Now, seated in her compartment on the train to St. Louis, Tracy allowed herself a smile of satisfaction. She had enjoyed outwitting the police. There was something wonderfully exhilarating about being on the edge of danger. She felt daring and clever and invincible. She felt absolutely great.
There was a knock at the door of her compartment. Tracy hastily put the jewels back into the chamois bag and placed the bag in her suitcase. She took out her train ticket and unlocked the compartment door for the conductor.
Two men in gray suits stood in the corridor. One appeared to be in his early thirties, the other one about ten years older. The younger man was attractive, with the build of an athlete. He had a strong chin, a small, neat mustache, and wore hornrimmed glasses behind which were intelligent blue eyes. The older man had a thick head of black hair and was heavy-set. His eyes were a cold brown.
“Can I help you?” Tracy asked.
“Yes, ma’am,” the older man replied. He pulled out a wallet and held up an identification card:
FEDERAL BUREAU OF INVESTIGATION UNITED STATES DEPARTMENT OF JUSTICE
“I’m Special Agent Dennis Trevor. This is Special Agent Thomas Bowers.”
Tracy’s mouth was suddenly dry. She forced a smile. “I—I’m afraid I don’t understand. Is something wrong?”
“I’m afraid there is, ma’am,” the younger agent said. He had a soft, southern accent. “A few minutes ago this train crossed into New Jersey. Transporting stolen merchandise across a state line is a federal offense.”
Tracy felt suddenly faint. A red film appeared in front of her eyes, blurring everything.
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 out 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…”