsel as a courtesy to a man who may soon become a valued member of our community."

  "I would be indebted to you, sir," Dehner said to Monk and then looked to Barkley. "Unless you have an objection, Mr. Barkley."

  "Of course not, Mr. Dehner," Barkley said. "You can blast the whole mountain if you like. I was just trying to save you from being cheated, that's all."

  "I appreciate your concern," Dehner said, "but Mr. Monk has my complete trust."

  "Where did you get your blasting powder?" Monk asked.

  "From the general store," Dehner said.

  "Then let's go there at once and get this over with," Monk said. The men started towards the door. As soon as their backs were turned to me, Monk whispered in my ear, "Bring the sheriff."

  While Monk and the other men went to the general store, I dashed in the opposite direction to the sheriff's office.

  I had no idea why Monk wanted to see the sheriff, but my heart was racing and it wasn't from the running.

  Sheriff Wheeler was leaning back in a chair outside of the jail, his feet crossed on the hitching post. His hat was low over his closed eyes and he was snoring, making his bushy mustache wiggle like an enormous caterpillar. I was careful to make a lot of noise as I approached so as not to startle him.

  "Sheriff?" I said.

  "Good afternoon, Mrs. Guthrie," he said. "I wasn't napping. It's just mighty dusty in the street and I didn't want to get any of it in my eyes in case I need to shoot somebody."

  "I understand," I said. "Mr. Monk needs to see you."

  Wheeler sighed. "Let me guess. He saw two men share a drink from the same glass and wants them both arrested and the glass destroyed."

  "I think it's more serious than that," I said.

  "A dog crapped in the street," Wheeler said. "He wants the dog arrested and the street destroyed."

  I shook my head. "I don't know what it is, but he'd like you to meet him over at the general store. He's there with Ed Barkley and Jonas Dehner, a fellow from San Francisco who is interested in buying the Jump Off Joe dig."

  "I'm always glad to meet another rich man from San Francisco."

  The sheriff stood up, adjusted his hat, and we headed for the store.

  We got there just as Zeb Graves and his boys were loading Dehner's wagon with the boxes of blasting rounds--black powder wrapped in paper cartridges--and a spool of Bickford slow match fuses.

  Zeb wore a white shirt, a bow tie, and suspenders. His mustache was waxed thicker than a candle. His hair was always greased and his hands were sticky. I couldn't help but wonder what it felt like for his wife to lay beside him. Their bed must be as slick as a frying pan after cooking up a slab of bacon.

  Monk smiled when he saw us approach. "Perfect timing. Mr. Dehner, this is Sheriff Wheeler."

  "Pleased to meet you, Sheriff," Dehner said and shook hands with the sheriff.

  "Likewise," Wheeler said.

  "Sheriff, you might want to draw your gun and keep it aimed on Ed Barkley and Zeb Graves," Monk said. "Mr. Dehner, your men should probably do the same."

  "Why's that, Monk?" Sheriff Wheeler asked.

  "Because Ed and Zeb robbed the Golden Rail Express," Monk said. "And I'm about to prove it."

  Sheriff Wheeler drew his gun so fast it was as if it had appeared in his hand by magic. Dehner's men followed suit.

  Ed and Zeb appeared startled by the sudden turn of events.

  "That's just preposterous, Monk," Zeb blustered. "You've gone too far this time."

  Monk went to the wagon and opened the box of blasting cartridges. "The Jump Off Joe mine has true potential, but you couldn't stand the thought of a buyer getting it for cheaper than you knew it was ultimately worth." Monk took out one of the blasting cartridges, cut the paper with a pocket knife, and poured the black powder onto the wagon bed. It sparkled with flakes of gold. "So you came up with a clever plan to salt it. What you didn't have was the gold to pull it off. You stole it from the Golden Rail Express."

  "Everybody does a little salting," Ed said. "That's just business."

  "It's chicanery," Dehner said.

  "It's the way things are in the
West," Zeb said to Dehner. "You didn't get rich without cheating somebody."

  "You did more than that," Monk said to Zeb. "You held up the train, killed three people, and hammered the stolen gold into flakes to mix with the black powder."

  "We didn't kill anybody and that gold didn't come from the Golden Rail Express," Zeb said. "It's dust I earned in my store."

  Monk shook his head. "I was suspicious of the large flakes of gold in the assay sample, so I did a fineness test on them alone. They were 916.66 parts fine. I'm sure the gold in this powder will have the same results."

  "So what?" Ed said.

  "It's exactly the same gold and metal content as the coins produced by the U.S. Mint in San Francisco."

  "I'll be damned," Wheeler said.

  "The copper is used to harden the gold for coinage," Monk said.

  Ed spit out an expletive and grimaced, his hands balling into fists. Zeb simply lowered his head and stared at his feet. They were hung and they knew it. The only questions that remained for them were when it would happen and whether it would be from gallows or a tree limb.

  "It's devilish what gold does to a person's character." Dehner shook his head in disgust. "Isn't there a single honest man in this wretched country?"

  "There's Artemis," I said, smiling at Monk and meeting his eye.

  To my surprise, he didn't look away and returned my smile. "You've forgotten the sheriff, Abby."

  "Oh my," I said. "That's true."

  "I don't count," Wheeler said. "I'm paid to be honest."

  "It's reassuring to know that somewhere honesty actually pays," Dehner said.

  "It's not much," Wheeler said. "But at least I don't have to worry about getting hanged."

  Adrian Monk shut the book.

  I could barely keep my eyes open. But even in my painkiller-induced drowsiness, I couldn't mistake the expression on Monk's face. He was at peace.

  "Artemis Monk is a genius," he said. "We must be related."

  "What did you solve?" I asked, but my tongue was so thick, I'm afraid it came out sounding like this: "Wffdddgliddddusofffllllv?"

  But Monk must have understood me, because he smiled and said just one word that I carried with me into sleep . . .

  "Everything."