Chapter VIII

TULLY’S PAPERS VANISH
★

When Bob returned to the Pullman, Tully was obviously much refreshed from his deep sleep and he ate the soup with real relish. After he was through and the waiter had gone, Tully spoke to him.

“I’ll appreciate it if you’ll give me a hand down to the berth,” he said. “My legs are still a little shaky, but I guess I’m all right otherwise. A good night’s sleep will put me back to normal.”

Bob supported Tully and together they walked down to the berth which had been made up. Joe Hamsa was not in the car.

“I still can’t figure out what happened to me,” said Tully, shaking his head.

“You are sure I wasn’t struck over the head?” he looked at Bob so sharply that Bob was inclined to laugh.

“Don’t accuse me of doing a thing like that,” he retorted, but there was no anger in his words.

“But I tell you it felt like something struck my face. Then there was a blanket of darkness that settled over me and I couldn’t move or say a word. It was a mighty helpless sort of feeling.”

Bob agreed that there had been nothing pleasant about the experience and he helped Tully in getting undressed. Tully drew the letter with its confidential report on the smuggling ring out of an inner pocket.

“This goes under my pillow,” he said.

“I thought it was kind of foolish for you to read it while Hamsa was in the smoking compartment with you,” said Bob, and a flicker of anger glowed in Tully’s eyes.

“Hamsa’s all right,” he replied. “You take care of your copy and I’ll take care of mine.”

With that Tully pulled out the flap of the envelope and drew forth the closely typewritten pages which comprised the report.

Bob saw a sudden, startled change in Tully’s face, and he leaned closer.

“Bob,” whispered the other. “Look at these pages. Am I seeing things?”

Bob picked up the handful of data and scanned the typewritten words. Even before he read the printing on the page he knew that something was wrong for the paper was thicker than that upon which his report had been written.

But the real shock was when he read the first page. It was a recipe for making dill pickles.

“It’s a pickle recipe,” gasped Bob.

Tully nodded grimly.

“Look at the rest of them!”

Bob skimmed through the pages, bending down to examine each one closely. Instead of the confidential data the pages were mimeographed recipes and Bob and Tully stared at each other in amazement.

“My report’s been stolen!”

It was Tully speaking and he sounded like a stricken man. Then he grasped Bob’s shoulders.

“This isn’t a trick you’re playing on me?” he demanded.

“Don’t be silly,” said Bob firmly. “That isn’t my idea of a joke. We’ve got to get busy now.”

Bob pressed the buzzer for the porter, who put in an almost immediate appearance.

“Get the Pullman conductor here at once,” he commanded.

“Sorry, boss, but he’s eating supper up ahead.”

“Get him,” retorted Bob, and the manner in which he gave the order sent the porter scurrying up the aisle.

“How could this have happened?” asked Tully, and from the heaviness of his voice Bob knew that his companion had not fully thrown off the effects of the attack which had overcome him that afternoon.

“The secret of this is somewhere on the Limited,” replied Bob. “Only three people, in addition to myself, were in the compartment with you. One was the Pullman conductor, the other was Hamsa, and the third was the porter. I think we can rule out the porter for he was in there only once or twice. There’s just a chance the conductor might have come back in while I was in the diner.”

“What motive would he have in taking such a report?” Tully wanted to know and Bob confessed that there apparently was none.

The conductor, evidently irritated at being called from his dinner, entered the car and hurried down to the section.

“What’s the matter?” he asked crisply.

Bob did not like the tone of his voice and he drew forth the little badge which identified him. The conductor’s eyes widened in astonishment and there was an instant change in his attitude. He looked toward Tully significantly.

“Prisoner?” he asked.

“No. He’s a federal agent like myself. Sometime after he was stricken this afternoon an envelope containing valuable information was taken from him and worthless papers substituted.”

“You’re not suspecting me of this, are you?” asked the conductor and there was such pathetic anxiety in his voice that Bob felt that the man was innocent of any wrong doing.

“I’m not suspecting or accusing anyone at present,” replied Bob. “I simply want to know if you saw anything unusual going on in this car at any time while I was in the diner and while my companion was asleep on the couch in the compartment ahead.”

The conductor shook his head.

“I was through the car twice,” he said, “and the only one here was the man who had lower nine. The first time he was in his seat and the second time he was near the rear vestibule. He had on a slicker and had the upper part of the door open.”

“When was that?” The question shot eagerly from Bob’s lips.

“Just before our last stop at Atkinson where we took on coal and water,” replied the conductor. “I didn’t notice him again until up in the diner a few minutes ago.”

“The vestibule door was opened by someone while we were in Atkinson,” put in the porter.

“Then lower nine’s passenger must have taken a walk. Fine night for a thing like that,” said the conductor. “Come to think of it, I did see his slicker on another chair in the diner.”

There was no question now but that Joe Hamsa had been the man Bob had seen on the station platform, and the suspicious feeling Bob had held toward him from the beginning was strengthened.

“I’m going forward to talk with Hamsa,” he told Tully, and he started ahead through the train as fast as he could walk.

When he reached the diner the steward was turning down the lights.

“I’m looking for a dark, heavy-set fellow who was wearing a black slicker,” said Bob. “He belongs in car 43.”

“He left not more than two or three minutes ago,” replied the steward. “You should have met him, for he started back into the Pullmans.”

Bob shook his head.

“I just came from car 43 and he couldn’t have passed me.”

“He might have turned around and gone up into the coaches,” said the steward. “I’ve been busy in the kitchen checking with the chef. You might look up ahead.”

Bob went up into the day coaches and found the train conductor in the forward car. There were three day coaches on the train and the conductor was busy making out his reports.

The young federal agent wasted no time in identifying himself.

“There’s a man aboard I want to question,” he explained. “He was in the diner a few minutes ago and after finishing his meal started back for the Pullmans. He belongs in lower nine of car 43, but I’m sure he didn’t reach there. Get your brakeman out and search this train.”

The small gold badge Bob displayed worked magic with the trainman and he summoned his brakeman. Bob gave them a brief description of Hamsa and they started back through the train.

Every vestibule and every compartment was checked as the three worked methodically. They even looked into the kitchen on the dining car while the chef, a jolly negro, grinned at them.

Back in car 43 they found the Pullman conductor standing watch beside Tully.

“There’s no sign of Hamsa up ahead,” said Bob. “He didn’t come this way?”

“No one’s been through this car,” replied the Pullman official firmly.

Bob shook his head.

“A man can’t vanish on a train and we’ve been running too fast for him to jump off. That would have been sheer suicide.”

There were two more Pullmans and an observation lounge car behind car 43 and with the trainmen at his heels, Bob resumed the search.

The next two cars were practically deserted and even in the observation lounge there were only five passengers in addition to the porter. They looked up with evident interest at the wholesale invasion of the trainmen and the grim intentness of the expression on Bob’s face.

But the observation car failed to yield any sign of Hamsa and Bob stepped out on the rain-lashed platform. The Limited whistled sharply and seconds later rumbled through a small village. Then the train was rushing through the desolate night once more.

The young federal agent turned and re-entered the car and the feeling of unrest which had gripped him ever since meeting Joe Hamsa deepened. There was something about the diamond salesman that sent shivers up and down Bob’s spine.

“That fellow’s got to be on the train some place for we haven’t even slowed up since we left Atkinson,” said the train conductor. “We’d better look again.”

They started forward, once more examining every compartment aboard the train, and this time they even went into the baggage car, but the baggageman insisted that no one had been through his car.

Back in the first day coach they stopped to take council.

“I’m afraid he’s fallen off the train in some manner,” said the train conductor. “We’re stopping in ten minutes at a junction and I’ll send a wire back to division headquarters. They’ll warn all trains over the road to watch for him.”

Bob, however, doubted that Hamsa had fallen from the train for he felt that the diamond salesman was far too clever and cautious to be the victim of such an accident.