Swindled!: The 1906 Journal of Fitz Morgan (13 page)

Then I tossed a five-cent coin attached to a piece of fishing line to the floor, making sure that the coin banged loudly off
the door of the Notabes’ compartment. It clattered to the hallway floor.

Leaving the coin in place, Judge and I continued down the hall. At the end of the car, we crouched against a wall to see if
Mrs. Notable took the bait.

For a long moment nothing happened. I was afraid our mission had failed. But then a hand wearing a black glove appeared through
the doorway of the Notabes’ compartment. The gloved fingers found the coin, but the tiny bit of glue we had used on it made
the coin hard to move. The fingers tried sliding the coin back toward the compartment, but it would not budge. Finally, the
hand disappeared back through the doorway. Seconds later it was back, but this time it was not wearing the glove.

I heard Judge take in a quiet breath of anticipation. Wait… wait… I told myself, thinking of my father who told me patience
is as important as a hook when it comes to fishing. “Want to end up with air for dinner?” he’d say. “Then just forget to pack
your patience when you go fishing.”

As Judge and I watched, the bare hand tried to pick up the coin, but the fingers only brushed along the coin’s surface.

Come on! I wanted to shout.

Finally, the index finger of the hand shot out–and we had what we had come for. The finger had pressed down firmly onto the
coin, giving it a solid fingerprint.

Yes! I imagined the fish closing its mouth around the hook. I yanked on the fishing line that was attached to the coin. The
coin jerked–and the hand suddenly smacked down on it, trying to keep it in place.

I pulled again, but still the coin was held by the weight of the hand.

This was not part of the plan! Judge and I should have been long gone by now with the fingerprint sample safely in our grasp.

Framed by long black hair, Rabella Notabe’s perfectly made-up face suddenly appeared around the corner of the compartment
door. Keeping her hand firmly on the coin, she leaned toward it.

As she moved her finger so that she could pick up the coin, I pulled the fishing line with all my might. The coin flew from
under her hand and shot toward us. I reached up and caught it in midair in my own gloved hand.

There was no time to celebrate. Mrs. Notabe raised her head and made eye contact with me. For one instant, she gave me a creepy
smile like a panther spotting its prey–and then she let out a shrill scream.

Instantly, doors opened and faces popped out of compartments. Judge and I were turning to flee when Mrs. Notabe screamed to
a porter, “Those two thieves stole from me!”

No! I wanted to shout. That’s not true!

But Judge and I panicked, and we didn’t stay to hear any more.

We had to get away as fast as we could. I could hear Judge’s feet pounding after me as we raced out of the car, with people
shouting at us to stop. If we could just find a hiding place and remove our disguises, we’d be safe.

Through the coach car, the dining car–where startled passengers looked up from their roast beef dinners–we raced toward the
front of the train. The car that housed the train employees was next–and we dodged around some workers who were sitting at
a table playing cards and some who were folding sheets at another.

We were running out of train cars! If we didn’t find someplace to remove our disguises soon, we would reach the locomotive,
the end of the line for us.

Finally, we reached the mail car. Basically, it’s a mobile post office. One wall is taken up with row after row of slots where
mail is sorted. Usually, three or four men are there, sorting the mail that’s been picked up along the route. But it was deserted
now.

The other wall has a long sliding door that was open to the cool night air. The door allows workers to reach down into the
net that catches the mailbags left for pickup along the side of the tracks.

For some reason, William Henry’s face popped in my head as we entered the car. It wasn’t a completely unpleasant image. But
I also heard his voice, and that was more upsetting.

“Mailbags are flying into the mail car faster than greased lightning. One man was hit by a bag and it snapped his wrist!”

We shouldn’t be in here.

“Judge! Wait!” I cried.

But I was too late.

Judge was two steps ahead of me. As she started to turn toward me, the train jerked, and there was a strange grinding sound.

Suddenly a 10-pound mailbag flew in from outside. The brown canvas bag knocked squarely into Judge and sent her sprawling.
The system was still malfunctioning!

As I rushed toward her, I heard the grinding sound again. Out of the corner of my eye, I saw a blur rushing at me. I barely
had time to throw myself backward before a mailbag rocketed between Judge and me. The net that is supposed to hold onto the
mailbags until a worker reaches in to retrieve them wasn’t doing its job. Instead, it was acting like a giant slingshot, plucking
the mailbags off poles and firing them into the car.

Judge and I looked at each other from across the car. Judge appeared winded and confused. She rubbed her side where the bag
had hit her, but she looked unhurt. Then she was on her feet, running for the other end of the car. “Come on!” she called
back to me as she ran from the mail car toward the baggage car.

But I wasn’t going anywhere. As another mailbag fired into the train, I realized I would be a fool to follow her. One of those
bags could kill me.

I took off the top hat and jacket, pulled my cap out of my pocket, and put it back on, then turned to face the music.

The door from the workers’ car slid open. The train officials, led by Mr. Spike, rushed into the mail car.

8:15 PM

Without a word, William Henry walked
me to the storage closet in the dining car. He opened the door and waved me in. The closet’s shelves were jammed with tablecloths,
napkins, canisters filled with wooden spoons–all the day-to-day things needed for the dining car to run smoothly.

There was barely room inside for the two of us, and William Henry’s clean, soapy smell filled the closet. He watched my eyes
traveling over items on the shelves and said, “We don’t keep any sharp objects in here, if that’s what you’re looking for.”

Who did he think I was? He was one of the suspects. I wasn’t!

I opened my mouth to defend myself, but he cut me off. “Mr. Spike ordered me to keep you in a safe location–”

“And do you always follow orders?” I snapped.

“When they make sense, yes, I do,” William Henry shot back. “Stealing from poor Mrs. Notabe at a time like this, with her
daughter just getting well. What were you thinking?”