by Bill Doyle
“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.
“Help will be here in a moment Judge,” I told her, even though I knew she couldn’t hear me. “I’m going to let the outside world know we’re in trouble.”
I ran out the rear door and onto the connecting platform between the Pinkerton and the government Pullmans. Leaping over the side, I tumbled down a grassy slope. Then I was racing away from the train, searching desperately for a telegraph box.
The moon seemed to follow me, casting a sinister light that flickered as it passed through puffs of clouds. I couldn’t shake the feeling that something other than the moon was pursuing me.
As I sprinted along the track, I stole glances to my left at the lonely, dark landscape. The only signs of life were several tall trees whose twisted branches stood out against the night sky.
My foot slipped on some loose rocks and I nearly stumbled. But I kept my balance and continued rushing headlong through the darkness. Relax, I told myself, trying to calm down. It won’t do Judge or yourself any good if you trip and break your leg.
I had only been running for a short time when I spotted a rectangular shape the size of a small medicine cabinet. Bolted to a pole about four feet from the ground was a telegraph box!
If I had time, I would have hugged the wooden box. But my excitement was quickly deflated. The box was locked. No! I wanted to wail. I’ve come too far to be stopped by some lock that probably cost only a few pennies.
I looked around for a large rock. When I finally found one, I hefted it into the air and, with one swift motion, brought it down on the lock. The lock stayed put, but the hook it was attached to snapped in two. The lock fell to the ground, and the door of the box swung open.
I breathed a sigh of relief and imagined I could hear Judge say, “Bully for you!”
The telegraph device itself was easy enough to use. Just press down on the metal transmitter bar and send out the message.
I started to telegraph my call for help:
Continental Express in trouble. Stop.
Dangerous criminal on board. Stop. Alert
authorities. Stop. Current location is
That’s as far as I got when I heard–Snap!
I looked up and cried out in frustration. The wire that was used to connect the telegraph box to the line above was now blowing loose in the breeze, hitting the back of the box with a mocking sound.
I’d been tapping out a message to no one.
A feeling of dread suddenly gripped me. I knew I had to find another telegraph box. And that meant I had to stumble farther away from the train into the darkness.
I gazed back toward the train with longing. It remained at a standstill about a hundred yards away. Warm squares of light spilled from its windows, making it appear as friendly and inviting as hot chocolate on a snowy day. But looks can be deceiving, I reminded myself.
Toughen up, Fitz, and get moving.
Before I could do anything, though, the moon emerged from behind the clouds and cast my shadow on the rocky ground along the tracks.
I gasped.
Next to mine there was another shadow. Someone was right behind me!
I bit back the urge to scream and slowly turned around.
Out of the darkness emerged a pale face. A face with a strange birthmark under the right eye. A mark rather like the shape of Asia.
I rubbed my eyes, thinking the vision would disappear, but the figure remained. It was Killian.
My brother!
He was reaching one hand out to me.
It can’t be you! You’re dead! I wanted to shout. But my tongue was frozen.
My head swam. I felt my knees give way. And then I fainted.
April 18, 1906 3:45 AM
When I woke up, I was on the train. The side of my head ached. It took me a minute to focus my thoughts. Of course. I must have hit my head on the ground when I fainted. I tried to rub it, but I couldn’t.
I was sitting in a chair in the Pinkerton’s laboratory, about two feet away from the door to the compartment. My arms and legs were tied with rope. There was a knot at my wrists, one at my ankles, and two more holding my back and lower legs to the chair.
The train rocked. We were moving again.
I opened my mouth to call for help, but then I thought better of it. What if the person who had tied me up was in the next compartment? Shouting out would alert him or her that I was awake.
The rope bit into my skin, and the knots tightened as I struggled against them.
Above it all, a thought pounded rhythmically in my head like a driving piston: Killian is alive! Killian is alive!
It had not been a dream. I had seen him. But what was he doing on this train?
And Judge! Where was she? Was she safe?
If I was going to answer any of these questions, I had to escape these ropes! With
as much energy as I could muster, I arched my back, pushing up and away from the back of the chair. But the rope refused to give.
Then I remembered my detective training: The more you struggle, the more the knots will tighten!
YOUR “KNOT HERE” GUIDE
A square knot will tighten when tension is put on it. It can be united, however, by grasping both sides of the knot and pulling them apart.
A slipknot grows smaller under strain, but can usually be united by pulling one end.
Thank goodness I kept this tip!
My eyes ran over the knots holding me captive. They looked like square knots. I desperately hoped I was right. If I started pulling on the wrong part of a knot, I could make matters worse.
Slowly I worked my hands back and forth, sliding the knot that held them up so it rested on my forearms. This freed my hands slightly, and my fingers were able to reach the knot. I was tempted to move quickly but knew jerking motions might only tighten the knot more.
“Don’t panic,” I told myself. “You have to take your time.”
Click.
I heard the sound of a key entering the lock on the other side of the door. My eyes went to the brass doorknob.
My body’s instincts screamed for me to thrash even harder against the ropes. But I forced myself to stay calm.
Focus your thoughts! Slow movement is the only way!
I heard the key turning in the lock. The doorknob started to turn–steady, steady.
I used my fingers to pull on one side of the knot, and my teeth to pull on the other. The square knot united. My hands slipped free! I started untying the knots that held my legs in place–
The door opened–just as I managed to climb to my feet, feeling woozy as the blood rushed to my head and darkened my vision. When my sight cleared a second later, I went into my defensive stance.
I was looking at the grim face of one of the top suspects. It was William Henry!
Madame Esme’s
ACADEMY OF SELF-DEFENSE
If your assailant is facing your and swinging with the right hand, take this defensive stance:
Feet pointing forward with right foot at a 45 degree angle from left.
Left leg bent at knee, right leg straight.
Plant feet firmly for a strong base.
Keep eyes open and on your opponent..
Swing your upper body backward, forward, or side-to-side to avoid oncoming blows.
If a blow cannot be avoided, block it by sweeping your right arm out and up.
Self-defense is about being prepared
But when he opened his mouth to speak, he didn’t let out an evil laugh like some criminal mastermind. Instead, he said, “You’re awake. Thank goodness.”
He sounded honestly glad to see that I was okay. Fine, he was not the poisoner. But I had a feeling he was the one who bound me to the chair.
“How dare you tie me up!” I shouted at him.
William Henry held out his long arms in an apologetic gesture. “We found you on the floor. You were unconscious. You stopped this train–illegally, I might add–and probably tampered with the telegraph system–once again, illegally. The train officials demanded that you be bound to the chair so you couldn’t do any more mischief. It was either that or put you back in the storage room.” Seeing my rage, he added, “I am sorry. Truly.”
“Where’s Judge?” I asked, unwilling to forgive him. He stared at me blankly. “Justine! Where is Miss Pinkerton?”
“With Dr. Freud and Teddy. She is out of danger and asleep. She survived both the cyanide and the amyl nitrate.…” William Henry’s voice trailed off. My cap must have fallen off when I fainted, and I could see his eyes finally taking in my long brown hair. The wheels of his brain turned, and then he said: “Hey! You’re a girl!”
I rolled my eyes. “Good detective work, inspector,” I said sarcastically. “Where are we?”
William Henry appeared slightly stunned that I wasn’t a boy. He replied, “On a train.”
“I know that.” I assumed my natural English accent. “But where is the train?”
“Just about to pull into San Francisco. Because of you, we’re arriving late. It’s 4:45 AM.”
I had thrown the train off schedule. In his mind, this was apparently one of the worst things a person could do.
He looked at me closely. “Who are you? Are you British?”
We didn’t have time for this. I said, “Let’s make a bargain. I’ll explain everything to you later, and you can ask your questions then. In the meantime–”
“We have a few other issues to deal with,” he said, finishing my sentence.
“Exactly. For instance, where is Agent Howard?”
“He’s gone. I can only guess that he came out of his coma. But he’s nowhere to be found! We’re afraid he might have fallen off the side of the train.”
“I must speak with Judge right away,” I demanded.
William Henry shook his head. “As I said, she’s safe but asleep. Dr. Freud doesn’t want anyone to disturb her.”
I was about to insist that we see Judge when William Henry said, “She was holding this when we found her. The only words she said before going to sleep were ‘Give it to Fitz.’”
He handed me a crumpled dollar bill. This must be what Judge had in her hand when she collapsed. I looked at it more closely. It had the same serial number as the bill I’d caught on the platform and the one I had reconstructed.
“Was she repaying a debt?” William Henry said.
“No,” I answered, remembering the way Judge had saved my life by pulling me back onto the train. “I’m the one who is in her debt.”
“Then what does the bill mean?” he asked. “Why was it so important that you get it?”
“Good questions,” I admitted. I thought back. The last time I had seen Judge before she was poisoned, she had just recovered from being struck by the mailbag and was running toward the front of the train, toward the baggage car.
Suddenly, this memory was replaced by the image of a little girl with pigtails tied in blood-red ribbon whining for me to wake up so that I could play with her in the baggage car.
The journal entry where the note had been left was about… the baggage car.
“Of course!” I shouted. “We have to get to the baggage car!”
I started toward the door, but William Henry stepped in front of me. “Look. I’ve just discovered that you’re not an American boy but an English girl. For all I know, you could be the poisoner. If you want me to let you go, you have to convince me there’s a good reason.” He pulled out his pocket watch and flipped it open. “You have thirty seconds, and then I’m going to tie you up again.” It was clear that he meant what he said.
I spoke quickly. “All right. I know it sounds crazy, but here’s what I think. Someone is smuggling counterfeit money to San Francisco. The money is in the baggage car.”
“Balloon juice,” he said. “How do you know that?”
“Because at least two of the three people who were poisoned had gone into the baggage car.”
“What are you talking about?”
“Both Judge and Asyla were in the baggage car at some point. Don’t you see? The dye used to make phony money contains cyanide. The money must have been printed recently, and some bills were still wet. I think Agent Howard was investigating the counterfeit money. That’s what the Secret Service does. I’ll bet he touched the wet bills, and his skin absorbed the cyanide dye.”
“So you’re saying he accidentally poisoned himself?” William Henry nodded, thinking it over. “But what about Asyla Notabe and Miss Pinkerton?”
“Simple,” I replied. “Asyla played in the baggage car and must have snooped in a bag holding the money. Judge must have discovered the bills when she was hiding there from the train officials. Everyone who comes in contact with large quantities of the fake money is poisoned. We have to hurry. Once we pull into San Francisco, the suspects will leave the train. They’ll be gone–”
“What suspects?” William Henry interrupted me. “If the poisonings were accidental as you say… then there are no suspects.”
“Of course there are!” I cried. “You’re forgetting about the counterfeit money. Someone is smuggling it on board this train. And if we don’t get to the baggage car before we reach San Francisco, we’ll never catch the criminal. You have to make a decision now, William Henry. There’s no time!”
William Henry gazed down at the watch in his hands. Doubt clouded his features as if he were asking himself, What if this timepiece doesn’t have all the answers?
After a moment, he snapped the watch closed and tucked it into his pocket.
He nodded at me and said with a lopsided grin, “Well, whoever you are, what are we waiting for? Let’s get to the baggage car!”
April 18, 1906
5:00 AM
If someone reads this journal in the future, they’ll discover a guide on what to do if he or she is riding on a train full of poisoned passengers and counterfeit money. But as William Henry and I raced toward the baggage car, no such guide existed–and I realized that even with all my training, nothing could truly prepare me for this unique and dangerous situation.
“Wait,” I whispered, and William Henry stopped just as he was about to open the door to the baggage car. “We can’t just barge in there. We don’t know who or what we’ll find inside.”
“So what do we do?” William Henry asked.
At that instant the train began to shriek in an eardrum-bursting way. It was braking. We were pulling into the station in San Francisco. We were almost out of time!
“What should we do?” I wondered out loud.
“Either we go in now or we’ll be too late,” a voice said from behind us.
Startled, I turned around to discover–
“Judge!” I cried–instantly glad the sound of the brakes covered my shout. I threw my arms around her.
