A Dastardly Plot

by Christopher Healy

  “What was it?” Molly scrambled to the package.

  “Aheadinthebox! Aheadinthebox!” Emmett cried.

  “What’s ahead in the box?” Molly asked. She lifted the package to her eye.

  “There’s. A. Head. In the box,” Emmett repeated.

  “GAH!” Molly tossed the package to the ground and leapt away from it. “There was an eye!” she screamed. “An eye eye-to-eye with my eye!”

  “I know!” Emmett shouted back. “I just did the same thing!”

  “Wow, a head.” Molly shuddered. “Maybe Bell is sewing corpse parts together to make some kind of monster, like the doctor in that book, Frankenstein. Maybe the plan didn’t say ‘death machine,’ maybe it said . . . ‘dead macramé.’”

  But Emmett wasn’t listening. He pulled at his own hair and kicked a barrel angrily. “Unbelievable! Can’t I just once get a job from someone who’s not a criminal? What am I going to do now?”

  “Take that box to the police,” Molly said. “If he’s cutting off people’s heads and sending them around in boxes, it doesn’t even matter what he’s got planned for the Fair.”

  “I’m not touching that thing again,” Emmett said. “And I can’t risk the police anyway. You take it.”

  “I can’t go to the police,” Molly said. “I’m a burglar! And we have no way to prove the head came from Bell. He’d just deny it. Who are the cops gonna believe? Us or one of the most respected men in America?” She thought for a moment, then picked up the box and forced it into Emmett’s hands. “Where are you supposed to deliver it?” she asked.

  “Mr. Bell has a warehouse on Pike Street. Two blocks down.”

  “Deliver it,” Molly said. “And while we’re there, we look for more clues about Bell’s death machine. If we can’t go to the cops, that’s our only option—that’s what my mother and I were gonna do and it’s still the best plan.”

  Emmett held the box at arm’s length like it was a drippy sack of rancid mutton.

  “C’mon, Emmett, you can do this,” Molly said. “It’s for the greater good. Same as when you tossed the Green Onion Boys’ guns into the river in order to save lives.”

  “Yeah, except I mostly did that because I got scared,” Emmett replied.

  “Perfect—you’re scared now too!” Molly gave him a playful punch on the arm. “And anyway, this time you’ve got me with you.”

  “Wonderful.”

  “Come on, Goosey, let’s go save the world!”

  “I thought we were just saving the World’s Fair,” Emmett said.

  “Have you read any Jules Verne?” Molly asked. “No mad genius is going to quit after conquering a big carnival. This is only the beginning of Bell’s diabolical schemes. I guarantee it.”

  Emmett’s chin dropped to his chest. “I was supposed to get paid today.”

  “The righteous feeling you get from performing a brave and noble deed will be your reward,” Molly said.

  Emmett’s shoulders slumped. “I was going to buy ice cream.”

  “I can get you free pickles,” Molly added helpfully. “Well, one free pickle. I’ve got a business to run.”

  12

  The Hidden Laboratory

  ALEXANDER GRAHAM BELL’S secret lair was incredibly disappointing. Molly had been hoping for a moat, perhaps a few cannons—at the very least some gargoyles! Instead she got a standard brick warehouse no different from any other on the block.

  “Is it more exciting inside?” she asked.

  “I didn’t know this place existed until this morning.”

  They waited for the echoing clip-clops of a passing coal cart to fade, then ran along the side of the warehouse into a yard stacked with lumber and sheets of aluminum. The aroma of corned beef wafted through an open window, reminding Molly how long it had been since she’d eaten. She peered over the sill and saw a sooty-faced man in an apron and goggles finishing a sandwich. No one else entered or walked past the doorway.

  “I think it’s just the one guy,” Molly whispered. “Go up front and deliver your box of horrors like nothing’s wrong. But talk to him, keep him busy. I’m gonna pop in here and look around. Go. Skedaddle.”

  Emmett hesitated. “This doesn’t feel right. It’s trespassing.”

  “On criminals,” Molly said.

  Emmett huffed and headed around front. As soon as the doorbell rang and the man rose to answer it, Molly slipped through the window and tiptoed to the doorway—stealing a tidbit of corned beef along the way. She peered into a lantern-lined corridor that dead-ended in a massive steel vault. She was about to head for it when, from behind her . . .

  “Psst!”

  It was Emmett, climbing in through the window. “Get any evidence yet?” he whispered.

  “It’s been eight seconds! I haven’t gotten anything!” she shot back. “Except some corned beef. Which was really good. What are you doing here? You were supposed to talk to the man!”

  “I did,” Emmett replied. “I talk fast when I’m nervous.”

  “Well, I’m not leaving yet.” Molly really wished her mother had followed her. But she wasn’t giving up. Peppers didn’t give up. She pulled Emmett into the hall and pointed to the vault door. “You can either pull down a lantern and come in there with me,” she said. “Or run away and feel guilty when I get caught. Or go grab a piece of that corned beef. Seriously, it’s delicious.”

  Emmett stood for a second, his jaw clenched, then wordlessly reached up and unhooked a lit lantern from the wall. Molly hurried to the tantalizingly mysterious iron door and, with two hands, turned its X-shaped crank. Click, thunk—the vault cracked open. Together, they pulled back the heavy slab door just enough to squeeze inside.

  Molly slapped her hand over her mouth to keep from screaming. Emmett did the same, tossing his lamp to the ground with a clatter. As it rolled, its dancing flame cast flashes of light on glinting metallic claws, spiked iron boots, steel-trap jaws, dagger-point teeth, and cold, dead eyes like the one that had stared at them from Emmett’s box. An army of hideous metal men surrounded them. Molly closed her eyes.

  “They’re not moving,” Emmett said breathlessly.

  Molly risked a peek. The lantern had come to rest at the feet of a metalloid warrior. The figures were indeed still. For now.

  “Marching,” Emmett whispered. “On the telephone, I heard Mr. Bell. He told someone he was going to march on the Fair. I thought he was speaking figuratively. But this . . . this is an army.”

  “An army of death machines,” Molly said. In the lantern’s dim circle of light, it was impossible to ascertain exactly how many automatons there were, but there were easily dozens stretching out into the darkness. Maybe a hundred even. And it wasn’t difficult to imagine the havoc these clockwork devils could cause if Bell were to unleash them on an unsuspecting crowd.

  “We should go,” Emmett whispered. “Corned Beef Man might’ve heard us.”

  “We need to destroy them,” Molly said with determination.

  “How?” Emmett sounded terrified, but Molly inched toward the closest of the metal men, the one with the lantern sitting by its anvil-like feet. The thing’s face was still bathed in shadow, but Molly could see a nameplate bolted to its barrel-thick torso. She squinted, trying to read the inscription, when Emmett scooped up the lantern and quickly pulled her out into the hallway.

  “No, we—” she started, but Emmett quickly held a finger to his mouth. A man’s shadow was growing longer against the wall. Someone was coming. They’d never make it back to the room they’d entered from without being seen, so Emmett pulled open another door, just a few feet from the vault, and they rushed blindly inside.

  Among the bolt cutters and welding torches around them, they saw an array of clockwork body parts—arms, ears, feet, fingers. They did not, unfortunately, see any windows.

  “What now?” Emmett mouthed, as footsteps sounded in the hall. “The vault is open. He’s checking inside.”

  Molly spotted a metal panel on the wall and ga
ve it a pull. It was a garbage chute, leading to a trash bin outside. She waved Emmett over. “Easy escape,” she said, and jumped through.

  She landed in a pile of dented gears and pointy springs (which was only slightly less comfortable than her bed at home). Emmett popped through after her, but didn’t make it into the bin. Instead, he dangled from the hatch, upside down, by one leg.

  “My shoe’s stuck,” he hissed frantically. “The lace is hooked on the inside handle.”

  Molly stood up to help, struggling for balance on the trash mound. It didn’t help that the bin was on wheels. Through the hatch, Molly saw the workshop door open.

  She grabbed Emmett, set her feet against the wall, and threw her entire body backward until the boy’s foot popped out of its shoe. The hatch fell shut with Emmett’s shoe still dangling from its handle like the world’s worst Christmas ornament. Their momentum started the bin rolling away from the wall, and they quickly hopped over the side before being taken for an unwanted ride. They dashed from the alley and didn’t stop running until they were three blocks away, at which point, Molly finally paused and fell over, laughing.

  Emmett gaped at her. “What can you possibly find funny right now?”

  “I told you the hatch would be an easy escape,” she said between giggles. “But I was pulling your leg.” She laughed some more.

  “I can’t believe you,” said Emmett. “I don’t have another shoe. I don’t have any other clothes. I wouldn’t have this suit if Mr. Bell hadn’t bought it for me.”

  “My mother’ll build you a new shoe.” Molly wiped her tears on her sleeve. “But, hey, we did it, right? We discovered Bell’s secret plan! Now that we know we’re up against an army of metal maniacs, we can figure out how to stop them, right?”

  “Yeah, I suppose,” Emmett muttered, staring at his frayed sock.

  “C’mon, Goosey, we gotta tell my mother.” She turned toward home, but quickly realized Emmett was not beside her. “Emmett.”

  “What am I gonna do?” he said. “Next person who opens that hatch is going to find my shoe hanging there. Corned Beef Man will tell Mr. Bell I showed up with the box. They’ll put two and two together, and . . .” It sounded like he was holding back tears.

  “Don’t worry. Really. My mother’ll figure it out.”

  “No, I’m done with this,” Emmett said. “I’m done with you.” He began to walk away.

  “Where you gonna go?” Molly scoffed. “Back to the Guild?”

  Emmett laughed, but it was a sad laugh. “You’re right, I can’t go back to the Guild,” he said. “The one good thing I had in my life and you ruined it. No, that’s not fair. It’s my own fault. I’m the gullible one who keeps letting people talk me into terrible decisions. So now what? I can’t go back to the dump.”

  “Dump? What are you talking about? Emmett, come with me.”

  He shook his head. “I know how to survive on my own. I’m always on my own.” He disappeared around the corner.

  Molly wasn’t as confident about Emmett’s chances. But she couldn’t force him to go with her. Could she? She wasn’t sure how real friendships worked, just the ones in books. If Emmett were D’Artagnan and she were one of the three musketeers (probably Porthos—he had all the good laugh lines) she’d pretend she was giving him the space he needed, but she’d secretly follow him so she could swoop in to help if he got into trouble. And that was just what she’d decided to do when she heard voices from around the corner.

  “Look what we have here! Oh, no! You’re not running anywhere. Not sure where the likes of you belongs, but we’ll get that sorted out back at the Jäger Society.”

  13

  Taken!

  MOLLY LEANED UP against the corner of a tall, redbrick row house and tried to listen. But they were back by busy East Broadway again, and she struggled to hear over the sounds of the passing horses and wagons.

  “—got your papers in order,” she heard the Jäger agent saying. “But if not—”

  SCRAAAAPE!

  A street cleaner was scooping clumps of horse dung from the curb. She glared at the man, who tipped his cap and went about his job.

  But “papers”? If the Jägerman was talking to Emmett about adoption papers, maybe this was for the best. Maybe Emmett’s fears of deportation were unfounded. She strained to listen harder.

  “But I don’t even speak the language,” Emmett was yelling.

  “You’re better off with your own kind,” the Jägerman replied. “They’ll see to it that—”

  SCRAAAAPE!

  The noise didn’t matter. Molly had heard enough. She swiped the shovel from the startled street sweeper, loaded it with a stinking pile of horse droppings, and ran around the corner to where a tall Jägerman in the usual long coat and round hat had Emmett by the wrist. The boy squirmed, trying to wriggle free.

  “Help!” Molly yelled in a high-pitched baby voice. “I’m a poor little orphan who can’t find my mama!”

  The agent looked up and received a heaping helping of manure in his face.

  “Goosey, let’s go!” Molly shouted, dropping the shovel. As the Jägerman spat and wiped the filth from his eyes, the children hoisted themselves onto a passing chicken wagon. The birds squawked and flapped in their cages, but Molly and Emmett just grinned.

  “Thanks for coming back for me,” Emmett said. He and Molly walked along Bleecker Street, having hopped off the chicken cart as soon as they’d put a safe distance between themselves and the Jägerman.

  “That’s what friends are for,” she replied.

  “This is the first time I’m not going to argue your definition of that word,” he said. He put his head down and his shoulders started shaking. Molly thought he was crying, but when he looked up, she realized he was laughing.

  “What?” she asked.

  “I’m an orphan who can’t find my mama!” He mimicked the baby voice Molly had used. “Orphans don’t have mamas. That’s the definition of orphan.”

  “Hey, I had to improvise!” Molly said, throwing her hands in the air.

  “I’m not complaining! I’m thanking you for the laugh,” Emmett said. He wiped his eyes. “Believe me, it’s not easy for me to laugh about being an orphan. I’m always afraid, you know. That someone will figure out I don’t have the right papers to be here. I’ve been in the US since I was a baby, but I never got the proper documentation after the Exclusion Act went into effect. I had no one to get them for me.”

  “Wow, yeah,” Molly said, reminded once more how thankful she was to still have her mother. “It must be your worst nightmare.”

  “Basically. Although finding a head in a box is right up there.”

  “At least we know now it wasn’t a real head,” Molly said. “New rule: next time we think we have a box with a severed head in it, we look real close to make sure.”

  “I don’t like that rule,” Emmett said. He grimaced as he stepped on a rock with his bare foot. “Do you really think your mother can make me new shoes?”

  “Ask her yourself.” Molly stopped and, with a flourish, opened the door to Pepper’s Pickles. “I can’t wait to tell her about—”

  The business area of the shop was empty, but voices came from behind the folding screen. Molly held a finger to her lips, shushing Emmett. Molly peeked around the screen and saw her mother face-to-face with a woman in an extravagant blue dress. Ostrich feathers wreathed the stranger’s collar. She had pearls in her hair and a silver cane in her hand.

  “Yes, Mrs. Pepper, we know exactly who you are,” the woman said in a crisp British accent. “And we know what you’ve seen.”

  14

  International Woman of Mystery

  THIS WAS A job for the Thimble Cannon! Molly crouched and scanned the room for her favorite of the little “toys” her mother had built for her. Alas, it was sitting on the table right next to the mystery woman. Drat. She would have to improvise. What was within reach? The Rotating Shoe Tree . . . the Super Bubble Soap Squirter . . . Aha! The Self-P
ropelled Mop. Molly grabbed the ball of coarse, ropy fibers with a turn key jutting from its side. Molly gave the device a few quick cranks and it rolled out across the floor. The mystery woman barely had time to turn her head toward the whirring sound before she was knocked off her feet. She landed on the Astounding Automated Secretary, which burped a cloud of black soot into her face.

  “Molls!” Cassandra gasped.

  “Clever,” the stranger said. “But I did not come here to be attacked.” She pointed her silver cane at Molly, and its head split open into four spinning blades. Molly braced herself, hoping that the sensation of being minced into stew meat would not be as painful as she assumed. But the woman merely used the rotating fan blades to blow the dust from her cheeks. Molly exhaled—just before a net sprang from the cane tip and enveloped her. “Now, as I was saying,” the British woman went on.

  “Who are you?” Molly snapped. “Mother, who is this?”

  “A daughter-trapping villain, obviously,” Cassandra said, rushing to free her struggling child. “Which now makes me feel rather awkward about having offered her tea. You don’t still want that tea, do you?”

  “I’m a civilized woman, and it is the afternoon,” said the stranger. “Of course I want the tea.” She held out her hand but nobody shook it. “Hertha Marks. Mathematician, electrician, physicist, and inventor. Note that the word ‘villain’ did not appear on that list.”

  She looked younger than Molly’s mother, but sounded older. It was probably the accent.

  “Speaking of names, Miss Marks,” Cassandra said, sidling past boxes to the teakettle. “How is it that you know mine?”

  “Please, call me Hertha,” she said. “I know your name, Cassandra Pepper, because one of my associates saw your little song and dance this morning at the Inventors’ Guild.”

  “Oh, I didn’t do the song and dance—that was Edison.” Cassandra placed a steaming mug before her uninvited guest. “I mostly just yelled at the clerk.”

  “It was the woman with the parasol, wasn’t it?” Molly said. “The one who tripped up the watchmen.”