Read Online Swindled!: The 1906 Journal of Fitz Morgan by Bill Doyle - Free Book Online
Authors: Bill Doyle
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the MAINE part of the puzzle?
We stared at the board. Finally I said, “Okay. I have two questions we can answer,” and wrote them down. Then we took turns
writing down possible answers.
WHO ARE OUR SUSPECTS?
William Henry Moorie
Mrs. Rabella Notabe
WHAT ARE OUR CLUES?
broken teacup with fingerprint
dollar bill with fingerprint possibly counterfeit from station platform
singed remains of bill from fake cat
note left in journal
Agent Howard and Asyla Notabe both victims of poisoning
“We might be able to upgrade one of these two from suspect to criminal,” I said, pointing to the list of names. “And we have
the clues to do it.”
“How–?” Judge started to ask, and then answered her own question. “The fingerprints!”
We went to work.
I began comparing William Henry’s print to the one I had found on the broken teacup.
“Well…, ” I said, pulling back from the microscope and rubbing my eyes.
“Well what!” Judge yelled impatiently. “Is there a match?”
“Unfortunately, or I guess fortunately for William Henry, there’s no match,” I told her.
“What does that mean?” Judge asked.
“We cannot directly link William Henry to the crime. But we can’t take him off the list either.”
Judge thought for a moment. “And we can only say this about one of our suspects.”
I agreed. “Yes. We don’t have a fingerprint from Mrs. Notabe.”
“I’m not sure she is such a strong suspect,” Judge said. “Would she really poison her own daughter?”
I remembered the way Mrs. Notabe had screamed in panic while holding Asyla. “She did seem very upset about Asyla’s poisoning.
So I’d say the answer is no. She didn’t poison Asyla. But that doesn’t mean she didn’t poison Agent Howard.”
“There’s only one thing to be done,” Judge said. “We need to get Mrs. Notabe’s fingerprints to rule her out.”
“Or link her to the crime,” I added. “But she wears those long gloves all the time. Did you notice she didn’t even take them
off when she was holding Asyla after she’d just been poisoned?”
Even as I was talking, a plan was taking shape in my brain.
“There might be a way,” I said, eyeing Agent Howard’s fishing line. “But we’ll have to be crafty.”
“Which is right up your alley,” said Judge with a grin.
April 17, 1906
6:55 PM
The sun has set over the horizon, transforming the clouds into bright shades of purple. This beauty seems to be lost on most of the passengers, though. They
are not feeling lively. One thing I now know about train travel is that, after four nights, the endless rocking, the constant
shrieking of machinery, and the smell of food that’s no longer fresh all can take a serious toll on passengers.
Most of them had closed themselves up in their compartments or sat dozing in their seats.
I took all this in as Judge and I paused before stepping into the first-class car. I looked at the girl next to me. She had
dark hair and thick, heavy eyebrows. Blocky heels added nearly three inches to her height. The only splash of color came from
the purple beaded necklace she was wearing.
“My name is Maximillion Millions,” I told her. “And yours is Henrietta Gotgobs.”
Judge looked back at me through lids heavy with rich eye shadow, and her mouth seemed to twist under the weight of the lipstick.
“Exxxcellent!” she said in a long, drawn out, snooty manner, and I had to control a laugh.
Wearing makeup and clothes one of her cousins had left on the Pinkerton Pullman, over her own clothes, Judge looked and spoke
like a different person. I hoped I looked just as impressive, wearing the old brown suit jacket and black top hat we had found
in a closet. If things went wrong with my plan, I didn’t want Mrs. Notabe to know we were involved.
“Are you ready, Henrietta, for Operation Coin Grab?” I asked Judge, giving my voice a southern twang.
“Yes, dahling Maximillion,” she responded in her snobby accent.
We stared at the board. Finally I said, “Okay. I have two questions we can answer,” and wrote them down. Then we took turns
writing down possible answers.
WHO ARE OUR SUSPECTS?
William Henry Moorie
Mrs. Rabella Notabe
WHAT ARE OUR CLUES?
broken teacup with fingerprint
dollar bill with fingerprint possibly counterfeit from station platform
singed remains of bill from fake cat
note left in journal
Agent Howard and Asyla Notabe both victims of poisoning
“We might be able to upgrade one of these two from suspect to criminal,” I said, pointing to the list of names. “And we have
the clues to do it.”
“How–?” Judge started to ask, and then answered her own question. “The fingerprints!”
We went to work.
I began comparing William Henry’s print to the one I had found on the broken teacup.
“Well…, ” I said, pulling back from the microscope and rubbing my eyes.
“Well what!” Judge yelled impatiently. “Is there a match?”
“Unfortunately, or I guess fortunately for William Henry, there’s no match,” I told her.
“What does that mean?” Judge asked.
“We cannot directly link William Henry to the crime. But we can’t take him off the list either.”
Judge thought for a moment. “And we can only say this about one of our suspects.”
I agreed. “Yes. We don’t have a fingerprint from Mrs. Notabe.”
“I’m not sure she is such a strong suspect,” Judge said. “Would she really poison her own daughter?”
I remembered the way Mrs. Notabe had screamed in panic while holding Asyla. “She did seem very upset about Asyla’s poisoning.
So I’d say the answer is no. She didn’t poison Asyla. But that doesn’t mean she didn’t poison Agent Howard.”
“There’s only one thing to be done,” Judge said. “We need to get Mrs. Notabe’s fingerprints to rule her out.”
“Or link her to the crime,” I added. “But she wears those long gloves all the time. Did you notice she didn’t even take them
off when she was holding Asyla after she’d just been poisoned?”
Even as I was talking, a plan was taking shape in my brain.
“There might be a way,” I said, eyeing Agent Howard’s fishing line. “But we’ll have to be crafty.”
“Which is right up your alley,” said Judge with a grin.
April 17, 1906
6:55 PM
The sun has set over the horizon, transforming the clouds into bright shades of purple. This beauty seems to be lost on most of the passengers, though. They
are not feeling lively. One thing I now know about train travel is that, after four nights, the endless rocking, the constant
shrieking of machinery, and the smell of food that’s no longer fresh all can take a serious toll on passengers.
Most of them had closed themselves up in their compartments or sat dozing in their seats.
I took all this in as Judge and I paused before stepping into the first-class car. I looked at the girl next to me. She had
dark hair and thick, heavy eyebrows. Blocky heels added nearly three inches to her height. The only splash of color came from
the purple beaded necklace she was wearing.
“My name is Maximillion Millions,” I told her. “And yours is Henrietta Gotgobs.”
Judge looked back at me through lids heavy with rich eye shadow, and her mouth seemed to twist under the weight of the lipstick.
“Exxxcellent!” she said in a long, drawn out, snooty manner, and I had to control a laugh.
Wearing makeup and clothes one of her cousins had left on the Pinkerton Pullman, over her own clothes, Judge looked and spoke
like a different person. I hoped I looked just as impressive, wearing the old brown suit jacket and black top hat we had found
in a closet. If things went wrong with my plan, I didn’t want Mrs. Notabe to know we were involved.
“Are you ready, Henrietta, for Operation Coin Grab?” I asked Judge, giving my voice a southern twang.
“Yes, dahling Maximillion,” she responded in her snobby accent.
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