The Galloping Ghost | Page 7

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 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