Lantern Sam and the Blue Streak Bandits (11 page)

I joined Mother and Jessica in the dining car a few minutes later, but I had a hard time focusing on the food in front of me. My eyes darted from table to table and my ears strained to listen to every conversation. In my mind, I kept replaying what Ellie first told me about recognizing
the two criminals on board the Shoreliner. Was I forgetting something? If only I’d asked more questions!

“You’re awfully quiet tonight,” Mother remarked. “Is everything all right? I suppose you’re worried about that little girl. When I think about what her poor mother must be going through right now, I could cry.”

“She’ll be okay … I think. I have a feeling.”

“I hope you’re right. Now, how about your dinner? You seem more interested in what other people are eating and drinking than what’s on your own plate. Don’t you like it?”

I looked down at my barely touched pork chop, fried potatoes, and applesauce. “No—I mean, yes, it’s great.” I smiled at her. “I’m just taking my time. I don’t want to rush such a nice dinner.”

She squeezed my hand across the narrow table. “You’re a good boy, Henry. I wish I could give you and your sister fancy dinners like this every night. Things will be better soon—your father says that the ports he visits are starting to get busier. He says it’s only a matter of time before the mills in Pittsburgh and Youngstown are back at full strength, and that will mean more cargo for all the G and S ships.”

G & S Shipping owned a number of freighters on the Great Lakes, including the
Point Pelee
, captained by Father, but when Mother mentioned the company by
name, her face changed suddenly, as if a light had been switched on.

“That little girl,” she said, “the one who was kidn—er, the one who is lost—what’s her name?”

“Ellie,” I said. “Why?”

“Ellie what?”

“Strasbourg.”

Mother’s hand moved to cover her mouth. “Oh, my.”

“What? What’s going on?”

“You know that your father works for G and S Shipping, right?
G and S
stands for Gimble and
Strasbourg
. I’m ninety-nine percent certain that Ellie’s father is the Strasbourg in Gimble and Strasbourg. I should have caught it when her mother introduced herself. When the newest ship in the fleet was launched a few years back, there was a picture in the newspaper of the christening. The woman who broke the bottle of champagne over the bow was Ellie’s mother—Doris Strasbourg—I’m sure of it. And in the picture, she had her daughter with her, who was about your age.”

“When she said that her father built ships,” I said, “I thought she meant that he
actually
built them, not that he was the guy who … owned the company where they got built.” I then told her about the newspaper clipping that I had found in the salesman’s compartment. “They were
going to Conneaut Lake Park for the grand opening of the Blue Streak. She’s so lucky; she’s going to be on the first ride. Wow, I guess she really was telling the truth about everything.”

“What a strange coincidence—all of us being on the same train, you two kids becoming friends.”

“I wouldn’t exactly call us friends. I only just met her today. Still, it’s weird that her dad
owns
the
Point Pelee
. Does Father know him?”

“I don’t think so. At least I never heard him mention it. It’s a big company, with offices in lots of cities. But you can ask him yourself tomorrow! He should be in port by the time you wake up in the morning.”

I smiled at the thought of running down the pier and jumping up to greet him. “I can’t wait. It seems like he’s been gone forever.”

“It’s a long way to Duluth and back. At least he’ll be home for a few days while they load the
Pelee
for the next trip.”

I ducked my head, pretending to be very interested in my food as the woman in dark glasses and her husband started down the aisle of the dining car toward me. As she walked past, her pink cardigan sweater brushed against the table, knocking a fork to the floor. Instinctively, I reached
down to pick it up, and found myself nose to nose with the man in the gray suit.

“I’ve got it,” said the man, smiling at me. “Sorry about that. I’ll have the waiter send another over. Hey, I remember you. You were looking for that girl, the one who … hey, wait up!” He ran down the aisle after his wife, who was already out of sight.

Sam was in his usual position on Clarence’s bed, all four feet tucked under his body, eyes closed.

“I can’t believe he’s sleeping at a time like this!” I said to Clarence, who had motioned to me to join him in the dormitory car a few moments earlier.

“Mrrr. I’m not sleeping, you ninny. I’m thinking.”

“Ohhh. Sorry. What were you thinking
about
? Boy, I still can’t believe I’m talking to a
cat
.”

“It’s no picnic for me, either, kid,”
said Sam.
“Out of the two billion people on this planet that I might be able to communicate with—writers, artists, scientists, musicians—I get a train conductor and a ten-, sorry, eleven-year-old kid from Ashtabula, Ohio. Not exactly the cream of the crop. But to answer your question, I was thinking about how nothing in this case makes sense. We’re supposed to believe that a traveling salesman kidnaps a rich kid in broad daylight, and then jumps off the train with her stuffed into a sample
case, leaving behind a trail of clues that Hansel and Gretel would be proud of. Just how does an ordinary salesman know that Mrs. Strasbourg will be on this particular train? Or that she’ll be carrying this priceless sapphire—the Blue Streak—with her?”

“Well, we know he isn’t working alone,” said Clarence. “At this moment, somebody must be driving west with Ellie in the car. Maybe he knows someone who works for the Strasbourg family. A maid, a cook, even the kid’s nanny. One thing we do know: he really is a salesman. One of the passengers, another traveling salesman from Chicago, remembers him. He’s in one of the sections in the same car. Once he described the fellow, I remembered him, too. He’s been aboard three or four times in the past couple of years. Spent most of his time in the club car. Nice-looking, six feet tall, with a thick head of black hair, combed straight back, and a Boston Blackie mustache. Real ladies’ man.”

“Have you run that description by Mrs. Strasbourg?”
Sam asked.
“It’s a long shot, but maybe she’ll remember seeing him someplace other than aboard this train.”

“That’s a great idea, Sam,” said Clarence. “I’ll do that right away.”

Behind me in the dormitory car, someone cleared his throat, and I turned to see a short, rather stout man in a uniform staring at me. He had a strange look on his face as his eyes darted from me to Sam and then to Clarence.

“Oh, sorry, Clarence,” he said. “I … thought you were just talking to, uh, Sam. Didn’t know there was anyone else here.”

“That’s Oliver, the telegraph operator,”
said Sam, snickering.
“Watch this. The poor guy thinks Clarence is ready for his own tent at Camp Cuckoo. He has this habit of walking in at the wrong moment, and then Clarence has to wriggle his way out of it. At least this time there’s another human nearby.”

“What? Oh, hi, Oliver. This is Henry Shipley. Just showing him around the train. Do you have something for me?” Clarence asked, pointing at the paper in Oliver’s hand.

“Telegram from Albany—the police.”

“Oh … good. Thank you, Oliver.”

Clarence waited for Oliver to leave and then read the telegram aloud so we could hear. “ ‘ARRESTED SALESMAN AT STATE STREET HOTEL STOP SAMPLE CASE FULL OF OLD NEWSPAPERS STOP SALESMAN ANGRY ABOUT MISSING MARBLE SAMPLES STOP NO SIGN OF GIRL STOP’ ”

“Mrraa. They might as well let him go,”
said Sam.
“Romeo had nothing to do with the kidnapping, but the real kidnappers knew he’d be on this train. They needed a patsy—one with a big, heavy piece of luggage. Something big enough to hold a little girl.”

“But—”

“They never actually put her inside. They just wanted us to
think
that they did, to throw us off the trail for a while. Who knows what we missed while we were gallivanting around talking about that silly salesman. I can understand you two being fooled, but I should have known better.”

Clarence sat on the edge of the bed. “This changes everything. The salesman, the marble samples, the picture—those were our only clues. We don’t know
anything
. What do we tell her mother now? And I ought to tell the judge, seeing as he’s put himself in charge.”

“Don’t do anything … yet,”
said Sam.
“We’re the only ones who know the truth about the salesman, right? Let’s just keep it that way … for a while.”

“I don’t get it, Sam,” I said. “If that salesman doesn’t have Ellie, who does? And if she wasn’t in that case, how did they get her off the train without anybody seeing her?”

Sam scratched behind his notched right ear with a back paw.
“Give me a chance to think. Even a brain as powerful as mine needs a little time to work out the details … especially when it hasn’t been fed in a while.”

Clarence winked at me, grinning at Sam’s not-so-subtle hint.

Meanwhile, Sam scratched a little more.
“But this new information makes another conversation that Henry and I overheard more …
interesting,
at least. Did you notice that couple from the
dining car, right before the judge tried to assassinate me? Handsome young fellow in a gray suit, and the dame—hoo boy! She’s a real looker, hiding behind dark glasses.”

“What was so interesting about them?” Clarence asked. “Besides their looks, that is.”

“They
must
be the criminals that Ellie recognized,” I said. “The woman said that she was sure that some girl had recognized her.… What if she was talking about Ellie? Because then the man said that it was ‘too late’ for her to say anything. And then he said he was going to ‘take care of’ some lady in a funny hat, because she recognized them, too. We need to find her, and warn her!”

“Whoa! Keep your knickers on,”
said Sam.
“Sit down. We’re not going anywhere, not yet. We need a plan. I need to think
—really
think. It would help if we knew what room they’re in. I think they came from the back part of the train, but it’s possible they were just coming from the club car, or the observation lounge. The porters will be able to help us. Maybe if I had something to eat I could think more clearly.”

Clarence chuckled. “Oh, are you hungry, Sam? Why didn’t you just say so?” He reached under his bed, pulled out a small, flat tin can with a bright red wrapper, and tossed it onto the bed, where it bounced, clunking poor Sam in the head.

“Mrrrraa … what are you—”
He stopped as the label came into focus: Sail On Sardines.
“I knew it! You were holding out on me, you old son of a gun!”

A few moments passed, silent except for the sound of Sam licking his lips.

“Ahem. They’re not going to open themselves,”
he finally said.

“Oh, I’m
so
sorry,” Clarence said. “Did you want me to open them for you? I would have thought that with a brilliant mind like yours, certainly you could open a simple can of sardines. Beautiful, oily, salty, delicious sardines. And will you look at that—they’re your favorite brand. Ohhh, I
forgot
. You don’t have one of
these
.” Clarence waved a thumb in front of Sam’s face.

“Hilarious,”
said Sam, clearly
not
amused.
“You should consider yourself lucky that I don’t have an opposable thumb. That’s about the only thing standing between me and world domination.”

“Um, wouldn’t it be kind of hard to take over the world when you sleep about twenty hours a day?” I remarked.

“Nice one,” said Clarence, winking again.

“All right, all right. You’ve both had your little fun. Now, about those sardines.”

“Oh, right. The sardines. You want them now? I thought maybe you’d want to save them for a … special occasion,” said Clarence.

“Pish,”
said Sam.
“If there’s one thing I’ve learned in my eight
lives, it’s that
every
day is a special occasion. You never know when it’s going to be your last. Carpe diem, my friends.”

“Car-pay what?” I asked.

“Carpe diem,” said Clarence. “It’s Latin for ‘seize the day.’ In other words, take advantage of your opportunities.”

“Oh,” I said. “About that other thing you said, Sam. I’ve been meaning to ask you: is it true that cats have nine lives?”

“Of course it’s true,”
said Sam, licking his lips as Clarence rolled back the lid of the can of sardines with the help of the metal key.

I had more questions I wanted to ask about that whole “nine lives” thing, but I became distracted by Clarence opening the can. “Hey, can I have the key?” I asked when he finished. “I collect them.” They ate a lot of sardines and anchovies on the
Point Pelee
, and the cook started saving them for me when I was only seven. Back home in Ashtabula, I had two quart jars full of them.

“You collect sardine can keys?”
Sam asked, incredulous.
“What on earth for?”