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The Jane Carter Historical Cozies Box Set 2 Page 18


  I did know. Even back in the days when Jack Bancroft and I had been strictly platonic, I had been known to strong-arm him from time to time into reporting on the more sensational stories of the type that my father categorically resists.

  “Maybe it was Jack who wrote the story,” I said, “but I swear I had nothing to do with it. This is the first I’m hearing of the discovery of any stone carving.”

  My father telephoned the Examiner office—Jack was not in—and then Jack’s home. After talking with Jack for several minutes, Dad finally hung up the receiver.

  “What did he say?” I asked.

  “Jack wrote the story and says it came from a reliable source. He’s coming over here to talk to me about it.”

  Within ten minutes Jack arrived. I loitered in the living room to hear the conversation.

  “Have a chair,” Dad said to Jack. “Now tell me where you got hold of that story.”

  “Straight from the farmer, John Pitts. The stone was dug up on his farm early this morning.”

  “Did you see it yourself?”

  “Not yet. It was hauled to the Greenville Historical Society Museum. Thought I’d drop around there on my way home and look it over.”

  “I wish you would,” my father said to Jack. “While there’s a chance that stone may be authentic, it doesn’t seem very likely. Why would Wild Bill Hickok bother with carving on rock? I have a deep suspicion someone is trying to pull a fast trick.”

  “I’m sorry if I’ve made a mistake, Chief, but the Historical Society people think—”

  “Oh, I’m not blaming you. If the story is a fake, it was up to DeWitt to question it at the desk. Better look at the rock though, before you write any more about it.”

  As Jack got up to leave, I jumped up from my own chair.

  “I’d like to see that stone, too,” I said. “Jack, do you mind if I go along with you?”

  “Glad to have you.”

  Before I could collect my hat and coat, Mrs. Timms appeared in the doorway to announce dinner.

  “Jane, where are you going now?”

  “Only over to the museum.”

  “You’ve not had your dinner.”

  “Oh, yes, I have,” I told her. “I dined on chicken at the Dorset Tourist Camp. I’ll be home in an hour or so.”

  I fled from the house before Mrs. Timms could offer further objections. Besides, the way I saw it, my father and Mrs. Timms could probably do with the opportunity for a quick canoodle on the davenport.

  Jack made a more ceremonious departure and joined me on the front porch. His mud-splattered coupe sat at the curb. The interior was only slightly less dirty, and before getting in, I brushed off the seat. The condition of his coupe gave me pause. I’ve been known to go about with torn stockings and shoes that are run down at the heel, but I draw the line at living in actual filth. If Jack ever did get around to suggesting we feed out of the same nosebag for life, I would have to take our future living conditions into consideration.

  In order to sit down in the passenger seat, I had to remove a pair of muddy boots from the floor.

  “What’s all this?” I asked. “Been mucking out pigsties?”

  “Just a little gardening,” Jack replied stiffly.

  “Gardening? You don’t have a garden. You don’t even have a window box.”

  “There’s this elderly aunt of mine.”

  “What elderly aunt of yours?” I demanded. “I don’t recall ever being introduced to any elderly aunt. Where have you been hiding her?”

  “Never mind,” said Jack irritably. “You needn’t know everything about me.”

  “Needn’t I? No, I suppose not. I know how to mind my potatoes. We’ll speak no more of this elderly aunt.”

  It wasn’t my intention to speak any more on any subject. I turned my face to the window and concentrated intensely on the parade of telegraph poles whizzing by, but after a few minutes of this, I relented and broke the silence by asking Jack about the stone which had been discovered at the Pitts farm.

  “Nothing to tell except what was in the paper. The rock has some writing on it, supposedly written by Wild Bill Hickock.”

  “What does the writing say?”

  “It details Wild Bill’s exploits.”

  “What kind of exploits?”

  “It appears to memorialize one of the men he killed.”

  “How many men did he kill?”

  “Don’t know. On this stone, only one is mentioned by name.”

  “I thought Wild Bill killed lots of people.”

  “Maybe he did,” Jack said. “John Pitts found this stone while he was plowing a field. Apparently it had been in the ground for many years.”

  “I should think so if it was carved by Wild Bill Hickock himself. The man’s been dead for over fifty years. I’m curious to see it.”

  We drew up before a large stone building with Doric columns and climbed a long series of steps to the front door, then entered the museum through a turnstile.

  “I’ll go and find the curator, Mr. Klein,” Jack told me. “I’ll be with you in a minute.”

  While waiting, I inspected the contents of the display cases. I was admiring a flock of stuffed ducks whose expressions were suggestive of being bored with life when Jack returned, followed by an elderly man wearing horn-rimmed spectacles. Jack introduced the curator, who began to talk enthusiastically of the stone which had been delivered to the museum that afternoon.

  “I shall be very glad to show it to you,” he said, leading the way down a long corridor. “For the present, pending investigation, we have it stored in the basement.”

  “What’s the verdict?” Jack asked. “Do museum authorities consider the writing authentic?”

  “I should not wish to be quoted,” Mr. Klein prefaced his little speech. “However, an initial inspection has led us to believe that the stone may indeed be the handiwork of Wild Bill Hickok. You understand that it will take exhaustive study before the museum would venture to state this as a fact.”

  “Don’t you find it odd that Wild Bill would have chosen to immortalize his violent exploits in stone? Mightn’t the discovery be a clever hoax?” I asked the curator.

  “Always that is a possibility,” Mr. Klein acknowledged as he unlocked the door of a basement room. “However, the stone has weathered evenly, and it appears to have been buried many years, and there are other signs which point to the authenticity of the writing. Local legend has it that Wild Bill was active in the area during the time the stone is dated.”

  “There’s a date on the stone?” I asked.

  “April 14, 1872.”

  The curator switched on an electric light to reveal a room cluttered with miscellaneous objects. There was an old horse-drawn carriage minus its wheels, boxes overflowing with antiquated books, framed paintings of dubious artistic value and various moth-eaten stuffed creatures most of whom wore expressions just as blasé as the flock of ducks upstairs. At the rear of the room was a large rust-colored stone which might have weighed a quarter of a ton.

  “Here it is,” Mr. Klein said, giving the rock an affectionate pat. “Notice the uniform coloring throughout, and note the lettering chiseled on the surface. You will see that the grooves do not differ appreciably from the remainder of the stone as would be the case if the lettering were of recent date.”

  I bent to inspect the crude writing. “I, William Hickok, killed a man on this spot,” I read aloud. “Shot him down with my very own hand. One John Timmons, April 14, 1872.”

  “What’s that marking at the top?” Jack asked.

  “It looks like a number,” I said. “Forty-two, perhaps? What do you think, Mr. Klein?”

  “My theory is—” Mr. Klein said, “that Wild Bill was in the habit of leaving a stone carving to memorialize every one of his victims. Perhaps Mr. Timmons was the forty-second man he’d killed.”

  “That many?” I said doubtfully. “I do know that Bill Hickock is thought to have killed his lover’s jilted fiancé
on a farm near here, but it seems a bit far-fetched to think that this Mr. Timmons was his forty-second victim."

  “In truth,” Mr. Klein said, “some of the old timers around here say that Wild Bill shot not just the fiancé, but also the two friends he brought with him.”

  “In that case, similar rocks may be found near here,” Jack said thoughtfully.

  “Numbers forty-three and forty-four,” I said, trying not to smile as I said it.

  I didn’t think Mr. Klein’s theory very likely, myself. I just couldn’t reconcile a man who made a habit of stealing other people’s fiancées and murdering people at the drop of a hat with the type who might spend weeks chipping away at solid stone to commemorate the event. I would have thought he’d have been much too busy running away from the long arm of the law. Shoot one person and questions will be asked. Shoot three people and tongues begin to wag. I was inclined to agree with my father that the stone was likely a hoax.

  “It is an interesting possibility,” said Mr. Klein. “There might indeed be other stones.”

  “Just why does the stone have historical value?” I asked. “It’s not as if it’s all that old.”

  “Because there never was any proof that Wild Bill visited this part of the state,” Mr. Klein explained. “If we could prove such were the case, our contribution to history would be a vital one.”

  “Mr. Klein certainly believes the writing is genuine,” I told Jack after we’d left the museum. “All the same, anyone knows a carved rock can be made to look very ancient, never mind a mere fifty years old or so, and that business of numbering the rocks, it’s almost as if someone were setting the community up for subsequent discovers. No, I think my father’s instincts may be right about this one.”

  “The Chief may be right about it being a fake,” Jack said. “But if it is, who planted the stone on Pitts’ farm? And who would go to such great effort just to play a joke? That stone must have taken weeks to carve.”

  We started across the street. Jack was a few steps ahead of me. An automobile bearing Texas license plates whizzed past, too close to the curb. As Jack leaped backward to safety, the automobile screeched to a halt. Two men occupied the front seat, and the driver, a well-dressed man of fifty, leaned from the window.

  “Excuse me, sir,” he said, addressing Jack, “we’re trying to locate a boy named Ted Whitely. He and his sister may be living with a family by the name of Sanderson. Could you tell me how to find them?”

  Jack said he had never met anyone by that name, but I said: “I know both Ted and Abigail Whitely. They’re living at the Dorset Tourist Camp.”

  I told him how to get to the camp. The stranger thanked me, and he and his companion drove off in the direction of the Dorset Tourist Camp.

  “I wonder who they can be?” I said to Jack as I stared after the car. “And why did they come all the way from Texas to see Ted and Abigail?”

  “Are Ted and Abigail friends of yours?”

  “I like Abigail very much, but Ted seems to be of rather questionable character. I wonder—”

  “You wonder what?”

  “It just came to me. Those men may be officers from Texas sent here to arrest Ted for something he’s done. I never meant to set them on his trail, but I may be responsible for his arrest.”

  Chapter Five

  Jack smiled broadly as he edged the car from its parking space by the curb.

  “You certainly have a vivid imagination, Jane. Those two men didn’t look like plainclothes men to me. Anyway, if Ted Whitely has committed an illegal act, wouldn’t it be your duty to turn him over to the authorities?”

  “I suppose so,” I admitted. “Ted stole one of Truman Kip’s chickens earlier today. It was a dreadful thing to do, but in a way, I can’t blame him too much. I’m sure the Sandersons frequently go hungry.”

  “Stealing is stealing. I don’t know the lad, but if a fellow is crooked in small things, he’s usually dishonest in larger matters as well. Speaking of Truman Kip, he was the man who hauled the big rock to the museum.”

  “Was he? I understand he does a great deal of rock hauling around Greenville. He’s an odd fellow.”

  I became absorbed in my own thoughts and had little to say until we drew up in front of my home.

  “Won’t you come in?” I asked Jack.

  “Can’t tonight,” he declined regretfully. “I have to meet the team at a bowling alley.”

  Jack had been using that excuse a lot lately. A few months ago, he’d joined a bowling team, and to hear him tell it he was indispensable. It was taking up most of his evenings and nearly every weekend.

  “Why don’t I come along and watch,” I suggested.

  “No!” Jack said, far too quickly. “I mean, having a woman there will make the other fellas nervous.”

  “Where did you find this team of yours? Don’t tell me they’ve never seen a woman before.”

  “Of course, they’ve seen a woman before,” Jack said defensively. “They’re just shy, that’s all.”

  “Shy! Phonus Bolonus. If that bowling team of yours is so shy, then providing them with the opportunity to spend a little time in the company of a sympathetic female will be just the thing to bring them out of their shells.”

  “You may be female, and you may be sympathetic—on the interior at any rate—but your outward appearance is that of a woman who might very well carry a cosh in her handbag.”

  “I do carry a cosh in my handbag,” I pointed out.

  “And you look like someone who wouldn’t hesitate to use it. Perhaps I shall start calling you Wild Jane Hickok.”

  “I might not hesitate to use my cosh, should the occasion call for it,” I protested, “but I only visit violence on black-hearted evil-doers. I, unlike Wild Bill, never employ a weapon save in self-defense.”

  I kissed Jack with rather more fervor than usual before I exited the car, just so he’d have something to remember me by during his long evening bowling with his team of social misfits.

  I tried not to think about this hitherto-unmentioned elderly aunt Jack had neglected to mention. I’d been seeing far too little of Jack lately, and I didn’t want to waste what little time we had together arguing about bowling teams with inferiority complexes and elderly aunts with overgrown gardens.

  Upon entering the house, I discovered that Dad had been called downtown to attend a meeting. Unable to tell him of my trip to the museum, I tried to interest Mrs. Timms in the story. However, Mrs. Timms, who was eager to be off to a moving picture at the Pink Lotus Theater with her friend, Mrs. Amhurst, soon cut me short.

  Excuse me, Jane, but I really must be leaving, or I’ll be late,” she apologized, putting on her hat.

  “I thought you were interested in unsolved mysteries, Mrs. Timms.”

  “Unsolved mysteries, yes, but to tell you the truth, I can’t become very excited over an old stone, no matter what’s written on it, and I’ve never thought very highly of that Mr. Hickok. I can’t say that I’d be terribly pleased to have proof that he’d ever been in these parts. I’ve been only too happy, all these years, to dismiss those rumors of him killing his lady-friend’s fiancé at that farm over east of town as baseless rumors.”

  After Mrs. Timms had gone, I was left alone in the house.

  I should have been up in my bedroom, sitting at my typewriter, pounding out another twenty pages of Lady Ramfurtherington’s Revenge, but the weather was unseasonably balmy for early May, and it was uncomfortably warm in my second-story bedroom. Besides, I couldn’t decide what indignities and vicissitudes to subject Lady Ramfurtherington to next.

  I sat down on the davenport in the living room to read one of Mrs. Timm’s old National Geographic Magazines, but “In the Land of Kublai Khan” failed to fascinate; likewise, “Costa Rica, Land of the Banana,” and finally “Through the Heart of England in a Canadian Canoe.” I laid the magazine aside.

  I decided that I must be hungry. I looked in the cookie jar, which was almost never empty, but there was n
othing but half a broken snickerdoodle laying forlornly in the bottom. When I took a bite out of it, I found it was stale.

  I thought I would make a batch of fudge. But no sooner had I mixed the sugar and chocolate together than that, too, seemed like a useless occupation. Fudge, I decided, was too sweet. Besides, it was too warm in the house for baking. I set aside the mixing bowl for Mrs. Timms to finish upon her return from her moving picture.

  “I know what I’ll do!” I said out loud to the empty house. “I wonder why I didn’t think of it sooner?”

  I telephoned Florence and asked her to come over at once.

  “What’s so pressing? I’m rather busy. Mother has me painting posters for the Annual Spring Pilgrimage.”

  “You? Painting posters? Doesn’t your mother want the Pilgrimage to be its usual success?”

  “I’m a tolerably good sign-painter,” Flo said sniffily. “I can manage to letter on a straight line.”

  “So your mother’s finagled her way onto the Pilgrimage Committee this year?”

  “Yes, Mrs. Arnold Pruitt’s attempted coup has not materialized. Just as Mrs. Pruitt’s campaign to oust Mother was gaining traction, my mother circulated the rumor that Mrs. Pruitt used to be a showgirl and that rather rendered her a spent force.”

  “Did Mrs. Pruitt used to be a showgirl?”

  “Not exactly, she used to be a dancing instructress.”

  “Does having worked as a dancing instructress qualify as scandalous for the club women of Greenville?”

  “Not necessarily, but I gather that my mother implied that when Mrs. Pruitt was a young woman, she specialized in giving dancing lessons exclusively to male clients.”

  “Did Mrs. Pruitt give lessons exclusively to male clients?”

  “Technically, she did. Mrs. Pruitt was dancing mistress for an all-boys school just outside of Minneapolis. I gather the oldest students were no more than twelve and it was the sort of institution where the curriculum was confined to the sedatest of Victorian waltzes—I gather the student body was required to practice with broomstick partners outfitted with little muslin skirts—but my mother still contrived to make it all sound very tawdry.”