A Dastardly Plot

  Molly nudged past the others into the aisle. “They’re here to rescue me,” she said. “I’ve got to get out to them before the Jägerman sees.”

  “Um, too late for that,” said Thumb-Sucker.

  The rear door burst open. “That craziness outside has something to do with you, don’t it?” Agent Hubbard waggled an angry finger at Molly. “I shoulda asked for more money.” He began shoving children out of his way.

  Molly felt trapped until Mop-Head grinned at her and said, “Go. We got this.” Molly nodded and started for the front of the car, as orphans clogged the aisle behind her.

  “Move!” Hubbard bellowed.

  “Yes, sir,” Mop-Head replied. She and several others began wriggling in place. “We’re moving, sir! As requested!”

  “You know that’s not what I meant,” the man growled. Tiny Girl skittered onto his shoulders like a squirrel up a tree.

  While the girls distracted the Jägerman, Molly stepped out into the loud, windy, open-air space between cars. Where was Emmett? Holding the rail of a metal ladder for balance, she tried to lean out past the edge of the car for a look when a particularly bumpy rail almost sent her flying to her doom. She ignored the lump in her throat, and tugged open the door to the next car. It was full of orphan boys, all of whom turned to look.

  “You again!” shouted the old woman in glasses. “What are you doing? Where’s that nice man?”

  “He’s not a nice man,” Molly said. “Thomas Edison paid him to kidnap—ugh, never mind. I’ve got a Moto-Mover to catch.” The woman shoved her cart aside and marched toward Molly, and whooping orphan boys quickly pounced upon the spilled apples.

  Molly popped back outside and shut the door again just as Agent Hubbard struggled out of the girls’ car, shaking Tiny Girl from his leg.

  “Oh, no, you don’t,” he sneered at Molly. But she was already on her way up the ladder. The train rocked and the wind whipped against her face and she had to drop flat to avoid being blown away. As she crawled, gruelingly, across the roof, she wondered whether the idea of President Edison was really that bad. Then she heard Sarah shout, “She’s on top!” Molly pulled herself to the edge and looked down to see the motor coach bring itself alongside the boys’ car.

  “Hiya, Goosey,” she hollered.

  “You. Owe. Me. So. Much,” Emmett grunted, his arms and legs wrapped tightly around the plank.

  “You’re going to need to help the young girl down, Mr. Lee,” called Mrs. Cochrane.

  The motor buggy bounced over a large rock and Emmett yelped. “Yikes!”

  “Tsk! Language, young man,” Mrs. Cochrane scolded.

  “Keep her steady, Hertha,” said Mary. “No sharp moves.”

  “Thanks for the advice, love,” Hertha replied in her droll British accent. “I’d been thinking about a fun little zigzag just now, but since you suggest otherwise . . .”

  Molly reached down to her friend.

  “You can do it, Emmett,” Sarah encouraged him. “Believe in yourself!”

  “I do,” Emmett shouted. “I believe in myself. I’m here, I exist. If I didn’t, this wouldn’t be so terrifying.”

  “Then believe in us too,” Sarah returned. “We built this thing! And we know what we’re doing!”

  Emmett held his breath and reached up. Molly stretched as far as she could and wrapped her hand around Emmett’s—just as Hubbard appeared behind her and grabbed her legs. Molly became the rope in a human tug-of-war.

  “Who are those ladies?” the Jägerman sputtered. “And what the holy heck are they riding in?”

  “Language,” scolded Mrs. Cochrane.

  “The children are in a bad spot, Margaret,” Mary said. “Are you finished?”

  “Fourteen seconds,” came the reply.

  “Make it twelve, darling,” Hertha called out. “Some fool put a curve in the track up ahead.”

  “Done!” Margaret stood up, whipped off her goggles, and raised what looked like a combination musket-teakettle-garden hose. She squirted a stream of yellow goop that splattered across Agent Hubbard’s chest, knocked him backward, and pinned him to the roof of the train.

  “What in the—?”

  “Language!” warned Mrs. Cochrane.

  Free from Hubbard’s grasp, Molly went flying to Emmett. But their momentum was about to send them both tumbling from the thin plank, until—SPLORT!—a glob of Margaret’s adhesive stuck her and Emmett in place.

  Emmett looked astonished to be alive. “I’ve never been happier to be covered in sticky goop,” he said. “In fact, I’ve never been happy to be covered in sticky goop.”

  Sarah flipped a switch and the long plank began to retract into the side of the vehicle. As soon as they were close enough, she and Margaret pried the children free and helped them into the motor coach. Safe inside, Molly waved to the baffled Jägerman. The Moto-Mover continued across the field as the train veered south. Smoke puffs on the horizon were soon the only sign they’d ever been near a locomotive.

  Molly couldn’t believe she was free and safe, or that she was on her way back to New York, or that she was riding in a horseless carriage. On the outside, the vehicle was sleek and lustrous, a majestic purple with glints of chrome reflecting from the spinning wheels. The interior was as lush as a sultan’s palace—velvet cushions and fine-grained wood paneling. A tantalizing array of buttons, switches, and meters flanked the steering wheel, and when Molly craned her neck, she could see a series of pedals at Hertha’s feet. But how was the motor coach able to move so smoothly and quietly over such bumpy terrain? Where were the chugging noises and thick clouds of soot? For the first time, Molly wondered whether there was a smidgen of merit to Jasper’s theory about Jules Verne.

  “The Marvelous Moto-Mover is even more marvelous than I’d imagined!” Molly shouted. “And I have a good imagination!”

  “You haven’t even seen its best trick yet,” said Sarah.

  Molly grinned giddily. “I’m surrounded by fairy-tale wizards!”

  “In a fairy tale, they’d call us witches,” said Hertha.

  “Only in a fairy tale?” Mrs. Cochrane chimed in. “Which reminds me . . .” She pulled a book from a compartment on the seat back in front of her and began reading. Molly raised an eyebrow.

  “One need not forgo leisure simply due to the presence of mortal peril,” Mrs. Cochrane said. She opened a second compartment and retrieved a steaming cup of tea.

  “I thought it was going to take you days to get the Moto-Mover ready,” Molly said.

  “Somebody left us no choice but to work faster,” Hertha said in a clipped tone. “Because she sneaked off on her own and let some corrupt public servants throw her onto a train and—”

  “You can stop. I know it’s me,” Molly said. “I’m sorry. And thank you.”

  “You should really thank your friend Jasper,” Mary said. “If he hadn’t seen you two carted off by the Jägermen, we would never have known what happened to you.”

  “I never thought I’d be so glad to have a friend who can’t keep his nose out of my business,” Molly laughed. “But how’d you get Emmett from the immigration guys? Emmett, are you safe from deportation now?”

  “Until they realize the papers Hertha gave them were forgeries,” he said. “I’m just glad we got you back. It’s been a long day.” He rested his head on Molly’s shoulder and promptly dozed off.

  Content for the first time in ages, Molly leaned back and marveled at the passing scenery—waving wheat fields flanked by dense woodland, shy farmhouses hiding behind crowds of lumbering cattle, and mountains, real mountains, rolling along the horizon as if on an enormous conveyor belt. There was so much to the world beyond New York. How much more of it would she get to see? And would her mother be by her side as she did? These questions were running through Molly’s mind as the motor coach slowly rolled to a stop along an old dirt path in the middle of a desolate scrubland.

  “Drat,” said Hertha.

  “Language.”

&nbs
p; “Are we here?” Emmett asked, sitting up.

  “Far from it, I’m afraid,” Hertha said, re-closing the hatch that allowed her access to the motor. “It seems our battery has belched forth its last spark.”

  “You mean this thing can’t go any farther?” Molly asked, not caring to hide her frustration. “Your battery didn’t have enough power to get us back to Manhattan?”

  “I would’ve loved to have spent more time charging it,” Hertha said curtly. “But someone got herself carted off by—”

  “Okay, okay, I get it!” Molly lowered her eyes. “So, what now?”

  Hertha peered down the long, empty trail. “Walking shoes, ladies.” The women all changed shoes and began climbing out of the Moto-Mover.

  Molly and Emmett exchanged glances. “But we’re in Pennsylvania,” Molly said. “That’s a loooooong walk. We won’t get to New York until—”

  “One forty-eight p.m. on Wednesday,” said Margaret.

  “I told you one of us should have stayed behind in New York,” said Mrs. Cochrane.

  “You wanted to stay behind so you could make us all matching outfits for the Fair,” chided Mary.

  “We’d have been the height of fashion,” said Mrs. Cochrane.

  “Maybe we can hire a coach along the way,” Sarah said, unrolling a map. “We can do this,” she said. “Believe in yourselves, ladies! And Emmett.”

  “But—but can’t we just fix the Moto-Mover?” Molly cried. “Can’t we . . . recharge the battery?”

  “Not unless you know of a place between here and Manhattan that has an electric generator,” said Hertha.

  Emmett dove for Sarah’s map. “How far are we from Menlo Park, New Jersey?”

  35

  Lab Break-In No3 (or Is It No4?)

  TREKKING DOWN LONG stretches of lonely road for miles on end would have been a grueling enough task on its own. Doing so while pushing a dead, thousand-pound motor coach did not improve the experience—especially after the sun went down. It was nearly morning—precisely 3:57 a.m. according to Margaret’s goggle clock—on Wednesday, May 30, opening day of the World’s Fair, when they spotted the soft electric glow of Menlo Park, home of Thomas Edison’s flagship laboratory. As weary and on-edge as they were, they still couldn’t help smiling as they walked along Christie Street, the first roadway in the nation to have electric streetlights.

  Thankfully, the town’s residents were asleep at this hour, and the travelers reached their destination unnoticed—a corner property obscured by a tall picket fence. Margaret removed a lockpick from one of her many belts and the gate was quickly opened. They left the Moto-Mover by the curb (with Josephine Cochrane volunteering to remain with it as lookout) and filed into the yard with much trepidation.

  Molly frowned. Edison’s world-famous research lab was even more boring than Bell’s secret workshop. It was a house. A pleasant country house with an overgrown lawn. Laboratories were supposed to be tall and bricky with lots of pipes and chimneys jutting from them. Or steel and glass with lightning rods and rocket tubes. They certainly didn’t have porch swings and gabled roofs. Menlo Park looked more like a place for shucking corn than manufacturing death machines.

  “Exercise caution,” Hertha warned. “The Fair opens later today, so Edison himself should be in New York. But there could be any number of henchmen, traps, or alarms inside.”

  Margaret made short work of the front door locks, scouted the interior, and gave the all clear. The others stepped inside as Margaret flipped on the turnip-shaped lights hanging in brass fixtures overhead. Molly’s eyes went straight to a wall of shelves that held a seemingly endless array of glass canisters. She scanned the labels: Magnesium, Ammonium Nitrate, Phosphorus, Amber, Rubber, Horse Hair, Rabbit Hair, Goat Hair, Minx Hair, Human Hair, Deer Hooves, Tortoiseshell, Shark Teeth, Peacock Feathers . . . “I know they call Edison the Wizard of Menlo Park,” she said, “but I didn’t think he was mixing actual potions.”

  “Shh,” Emmett warned, crouching in expectation of an ambush.

  “It’s okay, kid,” Margaret said. “I’m pretty sure we’re alone in here.”

  “Yes, but stay focused,” said Hertha. “We need to find that generator fast.”

  A pipe organ at the far end of the room caught Molly’s eye. “Does Edison play music?” she asked, sitting down at the keyboard. “Because I heard he’s deaf.”

  “Beethoven was deaf,” Mary said as she peered under a table. “And Edison’s not totally deaf in both ears, anyway. Just the left from what I’ve read.”

  “Really?” Molly puzzled over this bit of trivia. Something about it struck her as important. She absentmindedly tapped some random keys and the organ screeched out a string of loud, long, cacophonous notes. The others covered their ears.

  “Believe it or not,” Molly said, “I’ve never had a single lesson.”

  A hidden door slid open on the wall next to the organ and Thomas Edison stepped into the light. “It’s about time,” Edison said. “Thank you, little girl, for being such a dismal piano player and—aagh!”

  Molly launched herself from the organ stool and knocked the inventor to the floor, where she proceeded to pound on him mercilessly. “You made me lose my mother! You evil, wicked beast!”

  “Wha—? Why are—? Help!” Edison cried. There was a clinking of metal as he shielded his head from Molly’s blows. “Please! Get her off me!”

  “Stop, Molly,” Emmett said. “Look, he’s in chains.”

  Her teeth still gritted in fury, she glanced down. The man’s wrists and ankles were shackled, with clanking links snaking back into the hidden room from which he’d emerged. Molly climbed off him as the others gathered around.

  “What’s going on here?” Emmett asked. “What are you up to?”

  Edison rose cautiously. “So you’re not here to rescue me?”

  “Rescue you?” Molly scoffed. “You belong in chains after everything you’ve done!”

  Edison furrowed his thick brows. “I take it you’ve had a run-in with that charlatan. Well, I assure you I am the real Edison. So, if one of you could kindly free me from these—”

  “Real Edison?” Hertha asked skeptically.

  “Yes, if you’ve heard some maniac spouting off about a ruckus at the World’s Fair, I assure you that was not me! I’ve been locked in here for . . . well, months. I’ve lost track. Has the Fair happened yet? Did that jelly-faced wretch perform my lighting ceremony?”

  “That suit certainly smells like it hasn’t been washed in months,” said Mary.

  “Even if there are two Edisons,” said Sarah, “how do we know you’re not the imposter?”

  “Seriously?” Edison said with a sigh. “Fine. Could the false Edison do this?” He tapped out a jaunty soft-shoe dance routine.

  “Actually, yes,” said Molly. “Yes, he can.”

  Edison huffed. “Well, mine would’ve been better with my hands free.”

  “He definitely sounds like Edison . . . ,” said Emmett.

  “I’m the real me!” he cried, rattling his chains. “Months cooped up in my own secret closet while a madman runs around besmirching my good name, and when I finally think someone’s been smart enough to figure it out and free me, I instead get mauled by some elephant-eared waif!”

  “Oh, that’s a cheap shot,” Emmett said angrily. “If you—”

  “Emmett, wait!” Molly said with sudden inspiration. “I know how to tell if he’s lying. With one simple question.”

  “What? What? Please, ask it,” Edison said. “I apologize for the crack about your ears.”

  Molly stood on the piano stool and whispered into Edison’s left ear. The inventor immediately turned and offered her the right. “This ear, sweetheart,” he said.

  Molly hopped down. “He’s telling the truth. Deaf in the left. You can free him.”

  “How do you know he’s not faking?” Hertha asked.

  “Back in Union Square, I saw Tusk whisper into Edison’s left ear,” Molly said. “That
guy—whoever it was—had no problem hearing him. It wasn’t really Edison. It didn’t hit me until now.”

  “Yes, yes, see? I’m Thomas Edison!” He sounded hopeful. “The man you saw must have been Vittorini.”

  “Sergio Vittorini?” Molly gasped. “The actor?”

  “Yes, he’s the one who locked me in here and started ranting about his plans for global domination,” said Edison. “‘First the World’s Fair, then the world!’ Nonsense like that.”

  “No wonder he was able to fool so many people,” Mary said. “I daresay he’s earned his reputation as the Man of a Thousand and Twelve Faces.”

  “And he’s been performing at the Madison Square Theatre,” Emmett added excitedly. “He’s been spying on the Guild Hall from right next door!”

  “Flaming flapjacks,” Molly blurted. “That day at the Guild Hall, when my mother and I saw Edison come in and sign autographs, and then ten minutes later we saw Vittorini coming out through the alley between buildings—it was the same guy! He’d just taken off his Edison costume. And he must have followed us, Emmett. That’s how he found his way to Bell’s secret lab!”

  “This is all very interesting,” said Hertha. “But why is a stage actor doing all of this?”

  “Exactly! You’d think Vittorini would be grateful to me after I let him star in so many of my kinetoscope films,” said Edison. “The man in ‘Man Sneezing’—that was him. And the man who jumps over the hat in ‘Man Jumping Over a Hat.’ He was even the horse in ‘Man Kicked by Horse.’”

  “Again, very interesting,” said Hertha. “But still not an answer to my question.”

  “If it’s questions you’re interested in, here’s a good one,” said Edison. “Who the heck are you people?”

  “We are the Mothers of Invention,” declared Hertha as Margaret used a miniature blowtorch to cut through Edison’s shackles. “And I’m afraid Vittorini aims to follow through on his threats about the Fair.”

  The women introduced themselves and recounted the imposter’s plot while Edison checked himself out in a mirror and grumbled about the sorry state of his suit. “Well, I thank you ladies for liberating me,” he finally said. “I’ll have my secretary send you a casserole. At the moment, however, I must rush off to New York to stop a madman.”