Swindled!: The 1906 Journal of Fitz Morgan by Bill Doyle Page A

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