P. K. Pinkerton and the Pistol-Packing Widows

by Caroline Lawrence

  “Use me as your model,” I said.

  He raised his eyebrow.

  “She is only a little taller than me,” I lied. “We have exactly the same size feet, so you can use me as your guide for shoes, also.”

  “You need shoes?”

  I nodded & said, “I need lots of things. I will write you a list.” I took out my Detective Notebook & wrote down some items & tore out the page & handed it to him.

  He looked at my list. “You need a white cane? And blue spectacles?”

  I said, “My poor, widowed ma is blind.”

  “Oh,” he said. “Well, I’ve got a woman’s bamboo walking stick I could paint white. Pa?” he called. “Do we still have Aunt Esther’s blue spectacles?”

  “Let me see.” From behind the pile of calico, I heard the sound of a drawer being opened and of things being pushed here & there. The bespectacled man rose up & handed a pair of spectacles to his son and his son handed them to me. They were oval & tinted blue. They were perfect.

  “These are perfect,” I said.

  “Four bits?” he suggested.

  “Agreed,” said I.

  The boy looked at the next item on the list and frowned. “If your mother is blind why does she want the ‘highest heels possible’? Won’t that be dangerous for her?”

  “She is used to walking on high heels,” I said. “She just wants to look a little taller.”

  In actual fact the heels were for me. I was the one who wanted to look taller.

  The boy narrowed his eyes at me in Expression No. 5—Suspicion—but I jingled the gold coins in my pocket and his face went smooth again.

  He led me to the back of the store where there was a small selection of shoes. My eye fell on a pair of high-heeled shoes made of scarlet satin. I picked one up.

  “You want your ma should look like a saloon girl?”

  “She won’t mind,” I said. “After all, she is blind.”

  “Other people ain’t,” said the boy.

  “Won’t my skirt—I mean her skirt—hide the shoes, anyways?” I said.

  He narrowed his eyes at me and shook his head. “What if people should catch a Glimpse?” he asked. “They might get scandalized.”

  We both looked at the shoes.

  They were awful red and satiny. I reckoned he was right. They might indeed arouse suspicion. Every detail of my disguise had to be convincing. I did not want people to catch a Glimpse of anything unusual.

  “I suppose I could daub them with black ink,” said the youth. “It would ruin the satin effect, but if your mother really wants the highest heels possible . . .”

  I nodded. “That is a good idea. She does want the highest heels possible. And black is a good color for a blind widow woman.”

  “All right,” he said. “I will paint them right now and while they are drying I will gather the other items on your list. What is your name and where are you staying?”

  “My name is P—” I stopped and remembered just in time. “My name is Peter Clever,” I lied. “I have not yet found accommodation for me and my ma. Can you recommend a good place?”

  He said, “You could try Mrs. Murphy’s Boarding House just a block north of here on the corner of Proctor and Carson. But there are plenty of respectable places hereabouts. Once I know where you are staying I will deliver your ma’s clothing. By the way,” he said, “my name is Barry Ashim.”

  He made no move to shake hands, and I was glad of it as I do not like people touching me.

  I said, “Pleased to meet you.”

  I went back out into the cold winter day & mounted Cheeya but I only had to ride a few feet north before I found the boardinghouse Master Barry Ashim had told me about.

  I was in luck. After I explained to the proprietress that I was only half Indian and a 100 percent Methodist, she admitted that a room had just come free. She said the only problem was that it was a furnished room on the ground floor and for sole or double occupancy and quite expensive.

  I pulled out my next-to-last gold Eagle. “Is this enough for a week?”

  Her eyes got sparkly. “Sure and it is enough for two.” She had an Irish accent. “Do you want to see the room at all before you take it?”

  “No, but before I take it, I would like to ask a favor.”

  She narrowed her eyes at me. “Come in out of the cold and we’ll parlay.”

  I came in out of the cold. She closed the door and folded her arms. She was a short, stout woman between 30 & 50 years old. She smelled of stew & starch.

  I said, “I am a Private Detective and I may be coming and going in different guises. The favor I want to ask is this: will you keep my identity a secret?”

  “What? A baby like you? A Detective?”

  I said, “I am not a baby; I am just small for my age. If I stay here, will you keep my real identity secret?”

  She pursed her lips. Jace once told me that meant a person was considering something.

  I held out the gold Eagle again.

  She unpursed her lips & took the coin & put it in her apron pocket. “Very well,” she said. “My name is Mrs. Margret Murphy. Will you tell me yours?”

  “My name is P.K. Pinkerton,” I said. “But that is between you and me. If people ask, tell them my name is Peter Clever.”

  She nodded. “Before you sleep on my sheets you’ll be paying a visit to the baths. Sure and you smell like a bog.”

  “Where is the nearest bathhouse?” I said. “And can you recommend a livery stable?” I asked.

  “Smith’s across the street and down one block, on the corner across from the Plaza. Sure and it’s the largest and most commodious stable in town. You will find a small bathhouse run by a Chinaman just next door. I serve dinner at eight. If you don’t want to eat with the men I can bring yours on a tray.”

  “Yes, please,” I said. “What time is breakfast?”

  “I serve breakfast at nine.”

  I said, “That is awful late for breakfast.”

  She said, “It is indeed, but my boys stay up to the wee hours. And the Legislators don’t convene until ten in the morning.”

  I said, “I am used to eating breakfast at seven.”

  She gave a kind of snort. “I will bring you a cold tater and you can wait.”

  At that moment I heard a familiar voice and smelled a familiar smell.

  “Mrs. Murphy?” I said. “Will you hide me?”

  “WILL YOU HIDE ME?" I repeated to an openmouthed Mrs. Murphy.

  She stared.

  “Quick!” I said. “Someone is coming I do not want to meet.”

  “Behind the coats,” she stammered. “And I will stand in front of you.”

  Along the wall of the entryway a board with pegs held various coats & scarves & hats. I darted behind a long beige duster coat and hoped it did not belong to one of the men whose footsteps I heard upon the stairs.

  The voices of two men—one of them a familiar drawl—drew closer. The dead-critter smell of a rancid pipe grew stronger. Then I felt a chilly draft swirl around my legs as the door opened and closed.

  “You can come out now,” said Mrs. Murphy. “But why are you afraid of Mr. Clemens or Mr. Rice, at all?”

  I said, “I do not know Mr. Rice, but I know Mr. Sam Clemens. He is a local reporter from the Daily Territorial Enterprise newspaper over in Virginia City. If he saw me then everyone would soon know I was here on a case and that would ruin everything.”

  “Will he not recognize your horse tethered outside?”

  “No, ma’am.”

  “Well, you should be all right now. Those two are off to the Legislature and will probably not be back until supper time.”

  “Good,” I said. “Then I will stable my pony and visit the bathhouse.”

  I stabled Cheeya at Mr. T.G. Smith’s Livery Stabl
e & brushed the last of the dried quicksand off him & made sure he had clean water in his stall & a good meal of oats & corn after his ordeal. Then I paid for a private room at the Chinese bathhouse next door & soaked by the light of a coal-oil lamp, for it was now dark. It took a long time to get the dried quicksand off my body & out of my hair.

  When I got back to Mrs. Murphy’s, she showed me to my room. It was a bully room on the ground floor with three coal-oil lamps all lit to make it look cozy. Their golden light showed me a big feather bed & a Brussels Carpet & mahogany wardrobe & table & two chairs & a little vanity table with a mirror & a queen’s-ware washbowl & matching chamber pot under the bed. It had a window looking right out onto Carson Street and if I stuck my head out I could see the torches around the Plaza.

  Mrs. Murphy brought me hot supper on a tray a short time later. I ate it & put the tray on the floor outside my door as she had told me & then stripped down to nothing & climbed into the feather bed. It felt strange not wearing my long underwear but the sheets were smooth against my naked skin. It was like lying on a cloud with peace & quiet all around me & only comfortable small noises of people coming & going & footsteps on the boardwalk outside & the distant tinkle of a piano from a saloon.

  I slept for more than 12 hours, you bet.

  I was woken the next morning at 9 a.m. by a knock at my door & the smell of bacon & coffee. Mrs. Murphy came in with a breakfast tray.

  “How did you sleep?” she asked. “You did not eat the cold tater I left outside.”

  “I slept like a rock,” I said, pulling the blankets up to my neck so she would not see me naked. “A rock on a fluffy cloud.”

  “I am glad to hear it.” She put down the breakfast tray & removed a parcel from under her arm. “Here are some clothes back from the laundry,” she said.

  When she was gone I gratefully put on my clean long underwear & ate my hot breakfast & the cold baked potato, too. I was hungry and it was good.

  I had just finished using the chamber pot when I heard the thunder of footsteps on the stairs & the voices of a dozen men on the boardwalk outside my window & I smelled cigar smoke, too. It was the men off to the Legislature.

  A few minutes later, my landlady knocked again and came in with more parcels, including a large flat round one.

  “These were just delivered by a boy from Philips and Ashim,” she said. “Why have you bought widow’s weeds and steel-hoops and corset, at all?”

  “It is my Blind Widow Disguise,” I said, and began untying the smallest parcel.

  “Why on earth should you want to use such a disguise?”

  I showed her the dark-blue spectacles and said, “I intend to pose as a Mexican widow woman named Consuela Clever. The name will explain my light brown skin. Being a widow will explain why I am unescorted. And if I am blind, I can sit quietly and watch people and they will not suspect I am watching them.”

  “Sure, and it’s a bold notion. But have you ever worn a corset, at all?”

  “No, ma’am. But I used to help my foster ma put hers on. This one does up the front, so I can do it myself.”

  She said, “Nevertheless, if you need help, I would be pleased to give it. You might appreciate a woman’s eye,” she added.

  “I am confident I can do it myself,” said I.

  • • •

  An hour later found Mrs. Murphy helping me dress up as a Blind Widow Woman. My mistake had been putting on the corset before the shoes. It had been a time-consuming process. I had laced up the corset tight over my long underwear & then put on my set of ladies’ patent extension steel-spring hoops to make my skirt puffy. Only then did I realize I could not bend down to do up the two buttons of my newly blackened high-heeled shoes.

  I opened the door a crack and called, “Mrs. Murphy?” a few times and presently she heard me & came to my aid. I sat on a chair while she knelt and did up my shoes.

  “So now you know,” she said, rising to her feet with a grunt. “Put on your shoes before your hoops and corset. And what strange shoes they are, too, so tall and smelling of ink.”

  “They are intended to raise my height to five feet two inches,” I said.

  “Those shoes look as if they belong to a . . .” She hesitated.

  “Saloon girl?” I offered.

  “Just so.” She shook her head. “But I suppose your skirt will mostly hide them.”

  She stood with her hands on her hips and surveyed me. I could see myself in a full-length walnut-framed mirror on a stand. I admit that at this stage of my disguise, I did look strange.

  The mirror showed a black-haired boy with light brown skin dressed in red-flannel long underwear with a tight-cinched corset and ladies’ patent extension steel-spring hoops and tottering upon fancy black shoes with three-inch heels.

  “Whatever will we do about your hair?” said Mrs. Murphy.

  “I brought my own wig from Virginia. It has black ringlets & little commas for bangs,” I replied.

  I pointed it out on the bed & she handed it to me & I put it on.

  She pursed her lips and nodded. “Better,” she said, “but still not perfect.” She held up a finger. “Wait,” she said. “I will be right back.”

  She went away and came right back. She was holding a stiff horsehair petticoat called a “crinoline” & two balled-up woolen socks.

  “This crinoline is bully,” I said, allowing it to settle over my steel-spring hoops. “But why do I need more socks?”

  “Bosoms,” she said.

  “Bosoms?” I echoed.

  “Bosoms. Sure and you stuff them in the top of your corset. They will give you the hint of a womanly figure,” she said.

  I stuffed the balled-up socks into the top of my corset to serve as bosoms. Then I put on the black bombazine skirt by dropping it over my head.

  “You have such a slender waist,” said Mrs. Murphy. “Shame it is wasted on a boy.”

  I merely grunted. I was concentrating on doing up the hook-and-eye fastener of the skirt.

  Next came the long-sleeved, high-collared bodice, which buttoned up the front. It was made of the same black bombazine fabric as the skirt so when it was on it looked like a single garment, not two. I judged it made me look a bit like a schoolmarm.

  Next I donned the black poke bonnet that Barry Ashim had sold me the day before.

  Finally I put on my shawl & my blue-tinted spectacles. When I leaned over to reach for my white-painted bamboo cane I almost overbalanced on account of my high heels. The tight corset also made me breathless.

  It had taken me nearly an hour to put on this disguise. It was a time-consuming process to dress up as a woman. It was also constricting & uncomfortable. But it did transform my appearance.

  “Faith and begorra!” exclaimed Mrs. Murphy, coming in with a black beaded wrist purse & black leather gloves—items I had neglected to buy. “You look just like my cousin Mary from the old country! Only of course she is not blind.”

  “I can hardly breathe,” I said.

  “You will get used to it.” She opened the sash window in the bedroom to let in some air.

  Once again, I turned to the full-length mirror on the wall. This time I saw a blind girl in a puffy black skirt & black bonnet. She looked to be Mexican or maybe Cornish. She seemed sad & solemn & even kind of pretty. I could not believe it was me.

  I said, “I cannot believe it is me.”

  Mrs. Murphy said, “It is a bully disguise, Mrs. Clever. Who are you shadowing and where will you go first?” she asked.

  I said, “I am shadowing a Mississippi gambler who goes by the name of Poker Face Jace. Do you know him?”

  “Is he a tall and handsome man? And does he dress all in black apart from his shirt?” she said.

  “Yes, ma’am,” I said.

  “I believe I saw him going into the St. Charles Hotel. It is a first-class A-n
umber-one establishment: the finest and newest hotel in Carson. Muller’s bathhouse is just next door,” she added.

  “That sounds like the sort of place he would stay,” I said. “Where is it?”

  “It is about five blocks south of here, on the west side of the street, like this place,” she added.

  I made a note of this in my Detective Notebook. Then I said, “The person who hired me said Poker Face Jace was here for the Legislature. Do you know where that is?”

  “In the Great Basin Hotel,” she said. “That is only two blocks south of here.”

  I said, “Is the public allowed?”

  “Oh yes,” she said. “There is a kind of fenced-off space called a ‘gallery.’ It is for members of the public, including ladies.”

  “Two blocks south of here?” I said.

  She nodded. “You cannot miss it.”

  I started towards the door & nearly tripped & fell flat on my face. I was not used to such high heels. Nor was I used to shmooshing my skirts to get through a doorway. Mrs. Murphy followed me along the corridor & to the front door.

  “Be careful,” she said. “I would not want to see you come to any harm.”

  “I will be careful,” I said as I stepped out onto the street.

  I judged it was just after 11 a.m.

  I turned to head south. My blue-tinted spectacles made everything look queer, as if I were underwater.

  My stomach felt kind of jittery & I found it hard to breathe.

  I was going to spy on the person who had become my friend & teacher & my reason for staying in Virginia City. My motives were noble, but I was still nervous as he was probably the only person who might be able to see through my disguise.

  My blind-widow-woman getup was good enough to impress Mrs. Murphy. But was it good enough to fool Poker Face Jace?

  WEARING MY DISGUISE of a cinched-in corset & puffy hoopskirt & dark-blue spectacles & black wig & bonnet & three-inch heels, it took me nearly five minutes to travel one block. Tapping my walking stick lightly left & right, I tottered along the uneven boardwalks & muddy streets. I kept gasping for air; my corset was making it hard to breathe. Also a chilly breeze was getting up under my skirt because the combination of stiff crinoline and ladies’ patent extension steel-spring hoops made it like a balloon. I was glad I was wearing long underwear.