The door to the lavatory remained closed. A prickly sensation that had nothing to do with the heat formed between Quincannon's shoulder blades. How long had Gaunt been in there? Close to ten minutes. He tamped the dottle from his pipe, stowed the briar in the pocket of his cheviot. The flashily dressed drummer left the car; a fat man with muttonchop whiskers like miniature tumbleweeds came in. The fat man paused, glancing around, then turned to the lavatory door and tried the latch. When he found it locked he rapped on the panel. There was no response. Quincannon was on his feet by then, with the prickly sensation as hot as a fire–rash. He prodded the fat man aside, ignoring the indignant oath this brought him, and laid an ear against the panel. All he could hear were train sounds: the pound of beating trucks on the fishplates, the creak and groan of axle play, and the whisper of the wheels. He banged on the panel with his fist, much harder than the fat man had. Once, twice, three times. This likewise produced no response.
“Hell and damn!” he growled aloud, startling the fat man, who turned quickly for the door and almost collided with another just stepping through. The newcomer, fortuitously enough, was Mr. Bridges.
When the conductor saw Quincannon's scowl, his back stiffened and alarm pinched his sallow features. “What is it?” he demanded. “What's happened?”
“Evan Gaunt went in here some minutes ago and he hasn't come out.”
“You don't think he – ?”
“Use your master key and we'll soon find out.”
Bridges unlocked the door. Quincannon pushed in first, his hand on the butt of his Navy Colt – and immediately blistered the air with a five–jointed oath.
The cubicle was empty.
“Gone, by all the saints!” Bridges said behind him. “The damned fool went through the window and jumped.”
The lone window was small, designed for ventilation, but not too small for a man Gaunt's size to wiggle through. It was shut but not latched; Quincannon hoisted the sash, poked his head out. Hot, dust–laden wind made him pull it back in after a few seconds.
“Gone, yes,” he said, “but I'll eat my hat if he jumped at the rate of speed we've been traveling.”
“But – but he must have. The only other place he could've gone – ”
“Up atop the car. That's where he did go.”
Bridges didn't want to believe it. His thinking was plain: If Gaunt had jumped, he was rid of the threat to his and his passengers' security. He said, “A climb like that is just as dangerous as jumping.”
“Not for a nimble and desperate man.”
“He couldn't hide up there. Nor on top of any of the other cars. Do you think he crawled along the roofs and then climbed back down between cars?”
“It's the likeliest explanation.”
“Why would he do such a thing? There's nowhere for him to hide inside, either. The only possible places are too easily searched. He must know that, if he's ridden a train before.”
“We'll search them anyway,” Quincannon said darkly. “Every nook and cranny from locomotive to caboose, if necessary. Evan Gaunt is still on the Desert Limited, Mr. Bridges, and we're damned well going to find him.”
The first place they went was out onto the platform between the lounge car and the smoker, where Quincannon climbed the iron ladder attached to the smoker's rear wall. From its top he could look along the roofs of the cars, protecting his eyes with an upraised arm: the coal–flavored smoke that rolled back from the locomotive's stack was peppered with hot cinders. As expected, he saw no sign of Gaunt. Except, that was, for marks in the thin layers of grit that coated the tops of both lounge car and smoker.
“There's no doubt now that he climbed up,” he said when he rejoined Bridges. “The marks on the grit are fresh.”
The conductor's answering nod was reluctant and pained.
Quincannon used his handkerchief on his sweating face. It came away stained from the dirt and coal smoke, and when he saw the streaks, his mouth stretched in a thin smile. “Another fact: No matter how long Gaunt was above or how far he crawled, he had to be filthy when he came down. Someone may have seen him. And he won't have wandered far in that condition. Either he's hiding where he lighted, or he took the time to wash up and change clothes for some reason.”
“I still say it makes no sense. Not a lick of sense.”
“It does to him. And it will to us when we find him.”
They went to the rear of the train and began to work their way forward, Bridges alerting members of the crew and Quincannon asking questions of selected passengers. No one had seen Gaunt. By the time they reached the first–class Pullman, the urgency and frustration both men felt were taking a toll: preoccupied, Quincannon nearly bowled over a pudgy, bonneted matron outside the women's lavatory and Bridges snapped at a white–maned, senatorial gent who objected to having his drawing room searched. It took them ten minutes to comb the compartments there and the berths in the second–class Pullman: another exercise in futility.
In the first of the day coaches, Quincannon beckoned Sabina to join them and quickly explained what had happened. She took the news stoically; unlike him, she met any crisis with a shield of calm. She said only, “He may be full of tricks, but he can't make himself invisible. Hiding is one thing; getting off this train is another. We'll find him.”
“He won't be in the other two coaches. That leaves the baggage car, the tender, and the locomotive; he has to be in one of them.”
“Shall I go with you and Mr. Bridges?”
“I've another idea. Do you have your derringer with you or packed away in your grip?”
“In here.” She patted her reticule.
“Backtrack on us, then; we may have somehow overlooked him. But don't take a moment's chance if he turns up.”
“I won't,” she said. “And I'll warn you the same.”
The baggage master's office was empty. Beyond, the door to the baggage car stood open a few inches.
Scowling, Bridges stepped up to the door.
“Dan?” he called. “You in there?”
No answer.
Quincannon drew his revolver, shouldered Bridges aside, and widened the opening. The oil lamps were lighted; most of the interior was visible. Boxes, crates, stacks of luggage, and express parcels – but no sign of human habitation.
“What do you see, Mr. Quincannon?”
“Nothing. No one.”
“Oh, Lordy, I don't like this, none of this. Where's Dan? He's almost always here, and he never leaves the door open or unlocked when he isn't. Gaunt? Is he responsible for this? Oh, Lordy, I should've listened to you and held the train in Needles.”
Quincannon shut his ears to the conductor's babbling. He eased his body through the doorway, into an immediate crouch behind a packing crate. Peering out, he saw no evidence of disturbance. Three large crates and a pair of trunks were belted into place along the near wall. Against the far wall stood a wheeled luggage cart piled with carpetbags, grips, and war bags. More luggage rested in neat rows nearby; he recognized one of the larger grips, pale blue and floral–patterned, as Sabina's. None of it appeared to have been moved except by the natural motion of the train.
Toward the front was a shadowed area into which he couldn't see clearly. He straightened, eased around and alongside the crate with his Navy at the ready. No sounds, no movement ... until a brief lurch and shudder as the locomotive nosed into an uphill curve and the engineer used his air. Then something slid into view in the shadowy corner.
A leg. A man's leg, bent and twisted.
Quincannon muttered an oath and closed the gap by another half dozen paces. He could see the rest of the man's body then – a sixtyish gent in a trainman's uniform, lying crumpled, his cap off and a dark blotch staining his gray hair.
Quincannon went to one knee beside him, found a thin wrist, and pressed it for a pulse. The beat was there, faint and irregular.
“Mr. Bridges! Be quick!”
The conductor came running inside. When he saw the unconscious
crewman he jerked to a halt; a moaning sound vibrated in his throat.
“My God, Old Dan! Is he – ?”
“No. Wounded but still alive.”
“Shot?”
“Struck with something heavy. A gun butt, like as not.”
“Gaunt, damn his eyes.”
“He was after something in here. Take a quick look around, Mr. Bridges. Tell me if you notice anything missing or out of place.”
“What about Dan? One of the drawing–room passengers is a doctor.”
“Fetch him. But look here first.”
Bridges took a quick turn through the car.
“Nothing missing or misplaced, as far as I can tell. Dan's the only one who'll know for sure.”
“Are you carrying weapons of any kind? Boxed rifles, handguns? Or dynamite or black powder?”
“No, no, nothing like that.”
When Bridges had gone for the doctor Quincannon pillowed the baggage master's head on one of the smaller bags. He touched a ribbon of blood on the man's cheek, found it nearly dry. The assault hadn't taken place within the past hour, after Gaunt's disappearance from the lavatory. It had happened earlier, during his fifteen–minute absence outside Needles – the very first thing he'd done, evidently, after recognizing Quincannon. That made the breaching of the baggage car a major part of his escape plan. But what could the purpose be, if nothing here was missing or disturbed?
The doctor was young, brusque, and efficient. Quincannon and Bridges left Old Dan in his care and hurried forward. Gaunt wasn't hiding in the tender; and neither the taciturn engineer nor the sweat–soaked fireman had been bothered by anyone or seen anyone since Needles. That took care of the entire train, front to back. And where the bloody hell was Evan Gaunt?
Quincannon was beside himself as he led the way back down–train. As he and Bridges passed through the forward day coach, the locomotive's whistle sounded a series of short toots.
“Oh, Lordy,” the conductor said. “That's the first signal for Barstow.”
“How long before we slow for the yards?”
“Ten minutes.”
“Hell and damn!”
They found Sabina waiting at the rear of the second coach. She shook her head as they approached: her backtracking had also proven fruitless.
The three of them held a huddled conference.
Quincannon's latest piece of bad news put ridges in the smoothness of Sabina's forehead, her only outward reaction.
“You're certain nothing was taken from the baggage car, Mr. Bridges?”
“Not absolutely, no. Every item in the car would have to be examined and then checked against the baggage manifest.”
“If Gaunt did steal something,” Quincannon said, “he was some careful not to call attention to the fact, in case the baggage master regained consciousness or was found before he could make good his escape.”
“Which could mean,” Sabina said, “that whatever it was would've been apparent to us at a cursory search.”
“Either that, or where it was taken from would've been apparent.”
Something seemed to be nibbling at her mind; her expression had turned speculative. “I wonder ...”
“What do you wonder?”
The locomotive's whistle sounded again. There was a rocking and the loud thump of couplings as the engineer began the first slackening of their speed. Bridges said, “Five minutes to Barstow. If Gaunt is still on board – ”
“He is.”
“Do you think he'll try to get off here?”
“No doubt of it. Wherever he's hiding, he can't hope to avoid being found in a concentrated search. And he knows we'll mount one in Barstow, with the entire train crew and the authorities.”
“What do you advise we do?”
“First, tell your porters not to allow anyone off at the station until you give the signal. And when passengers do disembark, they're to do so single file at one exit only. That will prevent Gaunt from slipping off in a crowd.”
“The exit between this car and the next behind?”
“Good. Meet me there when you're done.”
Bridges hurried away.
Quincannon asked Sabina, “Will you wait with me or take another pass through the cars?”
“Neither,” she said. “I noticed something earlier that I thought must be a coincidence. Now I'm not so sure it is.”
“Explain that.”
“There's no time now. You'll be the first to know if I'm right.”
“Sabina ...” But she had already turned her back and was purposefully heading forward.
He took himself out onto the platform between the coaches. The Limited had slowed to half speed; once more its whistle cut shrilly through the hot desert stillness. He stood holding onto the handbar on the station side, leaning out to where he could look both ways along the cars – a precaution in the event Gaunt tried to jump and run in the yards. But he was thinking that this was another exercise in futility. Gaunt's scheme was surely too clever for such a predictable ending.
Bridges reappeared and stood watch on the offside as the Limited entered the railyards. On Quincannon's side the dun–colored buildings of Barstow swam into view ahead. Thirty years ago, at the close of the Civil War, the town – one of the last stops on the old Mormon Trail between Salt Lake City and San Bernardino – had been a teeming, brawling shipping point for supplies to and high–grade silver ore from the mines in Calico and other camps in the nearby hills. Now, with Calico a near–ghost town and most of the mines shut down, Barstow was a far tamer and less populated settlement. In its lawless days, Evan Gaunt could have found immediate aid and comfort for a price, and for another price, safe passage out of town and state; in the new Barstow he stood little enough chance – and none at all unless he was somehow able to get clear of the Desert Limited and into a hidey–hole.
A diversion of some sort? That was one possible gambit. Quincannon warned himself to remain alert for anything – anything at all – out of the ordinary.
Sabina was on his mind, too. Where the devil had she gone in such a hurry? What sort of coincidence – Brake shoes squealed on the sun–heated rails as the Limited neared the station platform. Less than a score of men and women waited in the shade of a roof overhang; the knot of four solemn–faced gents standing apart at the near end was bound to be Sheriff Hoover and his deputies.
Quincannon swiveled his head again. Steam and smoke hazed the air, but he could see clearly enough: No one was making an effort to leave the train on this side. Nor on the offside, else Bridges would have cut loose with a shout.
The engineer slid the cars to a rattling stop alongside the platform. Quincannon jumped down with Bridges close behind him, as the four lawmen ran over through a cloud of steam to meet them. Sheriff Hoover was burly and sported a tobacco–stained mustache; on the lapel of his dusty frock coat was a five–pointed star, and in the holster at his belt was a heavy Colt Dragoon. His three deputies were also well–armed.
“Well, Mr. Bridges,” the sheriff said.
“Where's this man, Evan Gaunt? Point him out and we'll have him in irons before he can blink twice.”
Bridges said dolefully, “We don't have any idea where he is.”
“You don't – What's this? You mean to say he jumped somewhere along the line?”
“I don't know what to think. Mr. Quincannon believes he's still on board, hiding.”
“Does he now.” Hoover turned to Quincannon, gave him a quick appraisal.
“So you're the flycop, eh? Well, sir? Explain.”
Quincannon explained, tersely, with one eye on the sheriff and the other on the rolling stock. Through the grit–streaked windows he could see passengers lining up for departure; Sabina, he was relieved to note, was one of them. A porter stood between the second and third day coaches, waiting for the signal from Bridges to put down the steps.
“Damn strange,” Hoover said at the end of Quincannon's recital.
“You say you searched everywher
e, every possible hiding place. If that's so, how could Gaunt still be on board?”
“I can't say yet. But he is – I'll stake my reputation on it.”
“Well, then, we'll find him. Mr. Bridges, disembark your passengers. All of 'em, not just those for Barstow.”
“Just as you say, Sheriff.”
Bridges signaled the porter, who swung the steps down and permitted the exodus to begin. One of the first passengers to alight was Sabina. She came straight to where Quincannon stood, took hold of his arm, and drew him a few paces aside. Her manner was urgent, her eyes bright with triumph.
Detective Duos Page 57