by Bill Doyle
Contents
Copyright
ACKNOWLEDGEMENTS
June 12, 1925: 8:50 PM
June 12, 1925: 9:45 PM
June 12, 1925: 11:10 PM
June 13, 1925: 12:00 Midnight
June 13, 1925: 2:30 AM
June 13, 1925: 9:05 AM
June 13, 1925: 12:35 PM
June 13, 1925: 2:10 PM
June 13, 1925: 7:20 PM
June 13, 1925: 10:15 PM
June 14, 1925: 3:40 AM
A NOTE FROM THE AUTHOR
ABOUT THE AUTHOR
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THE INSPECTOR
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Copyright
Text copyright © 2006 by Bill Dolye
Compilation, illustrations, and photographs copyright © 2006 by Nancy Hall, Inc.
Crime Through Time is a trademark of Nancy Hall, Inc.
Developed by Nancy Hall, Inc.
All rights reserved.
Little, Brown and Company
Hachette Book Group
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New York, NY 10017
Visit our website at www.HachetteBookGroup.com
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First eBook Edition: September 2009
ISBN: 978-0-316-08453-6
ACKNOWLEDGEMENTS
A thank-you of historic proportions to Nancy Hall for making this book and the Crime Through Time series a reality. To Kirsten Hall, for her keen editing and insightful grasp of the overall picture, and to Atif Toor for making the whole book come alive visually.
Special thanks to the editors at Little, Brown: Andrea Spooner, Jennifer Hunt, and Phoebe Sorkin, who are always dead-on, always incisive, and never discouraging. And thanks to Riccardo Salmona for his constant support.
Waves are huge! Crew running to frightened
I am on deck of ferry. Water everywhere
No land in sight.
Is this my last journal entry?
“There it is!” A deckhand shouted.
He's right I can see the dim
outline through the fog — Hunter Island!
June 12,1925
8:50 PM
We made it to Hunter Island!
I guess I overreacted to the rough seas. I actually ripped out the previous entry so no one could ever read how scared I was. But a great detective learns to deal with all the facts, both good and bad—so I taped it back in.
Who knew a ferry ride could be so terrifying? Crossing to the island from the coast of North Carolina, the storm hammered us with rain and whipping winds. Monstrous waves swept over the deck as if they might swallow the boat whole.
Somehow, we arrived safe and sound.
Gratefully, I stepped onto the dock and got my first close look at the Hatherford mansion. I gaped up in awe at the four-story home, which loomed over one end of the island like a massive, creepy castle. As long as two football fields, it sprouted in all directions with towers, chimneys, and gargoyles. According to reports, the mansion was full of secret passageways and hidden rooms!
The Hatherford mansion—quite impressive!
The ferry passengers were met by butlers and maids standing with open umbrellas. A stern-faced bald man wearing a starched butler's uniform walked over to me. “I am Charles,” he said in a deep, rumbling voice. “I will show you to your room. Yourbag will be brought up shortly.”
“I'm G. Codd Fitzmorgan. Nice to meet you.” I stuck out my hand. Charles shook it coldly and moved quickly away from the dock.
Charles, the butler
I had to rush to keep up. As we climbed a steep grassy incline in the lashing rain, I had the oddest feeling that the mansion's windows were like eyes. And that they were watching me.
“This way, please,” Charles instructed, snapping me out of my eerie thoughts. We walked through ornately carved wood doors and into the house. I followed the butler through a shadowy front hall, up a long staircase made of black stone, and down a hallway lined with ancient suits of armor. After three more hallways and two staircases, I felt like I'd stepped into a fairy tale. “Should I leave a trail of bread crumbs?” I joked.
Charles didn't laugh. “With parents such as yours, I imagine you shouldn't have a problem detecting you way around.”
So he had heard of my mom and dad. That isn't so strange. My parents are famous detectives who have cracked cases all around the world, from recovering a Kidnapped panda in China to breaking up a counterfeiting ring here in the United States. They'd be here right now, but they're off solving their latest case—which is very hush-hush. I think it has something to do with the government of Siam, but I'm not sure.
As Charles and I continued walking, I saw other guests being led into their rooms. Yet we traveled on and on. Finally, Charles stopped and swung open a heavy wood door. At first, I thought he was showing me into a grand hall or a ballroom.
“This is my room?” I asked, my eyes running about the mammoth space.
“Oh, yes,” Charles said with a touch of disapproval. “It does seem like a lot for a child…”
A child? “I'm fourteen,” I said, a little too defensively. But he was right. This was a lot of space for anyone, child or not. There was a four-poster bed, a gigantic fireplace with a roaring fire, and a rolltop desk (where I am writing now) big enough for five people to sit at. It was much cheerier than the other parts of the house I'd seen. I walked over to one of the three floor-to-ceiling windows. I had an amazing view of the airplane landing strip. Beyond that, I could see a group of trees, the ferry dock, and the churning sea. There was no sign of the boat that had brought us to the island.
My room must be the biggest in the house!
My view!
“Where's the ferry?” I asked Charles, who was adding another log to the fire.
“The crew took it back to the mainland,” he answered. “The dock here offers little protection during storm conditions. And the seas will only be getting worse.”
“Worse?” That didn't seem possible. From where I stood, it looked like the rolling waves had tripled in size since we arrived.
June 12, 1925
Charles's lips bent into a thin smile. “Just last summer, we were without the ferry for four days during one storm.”
If this was supposed to scare me, it didn't.
“What a fantastic place to be stranded!” I said, glancing around the room again. “Do the other eighty weekend guests have rooms like mine?”
“No, this is one of the finest,” Charles said, closing the fireplace screen. “Miss Pinkerton informed the staff she will be keeping an eye on you this weekend and wanted to make you comfortable. She requested you be given this room.”
Judge always spoils me. One year, she hired actors to come to my backyard and reenact an unsolved bank robbery that had taken place in Tulsa, Oklahoma. She timed me while I cracked the case. Another year, Judge took me to see my idol, the magician Harry Houdini—and then backstage to meet him! Whenever she's around, amazing things happen.
But where was she now? “Judge wasn't on the ferry,” I said. “And I haven't seen—“
“Who?” Charles interrupted, clearly having no idea who I was talking about.
“Right. Sorry. I mean Miss Pinkerton,” I said. “Justine Pinkerton. Everyone in my family calls her Judge.”
“Oh?” Charles asked. But I could tell he really meant, “And why on earth would you do that?”
I almost told him that I've often wondered the same thing. Once I asked my mom that very question. “She wants to go to law school, but she's
not a real judge,” I had said. “So why do you call her that?” My mom just laughed and said, “One day I think you'll figure that out for yourself.” All I know is that Judge is from a famous family of detectives.
WHAT IN THE WORD?
PRIVATE EYE: A term meaning detective, derived from the logo of the Pinkerton Detective Agency. Allan Pinkerton opened the first national detective organization in 1850. Its logo was an open eye with the slogan “We Never Sleep.” Pinkerton foiled an assassination attempt on Abraham Lincoln, cracked countless cases, and specialized in railroad security. He wrote a series of 18 books about his life that made him a true celebrity. The open eye trademark was linked with detective work—so people started calling all detectives “Private eyes.”
Judge is a Pinkerton.
But I didn't say any of that to Charles. Instead, I just shrugged. Charles gave me a tiny smile. “Miss Pinkerton is arranging last-minute details for the party.”
That made sense. After all, the party is the reason we're all here. Judge is head over heels in love with the famous test pilot John Hatherford. They're getting married in August, and we're celebrating their engagement this weekend.
Charles handed me an envelope. “She asked me to give you this. Please let me know if you need anything.” Before I could thank him, he turned and left the room.
I sat down at the desk and ripped open the envelope, eager to read the message from Judge. Here's what it said:
Leave it to Judge. This weekend is supposed to be for her—and she's the one handing out surprises. I can't wait to change into my tuxedo and see what she has in store for me!
June 12, 1925
9:45 PM
After one or two wrong turns in the confusing hallways of the mansion, I finally arrived at the spot marked on the map.
Right away, I recognized the four people already waiting in the hall outside the parlor. I had seen them on the ferry ride over.
There was the nervous, twitchy businessman named Virgil Gates. He had spent most of the boat trip with his head over the rail, feeding his lunch to the fish. At the moment, Virgil was gazing adoringly at his gorgeous girlfriend, Asyla Notabe, who wore a dress made of long, sparkly silver tassels. Asyla leaned her perfectly sculpted back against the wall, looking bored and stroking her long black hair as if it were a cat. An elderly couple, Mr. and Mrs. Kartier, were dressed like royalty. Mrs. Kartier wore a tiara in her silver hair, and Mr. Kartier had a kingly red sash across his tuxedo jacket.
Before I could say hello to anyone, a raspy voice called from the shadows of a nearby parlor.
“Enter! All who vish to speak vith ze dead, come and enter!”
Who could resist an invitation like that? The five of us stepped into the darkened room. Once we were inside, the oak door slammed shut with a bang, and Virgil Gates cried out.
“What a sap!” Asyla hissed and pushed past him, sauntering like a film star. She was probably the most beautiful woman I had ever seen.
I had heard about Asyla from the society pages and from my parents. They'd first met her years ago on a train trip across the United States. After that, Asyla's life had been one long streak of bad luck. When Asyla was a teenager, her mom was sent to prison.
Beautiful Asyla
She later escaped and went into hiding, without Asyla. No other family members had come forward to claim her, so Asyla had been raised in an orphanage in Chicago. That's why my parents were so curious about how Asyla was now able to afford to travel in such high style. They had heard rumors that her mom had started a new life of crime and was secretly sending Asyla money.
Now I was meeting her in person!
Our little group gathered around a large table in the center of the room, which was crowded with antique furniture. The flame of a single candle cast sinister shadows on our faces. And a large crystal ball shone dully, resting on a brass stand next to a violin.
Asyla was to my right. To my left, Mrs. Kartier gripped her husband's arm and made squeaking sounds like a frightened chipmunk.
That's just what Judge wanted…for us to be scared. It was a perfect night for a séance, I thought. Lightning flashed on gargoyles, making them look alive as they peered through the windows.
Judge got the idea for a séance from this ad.
Then, across the wood table, a man stepped into the dim light of the candle, and I knew at a glance we were in for a letdown.
“I am Mang ze Magnifico!” the tall man announced in what sounded like a French accent by way of New York. He had a long black beard and wore a purple cape emblazoned with gold stars and moons.
I guess for dramatic effect, Mang began flapping his arms wildly to make the cape ripple up and down. This only made him look like a deranged bat—and sent dust flying off his blue tuxedo.
Mang ze not-so-Magnifico!
Virgil Gates waved the air before his thin, pointy nose. “Allergies! Allergies!” he cried between massive sneezes.
Sweeping back her long hair, Asyla Notabe giggled merrily. Like a queen amused by a jester, she pointed at Mang's slightly tattered outfit. “Mr. Magnifico, you might want to contact a good tailor rather than the dead.” I felt my heart skip a beat as Asyla turned to me and asked. “ Am I right or what?”
She was talking to me! Excited, I opened my mouth to answer her. But something sparked in Asyla's eyes. “Why am I asking you, Fitszmorgan?” She spat out my name as if it were disgusting and turned away.
My face burned from her unexpected hostility. I said, “Excuse me—“
Mang interrupted me. He was glaring at Asyla. “Laughter? You produce ze laughter? What I do is deadly serious!” Mang flapped his arms again and bellowed, “I am a spiritualist!”
For a second, Asyla stared at Mang and then burst out laughing. “Oh, dry up, vould you?” Asyla said, mocking Mang's accent.
While Asyla's giggles and Virgil's sneezes filled the room, Mang dragged over a small square table. He held up his right hand to show us that he was not concealing anything in his palm.
“Vitness my power!” he shouted and brought his palm down on the flat surface of the small table with a smack. Mang's eyes rolled into the back of his head. He lifted his hand and the table rose with it—as if the wood and his skin had magically fused together.
Asyla gasped, virgil stopped sneezing, and Mr. and Mrs. Kartier appeared to have stopped breathing.
Child's play, I thought. I had hoped Mang would prove to be more of a challenge. I wanted to try out the detective skills I'd learned from studying Houdini.
TEC TIP
HOW TO FOOL SITTERS AT A SÉANCE
TABLE LIFTING
Find an old table—make sure it's small, light, and no one wants it anymore.
Hammer a nail with a small head into the top of table.
Put a loose ring on a finger and slide your hand along the surface until the ring slides over the head of the nail. (It might help to cut a slot into the ring.)
Keep your hand flat on the table surface and lift it from the floor.
I wrote a letter to Herry Houdini, and this is what's got back. It's just a form letter probably written by his secretary, but I still darry it with me.
HOUDINI
278 WEST 113TH STREET
NEW YORK, N.Y.
Dear Fan,
Thank you for your interest in my life. Here are a few facts you might not know.
I was born Ehrich Weiss in Hungary in 1874. Four years later, my family moved to Wisconsin. I tried working as a trapeze artist but later turned to magic. I read a book by Jean Eugene Robert- Houdin, an amazing French magician from the 1800s. He was the first one to use real science in his act—something I wanted to do. In honor of him, I changed my name to Harry Houdini.
I'm the most famous magician in the world today. But that's not all I do. I've starred in silent movies. And lately, I've worked hard against fake mediums and phony mind readers who give illusionists like me a bad name. I attend séances disguised in a fake beard and eyeglasses. I've become
an expert at detecting the hidden motions of the medium's hands, feet, and body that would produce the sounds and actions of spirits. I shine a light during the séance to show the sitters the trick. I then tear off my disguise and reveal myself as the great Houdini!
In fact, I'm not looking for fakes, but for a medium who can do what he or she claims.
Yours in magic,
Mang lowered the small table to the floor with a flourish. In a stern voice, he told us that he would allow no further interruptions. He instructed us to sit at the large table and hold hands. Asyla took one of my hands and Mrs. Kartier took the other.
“Ve shall now contact ze dead!” Mang said.
“Everyone watch ze ball of crystal and concentrate… concentrate!” The reflection of the candle burned in his eyes. “Now repeat after me, ‘Join us, spirit of ze dead’” It was piffle, but we repeated, “Join us, spirit of the dead” over and over.
Mang threw his head back and shouted into the air, “Spirit! Spirit! Are you in ze room?” His head jerked back down. “Ah, yes, I feel it! I feel ze presence!”
Virgil's eyes bulged slightly. “How do you know?” he whispered fearfully.
Mang calling a spirit
“Is it my sister Estelle?” Mrs. Kartier said to Mang. “If it's Estelle, will you ask her where she hid the gold teakettle?”
Mang seemed annoyed by the questions and asked the air, “Are you Estelle? Lift the table twice if no!”
There was a pause, and just as the others started to relax, the table leaped up as if on its own. It did so once—and then again. Mrs. Kartier screamed. Blinding light exploded into the room as lightning crashed all around the mansion.
Mang smiled. “Very goodly. No, not Estelle.Zhank you, spirit, for clearing zat up—“ He was interrupted as the violin suddenly skipped along the surface of the table and flew into the air, with the bow following after. Mrs. Kartier screamed again, and her husband joined her.
