Swindled!: The 1906 Journal of Fitz Morgan (5 page)

I leaned closer to his mouth and caught the faint whiff of bitter almonds on his shallow breath. Oh no! I thought.

“What happened here? Someone tell me this instant!” William Henry demanded.

“We aren’t sure,” Justine replied. “Maybe he fainted.”

I looked at her. “No. He didn’t faint,” I said. “This man is in a coma. He’s been poisoned!”

8:15 AM

Together, the three of us carried Agent

Howard into the Pinkerton Pullman and laid him on a plush, green sofa.

While Justine placed a pillow under his head, William Henry took my arm. He smelled like soap, and his uniform was spotless,
but I noticed his hands and fingernails were stained with grease. “Poisoned, you say?” he said doubtfully. “And what would
a little boy know about poison?”

There was no time to go into my background with a fool.

“If I’m right, this man has been poisoned by cyanide.”

William Henry gripped my arm harder and scoffed, “You’re out of your mind!”

“Listen,” I said. “Time is of the essence. This man has to get an injection of amyl nitrate quickly.”

“Amyl nitrate? But that’s a very dangerous chemical. It might kill him!”

I was surprised William Henry knew what amyl nitrate was.

“All the antidotes to cyanide are poisons. Once someone loses consciousness, he has to receive an antidote within the first
half hour or he’ll die,” I said shaking my arm free of William Henry’s grasp. “This man needs medical attention. And every
second counts.”

William Henry’s bright blue eyes turned to Justine. “He’s right,” she told him. “You must get help now.”

“Fine then. I’ll go,” William Henry said, heading to the door. “But I want you to wait in the laboratory until I get back–away
from Agent Howard. With that, William Henry rushed to get help.

Surprised, I turned to Justine. “You have a laboratory?”

“Of course,” Justine answered matter-of-factly. Opening an interior door, she gestured for me to follow her.

We left the living area with its gold fixtures and overstuffed furniture, and entered the sleeping area.

“There are four separate sleeping compartments here,” Justine told me, pointing to each of the four doors as we walked down
a small hallway. She didn’t seem to be showing off, just stating a fact.

Suddenly she stopped, looked at me, and asked, “Do you really think someone poisoned Agent Howard? It’d be wrong to shout,
‘How thrilling!’ wouldn’t it? Perhaps we should give him some of that new drug called aspirin. Have you heard about it?”

Then without waiting for an answer, she turned and opened another door. We entered the laboratory.

When I saw it, my eyes nearly popped out of my head. It took up about the same amount of space as my coach car, but that’s
where the similarities ended.

This laboratory had two electric fans, an electric heater, velvet armchairs, lighters for cigars–all beneath the most beautiful
stained glass ceiling. But what impressed me most was that the Pullman was jammed with the most advanced criminal detection
equipment in the world.

When I finally finished my survey of the room, I noticed that Justine was studying me.

She said, “I’ve seen that look before. You have detective work in your blood.”

I felt my face flush–I didn’t want her sharp eyes looking too closely at me. And, to tell the truth, I also felt a little
jealous. Why should she have access to all this wonderful equipment? She probably didn’t even know what half of it was!

I blurted out, “What does a little girl like you know about detective work?”

She just laughed, not seeming to mind my sharp tone. “You sound like William Henry! But to answer your question, I’m a Pinkerton.
I’ve been surrounded by detectives my whole life. My father’s one of them. In fact, he uses this car to solve crimes across
the country.”

I examined a modern microscope at the work desk and tried to keep from drooling. “You’re allowed to travel alone?” I asked.
I really meant. You’re just a baby.

“Of course,” she replied. “I’m wise beyond my years.”

“What does that mean?”

She shrugged and said, “Everyone I meet says it–except my governess. She says she needs a break from me. That’s why she stayed
back in New York. My family lives there, but Mother and Father are in Sacramento now.”

“Is your father working on a case?” I asked, as my eyes wandered to a framed note from the late President Abraham Lincoln.
It thanked the Pinkertons for bringing many criminals to justice.

“My parents were returning from the Far East by way of California when my father got a telegram,” Justine said. “He was needed
in Sacramento to help solve a string of mysterious bank robberies. Father asked the train company to bring him our Pullman.
I came along for the ride. Once we arrive in San Francisco, this car will be attached to another train that will take me up
to Sacramento.”

I was only half listening to her. Standing in front of a tall bookcase that took up an entire wall of the laboratory, I was
running my eyes greedily over row after row of beautiful books. The leather bindings had titles such as CRIMINAL INVESTIGATION
by Hans Gross, FINGERPRINTS by Sir Francis Galton-and hundreds of others. It was the most complete library of crime and detection
I had ever seen!