Dedication
For William Picchioni
Contents
Cover
Title Page
Dedication
Prologue
Part I
1. The Age of Invention: New York City, 1883
2. Dreams Take Flight
3. Great Moments in Bad Ideas
4. Entering and Breaking
5. An Alarming Coincidence
6. The Dastardly Plot
7. Peppers in a Pickle
8. Extra! Extra!
9. Return to the Palace of Wonders
10. Molly’s Archnemesis
11. The Mysterious Package
12. The Hidden Laboratory
13. Taken!
14. International Woman of Mystery
15. The Story of Emmett Lee
16. Goodbye, Pickle Shop
17. Playing with Fire
18. Masks!
19. Rocket’s Red Glare
20. Assassins!
21. Accusations!
Part II
22. Nowhere to Turn
23. An Unexpected Guest
24. Bad News
25. The Letter
26. Den of Thieves
27. The Bandit King
28. Chained!
29. Meet the Wizard
30. Mothers’ Little Helpers
31. Hero’s Tribute
32. A Face in the Crowd
Part III
33. Queen of the Orphans
34. The Great Train Rescue
35. Lab Break-In No3 (or Is It No4?)
36. Ghost Sightings
37. Transformation!
38. Sunken Hopes
39. Enemies at the Gate
40. The World Awaits!
41. On Top of the World
42. The Main Event
43. Help from Above
44. Showdown!
45. History Is Written by the Victors
Afterword: What’s Real and What’s Not in ‘A Dastardly Plot’
Acknowledgments
About the Author
Back Ad
Copyright
About the Publisher
Prologue
* * *
Uncovering the Mysteries of the Inventors’ Guild
A New York Sun Exclusive
by Sherwin St. Smithens, high society and technology columnist
NEW YORK—Towering marble columns, golden-wreathed windows, chubby naked angel babies tootling on trumpets overhead: Where could we be, loyal readers, but the world-famous Inventors’ Guild Hall right here on Manhattan’s Madison Square? This is a building so grand, I couldn’t fault an unwitting tourist for thinking it a palace or cathedral. And it might as well be! Because this, ladies and gentlemen, is where our national treasures, the magnificent men of the Inventors’ Guild, put their stylishly coiffed heads together to work mechanical miracles daily—men like George Eastman, who crafts photographic cameras small enough to be held in human hands, and Alexander Graham Bell, whose incredible “telephone” allows us to carry on conversations with folks all the way on the other side of Manhattan Island. These are giants among men who harness the raw powers of combustion, steam, and electricity to serve up tidbits of the future as easily as if they were tiny cheese cubes on a cocktail platter. Remember when, only a short time ago, women had to sew shirts by hand and the only way a man could open a can of soup was by stabbing it with a screwdriver? This reporter certainly doesn’t. Because I’m too busy living in our modern Age of Wonders! And we have the men of the Guild to thank for it.
It’s no wonder that every journalist in the country has been clamoring for a sneak peek behind the scenes at the Guild Hall. But it certainly is quite a feat for this reporter to have nabbed just such an exclusive tour. How did I manage it? I’ll never tell. But you, lucky readers, get to join me in my walk among the intellectual elite! Shall we?
My host, Guild clerk Oswald Lemmington, meets me on the steps outside the hall and ushers me in. Our first stop: the clockwork carnival that is the hall’s Grand Entry Chamber. It is truly a sight to behold. But it’s open to the public, so I’m not going to waste precious space talking about it here. Get down to the hall and see it for yourself! No, the second floor is where the real action is. So what are we waiting for, Lemmington! Take us up that gilded staircase!
When I step from that upper landing into the winding, gorgeously wallpapered upper-level corridors, I feel as though I’ve wandered into the digestive tract of a snake, a big beautiful snake that eats geniuses—because they are everywhere! Brash, bold men of science pop in and out of offices trading witty banter about fuses and batteries. The atmosphere is electric!
And speaking of electricity, why, there’s Mr. Thomas Edison himself, co-chair of the Guild and the man who gave us the light bulb! Thank you, Mr. Edison! Now I can see in the dark without a candle flame lighting my ascot on fire!
And who do we see chatting with Edison? Why, it’s none other than our swankiest president, Chester A. Arthur, clad in a fur-collared coat that would make Alice Vanderbilt blush. Now, if you are wondering what the president of the United States is doing at the Inventors’ Guild, well, you haven’t been reading my column! President Arthur has positioned himself as the Innovation President. A powerful friend to the Guild, this style icon is determined to unite the powers of government and technology to make America the most advanced nation on Earth. There is far more to Chester A. Arthur than just the country’s most envied sideburns. Perhaps that is why his nickname around the Guild is President Dream-Maker! (And perhaps that is why Thomas Edison has hinted at a run for office of his own.)
So here I am, dear readers, already feeling like I’ve struck gold with sightings of both Thomas Edison and President Arthur, when who should pop in from across the hall but Edison’s co-chair, Alexander Graham Bell. Turns out this trio of titans needs to discuss the marching order for the Brooklyn Bridge dedication parade. All three will be on hand as, in a few days, New York celebrates the opening of the world’s longest bridge with a spectacular fireworks show.
While the three pose for some photographs, I try to get them to spill some tantalizing secrets about the upcoming Event of the Century: the 1883 World’s Fair & Cultural Exhibition. When the Fair opens its gates on May 30 in Central Park, the miracle makers of the Inventors’ Guild will be the stars of the show. It was the Guild, of course, that was instrumental in bringing this global celebration to New York City (thereby fulfilling the lifelong dream of the late, great Guild founder, Johann Rector). So, while the Fair will be home to pavilions and showcases from forty different nations, “Inventors’ Alley” is sure to be the hotspot of the entire affair. Where else can you see fifty of the globe’s finest minds demonstrating their latest creations? And don’t forget the big lighting ceremony at 6:00 p.m. on opening night, when Thomas Edison will officially flip the switch on his new citywide power grid and turn this World’s Fair into a day-and-night event. World’s Fair? More like World’s Amazing!
Sadly, Edison, Bell, and Arthur are all mum about the Fair—don’t want to spoil the surprise and all that. And, believe me, I understand. No need to school this reporter on the need for a little drama! Enough about next week anyway—let’s talk about now! After all, we have so many more geniuses to meet.
We move down the hall and there’s James Ritty, who is revolutionizing retail shopping with his “cash registers.” And there’s Levi Strauss, who is revolutionizing the art of pants-wearing with his “blue jeans.” And now we come to Serbian heartthrob Nikola Tesla, who greets us with a fork that is literally shooting lightning from its tines. What is it for? This reporter couldn’t begin to guess. But we have no doubt it will soon change the world. For this is the age in
which we live—when any one person’s blip of ingenuity can fuel the spark that changes history.
And look who’s in the next office—it’s Byron Edgerton, showing off his solid gold necktie and ruby-buckled (continued on p. 6)
* * *
Part I
1
The Age of Invention
New York City, 1883
IT WASN’T EASY, being the child of a genius inventor. There was the rooting through trash bins to find scrap metal, the misplaced wrenches winding up under your pillow, the constant cleaning of spilled pickle juice. But the job certainly had its perks too, such as front row seats to the moment your mother changed the world. For newly twelve-year-old Molly Pepper, that last bit was going to happen in exactly eight days. And everything she’d sacrificed would finally pay off.
One week from tomorrow, the World’s Fair would open its gates and Cassandra Pepper would present her Icarus Chariot—the very first personal flying machine—to the public. A hundred thousand people would crane their necks to see Molly and Cassandra soar among the clouds overhead. The crowd would be so awestruck they’d need medical assistance just to get their jaws shut again (and Cassandra could no doubt invent a Mechanical Mandible Clamper to do just that).
Molly wished she could’ve been there for the Icarus Chariot’s maiden flight, but, for the sake of secrecy, her mother had insisted upon a late-night test, and after a long day of sanding boards and fetching tools, Molly had dozed off before the big moment. She only learned of her mother’s historic achievement when Cassandra woke her up, yelling, “Molls! Molls! Guess what? Mr. Tortellini has a chicken living in his apartment upstairs! Oh, and the Icarus Chariot works. That’s how I saw into Mr. Tortellini’s apartment.”
There was no way Molly was going to miss it tomorrow, though, when her mother demonstrated her flying machine before the World’s Fair Planning & Preparatory Committee. Until then, her main focus was putting finishing touches on the Icarus Chariot. The vehicle might have been ready to take to the air, but it was not ready to take to the Fair. To put it bluntly, it looked like trash. Which was mostly what it was made from.
The Peppers didn’t have piles of cash to spend on building supplies, so all of Cassandra’s creations were constructed from secondhand parts. Cassandra never fretted about how her inventions looked: “If it works, it works,” she’d say. And while Molly agreed in theory, she was also savvy enough to know that a sleek, freshly painted flying machine would earn more admirers than a mildewed, splintery one with anchovy labels still stuck to its rudder. It was to that end that the Peppers began clearing space in Cassandra’s workshop. Which also happened to be a pickle store.
For the most part, Pepper’s Pickles looked like any of the other specialty food establishments along the bustling thoroughfare that was Thompson Street. Upon entering, customers would see barrels of fermenting cucumbers and a wooden counter stacked with murky jars of dill spears. They would smell a tang in the air from the canisters of salt and flasks of vinegar crammed onto shelves. But few took note of the tall folding screen that protected the rear half of the store from prying eyes.
If a customer were to peek behind that screen, however—which none did without feeling the sting of a shot from Molly’s Thimble Cannon—they would see a long worktable littered with springs, screws, bolts, gears, and tools of every type. And they’d see two thin beds, a stovetop, and a clothesline drooping with damp bloomers. Because the Peppers also lived in their pickle shop.
Most of Cassandra’s inventions—like the Self-Propelled Mop, the Quick-Crank Corn De-Cobber, and the Astounding Automated Secretary, to name a few—were small enough to stow under and among the furniture. The Icarus Chariot, however, was her greatest work in more ways than one. It didn’t fit behind the screen. Normally, they stored it in pieces, but in order to assemble it for painting, varnishing, and (if Molly had her way) a little glittering, they would need use of the full store space.
Cassandra bolted the door and began moving heavy jars of garlic dills from the counter to the floor. “As long as the pickles are safely behind the counter,” she assured her daughter, “I think we can avoid another incident.”
“Good thinking,” Molly said. “And I’ll handle the windows.” Floor-to-ceiling shop windows might be good for luring in hungry customers, but they didn’t do much for privacy. Molly stuffed five sticks of licorice gum in her mouth and began chewing as she grabbed the pile of New York Suns that sat on a barrel of brine. She’d been collecting newspapers for weeks, trading defective pickles to the newsboy down on Bleecker Street in exchange for day-old copies. She’d already read every article, but far be it from the Peppers to use something only once. Molly held the clump of gum between her crooked front teeth, pulled away a fingertip’s worth, and stuck the dark goop onto the glass. She then peeled the front page from the top copy of the Sun and smushed it—voilà!—onto the gum. One twelve-by-twenty-inch section of window was successfully covered. Twenty or so more and they’d have all the privacy they needed.
While Molly continued her chewing, spitting, and sticking, her mother hummed “Polly Wolly Doodle” and dragged the preconstructed segments of her flying machine from the rear of the store. The more of the window Molly covered, the dimmer it got, so she struck a match and lit one of their oil lamps.
By the flickering lamplight, Molly scanned the headlines she’d pasted up. Almost all of them were about inventors. But not just any inventors—the members of the illustrious Inventors’ Guild.
IS HYATT’S “PLASTIC” REALLY BETTER THAN STEEL?
EASTMAN TO AMERICA: ANYONE CAN BE A PHOTOGRAPHER
WILL SERBIAN UPSTART TESLA OUTDO EDISON WITH HIS HANDHELD GENERATORS?
Molly huffed. Even if she couldn’t deny her fascination with these modern-day Merlins who were using their magic to shape the future, she still held a grudge against the Guild. She had lost count of the number of times Cassandra had taken one of her brilliant creations to the grand Guild Hall, only to be turned away because of the Guild’s longstanding rule against admitting women.
Molly had hoped for a change after the Guild’s founder, coal magnate Johann Rector, passed away. A big deal had been made of the Guild’s leadership being taken over by two of its most famous members: Thomas Alva Edison and Alexander Graham Bell. Bell, the mild-mannered Scotsman, had transformed the field of communication with his telephone. And Edison, always the dapper showman, had given the world the electric light bulb. And the phonograph. And the kinetoscope motion picture viewer. And about a thousand other things. From his lab across the river in Menlo Park, New Jersey, Edison pumped out inventions on a weekly basis. (Nearly as many as Cassandra.) Together, Edison and Bell had promised to “lead the Guild in bold new directions!”
But that was two years ago, and the Guild’s roster didn’t look much different than it had before.
Adding to Molly’s anger was that the Inventors’ Guild had come incredibly close to stealing Cassandra Pepper’s chance to enter the World’s Fair. Six months earlier, on the very first day the Planning & Preparatory Committee was to accept applications for exhibition spaces in the Fair’s Inventors’ Alley, the Peppers woke at 5:00 a.m. to ensure they’d be at the head of the queue. They were told, however, that the Guild had already scooped up every single slot for its members. The Guild, it seemed, had been instrumental in bringing the World’s Fair to New York, so they got first pick at, well, everything. The best Cassandra could do was put her name on the waiting list and hope that some Guildsman would drop out. But what inventor worth his monkey wrench would give up a shot at the World’s Fair?
And then, just yesterday, the postman delivered a gift from on high—a letter from the P&P Committee informing Cassandra that one of the Guildsmen had fallen into a vat of shellac! Unfortunate for him, yes, but great for the Peppers; Cassandra was formally invited to present her work for consideration. It wasn’t a done deal yet, but Molly knew that once the planners saw her mother’s flying machine—not to mention all
her other astonishing inventions—that exhibition slot was as good as hers.
“I love what you’ve done with the place, Molls,” Cassandra said, looking at the windows. “I’d consider keeping it like this, but I can’t imagine those gum wads look very appetizing from outside.”
“No matter,” said Molly. “We won’t need the pickle business come next week when we’re living off flying-machine money!”
“Can’t argue with that. Now, let’s get these clothes off and get to work.” An added bonus of covering the windows was that the Peppers could safely shed their long, stiff, black dresses. Fastened with a line of buttons that ran from chin to ankle, the dresses barely allowed for bending at the waist, let alone crouching to tighten a bolt on the underside of an experimental aircraft. The feminine wardrobe, Cassandra often said, was not designed for engineering.
Molly watched as her mother, in her one-piece, full-body bloomers, began clamping canvas-covered wings to the old rowboat that made up the body of her flying machine. She didn’t mind having to help her mother show off her inventions at the World’s Fair—so long as it didn’t mean she had to miss out on seeing all the other amazing exhibits there.
“So, I know we’ll be busy at our booth,” Molly said, “but can we still ride the Ferris Wheel?”
“Absolutely!” Cassandra said cheerfully. “What’s a Ferris Wheel?”
“It’s a big wheel,” Molly said. “Built by some guy named Ferris.”
“And people can ride on it?”
“So they say,” Molly replied.
“In that case, we wouldn’t dare miss it.” Cassandra began strapping wooden chairs to a mast in the center of the boat.
“Ooh, and can we try some candy corn? It’s a new sugary treat they’re gonna have at the Fair.”
“That’s always been the problem with candy: not enough vegetables involved. Put us down for two buckets’ worth.” Cassandra hammered a foot pedal into its slot.
“Oh,” Molly continued. “And we’re definitely going to see the lighting ceremony on opening night, right?”
A Dastardly Plot Page 1