Thankful for the night darkness that hid him from the engineer up front, Agent “X” prepared for the dangerous maneuver that faced him. He must get from the roof of the baggage car to its forward end. Here was his only means of entering the car. Its rear was coupled with a closed-in hood to the express car behind.
He steadied himself for an instant on the swaying roof, near the front then sprang to the tender, grasping the ladder attached to its end. His pulses were hammering fast. This mad evening’s work was drawing to a climax. The jar and rattle of the plunging train made opening the locked door of the baggage car difficult. But finally he accomplished it, and a moment later was inside.
In the comparative quiet within the baggage car, a dim light burned. Trunks and suitcases were stacked along its sides. The Agent’s keen eyes probed. Then he started. A chill prickled along his spine. He had found the thing he sought — a coffin. But there was more than one. There were four!
“X” walked to them. Long, low, the four pine boxes held their cargo of the dead. Four bodies being shipped back to their homes. The Agent did a strange thing. Stepping back, he reached into his pocket. Certain things were always on his person — implements that aided him in his arduous work as hunter of criminals. Now he drew forth what seemed to be a small pocket camera.
HIS mind was working swiftly now. A wild theory had evolved in his brain. The coffin ordered by von Helvig, under the name of Karl Hummel, lay at his feet. One of the four pine boxes held that coffin. But which one?
Everything depended upon his find-out. If his theories were right, the coffin held a key to the whole mystery. He fingered the thing in his hands, drew a black cord from it with a circular disc at the end. This contrivance was not a camera, but one of the smallest, most sensitive sound amplifiers in the world. The disc at the end of the cord was a tiny microphone.
The instrument had aided him many times, but never had he put it to such a strange use.
Kneeling on the car’s floor. Agent “X” placed the amplifier’s disc on the nearest coffin top. The box containing the small dry batteries and the receiver was against his ear. He crouched like a ghoul, listening — listening for the heartbeats of the dead.
The roar of the train was a Niagara of sound. “X” turned the delicate rheostat dials, adjusting for selectivity. He heard the rumble of the wheels, the couplings scrape, but no other sound. The occupant of that coffin would be forever still.
Sweat beaded the Agent’s forehead. This was gruesome work, and fear gnawed at his heart — fear that he was perhaps too late — or that he had been wrong in his deductions. He passed to the next coffin. But his listening brought the same result.
His hands trembled slightly as he approached the third. He lowered the disc of his microphone, moved the dials. His amplifier was like a stethoscope now, and a sudden intense light brightened the Agent’s eyes.
Out of this wrapping of the dead came a living sound — the slow, regular beat of a human heart! A live person was in that gruesome box.
Swiftly the Agent straightened, thrust his instrument away. He walked to the front of the car. No one in sight. But the coffin was marked for unloading at Baltimore. And Baltimore was only a few minutes away! He must work quickly!
His tool kit disgorged a hacksaw of thinnest razor steel. With this he cut the nailheads in the outer box. He lifted the board free. Screws in the coffin’s top came next. Then he raised the lid and in the dim light stared down tensely.
A girl lay inside the coffin. She was inert, colorless. But her features did not show the marble rigidity of death. Her breath came with slow regularity. It was the unconscious form of Suzanne Blackwell.
QUICKLY Agent “X” lifted her from the coffin. He shook her gently, but she did not rouse. She was like a person under the influence of an anesthetic. Obviously she had been drugged. “X” rubbed her wrists and hands; he took a tiny hypo needle from his pocket and plunged it into her white arm. It contained a powerful stimulant — one of the Agent’s many secrets.
A minute passed — two. Then faint color began to show in Suzanne Blackwell’s cheeks. Agent “X’s” probing finger detected a quickening of her pulse. It was as though he had worked a miracle in the dimly lighted baggage car; brought a corpse back to life.
At last Suzanne opened her eyes, as “X” held her in his arms. He spoke gently, reassuringly, but the girl opened her mouth to scream. Awakened from her deep drugged slumber, she was like one roused from a nightmare.
“Don’t,” he said. “Be quiet, Miss Blackwell. You are safe.”
His hand covered her soft lips momentarily. Then he saw intelligence dawn in her dilated eyes. She stared up at him.
“Don’t be afraid,” he said. “It’s all right now.”
“Who are you?”
“A friend — a friend of Betty Dale’s. You’ve had a terrible experience, but you’re all right now.”
“Where am I? What has happened?”
“You’re on a train. You were — in this.”
Suzanne followed his gesture, gasped shudderingly.
“A coffin! Oh—”
“Listen!” “X” said tensely. “Criminals did this. They must be caught and punished. You can help me. Will you?”
She eyed him doubtfully, terror still in her eyes.
“Yes — if you are a friend of Betty’s—”
She could stand now, and her mind was fully awake. But she recoiled as her eyes discovered the other coffins.
“This is horrible,” she whispered. “It will haunt me — always.”
“It is horrible,” “X” said quietly. “But you will forget.”
He got into the empty coffin himself, under the girl’s amazed eyes. The train would soon be coming into Baltimore. There the coffin would be unloaded — and Agent “X” wanted to go with it. He must find out its destination. The fact that Suzanne had not been killed proved that she was being held as hostage in case of police pursuit.
He gave her quick instructions.
“Close the coffin. Then stay out of sight. Wait here in the baggage car or hide outside the end door if necessary. Get off when the train stops and run forward beyond the engine. Don’t let anyone see you. You might be taken prisoner again. Is it clear?”
“Yes,” the frightened girl whispered. “It is clear.”
The coffin’s lid came slowly down over Agent “X.” It was a big casket, meant for a larger person than Suzanne. “X” had plenty of room. And he would not have long to wait. Baltimore was only fifteen minutes away.
In the close darkness, vibrating with the rumble of the train, the Agent lay, his brain racing. If Suzanne did her part, all would be well. If not — but that possibility he refused even to consider. This last move had been a desperate one. But he could get out of the coffin whenever he wanted to. He had made sure of that. Only a few of the coffin’s screws had been replaced. They were sawed nearly through. The boarding of the pine box would be easy to lift.
But the air inside was strangely close. A faint odor came from the lining pressed against his face. He turned his head sidewise, breathing lightly in order to conserve the oxygen.
Minutes dragged by. The air grew more and more oppressive. It made him giddy. He fought against it, but he seemed to be back on Lieutenant Draper’s plane. He seemed to feel its lurch and sway.
Five minutes passed. Ten. The train was slowing down. Agent “X” felt drowsy now. He shook himself sharply, then tensed as air brakes hissed and a shudder jarred the train. He listened, identifying each sound.
THE express rolled to a stop. The door of the baggage car squeaked as it slid back. From inside the coffin, “X” heard the sound of men’s voices. There was the scrape of feet on boarding, the sudden sense of being lifted.