I heaved a deep sigh. I had been asking everyone I knew if they had heard of Dee Forest Robards. They hadn’t. The Methodist pastor was my last chance.
“I am sorry,” said the Rev. C.V. Anthony, “I have only been here in Virginia a few weeks. That is why I am not familiar with all my parishioners yet. However, I do have some records left by my predecessor. Let me look. By the way,” he added, “it’s probably spelled D-e-f-o-r-e-s-t. One word. Southern folk often give their children family names as Christian names.”
I nodded & offered up a silent prayer as he went over to a big leather book. He was puffing a cherrywood pipe.
They had told me about the possible alternate spelling of the name over at the Territorial Enterprise, but none of them had ever heard of him. The Virginia Directory had no record of a Dee Forest or D. Forest Robards or Deforest or any combination of those names. Doc Pinkerton and his wife had never heard the name. Nor had Isaiah Coffin nor Titus Jepson nor any of the girls down at Big Gussie’s Boardinghouse nor any of the barkeepers at the saloons near my office.
Worst of all, the two people I relied on the most had left town. The man at the International Hotel told me that Jace and Stonewall had gone to Carson City and he did not know when they would return.
So the Rev. was my last hope.
“People come and go in a mining camp like this,” said the Rev. C.V. Anthony as he leafed through the crinkly pages of the fat leather volume. “These records are already out of date.” By and by he turned to me and shook his head. “I’m sorry but I can’t find anybody with the name Robards or Deforest, or even Forest. Do you suspect this man in your murder investigation?”
I nodded dejectedly. “Martha remembered his name.”
He frowned and said, “P.K., you should leave this investigation to the Law. I don’t think a child your age should be interviewing Soiled Doves and frequenting saloons in search of a murderer. How is Martha, anyway?”
“She is better. She is in a Safe Haven.” I sighed again. Would I ever understand people? “Reverend Anthony, sir,” I said, “why do people kill each other?”
“You mean ‘murder’ as opposed to ‘kill’ in self-defense or wartime?”
“Yes, sir,” I said.
“Because we are sinful, P.K.,” he said. “Men kill because they covet their neighbor’s possessions or because they are thwarted in love. They kill to defend their wounded pride and sometimes even their vanity. In this town, men often kill each other merely because they are inebriated.”
I nodded even though I did not understand most of what he had said.
“Hello, Charles!” boomed a voice behind me. The Reverend and I both turned to see a tall, big-bearded, well-dressed man come into the church.
“Hello, Bill,” said the Reverend. “How are you today?”
“Capital!” cried the man. “Capital! And you?”
“Very well, thank you. We were just discussing the nature of evil and why men kill other men.”
“Why, I can tell you that,” said the big-bearded man called Bill. “Man kills for three reasons: love, anger and greed.”
I liked his answer & I liked him. He was about 6 & ½ feet tall & skinny with a beard the size of a small sagebrush. I was pretty sure I would not confuse him for anybody else. I took out my Detective Notebook and wrote down: love, anger & greed.
“You don’t really mean ‘Love,’ do you?” said the Rev. C.V. Anthony.
“All right,” said Bill. “Lust then. Or Jealousy as a result of love or lust.”
I crossed out love and wrote down jealousy in its place.
So now my Detective Notebook said: jealousy, anger & greed. That would be easy to remember because the first letters spelled out JAG.
The sagebrush-bearded man said, “Who is the miniature philosopher with whom you are discussing such important topics, Charles?”
“This is P.K. Pinkerton,” said the Rev. C.V. Anthony. “He is Virginia’s newest private detective.”
“Great Caesar’s ghost!” exclaimed the tall man. “I saw your shingle go up across the road but I had no idea you were so young. I do not believe I have ever encountered a Child Detective before.”
“Now you have,” said I.
“P.K.,” said the Rev. C.V. Anthony, “please allow me to introduce Mr. William Morris Stewart, the ‘great lawyer’ of the region.”
I stared at him. According to my dead pa, Lawyers were worse than gunmen or desperados. He called them the “Devil’s Own” & said they were smooth-talking crooks bent on making you give them all you had.
I said, “According to my dead pa, Lawyers are worse than gunmen or desperados. He called them ‘the Devil’s Own.’”
Mr. William Morris Stewart stared at me openmouthed for a moment. Then he tipped back his head and roared with laughter.
The Rev. C.V. Anthony raised one eyebrow at me. “P.K.,” he chided. “That is a rather hurtful thing to say right to a man’s face. Even a Lawyer’s.”
“Not at all!” cried Mr. William Morris Stewart, wiping tears of laughter from his eyes. “Not at all! That is about the first honest thing anybody has said to me in this town. Son,” he said, “if you are ever in need of a Lawyer, please come to me. I enjoy your refreshing approach to life. One day I might even have use for a Private Eye such as yourself. And if you ever have need of my help”—here he handed me a business card—“my Virginia City office is right across the street from you.”
As I pocketed his card, I wondered if despite all Pa Emmet’s warnings the Lord might possibly be inclined to use a Lawyer for good and not evil.
“There is something,” I said.
“Name it!” he cried.
“Have you ever heard of a man called Deforest Robards?”
Mr. William Morris Stewart tipped his big head on one side & pursed his lips. “Why, no,” he said presently. “No, cannot say as I have. But I have contacts in Washington and Richmond. I will telegraph them at once. However,” he added, “I would not get my hopes up if I were you.”
It appeared the trail had gone cold. My quarry had eluded me. I miserably nodded my thanks & trudged back up to my office.
Ledger Sheet 40
BACK AT MY OFFICE, I sat at my desk and rocked back and forth, humming quietly. I was hungry but there was no food in my office and I did not feel disposed to go shopping.
I was too low.
I thought I had solved my first big case but it appeared I was dead wrong. I had not even come close to identifying the man who killed Sally Sampson.
I had gone to the Scene of the Crime.
I had looked for Clews.
I had interviewed witnesses and listed the suspects, first narrowing it down to six & then adding a few to make nine.
But now it appeared that the Killer was none of these. It was someone so clever that nobody had even heard of him. It was as if he had disappeared, and yet he must still be in town for he had tried to burn down Martha’s hiding place.
I was in a “brown study.”
To take my mind off my troubles, I took out my Big Tobacco Collection & started to arrange it across my desktop. As I worked, I observed interesting details, viz: “Banana” brand Cuban cigars have slightly yellow tobacco, like a banana. Connecticut “Cinnamon Blotch” cigars are reddish-brown with white specks. “Maple Leaf” snuff has a faint whiff of maple syrup.
The varying shapes & colors of the cigars consoled me. The different smells of the plug tobacco comforted me.
I had over 100 different samples and I could match the shreds to their boxes and/or tags real quick now. For those tobaccos with no store-bought label—like Sam Clemens’s Killickinick—I made my own from carefully folded & torn pieces of loose ledger pages.
I was just making a label for the Reverend’s “Cavendish Gold” pipe tobacco when the door flew open with a bang.
In came Isaiah Coffin, my next-door neighbor.
“You have wounded me!” he said. “And I am hurt.”
“Where?” I
said. “Where did I hurt you?”
“Here!” he said, pressing his hand to his heart. “I have been a good neighbor and supplier of disguises. And how do you repay me? By putting me on a list of murder suspects.”
I opened my mouth to reply but I did not get a chance to speak.
“Furthermore,” he said, “you told Belle that I frequented Miss Sally Sampson and that I am a suspect in her murder. That is a lie, sir. A dam lie!”
“Then why did you visit her?” I said.
He slapped down a passel of little photographs onto the Tobacco Collection spread on my desk.
“I was taking Cartes de Visite of her. Fully clothed, as you see. She did not want to soil her frocks and gowns by trudging them up to B Street.”
I stared at the photos. They showed a pretty blond woman in a variety of dresses. At the bottom of one, someone had printed SALLY SAMPSON SEAMSTRESS.
“What about Mrs. Zoe Brown?” I said. “You called on her. I saw you.”
“I was buying Belle a hat.”
“From a Nymph of the Night?”
“Mrs. Zoe Brown is not a Nymph!” said Isaiah Coffin. “She is the best milliner in Virginia City.”
“Millionaire?” I repeated, stupidly.
“Milliner! It means ‘hat-maker.’”
“What about your ‘Secret Meeting’ that Friday night?”
At this he took a step back & stood up extra straight & looked down his nose at me. I saw his nostrils flare as he puffed out his chest.
At that, I crouched down behind my desk but he did not hit me or shoot me.
He only said, “That was a secret meeting to discuss the formation of a new chapter of Yoof.”
“Yoof?” I said, resuming my seat.
“Yoof, sir. Yoof!”
Seeing my blank look, he sighed & rolled his eyes heavenward & spelled it out. “I-O-O-F!” he said. “The Independent Order of Odd Fellows. It is a venerable order not unlike that of the Masonic Temple.”
Now I did feel bad. Foolish & bad.
He turned & stalked to the door & went out.
Before the door had closed completely, someone else shoved it open.
It was Sam Clemens.
His eyes were narrowed and he was clamping his pipe stem with his teeth.
“Dang you, P.K.,” he said, pulling the pipe from his mouth. “This time I am really mad at you. Spitting mad! You gave that story to Dan after I struck a bargain with you. I went and interviewed the Russian, American and Frenchman and eliminated them as suspects and have been patiently sitting at my desk waiting for your Scoop!”
“You have?” I said. “You did? But I’ve been to the Enterprise twice today and I did not see you.”
“Well, I was probably still interviewing your suspects. Anybody would have told you that if you had asked.”
“They told me you were down in Silver City.”
“Why would I be down in Silver City when I have been laboring for you?” Sam Clemens spoke so forcefully that some drops from his mouth sprayed out. I guess that is what they mean when they say “spitting mad.”
“You know those boys love pranking me,” he continued. “You should have persisted. And what about the Coroner? What happened when you went down there?”
I hung my head. “He saw through my disguise,” I said. “He drove me out with his walking stick.”
“Doggone it, P.K.! How do you expect to be a Detective if you cannot even fool a fool like Sewall? You are a miserable detective. Worst I ever seen.”
Then he caught sight of my cigar butts and tobacco crumbs spread out in alphabetical order on the desk. “You and your foibles and eccentricities!” he cried. “This is all flapdoodle!” He drew back his arm and with one motion he swept the Big Tobacco Collection off my desk and onto the floor.
As a final insult, he kicked the ghoulish Stone Baby in its cigar box.
“Ow!” he yelled. He hopped on one foot and let loose a stream of profanities such as I have never heard before nor hope to hear again. Needless to say, they are unfit for publication.
Abruptly he halted in mid-profanity.
He looked down at the Stone Baby & a strange expression transformed his face.
I could not read it.
Without another word, he turned on his heel & limped quickly out of my office.
Scarcely had the door closed behind him when it flew open for the third time in as many minutes.
There stood Deputy Marshal Jack Williams and another man, whom I found out later was a police officer.
“P.K. Pinkerton?” The Deputy fixed me with his cold & unblinking gaze.
“That is me,” I said.
“There is something not quite right about you,” he growled, “and I am gonna find out what. In the meantime,” he said, “I have a warrant for your arrest. Come with me.”
“What?” I said. “Why? What for?”
For the first time I saw him smile.
His mouth stretched sideways but his eyes remained cold & narrow. It was definitely Expression No. 2—a Fake Smile.
“I am arresting you for the brutal murder of a woman named Sally Sampson,” said he. “You do not have to come along peaceably,” he added, “I will enjoy taking you there by force.”
Ledger Sheet 41
I WAS ON A HIGH MOUNTAIN PEAK—happy & calm—but someone was trying to topple me off it.
“P.K.?” said a voice from a long ways off. “P.K. what is wrong?”
I ignored the voice. My gray stone mountain was as narrow and jagged as a pine tree and it stood among many other such peaks, but it was the tallest. At the top of my peak was a small flat place. I sat on a soft & shaggy buffalo skin. I could see for a thousand miles in every direction. I was higher than the Thunderbird. I was so high that I could almost touch God. There came only the sound of the wind & of chanting.
And the irksome voice.
“P.K.?” said the irksome, faraway voice.
“I’ll rouse him, by God!” said another distant voice.
“No,” said the first. “Let me try one more thing.”
Then I heard a man’s voice softly praying.
He was praying like Pa Emmet used to do, so I came back down to earth. The chanting ceased inside my head and I opened my eyes.
Everything seemed strange. I seemed to be inside the mountain, not atop it. I blinked. Everything around me was gray stone. Then I remembered: I was in Jail. Two men were in the cell with me.
“P.K.?” A face loomed into view. A man’s face with blue eyes & a fair mustache & beard. He looked vaguely familiar.
“Who are you?” I said. My tongue was sluggish and my voice sounded strange.
“It is me, the Reverend Charles Volney Anthony. Do you realize you were rocking back and forth, chanting? The jailer says you’ve been doing that for a couple of hours.”
“Course he knows!” said the angry voice. “He’s been doing it to vex me.”
“P.K.,” said the Rev. C.V. Anthony, “I’ve brought someone who might be able to help you.”
“Hello, P.K.,” said another voice. Not the angry voice. With great effort I turned my head. Another blue-eyed man with a huge beard loomed into view. My Indian mother called white men “owl-people” because they look like owls with their staring white eyes and feathery faces. I nodded to myself. These two certainly looked like owls.
“It is me,” said the bearded man. “Bill Stewart. I found something about that man you were looking for. Deforrest Robards. He spells his name with two Rs.”
I blinked again and he began to look less like an owl.
“He is a deserter,” said Bill Stewart. “A Lieutenant in the Twenty-Second Alabama Infantry Regiment.”
I blinked. I was trying to remember who “Bill Stewart” was.
The man spoke again. “Do you hear me? Deforrest Robards is a Confederate Lieutenant who gathered together a band of volunteers, mainly upon his father’s insistence. But when he led them into a battle at Shiloh, he froze with terror
and then ran, causing a rout of his men and great loss of life. They want to bring him back to stand trial and face a firing squad if necessary.”
Then it came to me. “You are a lawyer,” I said. “Mr. William Morris Stewart. My foster pa said Lawyers were the Devil’s Own.”
“We covered that ground already,” said Mr. William Morris Stewart. “You can drop that line.”
“P.K.,” said the Reverend Anthony. “You seemed to be in some kind of trance. Have you been drinking?”
With great effort I turned back to the first owl. “No,” I said. “I promised Ma Evangeline never to kill a man, nor drink nor gamble.”
“Smoking opium?” asked Mr. William Morris Stewart.
“No,” I said. “I am not a dope fiend.”
“Then what is it?”
I said, “Ma Evangeline called it ‘the Mulligrubs.’ It happens when I am scared or low.”
Mr. William Morris Stewart put his big arm around my shoulder and leaned forward. “Do not be scared,” he said, “and do not be low. I will be your Champion.”
“Why would you bother?” I said, staring at the floor of my cell. “I called you ‘the Devil’s Own.’”
“I will be your champion,” he said, “because you remind me of my mother.”
I looked up, startled out of my fog.
“My mother never told a falsehood,” said Mr. William Morris Stewart. “She often came across as blunt. You are about as honest as she, and a sight more honest than some Methodist reverends I have met, present company excepted. For this reason I am happy to represent you. Now, can you tell me what happened?”
I thought for a moment & tried to order my thoughts. Then I shook my head. “Too jumbled,” I said. “Everything is too jumbled and tangled in my head.”
Then I had an idea.
“In my office,” I said, “are some blank ledger books on one of the shelves. Bring me one and I will write things down.”
“Ledger books?” said Mr. William Morris Stewart. “Why ledger books?”
“Because I wrote up my first case on ledger sheets,” I said, “and so I bought a dozen more for future cases, along with half a dozen small notebooks like this one.” I showed them the Detective Notebook in my pocket.
The Case of the Petrified Man Page 15