Swindled!: The 1906 Journal of Fitz Morgan (12 page)

With trembling hands, I checked to make sure my compartment door was locked. I sat down on my bed and flipped through every
page of my journal–but there were no other messages.

Who left me such a frightening note? And how did that person get it into my journal?

Once again, my suspicions turned to William Henry. He probably has a key to my room, and it’d be easy for him to sneak in
and out.

To prevent any more tampering, I’ll keep my journal with me at all times.

6:30 AM

When I recovered from my shock, I went to Judge’s compartment and pounded on the door. Finally, she opened it and glared at
me sleepily. “First the porter with a telegram from my parents and now you. I think the real mystery is why no one wants me
to sleep–”

“Judge, listen!” I interrupted her. “I’ve got a piece of shattering news.”

Her eyes went wide, and I could see I had her attention. She said, “Let me grab us some breakfast and I’ll meet you in the
lab.”

Fifteen minutes later, we had each finished a slice of bread and jam, and Judge was pacing the carpeted floor of the laboratory.
I had just told her about the note in my journal. Her surprise was almost as great as mine.

After a moment she asked, “Are there any fingerprints on the note?”

I shook my head. “While I was waiting for you, I checked the note for prints. The sender must have been careful because I
could only find my own.”

“Why would someone leave a message in your journal?” Judge tapped her chin thoughtfully. “Why not just slip it under your
door?”

“I don’t know,” I answered. Then an idea came to me. “I found the note in the middle of an entry I had made yesterday. Maybe
it was left in that spot for a reason.”

“What was the entry about?” Judge asked.

“It was right after you told me how you knew I was a girl,” I said. “We had started to make a list of suspects when William
Henry came in. He told us about Asyla feeling better and that she wanted to play a game in the baggage compartment.”

“Right!” Judge agreed. “And then he said something about Asyla’s mother, didn’t he?”

We both stopped pacing and looked at each other.

“Yes,” I said, feeling that we might be on to something. “William Henry told us it was strange that Mrs. Notabe had accepted
Mr. Spike’s explanation that Asyla had a stomachache. Especially after she had said Asyla was poisoned.”

Hmmm… Would Mrs. Notabe break into my compartment and leave me a warning note because I was writing about her daughter? That
seemed unlikely.

Judge and I talked about it a while longer and realized that we weren’t getting anywhere.

Finally, she sighed and collapsed into a chair. “We seem to be stuck. We just keep coming up with questions and no answers!”
Judge’s voice was filled with frustration. We need to focus, I thought.

“Let’s write down our questions and see which ones we can answer,” I said, picking up a new piece of chalk.

MY QUESTIONS

• Main question: Who is poisoning people?
  
• Why are people being poisoned?
  
• Is the MAINE part of the puzzle?
  

We stared at the board. Finally I said, “Okay. I have two questions we can answer,” and wrote them down. Then we took turns
writing down possible answers.

WHO ARE OUR SUSPECTS?

• William Henry Moorie
  
• Mrs. Rabella Notabe
  

WHAT ARE OUR CLUES?

• broken teacup with fingerprint
  
• dollar bill with fingerprint possibly counterfeit from station platform
  
• singed remains of bill from fake cat
  
• note left in journal
  
• Agent Howard and Asyla Notabe both victims of poisoning
  

“We might be able to upgrade one of these two from suspect to criminal,” I said, pointing to the list of names. “And we have
the clues to do it.”

“How–?” Judge started to ask, and then answered her own question. “The fingerprints!”

We went to work.

I began comparing William Henry’s print to the one I had found on the broken teacup.

“Well…, ” I said, pulling back from the microscope and rubbing my eyes.

“Well what!” Judge yelled impatiently. “Is there a match?”

“Unfortunately, or I guess fortunately for William Henry, there’s no match,” I told her.

“What does that mean?” Judge asked.

“We cannot directly link William Henry to the crime. But we can’t take him off the list either.”

Judge thought for a moment. “And we can only say this about one of our suspects.”

I agreed. “Yes. We don’t have a fingerprint from Mrs. Notabe.”

“I’m not sure she is such a strong suspect,” Judge said. “Would she really poison her own daughter?”

I remembered the way Mrs. Notabe had screamed in panic while holding Asyla. “She did seem very upset about Asyla’s poisoning.
So I’d say the answer is no. She didn’t poison Asyla. But that doesn’t mean she didn’t poison Agent Howard.”

“There’s only one thing to be done,” Judge said. “We need to get Mrs. Notabe’s fingerprints to rule her out.”

“Or link her to the crime,” I added. “But she wears those long gloves all the time. Did you notice she didn’t even take them
off when she was holding Asyla after she’d just been poisoned?”

Even as I was talking, a plan was taking shape in my brain.

“There might be a way,” I said, eyeing Agent Howard’s fishing line. “But we’ll have to be crafty.”

“Which is right up your alley,” said Judge with a grin.

6:55 PM

The sun has set over the horizon,
transforming the clouds into bright shades of purple. This beauty seems to be lost on most of the passengers, though. They
are not feeling lively. One thing I now know about train travel is that, after four nights, the endless rocking, the constant
shrieking of machinery, and the smell of food that’s no longer fresh all can take a serious toll on passengers.

Most of them had closed themselves up in their compartments or sat dozing in their seats.

I took all this in as Judge and I paused before stepping into the first-class car. I looked at the girl next to me. She had
dark hair and thick, heavy eyebrows. Blocky heels added nearly three inches to her height. The only splash of color came from
the purple beaded necklace she was wearing.

“My name is Maximillion Millions,” I told her. “And yours is Henrietta Gotgobs.”

Judge looked back at me through lids heavy with rich eye shadow, and her mouth seemed to twist under the weight of the lipstick.

“Exxxcellent!” she said in a long, drawn out, snooty manner, and I had to control a laugh.

Wearing makeup and clothes one of her cousins had left on the Pinkerton Pullman, over her own clothes, Judge looked and spoke
like a different person. I hoped I looked just as impressive, wearing the old brown suit jacket and black top hat we had found
in a closet. If things went wrong with my plan, I didn’t want Mrs. Notabe to know we were involved.

“Are you ready, Henrietta, for Operation Coin Grab?” I asked Judge, giving my voice a southern twang.

“Yes, dahling Maximillion,” she responded in her snobby accent. “It’s time we make ‘cents’ of this mystery.”

We opened the door to the first-class car and started down the aisle. According to William Henry, Mr. Spike had moved the
Notabes to this car after Asyla was stricken.

Our investigation had been stalled since yesterday morning. For Operation Coin Grab to work, the first-class hallway had to
be free of other passengers and porters–and that meant we had to wait for the right moment.

As we passed the Notabes’ compartment, I saw that the door was open a crack. I took a quick look inside. Mrs. Notabe sat in
her seat, reading a book. Asyla was curled up asleep on the bench next to her.

As planned, I said loudly, “Aren’t you carrying the jeweled purse with the hole in the bottom?”

“Why, no!” Judge responded, playing the part of Henrietta Gotgobs perfectly. “This jeweled purse was repaired by one of the
maids.”