Storm scanned the e-mail. “It’s an exact match with the wording on all the ones Professor Hingleburt and his associates say they’ve found.”
Uncle Richie clapped Beck and me on our shoulders. “Well done, you two. Well done, indeed!”
“Chya,” said Tommy. “You two totally cracked this case wide open.”
Storm nodded. “We may not have found the stolen art masterpieces, but we may have uncovered an even more important truth about Professor Hingleburt and his threat to all that America stands for!”
“We need to tell Mom and Dad!” I blurted.
“The sooner the better,” said Uncle Richie.
“I’ve got bars on my phone,” said Tommy. “We can video call them now!”
Tommy tapped in Mom’s phone number.
She didn’t answer.
“That’s weird.”
So, he tapped in Dad’s number.
He didn’t answer, either.
“Hmm,” said Tommy. “You think they like blocked my number?”
“Try Mom again,” I suggested.
Tommy did.
This time, she answered.
“Sorry, Tommy,” she said with a whisper. “We really can’t talk right now. We’re at a lecture. Professor Hingleburt found another ‘original’ Bill of Rights.”
She swung her phone around so we could see Professor Hingleburt standing at the podium in a college lecture hall. The place was packed with reporters, scholars, and dignified-looking people who were probably senators or cabinet secretaries.
“And so,” said Professor Hingleburt, “with the discovery of these four original, authentic, parchment copies of the Bill of Rights, including the one my associate Nathan Collier and his treasure-hunting team retrieved from England just this morning, we must question the legitimacy of the so-called Bill of Rights currently on display at the National Archives. That same list of lies has been published in countless textbooks for two hundred years. Those so-called ‘freedoms’ are part of a vast, centuries-old conspiracy to warp our founding fathers’ original intentions to secure law and order instead of chaos!”
Some people in the audience booed.
Professor Hingleburt grinned. “Oh. I see that the conspiracy to divert America from its true course is still alive and well today here in our nation’s capital. Well, boo all you want, ladies and gentlemen. That will not deter me from speaking the truth!”
He waved a document in the air.
“Read the real Bill of Rights. The real one. Freedom was never meant to be the core value of America. Order and discipline and restraint were what the founding fathers had in mind. Long live efficiency and self-control!”
CHAPTER 52
“We need to take whatever evidence we can gather to Washington, immediately!” said Uncle Richie, pointing his finger triumphantly to the ceiling.
He looked like Teddy Roosevelt leading his rough riders up San Juan Hill.
“We have work to do, children. For freedom is not a gift which can be enjoyed save by those who show themselves worthy of it!”
Now he sounded like Teddy Roosevelt, because I’m pretty sure that last bit was a direct quote.
“That was a line from a speech President Theodore Roosevelt made at Gettysburg in 1904,” said Storm. (Nailed it.)
“Bully for you, Storm! Abraham Lincoln wasn’t the only president to give a Gettysburg Address, where so many died to set men free. But enough with the speechifying—there is work to be done. Bick, Beck? Pack up the parchment, the e-mail, and the quill pen. Tommy and Storm? Roll up a few of those forged paintings.”
“You think it will be enough proof to debunk that nutty professor’s claims?” I asked.
“I wish we had more, Bick,” Uncle Richie said with a sigh. “Some direct link between Hingleburt and La Brosse. But, for now, these items will have to suffice. If we are fortunate, perhaps other evidence shall fall into our hands. But, remember, fortune favors the bold. So, let us boldly go to Washington.”
Tommy raised his hand.
“Yes, Tommy?”
“How are we going to get there?”
“The train!” cried Uncle Richie.
“There’s an Amtrak Acela Express leaving Philadelphia’s 30th Street Station at four eighteen,” said Storm, who, I guess, memorizes train schedules in her spare time. “Arriving in Washington’s Union Station at six oh four.”
“Bully!” cried Uncle Richie. “We need to be on that train.”
We packed up all the proof we could—including three copies of the Vermeer—grabbed a cab to the Philadelphia train station, and hopped on the train.
As the Acela Express rumbled south through Wilmington, Delaware and Baltimore, Maryland, my stomach started to rumble.
“I’m kind of hungry,” I announced.
“Me, too,” said Tommy.
“Well then,” said Uncle Richie, “as a refined world traveler, allow me to make a recommendation: the hot dogs in the Amtrak cafe car are some of the finest on the planet. I suggest you accompany them with mustard, relish, and a bag of salty chips.” He kissed his thumb and forefinger—the way fancy chefs do. “Magnifique!”
“Sounds great,” I said, standing up. “You guys want anything?”
“Bring me one dog with everything on it!” said Uncle Richie.
Storm and Beck weren’t interested in hot dogs. But they did get into a conversation about whether a hot dog is a sandwich. (It’s one of the greatest unanswerable questions of all time, by the way.)
Tommy and I made our way between cars, moving toward the center of the train where the food car was located. We had to pass through the quiet car (where nobody talked; not even on their phones) and a pair of noisy cars (where everybody talked; especially on their phones).
Finally, we stepped through a whooshing door and entered the cafe car. There was a line at the counter and several people seated on stools at a long bar, eating food out of cardboard containers.
“Hello, Tommy. Bickford.”
One of those diners knew who we were.
And we definitely knew who she was, too: trouble!
CHAPTER 53
It was Pamela Johnston!
The lady who ran the airfield out in California, the one Tommy fell in love with, the one who had major league contacts with the Enlightened Ones. The same lady who wanted one third of the E-1’s twenty-million-dollar reward for the long-lost Vermeer painting, The Concert.
“You found it, didn’t you, Tommy?” she said with a flirty smile.
“Maybe,” said Tommy.
Tommy was tailspinning again. I could tell. He was wiggling his eyebrows up and down. I think, with him, it’s a reflex. Whenever a pretty girl smiles at him, something kicks in and he forgets everything except how to operate his eyebrows.
“And now,” Ms. Johnston continued, her voice purring like a contented cat, “you’re transporting the… package… down to Washington so your mother can authenticate it. Aren’t you?”
“Maybe,” said Tommy, trying to lean casually with one hand against the counter so he could look suave and cool. It didn’t work. The train was bouncing and so was Tommy.
Ms. Johnston smiled some more. “What a waste of time.” She gestured at a skinny man seated next to her. “My friend here, Antoine, is an art expert.”
“I am,” said Antoine through his nose, which was even skinnier than the rest of his body.
“Antoine would happily authenticate the piece for us.”
“I would. Happily.”
“What makes you think we found anything?” I asked, trying my best to sound tough.
“I have friends everywhere,” said Ms. Johnston. “Including two elderly members of the Phinnister Club in Philadelphia.”
“And who are these two dudes?” asked Tommy, gesturing toward Ms. Johnston’s other traveling companions. They were muscular and thuggish-looking.
“Oh, they’re just friends of my other friends,” said Ms. Johnston. “You know: the ones who are very enli
ghtened.”
“Only we ain’t so enlightened,” said one of the goons, cracking and popping his knuckles.
“And we don’t know nothin’ about art,” said the other, cracking and popping his neck.
“But,” said Ms. Johnston, “like all of us, they know what they like.”
“Oh, yeah?” I said, trying to sound tough. “And what’s that?”
Ms. Johnston smiled. “One third of twenty million dollars, of course.”
The biggest of the big goons slipped a hand into his jacket, like he was reaching for a concealed weapon.
“Where’s the Vermeer, boys?” he sneered. “Time to turn it over to the grown-ups.”
I looked to Tommy. “Tommy?”
“Yeah,” he said.
And we both took off running.
CHAPTER 54
We dashed through the whooshing glass doors between cars just as the train conductor announced, “Union Station, Washington is our next stop.”
“We can lose them in the train station!” I said over my shoulder to Tommy.
“Chya. If they don’t catch us on the train first!”
We felt hot air rush up behind us. The two goons had just whooshed through the same sliding doors we did.
Tommy and I danced up the aisle as best we could. The train was rocking and rolling as it rounded curves. We scooted around a big guy hauling his ginormous rolling suitcase out of the overhead bin. He created an excellent blockade!
“Get out of the aisle, pal!” shouted one of the goons when they couldn’t get past the man with suitcase.
“I’m getting off at the next stop,” said the man.
“Well how about you get out of our way now!” grunted the other goon as he shoved the rolling bag forward. The businessman pushed back. The goons pushed harder. And the next time I looked over my shoulder, the businessman was sitting on top of his suitcase, rolling up the aisle like he was riding in a little red wagon.
Tommy and I barged into the quiet car.
“We need to warn—” Tommy said, before three dozen angry travelers shushed him.
“Sorry,” I whispered.
I got shushed, too. I guess even a whisper is too loud for the quiet car.
So, Tommy and I tiptoed as quietly as we could up the aisle. The train started to slow.
“Now arriving Union Station,” said the conductor. “Final stop on this train. Union Station.”
A door slid open. The two thugs burst into the quiet car. They saw us!
“There they—”
“SHUSH!” said all the quiet car passengers (very loudly).
“Sorry,” said one of the goons. Now they were tiptoeing up the aisle, too. Have you ever seen hippos do ballet? It looked like that.
Fortunately, all of the quiet car passengers were getting up out of their seats as the train slowed and we pulled into Union Station. The aisle was crowded with people and suitcases. The two goons were blocked. And they couldn’t yell at anybody because, I guess, even goons respect the rules of the quiet car.
Tommy and I made it into the next car.
“We have company,” I said to Uncle Richie, Beck, and Storm. “Pamela Johnston and some thugs who work for the Enlightened Ones.”
“What does she want?” asked Beck.
“Probably to get back together with me,” said Tommy.
“Or the Vermeer,” I said. “They know we found something in Philadelphia. Those two old geezers playing war were ‘friends’ of Ms. Johnston.”
“What should we do?” asked Beck.
“Give them the painting,” said Storm.
“Huh?” said Beck. “It’s a fake.”
“Which means we didn’t find what the Enlightened Ones were looking for. They will lose interest in us and we’ll be able to continue on our true mission unimpeded.”
“Does that mean we can do it without anybody messing with us?” asked Tommy.
“Indubitably,” said Uncle Richie. “Which, of course, means, ‘yes.’”
Tommy nodded. “Cool. Storm? You’re a genius.”
“Thank you, Tommy.”
“Come on,” said Uncle Richie. “Let’s go give the Enlightened Ones a phony Vermeer so we can also give them the slip!”
CHAPTER 55
We calmly stepped onto the platform at Union Station.
The two goons shoved and tumbled their way out of the quiet car. Ms. Johnston and Antoine, the art appraiser, briskly exited the cafe car.
“Hey, guys!” I said with a wave and a whistle. “We’re over here.”
The two heavies barreled through the crowd of Amtrak passengers.
“Take it easy,” said Storm. “We’re not going anywhere.”
“Good for you, Storm,” said Ms. Johnston as she and her art appraiser hurried over to where we were standing. “I always said you were the smartest member of the Kidd family.”
“Well, duh,” said Tommy. “Everybody says that. Even me.”
“Hello again, Pamela,” said Uncle Richie.
She nodded. “Poppie. Oh, I suppose I shouldn’t call you that anymore.”
“Correct,” said Uncle Richie. “But we do have a business agreement. Beck? Would you kindly hand over the Vermeer we discovered in Philadelphia to Ms. Johnston?”
“Sure.” Beck unzipped her backpack pulled out a rolled-up tube of canvas.
Ms. Johnston and her art appraiser, Antoine, both looked shocked.
“You carried the most valuable missing painting in the world like… like that?” stammered Ms. Johnston.
Antoine clutched his chest and hyperventilated. “Oh, my…”
“Don’t worry,” said Beck. “My backpack is waterproof. Here you go.”
She tossed the canvas to Ms. Johnston.
Ms. Johnston nearly fainted but snagged the rolled-up tube before it hit the ground.
“Careful, careful,” coached Antoine as Ms. Johnston unscrolled the painting. “Let me examine it.”
He put on a pair of glasses with weird magnifying lenses as he bent down to inspect the long-missing masterpiece.
“Marvelous,” he said. “Simply marvelous. Look at those masterful brushstrokes. The purity of light and form conveying a timeless sense of dignity.”
I looked at Beck. That’s exactly what she’d said when she first saw the painting!
Beck just shrugged.
“I am one hundred percent certain that this is the missing Vermeer!” Antoine announced.
“Well done, Richie,” said Ms. Johnston. “But since you tried to weasel out of our deal, we’re changing that deal.”
“You get one third,” said the biggest goon. “Pam here gets one half. And we get the other third.”
Apparently, math and/or fractions weren’t the guy’s top talents.
“Fine,” said Uncle Richie. “That seems fair.”
“Here is your cut,” said Ms. Johnston, handing Uncle Richie a gym bag.
He quickly unzipped it. I took a peek. The thing was stuffed with hundred-and thousand-dollar bills.
“Is that six million, six hundred and sixty-six thousand, six hundred and sixty-six dollars?” asked Storm.
“Yes,” said Ms. Johnston, handing Storm two quarters, a dime, a nickel, and a penny. “And here’s the missing sixty-six cents.”
“You really should’ve rounded that up to sixty-seven…”
Ms. Johnston smirked. “Maybe next time. Come along, gentlemen. We are expected at a certain top-secret art museum!”
“Is it hidden in a volcano?” I asked. “That’s where super villains usually have their lairs…”
Ms. Johnston ignored me and walked away. When she and her cronies were off the platform and in the station, Uncle Richie shook his head.
“This is bad,” he said.
“Uh, how so?” said Tommy. “We just got nearly seven million dollars for a phony painting.”
“Which we will, of course, donate to charity,” said Uncle Richie.
“We will?” I said.
“Ill-gotten gains, Bick. Ill-gotten gains.”
“I guess, but…”
Uncle Richie cut me off. “What worries me most is how a world-renowned expert such as this Mr. Antoine, who appraises art for the Enlightened Ones, could be so easily fooled by La Brosse’s masterly technique.”
“The lady’s good,” said Beck. “I thought the Vermeer was real when I first saw it, too.”
“Exactly. La Brosse is a master craftsperson. Many will be fooled by her Bill of Rights forgery, too. Many already have been.”
“That’s why you young whippersnappers need to dig a little deeper!” said an old man in a navy-blue windbreaker and baseball cap.
“Gus?” said Uncle Richie.
“That’s right, Poppie. How’s your gin rummy game?”
Uncle Richie laughed. “Not much better than the last time you beat me, Gus. Allow me to introduce my great-nieces and -nephews.”
“We’ve already met,” said Gus.
“We have?” I said.
“Yes,” said Storm, because, don’t forget, she has that photographic memory. “You’re Gus. The semi-retired park ranger who yelled at us when we were on the lawn surrounding the Washington Monument. I believe you called us ‘four young hooligans.’”
“Sorry, about that,” said Gus. “But I didn’t know who you were.”
“But now,” said a young woman who’d mysteriously appeared on the platform when we weren’t looking, “we do.”
It was Rachel.
The park ranger who had given us her business card. The one Tommy kept close to his heart.
CHAPTER 56
We found a hidden room in the basement of Union Station that only Rachel and Gus knew about.
“You guys know all sorts of DC secrets, don’t you?” I said, remembering how Rachel’s riddle led us to the miniature Washington Monument in the grass surrounding the real deal.
All-American Adventure Page 12
