Swindled!: The 1906 Journal of Fitz Morgan (14 page)

I couldn’t help wincing at his words, which were filled with disappointment. “Mrs. Notabe isn’t as innocent as she appears.”

“And how about you?” William Henry’s eyes finally met mine and he studied me. “Are you all that you appear?”

Now it was my turn to look down. Did he know I was a girl? The pots and pans made a strange tinny song as the rocking train
banged them together. It seemed pointless to explain who I really was. If he was the poisoner, nothing I said would matter.
And if he wasn’t, the truth about my identity would just add to his suspicions that I was up to no good.

Taking my silence as an admission of some kind of guilt, William Henry said, “That’s what I thought. Now I have to finish
the task Mr. Spike gave me. Not to worry, I won’t have this job for long. Once the Pinkertons discover that I’ve lost their
daughter on board this train, I’ll lose this job faster than you can say ‘balloon juice.’” He started to leave the closet.

“Wait! William Henry, listen to me.” I had to do something: I had to stop him! “I think we’re in danger. Everyone on this
train is at risk!”

“Yes, from children with too much freedom. But that’s about to be solved as well.”

“You can’t lock me in here!” I said, shocked.

“You’re right,” he said. My panic eased, but returned when he added, “There’s no lock on the door. So I’ll have to find another
way.” With that William Henry took a screwdriver from the long pocket of his jacket and started to remove several screws from
the doorknob. “You know why I like machines so much?” he said. “There’s a sense of order to them. You turn a switch and you
know the light will come on. You twist a screw and you know a bolt will tighten. But people, that’s a different matter.”

I didn’t know what to say.

The doorknobs on both sides of the door loosened, and William Henry slid both of them out of the sockets and into his pocket.

He was leaving. Do something! I shouted at myself. “William Henry,” I said. “Before you go, promise me one thing. Go to the
Pinkerton Pullman. Look at the list of evidence we have on the chalkboard–”

He just shook his head and cut me off. “We’ll let your family sort this out. Now I’ve got to track down your accomplice, Miss
Pinkerton.”

He closed the door, and I was left alone in the dark. The only light was the circular glow from the empty hole in the door,
where the doorknobs used to be.

I have to get out of here! I told myself. But how? Then I remembered something I’d learned from my father and got to work.

The door to the Pinkerton Pullman opened with a loud click, and for once, I was happy for the deafening noise of the moving
train. I had used my detective skills to escape from the storage closet and managed to sneak down the length of the train
without being spotted.

I had been hoping to find Judge in her family’s car, but she wasn’t there. The car’s windows framed the darkness of the outside.
Without Judge there, the clacking sounds of the train echoed around the empty compartments like lonely ghosts. It made the
car seem like a mobile haunted house.

I knew that I had limited time before my escape was discovered, so I rushed to the laboratory. A wave of worry for Judge hit
me. If she was in danger, one of the ways I could help her was to figure out who the villain was. So I set to work. I carefully
took the coin Mrs. Notabe touched from my jacket pocket. After lifting her fingerprint, I compared it with the broken teacup
fingerprint under the microscope.

This fact didn’t prove she was innocent. But it didn’t link her to the crime of poisoning Agent Howard either.

So? I thought. Who’s left? We’re running out of suspects! I went to the chalkboard to see if I could come up with a new plan.

I was so intent on the task that I didn’t hear someone coming up behind me.

A shaking hand fell on my shoulder.

Dropping the chalk, I wheeled around and nearly screamed.

The cry died in my throat as I recognized the person standing in front of me. It was Judge.

“Oh, it’s you,” I started to say, and then I felt like screaming again. It was Judge, but her hair was disheveled and her
eyes were rolling about in her head.

Her cherry red lips suddenly parted and her voice emerged like the squeaks of an amateur violinist. “I cracked the case,”
she wheezed. “I figured it out–”

Then her legs buckled and she began to sink to the floor.

10:30 PM

Somehow I caught Judge and gently
lowered her to the floor. Her face was close to mine. There was no denying the smell of bitter almonds that came with each
gasping breath.

“Judge! Judge!” I cried, but knew that she could not hear me. She was unconscious.

I took her wrist and felt her pulse. Quick and shallow. Her nails shone as red as her lips.

Judge had been poisoned!

I was able to lift her, and I carried her to the living quarters. I laid her on the sofa where just days ago we had placed
Agent Howard. I eased her head carefully onto a pillow.

Her chest rose and fell quickly as she took short, ragged breaths.

I had to get help! Something had to be done and fast. If Judge didn’t receive an injection of amyl nitrate to counteract the
cyanide in the next thirty minutes, she might die.

“You’re going to be all right,” I whispered to her, patting one of her cold hands, which had clenched into a rigid fist. I
was turning to leave when I noticed the edges of a piece of paper poking out from between her fingers.

Was this paper what Judge had found to make her think she had solved the case?

I reached for her hand and began prying her fingers open–
Wham! Wham! Wham!

There was a heavy pounding on the compartment door between the living quarters and the laboratory. I froze, thankful that
Judge must have locked the door after she entered.

Wham! Wham! WHAM!

Thoughts of the paper in Judge’s hand flew out of my head as muffled shouts came from the other side of the door. The train
officials must have discovered my escape and tracked me to the Pinkerton car!

That was good news for Judge. They would be able to help her. But who would help me? I wondered. Mr. Spike would lock me up.
William Henry was a suspect. And the poisoner was still on the loose!

Who could I trust? No one on the train, except for Judge–and she was even more helpless than I. I needed to contact someone.
Anyone would do, as long he or she was not on this train. But how?

Then it hit me–of course! I rushed to the window.

When trains break down or fall behind schedule, the train crew has to have a way to call for help. Otherwise, trains coming
from behind or in the opposite direction might crash into them. I knew that the owners of the Continental Express had set
up a telegraph system that runs along the entire length of the track between New York City and San Francisco. A series of
telegraph boxes–one every few miles–taps into this system and allows people to communicate over hundreds of miles.

I had to reach one of those boxes and telegraph for help!

But how? The train was racing along at more than thirty miles per hour. I couldn’t just leap off the side.

There was one way.…

I didn’t give myself a chance to consider the consequences. I moved quickly to the back of the car.

“Hold on!” I shouted, hoping the men outside the door would brace themselves.

And then I pulled the emergency brake.

The results were immediate and terrifying. The train screamed as if in agony. Books, glass vials, pictures, and all sorts
of small objects flew off shelves and smashed into walls. I was thrown off my feet and across the compartment as the brakes
sank their teeth into the wheels, slowing the train to a halt. I looked up, battered, but not severely hurt. Judge had rolled
over but remained on the plush couch.