The older man, Dennis Trevor, was saying, "Would you open your luggage, please?" It was not a question but an order.
Her only hope was to try to bluff it out. "Of course I won't! How dare you come barging into my compartment like this!" Her voice was filled with indignation. "Is that all you have to do - go around bothering innocent citizens? I'm going to call the conductor."
"We've already spoken to the conductor," Trevor said.
Her bluff was not working. "Do - do you have a search warrant?"
The younger man said gently, "We don't need a search warrant, Miss Whitney. We're apprehending you during the commission of a crime." They even knew her name. She was trapped. There was no way out. None.
Trevor was at her suitcase, opening it. It was useless to try to stop him. Tracy watched as he reached inside and pulled out the chamois bag. He opened it, looked at his partner, and nodded. Tracy sank down onto the seat, suddenly too weak to stand.
Trevor took a list from his pocket, checked the contents of the bag against the list, and put the bag in his pocket. "It's all here, Tom."
"How - how did you find out?" Tracy asked miserably.
"We're not permitted to give out any information," Trevor replied. "You're under arrest. You have the right to remain silent, and to have an attorney present before you say anything. Anything you say now may be used as evidence against you. Do you undersand?"
Her answer was a whispered, "Yes."
Tom Bowers said, "I'm sorry about this. I mean, I know about your background, and I'm really sorry."
"For Christ's sake," the older man said, "this isn't a social visit."
"I know, but still - "
The older man held out a pair of handcuffs to Tracy. "Hold ijut your wrists, please."
Tracy felt her heart twisting in agony. She remembered the airport in New Orleans when they had handcuffed her, the staring faces. "Please! Do you - do you have to do that?"
"Yes, ma'am."
The younger man said, "Can I talk to you alone for a minute, Dennis?"
Dennis Trevor shrugged. "Okay."
The two men stepped outside into the corridor. Tracy sat there, dazed, filled with despair. She could hear snatches of their conversation.
"For God's sake, Dennis, it isn't necessary to put cuffs on her. She's not going to run away...."
"When are you going to stop being such a boy scout? When you've been with the Bureau as long as I have..."
"Come on. Give her a break. She's embarrassed enough, and..."
"That's nothing to what she's going to..."
She could not hear the rest of the conversation. She did not want to hear the rest of the conversation.
In a moment they returned to the compartment. The older man seemed angry. "All right," he said. "We're not cuffing you. We're taking you off at the next station. We're going to radio ahead for a Bureau car. You're not to leave this compartment. Is that clear?"
Tracy nodded, too miserable to speak.
The younger man, Tom Bowers, gave her a sympathetic shrug, as though to say, "I wish there was something more I could do."
There was nothing anyone could do. Not now. It was too late. She had been caught red-handed. Somehow the police had traced her and informed the FBI.
The agents were outside in the corridor talking to the conductor. Bowers pointed to Tracy and said something she could not hear. The conductor nodded. Bowers closed the door of the compartment, and to Tracy, it was like a cell door slamming.
The countryside sped by, flashing vignettes briefly framed by the window, but Tracy was unaware of the scenery. She sat there, paralyzed by fear. There was a roaring in her ears that had nothing to do with the sounds of the train. She would get no second chance. She was a convicted felon. They would give her the maximum sentence, and this time there would be no warden's daughter to rescue, there would be nothing but the deadly, endless years of prison facing her. And the Big Berthas. How had they caught her? The only person who knew about the robbery was Conrad Morgan, and he could have no possible reason to turn her and the jewelry over to the FBI. Possibly some clerk in his store had learned of the plan and tipped off the police. But how it happened made no difference. She had been caught. At the next stop she would be on her way to prison again. There would be a preliminary hearing and then the trial, and then....
Tracy squeezed her eyes tightly shut, refusing to think about it any further. She felt hot tears, brush her cheeks.
The train began to lose speed. Tracy started to hyperventilate. She could not get enough air. The two FBI agents would be coming for her at any moment. A station came into view, and a few seconds later the train jerked to a stop. It was time to go. Tracy closed her suitcase, put on her coat, and sat down. She stared at the closed compartment door, waiting for it to open. Minutes went by. The two men did not appear. What could they be doing? She recalled their words: "We're taking you off at the next station. We're going to radio ahead for a Bureau car. You're not to leave this compartment."
She heard the conductor call, "All aboard...."
Tracy started to panic. Perhaps they had meant they would wait for her on the platform. That must be it. If she stayed on the train, they would accuse her of trying to run away from them, and it would make things even worse. Tracy grabbed her suitcase, opened the compartment door, and hurried out into the corridor.
The conductor was approaching. "Are you getting off here, miss?" he asked. "You'd better hurry. Let me help you. A woman in your condition shouldn't be lifting things."