Girl Waits with Gun by Amy Stewart

your buggy?”
    â€œThere was no officer. I was surprised that not a single constable came to our aid. But a few men from the shops helped us right our horse, and I took down Mr. Kaufman’s name and address so that I might forward him a bill for the damages.”
    He seemed to consider my reply. “Well, we only investigate the accident reports that come to us from the officers, Miss Kopp. If no report was taken, there’s nothing I can do.”
    It was my turn to consider him. I rose from my chair and looked down at him. His head was covered in thick black strands glistening with oil. It reminded me of Mr. Kaufman’s. They seemed, all at once, like the same man.
    â€œMy sister Fleurette is but thirteen years of age,” I said, loud enough to cause him to jerk his neck back and look up at me. “She has been threatened twice by a dangerous criminal.” I grabbed the letter and snapped it once again under his nose. “You know as well as I do what can happen to young girls. It is your duty to stop this man.”
    Detective Courter, I am sad to say, reacted to my speech with a fit of giggles. He leaned back, his shoulders shaking and his eyes wet. At last he seemed to come out of it and realize that I was still standing over him.
    â€œAre you suggesting,” he said, “that this man might run off with your sister rather than pay a fifty-dollar bill for damages? A silk man?”
    â€œI don’t see what difference his profession could make. Are you prepared to take my complaint?”
    The sheriff coughed quietly in the corner. Detective Courter glared at him. After a few more delays and equivocations, the detective managed to find a pen and I returned to my seat. I repeated the entire story and watched him copy it down. I left out the most unpleasant bits of my encounter with Henry Kaufman in his office, and did not mention Lucy Blake and her claims about the kidnapped child. I didn’t trust Detective Courter to handle the girl’s situation with any sensitivity.
    While he wrote, I looked around the office. It was a fine room, lined with good oak panels and lit by brass lamps with milk-glass shades suspended from the ceiling, clearly designed for pursuits more honorable than those that were at present taking place within it. Along one wall ran a bank of cabinets fitted with bookshelves, drawers for files, and cubbyholes for messages, all empty. The room had been furnished with two desks for the detectives and a secretarial stand equipped with a typewriter and a telephone, but from the accumulation of dust I could see there was no secretary to operate them. I couldn’t imagine they could keep a woman in that position for long. I certainly wouldn’t have wanted to work for a man like Mr. Courter.
    At the end of my recitation, I glanced at the page he had filled with notes and satisfied myself that it was accurate.
    â€œWell,” he said, closing the book and brushing off his hands as if he’d just completed a long day’s work. “That takes care of it. Thank you for bringing this to our attention.” He stood to see me out.
    I kept my seat. He sank uncertainly back to his. “When can I expect to hear from you, Detective?” I asked.
    He opened the ledger again as if he hoped to find the answer written there. “Ah—yes. Well, we have your case on file, and if any other incidents should arise—”
    â€œI expect that there will be no more incidents. I expect you to pursue charges against Mr. Kaufman and put a stop to this unwarranted harassment of my family!” I said, rising to my feet at last.
    Some change came over Detective Courter when I spoke to him like that. He looked up at me coldly. A vein throbbed on his temple and his eye twitched slightly. “I will speak to the prosecutor,” he said slowly.
    â€œAnd what are we to do if he comes back?”
    He looked over at Sheriff Heath, who was staring at his feet.