P. K. Pinkerton and the Pistol-Packing Widows

by Caroline Lawrence

  A thin Celestial in a stained apron brought our steaks. Jace tucked in. After a while he said, “Ain’t you hungry?”

  I said, “Do you want me to ride along with her?”

  He shook his head. “Violetta would not take it kindly if she knew I sent someone to look out for her. Don’t let her know you’re following.”

  My appetite revived a little and I managed to eat a few bites of steak.

  When the barkeep had taken our plates away and brought fresh coffee, Jace relit his cigar.

  “So, Miss Opal Blossom enjoys your reports, even though you have hardly mentioned me.”

  “Yes, sir.”

  “Let us dangle a worm,” he said, “and see if she takes the bait.”

  I said, “Beg pardon?”

  He took a piece of paper from his pocket and slid it across the table.

  I took it & unfolded it & read it.

  =

  LADIES’ SANITARY FUND BALL

  Come and Dance and support our boys in Blue

  On Thursday November 27th 1862, Thanksgiving Day

  $5 entry fee includes food, drink and music

  Proceeds to be donated to help the sick & wounded

  <

  “What is a ‘Sanitary Ball’?” I asked him. “It sounds like something you would find in an outhouse.”

  Jace said, “The Sanitary Fund was set up to make sure everything is clean and healthy in the hospitals where they put the wounded soldiers. That’s what ‘Sanitary’ means,” he added. “Clean and healthy. And a ‘ball’ just means a fancy dance.”

  I said, “This ball is going to be held on Thanksgiving evening. That is tomorrow.”

  He said, “That’s right. I want you to tell Miss Opal Blossom that you followed me to this ball and that I danced with Mrs. Violetta De Baskerville.”

  “I thought you never went to dances,” I said.

  “That’s right, and I ain’t going to this one. But she don’t know that. I want you to tell Miss Opal that you saw me with Violetta and overheard us talking about getting a Toll Road Franchise.”

  I said, “You want me to tell her about you and Violetta and the Toll Road Franchise, too?”

  He nodded. “Wouldn’t want her to feel she ain’t getting her money’s worth from her Pinkerton detective. I will be mighty interested to hear her reaction to that news.” He stood up and put some silver dollars on the table. “Leave your report in my pigeonhole as usual, and don’t forget what I said about watching over Violetta.”

  And then he was gone.

  IT WAS THURSDAY November 27th, Thanksgiving Day.

  The legislature was not meeting and Mrs. Murphy had warned me that the citizens of Carson City would be firing revolvers & anvils in celebration all day. Animals do not like loud bangs & neither do I, so I told her not to make me breakfast but just to leave a couple of cold taters.

  At daybreak I set out on Cheeya for a long ride.

  We went north towards Steamboat Springs, where there is a hotel beside some hot springs that puff like a riverboat. The weather was charming, as my friend A.J. Marsh says, and the west side of Washoe Lake was real pretty. We passed some nice ranches with cattle and horses both. I had a cup of coffee & a biscuit with sorghum syrup at the Hot Springs Hotel, and when I came out I gave Cheeya an apple. Then we headed back around the east side of the lake.

  I got back about 4 o’clock, just in time for a Thanksgiving feast prepared by Mrs. Murphy for her Brigade. It consisted of roast turkey stuffed with oysters & mashed potatoes & gravy. It was about the best meal I ever had, even though I ate it alone in my room on a tray.

  Mrs. Murphy served that big meal early because neither she nor the Brigade would be around later that evening. They were all going to the Sanitary Ball, which was to be held in the legislative chambers on the upper floor of the Great Basin Hotel.

  I was sitting on my bed & studying a copy of Godey’s Lady’s Book so I could figure out the difference between Solferino & Magenta and also between chenille & camail. I reckoned I could put some of the details in my report to Miss Opal Blossom to make it seem real.

  I had just lit a coal-oil lamp when I heard a tapping at the window.

  It was Miss Carrie Pixley.

  “Today is Thanksgiving,” I said. “The legislature did not meet today, so I have not seen Mr. Sam Clemens.”

  “I have something for you,” she said. “A telegram.”

  It was from Ping. It said: WHAT DO YOU KNOW ABOUT CORPORATION BILL?

  I tore a page from my notebook and wrote my reply: It means Do-Not-Let-the-Frisco-Fat-Cats-Get-Their-Paws-on-Our-Silver!

  Carrie took my piece of paper, but she did not leave. “I will take this to E.B. directly, but first I have a favor to ask you. You know that Sanitary Ball they are holding tonight? I am the only one in Nevada Territory not going.”

  “I ain’t going neither,” I said.

  “Oh, P.K.,” she said, “you have to go! I know my Beloved will be there and I have to know who he dances with. That Louise Tufly is not much older than I, but her ma lets her wear her dresses long and her hair up. Sam has been casting soft glances her way. I am sure of it.”

  I said, “I almost got throwed in jail the last time I spied for you. If I hadn’t left the legislative curtain draped over the back stairs to impede my pursuers, they would have caught me for sure.”

  “Go as a blind widow lady.”

  “Never again.”

  “Go in another disguise.”

  “All my other disguises are children, and kids ain’t allowed.”

  She said, “I have sometimes seen a tall ladder on the ground by the side of the Great Basin Hotel.”

  “That ladder is always there,” I admitted. “But I do not think it is tall enough.”

  “If I hold it, will you at least try?”

  That was how I came to be on a ladder in my Night Shadow Disguise, looking through a side window of the Great Basin Hotel. It was one of those ladders that is wider at the bottom and gets narrower at the top. The ladder was tall—about 14 ft—but not quite as tall as I would have liked. The bottom of the side window was even higher, about 18 ft. As I am only just 5 ft tall, I had to stand on the narrowest & highest rung just to peep in.

  The big Chamber of the Second House looked a lot like it had for Miss Curry’s wedding the week before, only more patriotic. There were crepe garlands in red, white and blue & a picture of President Lincoln and a table laden with food for the midnight feast. Four men in smart clothes with fiddles were playing a waltz & some couples were dancing. I knew there was another band of musicians in the smaller Chamber of the First House, but it had no side windows for me to peep through.

  Suddenly, the ladder gave a little wobble and I gripped the stone windowsill. I felt a jab of terror & all my blood sank to my toes. I cursed in language unfit for publication.

  I glanced down at Miss Carrie Pixley who was supposed to be holding the base of the ladder. It looked an awful long way down. More than 18 feet.

  “Hold it steady!” I hissed.

  Carrie was also in disguise. She was wearing her pa’s dark oilcloth duster & she had piled her long curly hair into my stovepipe hat so nobody would tell she was a girl.

  “Sorry!” she whispered up to me.

  There were four street torches out in front of the building. The bright light shining on the corner of the building created a useful shadow for us to hide in. Carriages & couples were still arriving.

  “What can you see?” asked Carrie in a loud whisper. “Is my Beloved there?”

  I peeped back over the sill into the bright & cheerful music-filled room.

  “Yes,” I hissed down to her. “He is with his friend Clement T. Rice. They are standing by the food table.”

  “He ain’t dancing?”

  “Nope. They are bot
h eating. Cake, I think.”

  “Do you see Louise Tufly?”

  I did not answer at first, for Violetta De Baskerville had swirled into view. She was dancing with a tall, bearded man I had seen in the gallery sometimes. Violetta was wearing a shiny purple gown with ostrich feathers and a low-cut neck.

  Carrie’s whisper came from below, “Is Louise there?”

  I tore my gaze from Violetta and scanned the ballroom.

  Carrie had described Louise Tufly to me earlier that day but I could not identify her.

  “Can’t be sure,” I said. “What color is her gown?”

  “Land sakes! I don’t know! Why don’t you come down and I will go up? I will describe things.”

  “Are you sure?” I said. “This is a lofty ladder.”

  “I am sure. I want to see my Beloved.”

  The first few steps back down were the trickiest because all my blood was in my toes and I only had the chilly sandstone wall to hang on to, but I finally gripped the top rung with my hands and from there it was easy. Carrie mounted confidently and as she is taller than me she did not have to go to the very top rung. She looked strange in her long coat and black stovepipe hat up on that ladder.

  “There he is!” she cried. “My handsome husband-to-be . . . And don’t the room look pretty with all the crepe and rosettes? Oh, look! Lucy is wearing strawberry foulard and Sarah is all in lemon taffeta and Rose’s silk gown is peach.”

  “It sounds like a fruit salad,” I said.

  “I see Louise!” cried Carrie. “She is wearing a sagebrush-colored dress. Oh dear! That color don’t suit her at all.”

  “Can you see Mrs. Violetta De Baskerville?” I asked. “Is she still dancing with that tall man?”

  “Yes,” said Carrie. “She is wearing Magenta taffeta with cream flounces of gauze de Chambray. Oh, I do hope I get a figure like hers when I am older.”

  I was making notes in my Detective Notebook. I thought it would make my report to Opal more authentic if I described what the ladies were wearing.

  “Land sakes!” cried Carrie. “There is Mr. Hannah with his new wife. She only got her divorce this morning and they married this afternoon. It is a perfect scandal!”

  I nodded. Loverboy Hannah had proposed the bill that made divorce legal in Nevada Territory. (Divorce! Legal! My foster ma and pa would be spinning in their graves.)

  “Land sakes!” cried Carrie again. “Mrs. Ormsby is wearing salmon pink!”

  “What’s wrong with that?” I asked, not looking up from my notes.

  “She should be wearing pewter or purple for half mourning. She has only been a widow two years. Still, it is lovely.”

  From the front of the building came a strange crunching thud.

  “Land sakes!” cried Carrie a third time. “I think Violetta just pushed that man out of the window!”

  WAS CARRIE RIGHT? Had Violetta just pushed a man out a window?

  “She was talking to that tall man with the beard,” hissed Carrie from atop the ladder. “They were standing by the window. He was there one moment and gone the next.”

  I let go of the ladder & ran to the corner of the building & peeped around it.

  Sure enough, three men were crouched over something on the ground. It was the body of a man. The cloth awning between the window and the pavement was torn where he had fallen through.

  I remembered the mental picture I had made of legislators on the ledge, being forced to jump and go splat if they did not make good laws.

  “Who is it?” asked one of the men bending over him.

  “Abram Benway,” said another one. “He just got himself proposed for a Toll Road Franchise. Guess he was celebrating too hard.” It was the Sergeant at Arms from the Council. He had been taking people’s tickets at the door. Now he knelt down and put his ear to Benway’s mouth. “I think he is still breathing,” he cried. He stood up and pointed to the nearby Magnolia Saloon. “Lay him out on one of the billiard tables. And one of you fetch a doctor!”

  One of the other men said, “I will fetch Doc Pugh from upstairs.”

  “Good,” said the Sergeant at Arms. “But for God’s sake don’t cause a commotion. People have paid their five dollars and some are still arriving. This fellow may yet live. No point spoiling the Ball. It is for a Good Cause.”

  There was a squeal from above and behind me. I whirled to see Miss Carrie Pixley hanging from the windowsill by her fingers. That lofty ladder was listing to one side & her kicking feet were trying to find a rung.

  “P.K.!” she gasped. “Help!”

  I ran to the ladder & caught it just as it was about to fall. I righted it & put it under Carrie’s feet & held it steady as she shakily descended.

  “How could you do that?” she cried. “You left me up there on my own.”

  “I am sorry,” I said.

  “Look!” She held out her trembling hand. “I’m all aquiver! Is the man who fell out the window all right?” she added.

  “No, he is in a bad way.”

  She ran to the corner & peeped around it. I saw her open her mouth to scream.

  Quick as a telegram, I clapped my gloved hand over her mouth.

  “Shush!” I hissed in her ear. “Don’t give us away!”

  Two men were carrying a body away from a spreading pool of blood on the pavement.

  “Is he dead?” said Carrie in a choking voice. In the flickering yellow light of the torches her face looked almost green. I pulled her back into the shadows.

  “I hope he ain’t dead,” I said, “so he can say if she pushed him or not.”

  “Oh, P.K.,” whimpered Carrie. “I don’t like being a Detective. Here!” She took off my stovepipe hat and thrust it into my hands. Then she stumbled off down shadowy Musser Street, her long hair swinging and the hem of her pa’s coat dragging on the ground behind her.

  I watched her disappear into the night.

  Then I ventured out into Carson Street, keeping out of the circle of torchlight, and looked up at the brightly lit ballroom windows.

  Had petite Violetta really pushed tall Abram Benway from the upper window?

  If so, she did not seem worried. I saw her magenta-clad figure twirl past the window as she danced with a gray-haired man. On a billiard table in the Magnolia Saloon below her, Mr. Abram Benway was dying, never to recover consciousness.

  • • •

  Next morning, all of Carson buzzed with the tragic news.

  Some people were scandalized because one of the bands had continued playing till the wee hours. A respected member of the community had died, where was their respect?

  Other people were upset because the other band had refused to keep playing above the still-cooling corpse on the billiard table. But people had paid $5 for a ticket and some had come for miles and it was for a Good Cause.

  Nobody even mentioned the possibility that Benway’s death might not have been an accident.

  The awning below the French doors on the upper floor of the legislature should have held him, they said, but it was cotton or rotten—or both—so he went right through it. If he had fallen onto a boardwalk of wooden planks, they said, he might have bounced. But the pavement out front of the Great Basin Hotel was one of the few made of sandstone. That was what killed Abram Benway, they said: bad luck.

  Had Carrie been right?

  Had Violetta really pushed Abram Benway out of the window?

  Both houses of the legislature met the next day, but they adjourned early to attend Benway’s funeral. I took advantage of the deserted streets to go to the telegraph office. I found E.B. and gave him a telegram addressed to Miss Jane Loveless aka Miss Opal Blossom: J at Sanitary Ball last night. He danced with Widow named Violetta De Baskerville. They talked about Toll Road Franchises. She also danced with a man called Abram Benway before he tumbled out window to h
is death.

  Within a few hours, I got a strangely terse reply from Opal. Good work. Keep reports coming. She did not even ask for more information about Violetta nor about Abram Benway’s death!

  I wrote Jace a short account of the Sanitary Ball. In my report I said that Mrs. Violetta De Baskerville had been talking to Abram Benway right before he fell out the window but I did not accuse her. I only stated the facts. I also included a copy of my telegram to Opal Blossom and her strange reply.

  Still dressed in my Jewish Phonographic Boy Disguise, I took my report down to the St. Charles Hotel and watched the desk clerk put it in the pigeonhole. It was about 41/2 in the afternoon.

  As I was turning to go, I saw Jace and Violetta coming in together. They were arm in arm, both in black. She had been weeping. I reckon they were returning from Abram Benway’s funeral.

  I shrank back behind the potted fern and tried the Fern Trick. If they saw me, neither of them showed it.

  • • •

  That Sunday Mrs. Violetta De Baskerville did not come to Smith’ s Stable for her ride to scout out Toll Roads. Mrs. Murphy said she’d heard a rumor that Violetta had taken to her bed with grief and shock. Her story was that Mr. Abram Benway had been chatting to her and made a joke and turned and disappeared out the window. She thought it a prank until she learned that he had died.

  The next day, on Monday December 1st, a man named Richardson was arrested on suspicion of murdering Con Mason, the young man with the floppy chestnut hair. Richardson was Con’s “pal” and the one who had found the body.

  So I had almost convinced myself that Violetta was innocent, when something happened to show me her true nature.

  IT WAS DAWN on the first Sunday in December, about ten days after Benway’s fatal tumble from the upper window of the legislature building. I was once again in Cheeya’s stall at Smith’ s Livery Stable. I was “on the lookout” in case Violetta should decide to scout out toll roads, when—sure enough—I heard her voice. She was asking the stable boy to put a sidesaddle on his best horse.

  She said, “Is Johnson’s Cutoff open?”