When no return telegram came from Detective Wilcox by evening, Art began to worry. He'd tried to speak to the dirty blond prisoner earlier in the day, but the man had spat at him and refused to utter a word. Art had half a mind to shackle him. Sleep wasn't going to come easy, for he didn't doubt at least one of his prisoners was the type to slit someone's throat if given the chance.
The other prisoner was better-mannered. He said thank you for his meal and didn't seem nearly as intent on glowering. He'd bathed recently, too, and it was easy to see his face had met a barber's razor sometime in the last month.
Art sat at his desk, feet up, watching the two men through lowered eyes as the sun started to set. The tidy prisoner spoke up and asked, "Did you contact my superior?"
Pushing his hat back on his head, Art said, "Yep." A lazy drawl crept into his voice. "Sent a telegram this morning."
The prisoner asked, "Have you heard anything from him yet?"
Art gave a big yawn and then said, "Nary a word."
"What do you plan to do?" He might have been able to mask it in his voice, but his eyes showed his discouragement plain as day.
"Well," Art said, "I've been thinking about giving Mr. Stinkweed there," he nodded toward the other cell, "a bath, but I haven't yet decided whether or not I trust him enough for that."
"You can't let him out of his cell," the tidy prisoner said.
"Say, mister, you still haven't told me your name. Don't you think we ought to be on first name basis, what with you claiming to be a lawman and all?" Art got up and moseyed over to the cell. Sticking his hand through the bars as though to shake, he said, "I'm Sheriff Paulson."
Looking flabbergasted, the prisoner said, "You can't call it first name basis if you don't even give me your first name. Have you no sense?"
Withdrawing his hand, Art said, "Around these parts people think I'm mighty wily. I suppose I don't much measure up to your citified ways."
The tidy prisoner bit out, "You can call me Mitch." As he said it, he leaned his head back against the bars of his cell as if he were hoping to find a clue there – or more patience. Out loud, he said, "Lord have mercy on us all."
Samuel came through the door then, carrying a tray with three plates on it. "I brought dinner for everyone," he said. "Sorry I'm late. We had quite a dinner rush. Cook wasn't feeling well, and Sarah thought she might help in the kitchen." When Art raised his eyebrows, Samuel said, "Why do you think I'm late? I had to talk Cook out of quitting."
Walking over to Samuel with an exaggerated gait, Art said, "Now why ever would you marry a woman who couldn't cook?"
Samuel gave Art a look and then said, "She has many other talents and charms, trust me. Cooking and coffee aren't on the list, but everything else she's good at more than makes up for it."
Art pointed toward the first cell and said, "That there's Mitch. I'm guessin' he'd enjoy having some dinner about now."
Samuel handed the plate of food through to the prisoner then gave him a spoon. "Sorry, no knife or fork for you." Looking over at the other cell, he asked, "What about this one?"
With a shake of his head, Art said, "He hasn't told me his name yet, so I'm not sure I should feed him. I was thinking about giving him a bath, though."
Samuel advanced to where Art had reclaimed his seat and handed him a plate. "Enjoy the meal. If you'd like, I can give you a hand with the bath. What did you have in mind?"
The two whispered for a minute before Samuel left.
****
"Blast it all, what in Sam Hill are you doing!?" The man let loose a string of curses that was cut off as his voice was literally drowned out. When he got air again, he began to rant some more, "For the love of…" and his words were again washed away under a deluge of water. "By thunder, I'm gonna get out of here…" and he was silenced.
Art, who had been out in the back alley, strutted into the sheriff's office and up to Mitch's cell. Mitch, eyes wide, asked, "What on earth are you doing to him out there?"
Pulling his hat down tight on his head, Art leaned into the bars of the cell and drilled Mitch with a lethal gaze. "Tell me now why I should believe you work for the police."
Mitch did a double-take as the easy-speaking country sheriff disappeared before his eyes. "How do I know I can trust you?" he asked.
"I haven't killed you yet, how's that?"
"When I left San Francisco, my boss hadn't decided yet whether or not you could be trusted."
"And who is your boss?"
"Detective Wilcox."
Mr. Clement came bursting through the front door. Art's gun was drawn before he registered who it was. "Sheriff, I've got something for you!" the man said, frantically waving a paper, oblivious to the reaction he'd caused.
Art holstered his weapon and took the paper from his hand. After inspecting it, he shifted his eyes to the prisoners. "Are you sure this is every word?"
"Absolutely." Then, craning his neck to look behind Art and toward the prisoner, he said, "There's been an awful caterwauling, but I can't figure out where it's coming from. I thought maybe it was one of your prisoners."
Art put his hand on Mr. Clement's shoulder and said, "Don't you worry about a thing. I've got it all under control."
Giving one last look toward the sole prisoner in the sheriff's office, Mr. Clement went out the front door and shut it shakily behind him.
Art took another look at the telegram in his hand.
Mitchell Wilcox. Nephew. Black hair. Blue eyes. Ask sister's name. Send me answer.
Tucking the telegram into his inner vest pocket, Art meandered back over to the cell and said, "So, Mitch, are you going to tell me your last name?" When the man shook his head, Art said, "I have a telegram here from your Detective Wilcox. Want to know what it says?" Mitch stared at him. "How many brothers and sisters do you have?" No response. Leaning in, Art said, "You need to speak to me before I bring Mr. Stinkweed back in here, don't you think?"
His eyes narrowing, Mitch said, "What did the detective say?"
"How many brothers and sisters do you have?"
"Two brothers."
"No sisters?"
"Why?"
"Answer, and give me the truth."
"What exactly are you supposed to ask me?"
Sighing in frustration, Art said, "I am to ask you for your sister's name, and I'm to send the answer back to the good detective. Now tell me the truth."
Nodding, Mitch said, "I don't have a sister, but the name he's looking for is Cora."
Rubbing the back of his neck, Art said, "You know that makes no sense, don't you?"
Mitch said, "If I were an experienced detective, and I wanted to find out if somebody was who they said they were, I'd ask a question that made no sense to anybody but the person whose identity I wished to determine. Wouldn't you?"
"Touché," Art said, as he strolled out the back of the sheriff's office again.
Within minutes, he returned with Samuel, the two of them carrying a soaking wet and shivering prisoner between them. They tossed the man, buck naked, into the neighboring cell, then closed and locked the cell door. "Now, you," Art said, pointing to the unclothed man, "have one chance to tell me what I want to know."
The man who had previously been defiant and antagonistic, not to mention malodorous, stared at Art.
"Tell me your name," the sheriff demanded.
Glaring with more enmity than a naked man ought to be able to muster, he said, "Carl."
Pushing his hat back on his head, Art said, "See, that wasn't so bad, was it, Carl? I didn't want to have to keep calling you Mr. Stinkweed since you've had the good manners to bathe." The man said nothing else, but Art continued on in the same congenial tone. "We're going to play a game, Carl. I'm going to ask you a series of questions. Each time you answer correctly, I'll give you a piece of clothing. Now, we had to burn what you were wearing because it smelled so bad, but I sent my friend here," he said, indicating Samuel, "down to the mercantile earlier this evening to pick up a few of the essentials for you." Art indicated the pile of brand new folded clothes sitting on the corner of his desk.
"So tell me, Carl, what brings you to Larkspur?"
"I was sent to follow a woman."
"Name, please."
"Minnie Drake," Carl said through gritted teeth.
"Very good, Carl," he said as a trainer might speak to a colt who'd just mastered a new command. "Now here's your prize." Art skillfully tossed a pair of socks into Carl's cell. The man, murder in his eyes, bent down to retrieve them and put them on.
"What were you to do with Mrs. Drake after you found her?"
"I was supposed to get some information."
"And after you obtained the information, Carl?" Art's ingratiating tone was even starting to get on his own nerves. He was sure he had to be annoying his bare-skinned prisoner to no end.
"Kill her," the man said.
"Well, I don't much care for your answer, Carl, but a deal's a deal, so here you go." Art tossed a union suit next. It came unfolded in flight and was not going to make it into the cell, but Carl reached a snakelike arm through the bars and grabbed it out of the air before it could fall to the ground outside his cell.
"And what, pray tell, is this information you were supposed to obtain from the woman?" Carl glared at him without answering.
Art glowered. Samuel shrugged and said, "I told you shooting him would be more effective than bathing him."
When both Samuel and Art removed their weapons from their holsters and began checking to make sure they were loaded, Art again asked, "So tell me, Carl, exactly what information were you supposed to obtain?"
Spitting on the ground, Carl said, "The lady has a photograph. I was supposed to git the photograph from her."
"A photograph of The Palace Hotel, perhaps?"
Both Mitch and Carl gaped at Art, surprised etched into the lines of their faces. "Mebbe," Carl said in reply.
"Oh, Carl, you do disappoint me. Wouldn't you enjoy something more than a union suit to wear?" asked Art, his voice oozing false charm.
Carl let out a string of expletives before saying, "Look, I don't know why the photograph is important. I was told to retrieve it. That's all."
"All right then," said Art, "tell me who your boss is. Who ordered you to retrieve the photograph?"
"If I tell you, I'm a dead man," Carl answered.
"Well, I think at this point, that's a foregone conclusion. The remaining question is whether or not you're going to be clothed at the time."
"What do you mean? Nothing I've done is a killin' offense." Carl was starting to sound and look panicked, which was essentially what Art wanted.
"I could be wrong, but I'm thinkin' you're gonna hang for the murder of William Drake."
"But I didn't kill him!" Carl yelled, grabbing onto the bars of his cell and trying to shake them.
"Wellll…" Art drew the word out and let it hang between them. Then, he said, "If, as you say, you didn't kill Mr. Drake, then it might go a long way with the San Francisco police if you can tell me who did."
"I'm a dead man if I tell you anything!"
"If you don't tell me anything, you're going to hang for a murder you didn't commit, and you'll do it in nothing more than you're wearing right now – I'll see to that. Tell me something I can use to find the real killer, though," Art leaned forward in his seat, "and there's a chance you'll get released. Even if you have to change your name and disappear into some unknown mining town in Canada, at least you'll be alive." Sitting back and putting his feet up on his desk, Art said, "The way I see it, you have two choices. Certain death and possible escape. Which is it going to be?"
Carl began talking, and Art took notes. He also jotted down a missive which he handed to Samuel right as the man was leaving. Samuel read it and nodded to Art before handing it back to him and exiting the sheriff's office.