Lantern Sam and the Blue Streak Bandits by Michael D. Beil Page B

past. “Kitty!”
    “What?” Mother asked, but by the time she turned to look, Sam and I were long gone.

    Five minutes later Sam, Clarence, and I were standing in front of the compartment that had been occupied by the marble salesman. The hair down the center of Sam’s back still hadn’t settled into place, and his tail was three times its normal size.
    “A cane! Did you see the look in his eyes? He was trying to kill me! And on top of that, he insulted me and my family. Common alley cat, indeed. He is going to live to regret that, mark my words. If he so much as turns his back to me, I’m going to shred him into a pile of ribbon the size of the city dump in Erie. He messed with the wrong calico.”
    “Easy, Sam,” said Clarence. “Remember what they say about revenge.”
    “I think the Greek poet Homer said that it is sweeter than flowing honey.”
    “No, that’s not the quote I was referring to. ‘If you’re going to seek revenge, dig two graves.’ The second one is for yourself. Just be careful, Sam.” As he turned the key and opened the door, he nodded at James, who was still keeping watch.
    Once inside, Sam momentarily forgot his anger at Judge Ambrose and hopped up onto the seat.
“Something’s different. The first time we checked, what was in the ashtray?”
    “Two cigars, one cigarette,” I said.
    “Right. And now look: no cigarette butt. That’s been bugging me since the first time we were in here. It just didn’t fit. The salesman is a cigar smoker. Why would there be a cigarette butt in his ashtray?”
    “Maybe he had a visitor,” said Clarence. “Or maybe the porters forgot to clean the ashtray before we left New York.”
    “Possibly,”
said Sam.
“And if the butt were still there, I would probably accept either one of those as reasonable. But there is only one logical explanation for its
disappearance:
somebody on this train doesn’t want us to know that he—or she—was in here.”
    Clarence opened the door and asked James to join us inside the compartment. “Has anybody else been inside since I spoke to you?”
    “No, sir,” said James. “I’ve been keeping an eye on the door, just like you said.”
    Clarence thanked him and sent him back into the corridor.
    Sam clambered about the room, sniffing and sticking his nose into every corner.
“Mrrr. Did anyone else come in with Judge Ambrose when he made his so-called investigation? How about Reverend Dribble?”
    “Perfiddle,” Clarence corrected. “And no, it was just me and the judge, and I was with him the whole time … no, wait, I left him alone for a few seconds. There was a noise outside in the corridor, and I went out to make sure nothing was wrong.”
    “Where was Judge Giganticus when you came back in?”
Sam asked.
    Clarence closed his eyes for a moment, thinking. “He had his back to me … facing the window. And the ashtray. But why—”
    “Why would the judge, revered by all—especially his grocer—remove a crucial piece of evidence? Simple. He knows who smoked that cigarette.”

    I joined Mother and Jessica in the dining car a few minutes later, but I had a hard time focusing on the food in front of me. My eyes darted from table to table and my ears strained to listen to every conversation. In my mind, I kept replaying what Ellie first told me about recognizingthe two criminals on board the Shoreliner. Was I forgetting something? If only I’d asked more questions!
    “You’re awfully quiet tonight,” Mother remarked. “Is everything all right? I suppose you’re worried about that little girl. When I think about what her poor mother must be going through right now, I could cry.”
    “She’ll be okay … I think. I have a feeling.”
    “I hope you’re right. Now, how about your dinner? You seem more interested in what other people are eating and drinking than what’s on your own plate. Don’t you like it?”
    I looked down at my barely touched pork chop, fried potatoes, and applesauce.