Nabbed!: The 1925 Journal of G. Codd Fitzmorgan
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Authors: Bill Doyle
Contents
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Text copyright © 2006 by Bill Dolye
Compilation, illustrations, and photographs copyright © 2006 by Nancy Hall, Inc.
Crime Through Time is a trademark of Nancy Hall, Inc.
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Little, Brown and Company
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First eBook Edition: September 2009
ISBN: 978-0-316-08453-6
A thank-you of historic proportions to Nancy Hall for making this book and the Crime Through Time series a reality. To Kirsten
Hall, for her keen editing and insightful grasp of the overall picture, and to Atif Toor for making the whole book come alive
visually.
Special thanks to the editors at Little, Brown: Andrea Spooner, Jennifer Hunt, and Phoebe Sorkin, who are always dead-on,
always incisive, and never discouraging. And thanks to Riccardo Salmona for his constant support.
Waves are huge! Crew running to frightened
I am on deck of ferry. Water everywhere
No land in sight.
Is this my last journal entry?
“There it is!” A deckhand shouted.
He's right I can see the dim
outline through the fog — Hunter Island!
We made it to Hunter Island!
I guess I overreacted to the rough seas. I actually ripped out the previous entry so no one could ever read how scared I was.
But a great detective learns to deal with all the facts, both good and bad—so I taped it back in.
Who knew a ferry ride could be so terrifying? Crossing to the island from the coast of North Carolina, the storm hammered
us with rain and whipping winds. Monstrous waves swept over the deck as if they might swallow the boat whole.
Somehow, we arrived safe and sound.
Gratefully, I stepped onto the dock and got my first close look at the Hatherford mansion. I gaped up in awe at the four-story
home, which loomed over one end of the island like a massive, creepy castle. As long as two football fields, it sprouted in
all directions with towers, chimneys, and gargoyles. According to reports, the mansion was full of secret passageways and
hidden rooms!
The Hatherford mansion—quite impressive!
The ferry passengers were met by butlers and maids standing with open umbrellas. A stern-faced bald man wearing a starched
butler's uniform walked over to me. “I am Charles,” he said in a deep, rumbling voice. “I will show you to your room. Yourbag
will be brought up shortly.”
“I'm G. Codd Fitzmorgan. Nice to meet you.” I stuck out my hand. Charles shook it coldly and moved quickly away from the dock.
Charles, the butler
I had to rush to keep up. As we climbed a steep grassy incline in the lashing rain, I had the oddest feeling that the mansion's
windows were like eyes. And that they were watching me.
“This way, please,” Charles instructed, snapping me out of my eerie thoughts. We walked through ornately carved wood doors
and into the house. I followed the butler through a shadowy front hall, up a long staircase made of black stone, and down
a hallway lined with ancient suits of armor. After three more hallways and two staircases, I felt like I'd stepped into a
fairy tale. “Should I leave a trail of bread crumbs?” I joked.
Charles didn't laugh. “With parents such as yours, I imagine you shouldn't have a problem detecting you way around.”
So he had heard of my mom and dad. That isn't so strange. My parents are famous detectives who have cracked cases all around
the world, from recovering a Kidnapped panda in China to breaking up a counterfeiting ring here in the United States. They'd
be here right now, but they're off solving their latest case—which is very hush-hush. I think it has something to do with
the government of Siam, but I'm not sure.
As Charles and I continued walking, I saw other guests being led into their rooms. Yet we traveled on and on. Finally, Charles
stopped and swung open a heavy wood door. At first, I thought he was showing me into a grand hall or a ballroom.
“This is my room?” I asked, my eyes running about the mammoth space.
“Oh, yes,” Charles said with a touch of disapproval. “It does seem like a lot for a child…”
A child? “I'm fourteen,” I said, a little too defensively. But he was right. This was a lot of space for anyone, child or
not. There was a four-poster bed, a gigantic fireplace with a roaring fire, and a rolltop desk (where I am writing now) big
enough for five people to sit at. It was much cheerier than the other parts of the house I'd seen. I walked over to one of
the three floor-to-ceiling windows. I had an amazing view of the airplane landing strip. Beyond that, I could see a group
of trees, the ferry dock, and the churning sea. There was no sign of the boat that had brought us to the island.
My room must be the biggest in the house!
My view!
“Where's the ferry?” I asked Charles, who was adding another log to the fire.
“The crew took it back to the mainland,” he answered. “The dock here offers little protection during storm conditions. And
the seas will only be getting worse.”
“Worse?” That didn't seem possible. From where I stood, it looked like the rolling waves had tripled in size since we arrived.
June 12, 1925
Charles's lips bent into a thin smile. “Just last summer, we were without the ferry for four days during one storm.”
If this was supposed to scare me, it didn't.
“What a fantastic place to be stranded!” I said, glancing around the room again. “Do the other eighty weekend guests have
rooms like mine?”
“No, this is one of the finest,” Charles said, closing the fireplace screen. “Miss Pinkerton informed the staff she will be
keeping an eye on you this weekend and wanted to make you comfortable. She requested you be given this room.”
Judge always spoils me. One year, she hired actors to come to my backyard and reenact an unsolved bank robbery that had taken
place in Tulsa, Oklahoma. She timed me while I cracked the case. Another year, Judge took me to see my idol, the magician
Harry Houdini—and then backstage to meet him! Whenever she's around, amazing things happen.
But where was she now? “Judge wasn't on the ferry,” I said. “And I haven't seen—“
“Who?” Charles interrupted, clearly having no idea who I was talking about.
“Right. Sorry. I mean Miss Pinkerton,” I said. “Justine Pinkerton. Everyone in my family calls her Judge.”
“Oh?” Charles asked. But I could tell he really meant, “And why on earth would you do that?”
I almost told him that I've often wondered the same thing. Once I asked my mom that very question. “She wants to go to law
school, but she's not a real judge,” I had said. “So why do you call her that?” My mom just laughed and said, “One day I think
you'll figure that out for yourself.” All I know is that Judge is from a famous family of detectives.
WHAT IN THE WORD?
PRIVATE EYE:
A term meaning detective, derived from the logo of the Pinkerton Detective Agency. Allan Pinkerton opened the
first national detective organization in 1850. Its logo was an open eye with the slogan “We Never Sleep.” Pinkerton foiled
an assassination attempt on Abraham Lincoln, cracked countless cases, and specialized in railroad security. He wrote a series
of 18 books about his life that made him a true celebrity. The open eye trademark was linked with detective work—so people
started calling all detectives “Private eyes.”
Judge is a Pinkerton.
But I didn't say any of that to Charles. Instead, I just shrugged. Charles gave me a tiny smile. “Miss Pinkerton is arranging
last-minute details for the party.”
That made sense. After all, the party is the reason we're all here. Judge is head over heels in love with the famous test
pilot John Hatherford. They're getting married in August, and we're celebrating their engagement this weekend.
Charles handed me an envelope. “She asked me to give you this. Please let me know if you need anything.” Before I could thank
him, he turned and left the room.
I sat down at the desk and ripped open the envelope, eager to read the message from Judge. Here's what it said:
