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a rulebook to play by, he says.”
    “Sounds like Mr. Pinkerton don’t think the rest of us are real detectives.”
    Smythe said nothing.
    I’d used up my daily allotment of “Hmmmmms”—not to mention all our time—so I let the matter drop.
    The first step toward the door was the hardest. I don’t just mean that metaphorical-like, either. My boots, chaps, holster, and vest were new-leather stiff, and I couldn’t so much walk as waddle. It chafed something fierce, too, and before I was even in the hallway I was already aching in the places a man least likes to ache.
    “Who is that your brother’s talking to?” Smythe asked.
    I pivoted stiffly on one heel to square myself the way he was facing. Old Red was far off down the hall, in what looked to be a broad, open lobby. With him was the little round-faced gent I’d seen staring at us earlier.
    I tried to shrug, but my vest was hard as armor and my shoulders wouldn’t budge.
    “I got no idea,” I said.
    I began wobble-walking toward Gustav, the leather of my costume squeaking so loud it sounded like I was crushing a mouse with every footfall. My brother and his new pal turned to watch me approach with pop-eyed stares that did not bode well for my impending debut before the public at large. As I drew up close, however, the squat stranger’s expression changed, his disbelief displaced by a grin so wide it would’ve looked right at home on a jack-o’-lantern.
    “Otto Amlingmeyer!” he blared with an enthusiasm usually reserved for cries of “Land ho!” or “Gold!” “I am a great admirer of yours, young man!”
    “You don’t say. I didn’t know I had any, other than me.”
    The man laughed so hard I worried he might rupture something.
    “Priceless! You and your brother—you’re exactly like in your stories!” He looked me up and down and cocked an eyebrow. “Well, maybe not exactly .”
    “You’ve read my stories?” I marveled. Though Smythe had purchased several yarns from me, I’d only seen two in print—and one of them little more than five minutes before. I could hardly believe anyone else had ever laid eyes on the things. Yet the little fellow nodded with such vigor his top hat nearly flew off.
    “Read them and loved them! The stories themselves, anyway. The magazines they appeared in, on the other hand…”
    Smythe had followed behind me, and the little man glared at him, his delight giving way to disdain.
    “Really, sir,” he said. “You finally have some material of integrity and quality, and what do you do with it? I mean, egad—‘Buckaroo Sleuths of Rustler’s Ranch’? It’s like something dreamed up by a six-year-old. I can’t imagine that was the original title.”
    He glanced at me for confirmation.
    He was right, of course: I’d titled the tale “Holmes on the Range.” Not worthy of Shakespeare, maybe, but hopefully a notch above what a six-year-old could manage.
    Still, I played it safe and just shrugged.
    “And those covers!” the man went on, railing at Smythe again. “They make these fine young men look like something from under Barnum & Bailey’s big top.”
    “Publishing, sir, is not the stuff of literary salons and poetry journals,” Smythe harrumphed back. “Capturing the fancy of the reading public requires boldness and verve and…” He stopped himself and straightened up to his full height. “Who the devil are you, anyway?”
    “We already know each other, actually.” The stranger offered Smythe his hand. “Armstrong B. Curtis, Esquire.”
    Smythe actually gasped, then tried to turn it into an innocent cough.
    The handshake was over fast.
    “What brings you to Chicago, Mr. Curtis?” Smythe asked stiffly.
    Curtis gave him a coy shrug. “Just wrapping up some unfinished business. Speaking of which, I really should be going. Big Red.” He took his leave of me with a friendly nod, then turned toward my brother. “Old Red. May I say what a pleasure it was chatting with you. Best of