The Case of the Petrified Man

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Authors: Caroline Lawrence
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touched the brim politely.
    “P.K.,” he said.
    I turned. “Yes?”
    “I presided at your foster parents’ funeral last Sunday.”
    “Oh,” I said. “Thank you. I was not there.”
    “I know,” said the Reverend C.V. Anthony. “I gather you were trapped down a mine shaft with three desperados on your trail. But like Daniel you emerged unscathed from the Den.” He looked down at his rose bushes. “I intended to visit your foster pa and pay my respects. But alas! I tarried and thus missed my chance. I regret that.”
    I did not know what to say, so I said nothing.
    He cleared his throat. “Do you share your foster parents’ faith?”
    “Yes, sir,” I said. Then I remembered how I promised my dying foster ma never to kill a man nor drink nor gamble, but did all three within three days of her death. So I added, “Although I might have backslid a little.”
    “Oh?” said he. “But would you call yourself a Methodist?”
    “Yes, sir,” I replied. “I may be half Lakota, but I am one hundred percent Methodist.”
    The Reverend C.V. Anthony nodded. “In that case, you should probably not be frequenting D Street Cribs.”
    “Thank you for your advice, sir, but I must pursue this investigation. I have set my heart on Being a Detective.”
    “Why?” he said. “Why that particular career?”
    “Three reasons,” I said. “First, it is a noble calling: a Detective is someone who uncovers the Truth & brings Justice. Second, being a Detective will help me understand people and the things they do. Third, I hope one day to work alongside my father at the Pinkerton Detective Agency in Chicago that was founded by my uncle Allan. That is why I have set up shop as a Private Eye here in Virginia,” I added. “To hone my Detective Skills.”
    “Well, P.K.,” he said. “I cannot argue with your motives. I can only pray that you will not be corrupted by the lower elements of this place and thus come to grief.”
    “‘Unto the pure, all things pure,’” I said, quoting Saint Paul’s letter to Titus.
    But maybe I should have recollected Proverbs 12 & verse 15:“The way of a fool is right in his own eyes: but he that hearkeneth unto counsel is wise.”
    If I had hearkened to the Reverend’s counsel, maybe I would not be writing this account in jail beneath the shadow of the hangman’s noose.

Ledger Sheet 17
    I LEFT THE REVEREND C.V. Anthony to his rose bushes & made my way to Short Sally’s crib at No. 8 North D Street. The yellow door was locked, but the right-hand window was open a crack. Peering through the glass, I could see a long & narrow room with a door at the far end. There was no furniture and even the walls were bare.
    I put my ear to the crack of the window and listened. I have ears as sharp as a rabbit’s but I could hear nothing. I put my nose to the window & sniffed. I caught a faint whiff of lemon oil & tobacco juice. I needed to get in, to make a proper investigation.
    The sash window in its frame was warped, but with a bit of wiggling, I managed to raise it enough so that I could squirm through.
    I was favoring my wounded left arm, which had started to throb, so I did not land in a symmetrical fashion. I tumbled awkwardly onto the floor & banged my nose hard enough to bring tears but not blood.
    I blinked a few times and my vision cleared.
    I now saw a stove on the other side of the door but nothing else apart from a Brussels Carpet over most of the floor & lace curtains on the windows & over against the far wall some little drifts of fine dust & fluff & other trash. The carpet was slightly faded from where the sun had shone on it, so I could see faint geometric shapes where there had been a rectangular couch & round table and at the back a big square bed. The only piece of furniture remaining was that cast-iron potbelly stove in the front corner near the door.
    I remembered the Notice in the newspaper said that Sally’s possessions were to be auctioned on Saturday at Currie’s

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