Swindled!: The 1906 Journal of Fitz Morgan (9 page)

“Enough!” William Henry suddenly shouted. And then as if catching himself, he said more quietly, “It’s late. Miss Pinkerton
has to take her leave and go to her bedroom.”

“I will do no such thing,” Justine cried. “We’re making real progress here.”

But William Henry wouldn’t waver. He held up his pocket watch as if to show us it was time itself that made the demand.

However, he did cave in to one of Judge’s wishes: I was allowed to sleep in one of the spare sleeping compartments. Thinking
about the hard bench in the coach car, I eagerly accepted the invitation.

As I write this, I am basking in luxury in one of the Pinkertons’ sleeping compartments. It’s not very wide–I can almost touch
the walls on either side at the same time if I stretch out my arms. But a person could sleep here happily every night. It
has clean, fresh sheets over a mattress of soft down. Comfy, feather-stuffed pillows are heaped on top. And I have my own
private bathroom!

Even in the middle of all this comfort, though, something is nagging at me. I can’t help but wonder about William Henry. He
had access to the government Pullman car, and he seems to match the description of our profile. Did he cut the investigation
short because of his duty to Judge–or because I was getting too close to the truth?

This morning, I was once again
awakened by the shouts of a girl–but now it was Judge, knocking loudly on my door. “Get up, Fitz! Meet me in the laboratory!”

I sat up in the amazing comfort of pillows and soft sheets. Why did rich people ever get out of bed? And I winced. Looking
out the window, I saw the sun hadn’t risen yet, and an orange-colored mist clung to the ground.

Getting myself together, I examined my appearance in the mirror to make sure I was the character I wanted to be that day.
Then I headed out the door. The thought of solving the mystery of who poisoned Agent Howard added a little bounce to my step.

Judge was tapping her foot as I entered the laboratory. A purple pin in the shape of a peacock was shining on her gray blouse.
“There’s bread, strawberry jam, and orange juice on the table by the window,” she said. “We can eat breakfast as we work.”

As I helped myself to a piece of the delicious-smelling bread slathered with jam, she demanded impatiently, “What is our first
task?”

I had to bite back a laugh. Judge might take it the wrong way if I told her that she reminded me of Teddy when he was waiting
to sink his teeth into a bone.

I finished the toast quickly, wiped my hands on a napkin, and went to the work desk. I took the dollar bill I’d found on the
platform from my pocket. “I want to find out who was in the government Pullman car around the time of the poisoning,” I told
Judge. “William Henry says only Agent Howard and he had access. But I think someone else was there.”

“How do we prove that?” Judge asked.

“By comparing the fingerprint we got from the broken teacup to a print from the dollar bill I found in the station.” As I
spoke, I powdered the bill. “If the finger-prints from the teacup and the dollar bill don’t match, that might mean there was
more than one person in the government Pullman.”

Normally, a bill would be covered with many prints as it passed from person to person. But this bill was crisp, as if it had
not been in circulation for long. I found only two very good prints. One of them could be mine, I knew.

I lifted the two prints from the dollar bill. Then I placed the slide under the microscope next to the one containing the
teacup fingerprint and began a step-by-step comparison.

The print from the teacup matched one of the prints from the dollar bill!

“What does it mean?” Judge asked.

I explained that the same person who held the teacup must have handled the dollar bill, too. That meant this person was one
of

the two people I saw boarding the government Pullman yesterday.

Judge didn’t seem impressed. “But the prints probably belong to Agent Howard,” she said. “He might have dropped the dollar
bill that you found, and later, he could have picked up the teacup. That would mean that William Henry could still be correct,
there was only one person on board the government car–Agent Howard.”

“But you’re making an assumption,” I explained. “We don’t know if the matching prints belong to Agent Howard. They might be
someone else’s. If we had a print from Agent Howard we could–”

“Dr. Freud won’t let you near him,” Judge said, shaking her head. “This morning I went to check on Agent Howard. He’s been
moved to a compartment in the sleeping car. Dr. Freud wouldn’t even let me look at him. He said the agent needed rest.

A good detective thinks fast. “There must be a way to get his fingerprint,” I said. “I still believe that there was someone
else in that Pullman–”

“Ayyyyyyyyyy!”

A heart-stopping scream pierced the air.

“What in the world?” Judge asked, her eyes wide.

It was almost impossible to say where the scream had come from. But it had cut through the clanking of the train and made
its way to the laboratory compartment of the Pinkerton Pullman.

“Noooo!!!” Another scream, full of terror and anger, tore through the air. I felt cold fear squeeze my body.

“Someone needs our help,” I said.

Judge gave a tiny nod. And with that, we rushed toward the door.

But before we could get there, it was thrown open by William Henry.

His eyes were wild. His shirttail had come untucked and stuck out of his pants. On anyone else this might not have been noticeable.
Yet on a person who was always so in control of his appearance, it was unnerving.

Was William Henry the criminal after all? Had he come to attack us?

“Stay back,” I said, starting to warn Judge.

That’s when William Henry announced in a somewhat shaky voice, “I think another passenger has just been poisoned!”

Of course it’s strange, but I was relieved in a way.

A poisoning meant the danger was outside the room, not standing right there with us.

“That’s awful!” Judge shouted.

The three of us hurried from the room, heading toward the front of the train and the screams.

“Nooo! Ohhhh! My baaaaby! Help me, oh help me!”

The cries grew louder as we raced through the sleeper and the first-class car, where riders were looking at one another with
confusion and fear.

When we ran into the coach car where my seat was located, I spotted Mrs. Notabe. She was sitting on the floor toward the front.

Still wearing her long black gloves, she cradled the limp body of her small daughter. Asyla’s face was ashen. Her head was
tilted back at an odd angle, and a line of spittle ran down her chin. Dr. Freud was kneeling over the little girl, one hand
on her wrist to check her pulse.

Judge, William Henry, and I stopped about three feet away, halted by the force of Mrs. Notabe’s eyes, which flashed with rage.
From this angle, I could see Asyla clearly. It seemed that William Henry had been correct about the poisoning. The little
girl’s fingernails and lips were a bright cherry red. I felt certain that if Mrs. Notabe had allowed me to get any closer,
I would have smelled the odor of bitter almonds on Asyla’s breath. But I knew if I moved closer, Mrs. Notabe would have scratched
my eyes out, like a lioness defending her wounded cub.

Who on earth would poison a small child? It was now very clear that we were up against a ruthless criminal.

Dr. Freud stood up and turned to William Henry. “Bring me my bag at once. I must administer amyl nitrate to this child. In
the meantime, we will give her fluids to–”

“You fool!” Mrs. Notabe hissed at him and pushed him back. “Get away from her! You would give fluids to the victim of cyanide
poisoning? Is it your intention to kill my daughter? Get back!” Then turning her burning eyes on the rest of us, she shouted
“All of you! I will care for my child!”