“Shot?”
“Struck with something hard. A gun butt, like as not.”
“Morgan, damn his eyes.”
“He was after something in here,” Quincannon said. “We’ll take a quick look around. 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 around first.”
They took a turn through the car. None of the belted boxes and crates showed signs of having been tampered with, nor did any of the hand luggage. If Morgan had gotten into any of the baggage, he had done a good job of covering up afterward. But why would he have bothered?
Bridges confirmed that as far as he could tell, nothing was amiss. “But Dan is the only one who’ll know for sure.”
“One thing before you go. Are you carrying weapons of any kind? Rifles, handguns in unmarked boxes? Or dynamite or black powder?”
“None by manifest or declaration, thank heaven.”
Bridges hurried away. Quincannon pillowed the baggage master’s head on one of the smaller bags, noting that the blood on and around his wound had begun to coagulate. The assault must have taken place not long after Morgan’s disappearance from the lavatory. The foxy devil had anticipated a check of the tops of the cars, marked the grit on the lounge car to give the false impression that he’d gone forward, then crawled back here. Damnation! If they had thought to check the baggage car first thing, they might have caught him in the act.
But this was no time for recriminations. Whatever Morgan’s reason for coming here, it had to be an integral part of the escape plan he’d devised. Yes, but he still had no idea what that could possibly be.
26
Quincannon
The doctor was young, brusque, and efficient. Quincannon and Bridges left old Dan in his care, hurried forward again.
As they passed through the dining car, the locomotive’s whistle sounded a series of short toots.
“Oh, Lordy,” the conductor said. “That’s the first signal for Vacaville.”
“How long before we arrive at the depot?”
“Ten minutes.”
“Blast!”
They came upon Sabina in the Pullman car; she shook her head.
Quincannon was beside himself by this time. The entire rolling stock had been carefully searched now, front to back. So where the bloody hell was Morgan?
They held a huddled conference. Quincannon’s latest piece of bad news ridged the smoothness of Sabina’s forehead, her only outward reaction. “You’re certain nothing was taken from the baggage car?” she asked Bridges.
“As certain as I can be without a thorough examination and the cooperation of the passengers.”
“If Morgan did steal something,” Quincannon said, “he was careful not to call attention to the fact, in case the baggage master regained consciousness before he could make good his escape.”
“Which could mean,” Sabina said, “that whatever it was would have been apparent to us at a cursory search.”
“Either that, or where it was taken from would have been apparent.”
Something seemed to be nibbling at her mind; her expression turned speculative. “I wonder...”
“What do you wonder?”
The locomotive’s whistle sounded again. There was a rocking motion and the loud thump of couplings as the engineer began the first slackening of their speed. Bridges said, “Five minutes to the Vacaville station. If Morgan is still on board—”
“He is.”
“—do you think he’ll try to get off there?”
“No doubt of it. Wherever he’s hiding, he can’t hope to avoid being discovered in a concentrated search. And he knows we’ll mount one in Vacaville with the train crew and the local authorities.”
“What do you advise we do?”
“Assign someone to summon the law as soon as we arrive at the station,” Quincannon said. “Then tell your porters not to allow anyone off the train until you give the signal. And when passengers do disembark, they’re to do so in single file from between two cars only. That will prevent Morgan from slipping off in a crowd.”
“The second and third day coaches?”
“Good. Meet me in the vestibule there.”
Bridges hurried off.
Quincannon said to Sabina, “You may as well take your seat until we reach the station.”
“No, I have something else to do.”
“Yes? What?”
“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 aft.
He took himself out onto the vestibule between the second and third coaches. The train had slowed to half speed; once more the whistle cut shrilly through the late afternoon stillness. He stood holding on to the hand bar and leaning out on the side away from the station to look both directions along the cars — a precaution in the event Morgan attempted to jump and run through the yards. But he was thinking that this was another exercise in futility. Morgan’s scheme was surely too clever for such a predictable ending.
Bridges reappeared and stood watch on the offside as the train entered the rail yards. On Quincannon’s side the dun-colored depot building swam into view through the fading daylight ahead. Once a pioneer settlement and Pony Express stop, Vacaville was now a thriving agricultural center widely known as the fresh fruit capital of California. But it was nonetheless a small town, so relatively few passengers would be waiting to board. Even if Morgan managed to get off the train here, he couldn’t reasonably expect to escape detection and capture. Yet it was utter folly for him to remain hidden on the Capitol Express.
He had to be planning to exit here, but how? A diversion of some sort? That was the most probable gambit. Quincannon warned himself to be alert for anything at all out of the ordinary.
Sabina was on his mind, too. Where had she gone in such a hurry? What sort of coincidence...?
Brake shoes squealed on the rails as the Express neared the lighted station platform. He’d been right in his estimate of the number of those waiting; less than a score of men and women stood beneath a roof overhang. He swiveled his head again. Steam and smoke clouded the gathering dusk, but he could see clearly enough. No one was making an effort to leave the train on this side. Nor on the offside, or else Bridges would have cut loose with a shout.
The engineer brought the cars to a rattling stop alongside the platform. Quincannon dropped off, with Bridges close behind him. At the same time a porter jumped down from between the two forward cars, raced off through a cloud of steam on his mission to fetch the local law.
Minutes passed. Quincannon’s eyes moved restlessly back and forth along the length of the rolling stock. Through the windows he could see passengers lining up for departure; Sabina, he was relieved to note, was one of them, in the forefront. Another porter stood in the vestibule between the second and third coaches, waiting for the signal from Bridges to put down the steps.
Some of the embarking passengers began voicing complaints at the delay, and Bridges took command of the situation. What he said by way of explanation Quincannon didn’t hear, but it succeeded in quieting them. With the aid of the station agent, he herded them all off the platform and into the safety of the depot.
It was another five tense minutes before the law arrived, in the person of the police chief and two deputies. The chief, who gave his name as Hoover, was burly and sported a large drooping mustache; on the lapel of his frock coat he wore a five-pointed star, and holstered at his belt was a heavy Colt Dragoon.