Chapter IV: The Ghost Appears

The mysterious disappearance of Red Rodgers, or the Red Rover, as every one knew him, caused a great commotion. Had a President been assassinated it could not have caused a greater stir.

Not an hour had passed after he vanished before the newspapers came out with an extra with a story telling in detail all that was known about the affair.

“Red Rover,” the story ran, “has never cared for crowds. Being the star of the team, he has often of late been all but mobbed by impetuous youths, foolish old women and infatuated girls. For this reason he had formed a friendship with the watchman at the tracks by the river where the trains are made up. To-night, once safely past this watchman, he went directly to his berth and turned in for the night.

“It is to be assumed that he fell asleep at once, for, though the watchman was not two hundred yards away, he heard no outcry such as might be expected had the boy been surprised while asleep and gagged before fully awake.

“There are few clues,” the story went on to state. “In their haste the kidnapers dragged a pillow from the berth. It was this pillow, standing out white in the moonlight, that attracted the watchman’s attention. The watchman distinctly recalls hearing the sudden whir and thunder of a powerful motor shortly before making this discovery. He believes this to have been the motor of a speed boat, and has the impression that it went south.

“Various motives have been brought forward. The Rover, some say, was kidnaped for ransom. He is the all-important factor in the game to be played at the end of the week. Without him Old Midway cannot hope to win. For this reason the kidnapers may have believed that a sum might be extorted from officials of the university for his return. Knowing the stand that President Lovell of Old Midway has taken against kidnapers, and the work the Crime Institute of that university has done in this connection, it is the opinion of those close to the president that no ransom will be paid.

“We have before us the question: Was the Red Rover kidnaped for ransom or as a retaliation for work against master criminals carried on by the university? There are those who will whisper that the school against whom the Red Rover was to have played is behind this affair. This, to any fair-minded person, is unthinkable.

“Sergeants Drew Lane and Tom Howe, two of the keenest young minds of the city’s detective force, have been assigned to the case. It is the hope of the entire city that their labors will bear fruit and that the Red Rover’s beloved sorrel top will be seen in the line when the line-up is formed for the greatest game of the year.”

An hour had not passed after the discovery of the crime, when the broad-shouldered, athletic Drew Lane, with derby pushed well back on his head, stood beside his slim, hawk-nosed partner overlooking the car yards at the spot where the Red Rover had vanished.

“Let’s have a look inside the car,” suggested Howe.

“You look.” Drew Lane turned toward the river. “If a speed boat left the river near this spot, there’ll be marks to show. May get a sure tip showing the direction she was headed. That’s important.”

Sergeant Howe swung up to the platform of the car, then slipped quietly inside. The place seemed deserted. A double row of curtains, one on either side, flanked the narrow, dimly lighted aisle.

“Ready for the night. All the other players get on at the depot, I suppose,” Howe mumbled in a low monotone.

He paused to look and listen. He had always found a sleeping car, made up for the night, a spooky affair. Dim lights, silence, long rows of curtains. And behind the curtains, what? Death? Perhaps. Men have died of heart disease in their berths. Died of a knife in the heart as well.

“Capital place for a murder.”

Involuntarily he looked behind him. Had he caught the sound of light footsteps?

There was no one in sight. “Boo! Who’d bother to bump off a city detective!” He laughed a low, unpleasant laugh. “We’re supposed to be too dumb to do anything disturbing to criminals.

“All the same!” He straightened up with a snap. “This is a case where we _must_ win. We simply _must_! The Red Rover must be in the line-up when the big day comes. And it’s up to Drew and me!” Howe was a loyal son of Old Midway. Loyalty to his Alma Mater compelled him to do his best. More than that, Red Rodgers was the type he admired, a silent worker.

“He works,” Drew Lane had said once, with a note of admiration in his voice. “He’s like you, Howe. He digs in and says never a word.”

“Digs in,” Howe muttered. “That’s what we must do; dig in hard.”

With that he went gliding down the aisle to pause before Section Nine.

“Ah!” he breathed as he parted the curtains. “Seems I am in time. Nothing disturbed.”

His keen, hawk-like eyes took in all at a glance. The hammock, where clothing was deposited for the night, was gone.

“Just yanked it down and took it, clothes and all. You might think from that that Red had something they wanted in his clothes. Guess not, though.”

His eyes wandered from corner to corner of the narrow space. “Covers gone. Wrapped him in them and tied him up. Need to do that. Scrapper, Red is. Take six of those soft, beer-soaked bums to hold him if he had an even break. You—”

He broke off to stare at the center of the lower sheet which still remained on the bed. At its very center was a deep dent.

“Stepped there,” he told himself, “one of ’em.”

Switching on his flashlight, he examined the sheet in minute detail.

“Not a mark,” he muttered. “Take it along all the same.”

“You all goin’ t’ take that sheet?” The porter was at his elbow.

“Sure am.” Howe showed his star.

“All right, Mister Police. Ah cain’t stop you. But t’ain’t no sort of use. Ain’t no marks on that sheet. I examined it particular.”

“Were you here when the thing happened?” Howe’s eagle eyes snapped.

“No. Oh, no, suh! Ah don’t come on ’fore half a hour ago.”

“But you weren’t far away,” Howe thought to himself. “Hiding in the linen closet, like as not. Bribed you, maybe. Wonder how much it would cost to buy a porter?”

“What’s your number?” he demanded sharply.

“Three twenty-seven.” The porter’s wide eyes rolled. “But hones’, Mister Policeman, I don’ know nothin’, nothin’ at all! But you take that sheet, just take it right square along.”

“Did you find something, Sergeant?” a fresh voice broke in.

“Just a sheet that had been stepped on.” Howe looked into the frank, fearless eyes of a boy. It was Johnny Thompson. You know Johnny.

“Gee!” Howe muttered. “I’m glad to see you! Are you in this with us?”

“All my heart and hand!” The hand Johnny gave to Howe was as hard as a rock. “This will be a night and day affair. I’m glad. That’s the sort I like.”

“Day and night and all the time,” Howe answered. “But let’s get out of here. The section is due to move, and I’ve finished. Drew’s scouting around down by the river.”

Thus, while the forces that make for evil had been whirling Red Rodgers northward, the forces that make for good, like faithful watch dogs, were assembling, making ready to take up the trail, heedless of the perils that most certainly lurked beside the way.

The pair had just alighted from the car when of a sudden a startling figure appeared before them. Rounding the end of the car it started toward them—a skeleton with bones bleached white, a white robe flowing behind it! This was the form that in the dim light of the car-yard approached them.

With an involuntary exclamation Johnny started back. Not Tom Howe. With the spring of a panther he was upon the creature. Next instant he was sprawling upon the ground. He had received such a blow on the head as put him out for the count of ten. Then, with a laugh as hollow as a voice from a graveyard at midnight, the skeleton set off at a long striding gallop. He was lost from sight before Johnny could recover from his surprise or Tom Howe could scramble to his feet.

“A—a galloping ghost!” Johnny exclaimed, as he bent over his companion. “Are you hurt?”

“No—not much.” Howe was coming round. “Hardly at all. But, man! Oh, man! What hard knuckles that ghost has!”

“What’s this? A ghost?” Once more a new voice broke in upon them.

Johnny looked up, then scowled. He had recognized the voice of a reporter from the city’s pink journal. He hated the paper and disliked this reporter. But when one speaks of a ghost he needs must explain.

Explain he did, and that with the least possible number of words.

“A ghost! A galloping ghost on the scene of a kidnaping that is sure to cause a nation-wide search! What a scoop!” The reporter was away even before Johnny had completed his meager description.

“A galloping ghost.” Johnny pronounced the words slowly as Howe, now quite recovered, stood up beside him, then scowled. “What do you make of that?”

“Not a thing,” Howe answered bluntly. “But, after all, the real question is, is this ghost for us or against us?”

“Do ghosts always take sides?”

“Oh, inevitably!” Howe laughed a short cackling laugh that went far toward relieving the tension of the moment.

“Come!” he said. “Let’s see what Drew has been doing. He—

“Watch out! Duck!” Seizing Johnny’s arm with a vice-like grip, he dragged him down.

Not an instant too soon. There came the crack of a pistol, followed by the dull thwack of a bullet against the side of the car just over their heads. And after that a cold, dead silence.