Chapter IX

BOB GETS A WARNING
★

The young federal agent returned to car 43 and related in detail to Tully the result of the search of the train.

“It doesn’t seem possible that Hamsa could be on the train, yet I am sure that he did not fall off,” concluded Bob.

“I’ve the same feeling,” said Tully. “You’re sure you didn’t miss any place?”

“We looked in every closet and compartment aboard the Limited,” insisted Bob. “We’d have found even a fly if one had been aboard.”

Tully was visibly downcast for he felt the loss of his confidential instructions keenly.

“Hamsa is the only one who could have taken them,” he said, half to himself.

Bob felt like telling Tully that he should have known better than to have opened and read them in the presence of anyone else, but he checked the impulse, and was glad that he had had the foresight to protect his own papers by placing them in his Gladstone bag.

The train slowed to a stop at a lonely junction and Bob went to the vestibule where the porter opened the upper half of the door for him.

The federal agent, peering ahead through the rain, saw the train conductor make a dash for the station where a night operator was on duty. The conductor ran back to the train just before the engineer “whistled in” the flagman and Bob knew that already a message was humming over the wires telling of the disappearance of Joe Hamsa, the diamond salesman.

The porter closed the upper half of the door and Bob returned to the Pullman. The lights had been turned low and he looked in at Tully, who was dozing.

Bob was too wide awake to think of sleep just then, and he went ahead to the smoking compartment, where the porter had left an evening paper.

Bob picked up the paper and scanned the headlines on the first page, but there was nothing recorded in the news there that drew his attention and he turned to the sports page, where football dope stories could be found plentifully, for Bob liked nothing better in the sports world than a good football game.

The train conductor came in and sat down.

“It’s a bad night,” he said, looking at the curtain of rain which swept the windows. “We’ll be late getting into Jacksonville. A message at the junction back there gave us a lot of slow orders where the track is going bad ahead of us.”

“The rain must be worse farther south,” said Bob.

“It’s nearly a cloudburst in some places. I wouldn’t be surprised if we find a bridge washed out and get hung up for hours.”

The conductor was silent for a minute. Then he added, “I can’t figure out where that fellow in lower nine went. Seems impossible that he could have fallen off the train, yet he isn’t here.”

“I’m just as puzzled as you are,” admitted Bob, “but I have a feeling that no harm has come to him. I sized him up as a fellow pretty well able to take care of himself.”

“I don’t recall seeing him,” said the train conductor, “for the Pullman conductor handles this end of the Limited. Well, I’ve more reports to get ready.”

He got to his feet and started for the door. The Limited lurched heavily and the conductor was thrown back against Bob.

“There we go!” he cried. “The track’s gone out from under us.”

The car was weaving and lurching as the wheels screamed in the grip of powerful air brakes, but the rhythmic clack of the trucks told them they were still on the rails.

The conductor hoisted himself to his feet and Bob followed him in a dash for the vestibule.

“That blamed engineer almost shook us to pieces,” groaned the conductor as he threw open the top half of the vestibule door and peered out.

Bob, looking over his shoulder, could see a red glare that penetrated even the brilliance of the locomotive’s headlight.

“Someone’s swinging a fuse against us,” said the conductor, buttoning up his slicker. “I’m going ahead.”

Bob ran back into the Pullman and got his own coat. Tully, who was awake now, wanted to know what it was all about.

“An emergency stop of some kind,” said Bob. “I’ll be back soon.”

By the time he was back in the vestibule the Limited was grinding to a stop and Bob swung down behind the conductor, the two running ahead alongside the train as rapidly as they could in the darkness.

The Southern had been flagged at a lonely way station where it seldom if ever made a stop, and the engineer, who was leaning from his cab, bawled lustily at them.

“Find out what that hick agent means by flagging us down,” he shouted. “We’ve got to get rolling again. We’re 23 minutes late.”

The agent, the red fuse still in his hands, came toward them and Bob caught a glimpse of a telegram in one hand.

“What’s the idea of flagging us down?” demanded the conductor. “I’m going to report you if you haven’t a mighty good reason.”

The agent’s retort was sharp.

“Oh, quit your howling. I waved a fuse at you because I had orders from the super to stop this train and deliver a message to one of your passengers.”

“What’s that?” bellowed the conductor. “You had the nerve to stop the Southern just to deliver a telegram?”

The agent shrugged. “You heard me. Now I’ve got to find this passenger and deliver the message.”

“Give it to me. I’ll deliver it.” The conductor reached for the telegram, but the agent backed away.

“Oh, no you don’t. I’m going to deliver this in person and get the signature of the man I deliver it to.”

“Hurry up there!” It was the engineer, shouting at them above the noise of the storm and the air pumps on the locomotive.

“Who’s the telegram for?” asked the conductor.

“Bob Houston in lower five, car 43,” replied the agent. “Let’s get going.”

“That’s all right, I’ll sign for the telegram,” said Bob. “My name is Houston and I’m in lower five, car 43.”

The agent looked suspiciously at him as though he had not expected anyone as youthful looking as Bob.

“I’ve got instructions to see a certain badge before I turn over this message,” he said.

Bob reached into his inner coat pocket, drew forth his billfold, and produced the badge.

“That’s right,” nodded the agent. “Sign this slip.”

He produced a pencil and Bob, writing in the light from the headlight, signed his name.

“Thanks,” said the agent. Then he turned to the conductor. “All right. Now you can tell that hoghead up there to pick up his wheels and get the string of varnished gondolas out of here. I want to go to sleep.”

The conductor snorted, but he was too anxious to get back to his train to make a reply.

The vestibule of the forward coach had been opened by the brakeman. They climbed aboard and the engineer whistled off the moment they were on the train.

Bob looked at the damp envelope in his hands and suddenly he felt himself shaking slightly. For some reason the Southern Limited had been stopped at a lonely railroad outpost to deliver this message to him. That it was important there could be no doubt for he had been forced to identify himself before he could obtain the message.

The coach was less than half full and Bob dropped down in the nearest seat and ripped open the telegram, looking first at the signature. It was from Waldo Edgar, chief of the division of investigation.

Bob read the message quickly and thoroughly:

“This is to warn you that a man known as Joe Hamsa, traveling south with you on Limited, is now believed linked with gang we want. Watch Hamsa closely and take no chances with him as his record is a ruthless one. In view of this, contact Merritt Hughes and Condon Adams when you reach Jacksonville.”

Bob read the telegram again, folded it carefully and placed it in an inside pocket with the feeling that even though Joe Hamsa had disappeared from the train, they would meet and that their meeting would not be far in the future.