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.