by Bill Doyle
“What do you mean?” I asked, confused.
“Someone else on this train is hiding something. And I’m not referring to the criminal,” Judge said as we entered her family’s dining compartment.
“What are you talking about?”
“Why, you, of course.” Judge stopped walking and met my eyes.
“Me?”
“Yes, you,” she said. “You are the liar. You’re not a boy.” She took a breath and continued. “You’re a girl.”
How did she know???
April 15, 1906
1:15 PM
My secret was out! But how did Judge know? And what should I do? Deny it and keep up the act? My mind raced as I tried to decide.
It’s strange. Revealing a secret about yourself can be like cracking a case. The secret can be something that you are unwilling to drag into the light. But there is always a sense of relief that the truth is finally revealed–no matter what the consequences.
Judge and I sat down at one of the mahogany tables in her family’s dining compartment. Judge poured us cups of tea, then waited silently. I gazed out the window, watching the gray and brown landscape roll by under a cloudy spring sky as we entered the foothills of the Rocky Mountains of Colorado.
Finally, I decided to tell her my story.
“It’s true, Judge. I’m a girl,” I began, and then words poured out of me. “My name is Elizabeth Fitzpatrick Morgan. I was born and raised in London, England. My father is an inspector at Scotland Yard. It was his idea that I travel as a boy. In my country, our view of the United States is of thieving cowboys, acts of violence–”
“And cross-country trains full of poison,” Judge added helpfully.
“Exactly.” I nodded, grateful she was making this easy for me. “I know your country isn’t all like that, but my father decided it’s no place for a young lady to travel alone. He knows I enjoy disguises and want to be a detective. Father couldn’t come along on this vacation–he’s dealing with too many open cases. So taking this trip in disguise seemed the perfect way to give me the things I wanted most out of life–travel, excitement… and the opportunity to go undercover.”
Judge spoke softly. “My mother laughs when I tell her that I want to go to law school. She says women are supposed to stay at home. If it’s good enough for her, it should be good enough for me. Boys my age can run around and play football, while I’m stuck learning to host parties and sew. So I can understand your deception.” Here she paused and then asked, “But the story about your brother. That’s true, isn’t it?”
“Yes,” I said. “I wish it were part of my disguise, but it isn’t. I had an older brother. He moved to the United States and joined the Navy. Later, he was killed on board the MAINE.”
Then I asked her, “When did you figure out my real identity?”
“Almost the moment I laid eyes on you!” Judge announced, grinning proudly.
“But how?” I had to admit I was upset that a nine-year-old girl–no matter how wise–had seen through my disguise.
Judge said, “If you’ll remember, after you saved Agent Howard, I pulled you back onto the train.”
“Of course.”
Her grin widened even more. “And my hand rested at the base of your skull.”
“Ah!” I realized how Judge had known that I was not a boy.
USE YOUR HEAD!
The occiput,the knobby bone at the base of the skull, is larger in males than in females. It is one way detective can determine the gender of a skull.
I was betrayed by a small occiput bone! In a way I was relieved, it was something beyond my control that gave me away. “So it had nothing to do with my disguise or the way I talked?”
“No, you did an excellent job with both,” Judge said. “But how were you able to change your voice?”
I told her about the three things I always keep in mind when disguising the way I talk.
THREE WAYS TO DISGUISE YOUR VOICE
You might not have time to study local accents before a mission. Beyond lowering and raising the pitch, there are other quick ways to disguise your voice:
1) End every sentence with a question mark. To see how this works, say “Go to the moon” and “Go to the moon?”
2) Place sturdy cotton pads on the inside of your cheeks.
3) Keep your teeth together while you speak.
“Wait a moment,” I said, as something suddenly occurred to me. “Why did you wait so long to unmask me?”
Judge explained, “I knew you were in disguise but I didn’t know why. It could have been for some evil purpose. I never really thought you were the villain, but it wasn’t until Asyla Notabe was poisoned that I could be a hundred percent sure.”
Now I understood. “Because we had spent the morning together,” I said.
“And I knew you didn’t have time to slip off and poison Asyla,” Judge finished my sentence. She stuck out her hand and I shook it. “Nice to meet you, Elizabeth,” she said.
“And you, Judge,” I said. “It’s a relief to have someone know the truth. But please continue to call me Fitz. I like the nickname, and I promised my father that I’d travel in disguise. I want to keep my promise.”
Judge nodded. “I think we’d all like a disguise at this point. Just in case you’ve forgotten, someone has poisoned two people on this train!”
Glad to turn back to the case, I said, “Actually, we only know that two people have been poisoned on this train. We don’t know if the same person is responsible. There may be more than one criminal! We need to focus. Do you have paper and a pencil?”
Judge fetched them and poised the pencil over the paper. “What are we writing?”
“A list of our main suspects, First on the list, I think we should put–”
Just then William Henry entered. He set down two plates of steamy, rich-smelling beef stew and two cups of fresh tea. “Asyla Notabe is going to be fine. Dr. Freud doesn’t think her dose of poison was as strong as Agent Howard’s. She’s already out of her coma. In fact, she keeps complaining that she wants to play a game in the baggage compartment.”
“Hide-and-seek?” I asked.
“Yes,” William Henry said, surprised. “How did you know?”
Judge spoke up. “What about her mother? Did Mrs. Notabe say anything?”
“Funny you should ask…” William Henry’s sentence trailed off.
“What’s funny?” I asked.
“Asyla’s mother now seems to accept Mr. Spike’s explanation of a stomachache. Yet, she herself thought Asyla was poisoned at first.” William Henry noticed the paper and pen. “And what are you two plotting?”
“We were just coming up with names of suspects.”
“Were you now?” William Henry said, not really listening. He flicked open his pocket watch and checked the time. “I’m off to the mail car, if you need me. The pole that picks up the mailbags from along the side of the track is acting up. Mailbags are flying into the mail car faster than greased lightning. One man was hit by a bag and it snapped his wrist!”
Judge asked, “Why don’t they just stop using it?”
“The train’s got to pick up the mailbags–no matter how dangerous it is! Folks in San Francisco are expecting to get their letters and packages,” William Henry said as if the answer to Judge’s question was obvious. And with that, he left the compartment.
Turning back to our suspect list, I said, “I’m definitely writing his name here.”
Judge’s eyes grew wide. “You don’t mean to put William Henry on the list?”
I nodded firmly. “And not just anywhere on the list. At the top.”
“Oh, I don’t know,” she said doubtfully.
“Think about it.” I leaned toward her. “His uniform is all shiny and buttoned up. Everything must be by the book. That pocket watch seems to run his life–”
“He works on a train!” Judge protested. “Schedules are the most important things to workers on the train.”
“Someo
ne that tightly wound is bound to snap. You can tell by looking at his hands! They’re stained with grease–”
“Because he loves to tinker with machinery!”
There was no stopping me, and I continued, “And he’s got those long arms and legs. And what about those blue eyes of his?”
Judge gave me a long look. Then a smile flashed across her face as if she were just starting to understand something. “All right, I’m willing to consider him as a suspect. But you have to admit, he is rather nice looking. I wonder if you’re being totally objective.”
“I don’t know what you mean,” I said, gazing at my hands. When she didn’t say anything, I continued, “All I know is, he matches the profile. He’s educated, and I find him very antisocial. Plus, he had access to the government Pullman. He could easily have served Agent Howard the poison in food or tea.”
A second passed, and then at the same time, Judge and I reached out to push our teacups away.
But before my fingers touched my cup, I had a sudden thought and asked Judge, “Can you get your evidence kit?”
She returned a moment later with it, and using the fingerprint equipment, we lifted one of William Henry’s fingerprints from the teacup.
Placing the slide back in its case, I said, “We can compare this print to the one on Agent Howard’s cup. That might show whether William Henry touched the agent’s cup at some point.”
“Good idea, Fitz. Let’s get to the lab to check them under the microscope,” Judge said. We got up from the table and left the dining compartment.
Teddy was waiting for us when we walked into the laboratory. He sat on the dark blue rug, his tail wagging furiously, as if he were terribly proud of himself. Something furry with a tail of its own dangled from his mouth.
“Oh no!” cried Judge on spotting this. “The poor kitty!”
My determined little dog had found what I had sent him searching for yesterday: the cat. But the creature in his mouth was lifeless.
Judge shook her head sadly. “This is too much.”
I plucked the cat from Teddy’s mouth, scratched between his ears, and told him, “Good boy! I’ll get you a special treat from the dining car later.” He wagged his tail a bit more, plopped down on the ground, and was soon snoring.
Refusing to look at the cat and shocked by my behavior, Judge started to ask, “What on earth are you doing?”
I gave the cat’s head a sharp twist.
“Ahhh!” Judge yelled.
The cat’s head popped right off.
“Not to worry. As soon as I took the cat from Teddy, I knew it wasn’t a real cat. But it is a clever way to conceal secrets.” I showed her how the fur was just a covering for a hard hollow cylinder.
Reaching into the cat-shaped container, I pulled out a small envelope. Written on it in dark ink were the words: USS MAINE Evidence.
Staring at the word Maine, I felt a familiar sadness as an image of my brother came into my mind. Judge seemed to be reading my thoughts. “Fitz, what could all this possibly have to do with the MAINE? Why would Agent Howard hide something inside a cat?”
I snapped back to the business at hand. Inside the envelope were pieces of singed paper. I could see the letters “Uni” and “ate,” the date 1895, and other numbers and squiggly lines.
“I don’t think this is ordinary paper,” I said, heading to the microscope.
“What do you mean?” Judge asked. She watched over my shoulder as I placed the pieces of paper under the magnifying lens. Then, using tweezers, I began to move the pieces around.
It was clear the burned bits of paper were from a five dollar bill. But that fact was not what made my heart skip a beat.
“Aha!” I cried. I stepped back from the table. I had just cracked at least part of the case!
Before going any further, I took a second to consider all the evidence. And then my mind made the connection!
I explained my discovery: “Look at the serial number on this bill. It has the same number as the dollar bill I found in the station.”
“But that can’t be,” Judge shook her head. “Each bill has its own unique serial number. The number shows where it was made and what printing plate was used. The one dollar bill and the five dollar bill cannot have identical serial numbers.”
“But these two do,” I said. “Take a look.”
Judge leaned over the bills to examine them. Her expression went from doubt to shock. Her eyes met mine. “The numbers are exactly the same!”
I nodded. “There is only one explanation.”
“At least one of these bills is a fake!” Judge cried.
She turned to the bookshelf and removed a magazine
IS MY CASE TRASH?
How to Detect Counterfeit Money
Counterfeiters usually find out that creating fake paper money is not as simple as it sounds. There are many security measures working against them, including…
1) Design: The pictures and boarders on paper currency are complicated for a reason- the more complex the design, the harder it is to copy.
2) Ink: The green is U.S. “greenbacks” has a very unique look. Counterfeiters have attempted to re- create this green color using everything from cyanide-based dyes to fruit juices. But it is very difficult to come close to the true color.
3) Paper: High-quality, very expensive material that gives paper bills a certain feel.
Glad I tore this out of DETECTIVES MONTHLY
entitled DETECTIVE’S MONTHLY. There was an article inside called “Is My Cash Trash? How to Detect Counterfeit Money.” She handed it to me. “This should help.”
Poison! Counterfeit currency! I had wished for mystery and adventure. And it had come–in trainloads!
April 16, 1906
6:00 AM
Why should the start of my fourth day on the train be different from the others? It began, of course, with someone shouting.
I had just opened my eyes after a restless night’s sleep. Even the Pinkertons’ deep feather pillows couldn’t stop me from having nightmares of faceless villains and pools of steaming poison.
I had left the window curtain open, thinking the starry sky might lull me to sleep. Now the window let in the cool gray light of a cloudy dawn. A forward jerk of the train let me know the locomotive was struggling up a rather steep incline. We must still be in the hills around the Rockies.
“It’s only six in the morning; try to go back to sleep,” I told myself. I was sinking back into the lemon-scented covers when a shouting voice rang outside my door.
I leaped from the bed, dressed hurriedly in my disguise, and flung open the door. I was just in time to see the porter heading down the hallway calling, “Telegram! Telegram for Miss Pinkerton!”
And, as I sat down to begin writing, I spotted a strange piece of paper poking slightly out of my journal. When I slid the paper out, I found a note.
It could only be from the poisoner! Or at least that made the most sense. But how did he or she manage to slip the note into my journal? The only time it’s out of my sight is while I’m bathing or sleeping. The thought that the person who is poisoning people on this train might have been in my compartment while I slept sends chills down my body.
With trembling hands, I checked to make sure my compartment door was locked. I sat down on my bed and flipped through every page of my journal–but there were no other messages.
Who left me such a frightening note? And how did that person get it into my journal?
Once again, my suspicions turned to William Henry. He probably has a key to my room, and it’d be easy for him to sneak in and out.
To prevent any more tampering, I’ll keep my journal with me at all times.
6:30 AM
When I recovered from my shock, I went to Judge’s compartment and pounded on the door. Finally, she opened it and glared at me sleepily. “First the porter with a telegram from my parents and now you. I think the real mystery is why no one wants me to sleep–”
“Judge,
listen!” I interrupted her. “I’ve got a piece of shattering news.”
Her eyes went wide, and I could see I had her attention. She said, “Let me grab us some breakfast and I’ll meet you in the lab.”
Fifteen minutes later, we had each finished a slice of bread and jam, and Judge was pacing the carpeted floor of the laboratory. I had just told her about the note in my journal. Her surprise was almost as great as mine.
After a moment she asked, “Are there any fingerprints on the note?”
I shook my head. “While I was waiting for you, I checked the note for prints. The sender must have been careful because I could only find my own.”
“Why would someone leave a message in your journal?” Judge tapped her chin thoughtfully. “Why not just slip it under your door?”
“I don’t know,” I answered. Then an idea came to me. “I found the note in the middle of an entry I had made yesterday. Maybe it was left in that spot for a reason.”
“What was the entry about?” Judge asked.
“It was right after you told me how you knew I was a girl,” I said. “We had started to make a list of suspects when William Henry came in. He told us about Asyla feeling better and that she wanted to play a game in the baggage compartment.”
“Right!” Judge agreed. “And then he said something about Asyla’s mother, didn’t he?”
We both stopped pacing and looked at each other.
“Yes,” I said, feeling that we might be on to something. “William Henry told us it was strange that Mrs. Notabe had accepted Mr. Spike’s explanation that Asyla had a stomachache. Especially after she had said Asyla was poisoned.”
Hmmm… Would Mrs. Notabe break into my compartment and leave me a warning note because I was writing about her daughter? That seemed unlikely.
Judge and I talked about it a while longer and realized that we weren’t getting anywhere.