Swindled!: The 1906 Journal of Fitz Morgan (11 page)

“Think about it.” I leaned toward her. “His uniform is all shiny and buttoned up. Everything must be by the book. That pocket
watch seems to run his life–”

“He works on a train!” Judge protested. “Schedules are the most important things to workers on the train.”

“Someone that tightly wound is bound to snap. You can tell by looking at his hands! They’re stained with grease–”

“Because he loves to tinker with machinery!”

There was no stopping me, and I continued, “And he’s got those long arms and legs. And what about those blue eyes of his?”

Judge gave me a long look. Then a smile flashed across her face as if she were just starting to understand something. “All
right, I’m willing to consider him as a suspect. But you have to admit, he is rather nice looking. I wonder if you’re being
totally objective.”

“I don’t know what you mean,” I said, gazing at my hands. When she didn’t say anything, I continued, “All I know is, he matches
the profile. He’s educated, and I find him very antisocial. Plus, he had access to the government Pullman. He could easily
have served Agent Howard the poison in food or tea.”

A second passed, and then at the same time, Judge and I reached out to push our teacups away.

But before my fingers touched my cup, I had a sudden thought and asked Judge, “Can you get your evidence kit?”

She returned a moment later with it, and using the fingerprint equipment, we lifted one of William Henry’s fingerprints from
the teacup.

Placing the slide back in its case, I said, “We can compare this print to the one on Agent Howard’s cup. That might show whether
William Henry touched the agent’s cup at some point.”

“Good idea, Fitz. Let’s get to the lab to check them under the microscope,” Judge said. We got up from the table and left
the dining compartment.

Teddy was waiting for us when we walked into the laboratory. He sat on the dark blue rug, his tail wagging furiously, as if
he were terribly proud of himself. Something furry with a tail of its own dangled from his mouth.

“Oh no!” cried Judge on spotting this. “The poor kitty!”

My determined little dog had found what I had sent him searching for yesterday: the cat. But the creature in his mouth was
lifeless.

Judge shook her head sadly. “This is too much.”

I plucked the cat from Teddy’s mouth, scratched between his ears, and told him, “Good boy! I’ll get you a special treat from
the dining car later.” He wagged his tail a bit more, plopped down on the ground, and was soon snoring.

Refusing to look at the cat and shocked by my behavior, Judge started to ask, “What on earth are you doing?”

I gave the cat’s head a sharp twist.

“Ahhh!” Judge yelled.

The cat’s head popped right off.

“Not to worry. As soon as I took the cat from Teddy, I knew it wasn’t a real cat. But it is a clever way to conceal secrets.”
I showed her how the fur was just a covering for a hard hollow cylinder.

Reaching into the cat-shaped container, I pulled out a small envelope. Written on it in dark ink were the words: USS MAINE
Evidence.

Staring at the word Maine, I felt a familiar sadness as an image of my brother came into my mind. Judge seemed to be reading
my thoughts. “Fitz, what could all this possibly have to do with the MAINE? Why would Agent Howard hide something inside a
cat?”

I snapped back to the business at hand. Inside the envelope were pieces of singed paper. I could see the letters “Uni” and
“ate,” the date 1895, and other numbers and squiggly lines.

“I don’t think this is ordinary paper,” I said, heading to the microscope.

“What do you mean?” Judge asked. She watched over my shoulder as I placed the pieces of paper under the magnifying lens. Then,
using tweezers, I began to move the pieces around.

It was clear the burned bits of paper were from a five dollar bill. But that fact was not what made my heart skip a beat.

“Aha!” I cried. I stepped back from the table. I had just cracked at least part of the case!

Before going any further, I took a second to consider all the evidence. And then my mind made the connection!

I explained my discovery: “Look at the serial number on this bill. It has the same number as the dollar bill I found in the
station.”

“But that can’t be,” Judge shook her head. “Each bill has its own unique serial number. The number shows where it was made
and what printing plate was used. The one dollar bill and the five dollar bill cannot have identical serial numbers.”

“But these two do,” I said. “Take a look.”

Judge leaned over the bills to examine them. Her expression went from doubt to shock. Her eyes met mine. “The numbers are
exactly the same!”

I nodded. “There is only one explanation.”

“At least one of these bills is a fake!” Judge cried.

She turned to the bookshelf and removed a magazine

entitled DETECTIVE’S MONTHLY. There was an article inside called “Is My Cash Trash? How to Detect Counterfeit Money.” She
handed it to me. “This should help.”

Poison! Counterfeit currency! I had wished for mystery and adventure. And it had come–
in trainloads!

6:00 AM

Why should the start of my fourth day
on the train be different from the others? It began, of course, with someone shouting.

I had just opened my eyes after a restless night’s sleep. Even the Pinkertons’ deep feather pillows couldn’t stop me from
having nightmares of faceless villains and pools of steaming poison.

I had left the window curtain open, thinking the starry sky might lull me to sleep. Now the window let in the cool gray light
of a cloudy dawn. A forward jerk of the train let me know the locomotive was struggling up a rather steep incline. We must
still be in the hills around the Rockies.

“It’s only six in the morning; try to go back to sleep,” I told myself. I was sinking back into the lemon-scented covers when
a shouting voice rang outside my door.

I leaped from the bed, dressed hurriedly in my disguise, and flung open the door. I was just in time to see the porter heading
down the hallway calling, “Telegram! Telegram for Miss Pinkerton!”

And, as I sat down to begin writing, I spotted a strange piece of paper poking slightly out of my journal. When I slid the
paper out, I found a note.

It could only be from the poisoner! Or at least that made the most sense. But how did he or she manage to slip the note into
my journal? The only time it’s out of my sight is while I’m bathing or sleeping. The thought that the person who is poisoning
people on this train might have been in my compartment while I slept sends chills down my body.