A Dastardly Plot

  “Clever again,” Hertha said, raising the mug to her lips. “My associate surmised that your last name was not actually Pemollywot, but that it did begin with a ‘P.’ From what you’d shouted at the clerk, she also divined that you were a widow—sincere condolences—and that you had some connection with pickles. From there it didn’t take much to track you down.” Hertha turned to Molly. “And you—our young lady so full of dash-fire—you must be Molly. Wot?”

  Molly wasn’t sure what “dash-fire” was, but it certainly sounded like something she’d be full of. She had no idea whether this Hertha Marks was a potential ally or yet another enemy, but the woman seemed impressed by her, and it was one of Molly’s goals in life to have everyone recognize her cleverness, villains included. She held out her hand. “Molly Pepper: lab assistant, pickle seller, saboteur, and spy.”

  Hertha shook her hand. “I can already attest to those last two.”

  “Let’s make it three. Want a pickle?” Molly turned toward the storefront, and realized, with disappointment, that Emmett was gone.

  Cassandra cleared her throat and steered her daughter to the table. “So, we know how you found us,” Cassandra said. “The answer being ‘sneaky business.’ But I’d still like to know why.”

  “I represent a secret cabal of women inventors. And we have a proposition for you.”

  “I didn’t even know there were other women inventors!” Molly blurted.

  “There are,” Hertha said. “And we’d like to invite your mother to join our group, the Mothers of Invention.”

  “You all have children?” Cassandra asked.

  “Some, not all. Not I,” Hertha answered. “The name is a play on the old saying, ‘Necessity is the mother of invention.’”

  “And you want my mother?” Molly asked.

  “We do,” said Hertha. “We in the MOI take a very different approach from the competing, spying, backstabbing boys at the Inventors’ Guild. We work as a team to perfect all of our collective projects. Share your ideas with us, Cass, and we will share ours with you. You’ve obviously got a lot to contribute, like the incredible speech-activated technology in your sneeze shield.”

  “The sneeze shield?” Cassandra said. “It stops you from spraying boogers on people.”

  “But it works through the recognition of specific sounds,” Hertha said. “That’s never been done before.”

  “Her Astounding Automated Secretary’s even better,” Molly added proudly. “It can understand full sentences!”

  Hertha’s eyebrows shot up. “What else have you made, Cass?”

  “Um, there’s the Stay-Dry Rain Hat,” Molly answered. “If the sun goes behind a cloud, a little umbrella pops out!”

  “It senses light levels,” Hertha said. “Incredible. What else?”

  “The Toastinator will crisp your bread in three seconds!” Molly said.

  “Instant heat,” said Hertha.

  “Oh, and best of all is the Ic—”

  Cassandra covered her daughter’s mouth.

  “The Ick, huh?” Hertha said. “Name needs work. What does it do?”

  Molly watched her mother squint warily and drum her fingers. If what this Hertha woman said was true, this could be the greatest opportunity her mother had ever been offered. Then again, if this woman had more sinister motives, an invitation to an elite inventors’ club would be the perfect bait to trap Cassandra Pepper.

  Cassandra stood tall. “All right, Bertha—if that is your real name—”

  “It’s not,” said Hertha.

  “How do we know you’re not a Guild spy?” Cassandra continued. “That dress of yours is obviously a disguise. How do we know this whole persona you’re showing us isn’t fake?”

  Molly considered the possibility. “Yeah, are you really English?” she asked pointedly.

  “Do you mean ‘really’ as in ‘actually,’ or ‘really’ as in ‘very’?” Hertha replied. “The answer, incidentally, is yes, to both. Look, I can’t deny using subterfuge to locate you, but I am no friend of the Guild.”

  “The Jägermen, then?” Cassandra said. “You’ll not be taking my daughter.”

  “I wish no such thing,” Hertha replied. “The only group I work for is the Mothers of Invention. And we want you. Your ideas are brilliant, Cass; you simply need some collaborative input on how they might best be applied. And where else are you going to find that kind of help?

  “I’m sure you’ve experienced firsthand the difficulty a woman has trying to be taken seriously by the scientific establishment. Back in London, when I applied to present my work before the Royal Society, I was told I would need to give my papers to a male colleague so he could present them. Molly, you said you were unaware of the mere existence of female inventors. That is the reason we created the MOI.”

  “Ah, this is what you were talking about, isn’t it?” said Molly. “When you told my mother, ‘We know what you’ve seen.’ You were talking about the obstacles, the rejection.”

  “Precisely.” Hertha brushed some feathers from her face and sipped her tea. “So, have I sparked your interest?”

  “Did you invent that nifty cane of yours?” Molly asked.

  “This came from a colleague,” she replied. “My own work centers around energy. Electric arc lamps, for instance. The ones we used in the university laboratories at Cambridge hissed horribly; ’twas quite distracting. So I made some improvements. I’m also studying the ripple effect, which is rather—”

  “No,” Cassandra said bluntly.

  “Beg pardon?” Hertha asked. Molly was just as surprised.

  “We’ll not be joining your little club,” Cassandra said. “I do not believe, Mertha—”

  “Hertha.”

  “—that my daughter and I are your type of people. Thank you for the invitation, but we are quite fine on our own.”

  “I’m . . . sorry you feel that way,” Hertha said.

  “And yet we do,” Cassandra replied coolly. “I think it’s time for you to go.”

  Hertha pointed to the mug that was currently at her lips.

  Cassandra sighed. “After your tea.”

  Several awkwardly silent minutes later, Hertha drained the last drop from her cup and, with a nod, took her leave.

  “Why did you turn her down?” Molly immediately asked.

  “I don’t trust her,” Cassandra said. She began violently chopping pickles. “The woman comes in here talking as if she and I are kindred spirits, as if she knows what I’ve been through. ’Allo, I’m called Fertha and I’m from merry ol’ England, cheerio and wot-wot! I went to a fancy university and learned science in a big lab with electric lights but it was all fribbledy-frapp because the lamps made icky noises, tally-ho, pip-pip!”

  Molly learned two things from that tirade. One was that her mother did the worst British accent of all time. But more important, she now understood her mother’s distaste for Hertha Marks. Cassandra hadn’t had a day of schooling beyond the eighth grade. The only “laboratory” she’d ever known was a table in a pickle shop. The only lamps she worked by required a match to light. Every amazing machine she built had to be crafted from old parts they found in alleys or garbage bins. Hertha was a woman who’d obviously had unfettered access to the kind of privilege and opportunity Cassandra could only dream of.

  But did that mean she and the Mothers of Invention were no better than the Guild?

  “Apparently not all celebrities are as appreciative of their fans as Thomas Edison,” Cassandra said bitterly. “Sergio Vittorini was completely unwilling to sign my broken sneeze shield.”

  “Mother.”

  “What else was I going to offer him—you took our only piece of paper. You know, if you’d let me come with you, nobody would have been here when that horrid Marks woman showed up and we wouldn’t be down one cup of tea right now. Did you at least find that boy?”

  “Yes!” Molly burst from her seat and squeezed her mother’s hands tight. She couldn’t believe she’d gotten dis
tracted enough to forget. “Yes, I did! And better yet, we found Bell’s death machines!”

  “Machines, plural?” Cassandra squeezed back. “What are they? Tell me!”

  “Robots.”

  “Robots?” Cassandra echoed.

  Molly nodded. “Robots.”

  “What’s a robot?” Cassandra asked.

  “Yeah, what’s a robot?” Emmett asked, crawling out from beneath a bench.

  Molly’s face lit up. “You didn’t run away!”

  “I was hiding,” he said sheepishly. “In case you needed . . . just in case.”

  “Sorry, what’s a robot?” Cassandra asked again.

  “Bell’s death machines,” Molly said. “They’re metal men. With creepy eyes and pointy fingers.”

  “The automatons?” Emmett said. “They were automatons, like the clockwork figures at the Guild Hall. Only much bigger.”

  “So why are you calling them Herthas?” Cassandra asked.

  “Robots,” Emmett said. “She called them robots.”

  “That’s the one!” Cassandra said, snapping her fingers. “Why are you calling them robots?”

  “I’m not calling them robots,” Molly said. “Bell is. That’s what he engraved on their chest plates. I got a look right before Emmett pulled me away.”

  “It does have a nice ring to it,” Cassandra agreed. “But I believe we’re drifting from the main question.” She spun to Emmett. “Who are you?”

  “Oh! This is Emmett!” Molly threw an arm around Emmett’s shoulders and pulled him to her side. Shifting uncomfortably, Emmett gave a weak wave. Cassandra simply stared. “The boy from last night?” Molly tried.

  Cassandra stared at him. From a nearby shelf, she grabbed some goggles and held them up to Emmett’s face. “Ah, yes! That’s him,” she said cheerily. She threw the goggles aside and shook his hand. “It’s good to meet you, Emmett.” Then she bent and whispered in his ear, “Is it good to meet you? Are you on our side?”

  “Um, yes?”

  “Then, sit down, young man,” Cassandra said. “I’ll make some extra sandwiches. I want to hear all about these doomsday Herthas—robots! Doomsday robots.”

  15

  The Story of Emmett Lee

  EMMETT ATE LIKE he’d never had a triple pickle and mustard sandwich before. Which was very likely.

  “Thank you, Mrs. Pepper,” the boy said for the fourth time.

  “You’re still welcome, Mr. Lee,” Cassandra replied. “How do you normally feed yourself, Emmett? Living on your own?” The children had filled her in on Emmett’s history as well as their discovery in Bell’s lab.

  “For a while, I did odd jobs for food. Sweep a stoop for an apple, tighten a wobbly gate for some biscuits. But Mr. Bell pays me now, so I—uh-oh . . .” Pickle juice ran down Emmett’s chin, and he looked as if he might hide under the table out of embarrassment.

  “Relax, Goosey,” Molly said. “You think we’re gonna kick you out for dribbling? We’re not much for highfalutin manners here. Watch.” She removed the top slice of bread from her sandwich, leaned forward, and planted her face into a layer of mustard. She sat up again with yellow-brown dollops dotting her nose and cheeks like clown makeup.

  “Molly!” Cassandra chided. “I expect better from you. Like this.” She opened her own sandwich and slammed her face into it. She came up with a gherkin jutting from each nostril.

  Molly snorted in delight. Which made Cassandra laugh, and the tiny pickles shot from her nose. Emmett looked as if he still hadn’t ruled out hiding under the table.

  “Is this typical for you two at mealtime?” he asked.

  “Only when I want to test out a new invention like the Wipe-Oscillator,” Cassandra said. From a nearby shelf, she retrieved what appeared to be a jack-in-the-box. “I put this together yesterday morning,” she said. “I have no idea if it works. Want to test it on your face?” Emmett politely declined. “Such a gentleman,” Cassandra said. “You’re right—I made the best mess, so I get to go first.”

  She held the box at chin level and turned its crank until the lid popped, releasing a gloved hand that slapped her cheek with a handkerchief.

  “I think the Wipe-Oscillator just challenged you to a duel,” Molly said.

  “Not a problem,” Cassandra said, her face no cleaner. She grabbed some pliers from a nearby shelf. “I just need to adjust the torque on the pinions for better control of the oscillation.”

  It sounded like a foreign language to Molly. But Emmett perked up. “May I try?”

  “By all means.” Cassandra handed him the gadget and looked on as he tinkered with its inner workings. “Molly tells me you’re headed for a career in inventing.”

  “Um, maybe,” Emmett mumbled. “I don’t know.” Finished, he held the contraption by his own chin and turned the crank. This time, the mechanical hand gently wiped his mouth with one smooth stroke.

  “Crackerjack!” Molly said. “Now put it back like it was, so I can use it as a slapping machine.”

  “You’re a talented young man, Mr. Lee,” Cassandra said.

  “I’ve picked up a few tricks from Mr. Bell,” Emmett said, blushing. “But honestly, he could probably learn a lot from you, Mrs. Pepper. Molly told me about some of your inventions.” He turned in his seat. “Is that the Icarus Chariot?”

  “Well, the pieces of it.”

  “And it really flies?”

  “How else would I know that our upstairs neighbor likes to eat turkey legs while trimming her toenails?” Cassandra said.

  “Incredible,” Emmett said, looking around in awe. “And you’ve made all sorts of things with motors, and devices with limbs that move on their own, and machines that understand human speech! Mr. Bell would kill to get his hands on . . .” He got suddenly quiet. “Mr. Bell’s probably wondering where I am. Especially if he’s heard about my shoe dangling from the trapdoor in his secret workshop.” Emmett shut his eyes tightly. “I wanted this to work out so badly.”

  Cassandra patted him on the back. “And it did work out badly.”

  “No worries, Goosey, you can stay here with us,” Molly said, tossing her last morsel of sandwich into her mouth.

  “For tonight at least,” Cassandra said. “Come morning, none of us can risk being discovered at Pepper’s Pickles.”

  “Oh. The Jägermen,” Molly said gloomily.

  Cassandra rubbed her daughter’s back. “It’s just temporary, Molls. A week at most. By the time the World’s Fair is over, so too shall our troubles be.”

  “Where will you go?” Emmett asked.

  “I don’t know,” Molly said glumly. “Where were you living before the Guild?”

  Emmett shook his head. “I promised myself I’d never go back under the dump.”

  “What’s ‘under the dump’?” Cassandra asked.

  “Down Rivington, toward the water, where people dump the ash from their furnaces and such,” he explained. “Folks without homes hollow out spaces for themselves under the mountains of ash. I didn’t have to live in an ash cave, though, ’cause I had Miss Addie’s book wagon.”

  Emmett must have seen the next question coming and went on. “I used to wait around the docks while my father worked his ferry shifts. Every day, Miss Addie would come by with her bookmobile. She never asked me for money, just let me borrow a new one each day, like a library on wheels. I’d find myself a nice spot—in an empty dinghy or one of those big coils of rope—and just read and read. After my father died, Miss Addie took me in for a while. Then she passed on too. She was old. But I still had the bookmobile. So I took it to the ash dump to keep out of sight, made a few alterations, and it became my home.”

  Molly didn’t want to say what she was really thinking—which was that living in a book cart sounded far more exciting than living in a pickle shop—so instead she ran to her own chest of books to show off the stacked titles: Frankenstein, Oliver Twist, The Count of Monte Cristo, The Age of Fable, The Adventures of Tom Sawyer, Little Women, Legends of King
Arthur, From the Earth to the Moon—and that was only the top layer. Each hardbound volume, read and reread dozens of times, had been a gift from her father—with the exception of her still-glossy copy of Treasure Island, which she’d received just one week earlier as a twelfth birthday present. Her mother had sold her favorite socket wrench set in order to buy her that book. Emmett picked it up and ran his finger along the embossed ship on the cover.

  “Go ’head, read it,” Molly said. “There’s useful information in there if we should run into any pirates during this Bell business.”

  “I hope you can read quickly, though,” said Cassandra. “Because tomorrow morning, out the door. All of us. Oh, but at least you can come watch the fireworks with us tomorrow night.”

  “Mother, you’re a genius!”

  “That’s true,” said Cassandra. “But why am I a genius this time?”

  “The fireworks! Tomorrow night will be the best time to take care of Bell’s metal men!” Molly said. “The whole city will be along the river, focused on the bridge. It’ll be noisy, with all the drums and the tubas and the boom-boom-booms. And Bell himself will be in the parade, so we know we won’t run into him.”

  “You’re right,” Cassandra said. “It’s a unique opportunity; we should take advantage. Even if it means missing the fireworks ourselves. Which will be disappointing. I bet they have those big ones where the sparks spread out like a flower.”

  “So we’re saboteurs again.” Molly rubbed her hands together.

  “Again?” Emmett said, raising an eyebrow. “Last time you attempted to sabotage something, all you did was make a mess for the janitor. Can I . . . make a suggestion? There are only three of us—and that’s counting me, which I’m not entirely sure we should be doing—so perhaps you could call upon Miss Marks and her friends—”

  “Maybe one of them has invented a robot smasher?” Molly said. “I call dibs on riding it!”

  “Emmett, I was beginning to grow quite fond of you; don’t mess it up by mentioning that feathered crumpet,” Cassandra said firmly. “I don’t trust her farther than I could throw her—and I say that as someone who has built a catapult. Anyway, I know how we’re going to destroy Bell’s robot army: explosives!” She stood dramatically with her hands on her hips and mustard on her nose.