“I’ve been trying to figure out everyone in the office,” he said, “and I can’t find a single one on whom you can pin any suspicion. The leak about that paper must have come from outside before the paper reached us.”
“That’s possible,” nodded his uncle.
“Remember that another office was rifled before our own was visited,” said Bob. “That should indicate that the marauder had none too clear information on where to look for the paper.”
“Now you’ve hit a point I’ve been considering. The more I think about it the more convinced I become that the leak came before the paper reached your filing room. That means our job will be complicated. Maybe we’ll get a break one of these days.”
Dinner was served and they ate heartily, ignoring for the time the case that had enfolded both of them in its mysterious tangle.
The dinner at an end, Bob leaned back in his chair and shoved his hands in his coat pockets. The fingers of his right hand crinkled a stiff sheet of paper and he drew it out and placed it on the table.
It was not an unusual sheet, at first glance, being about eight inches wide and eleven inches long, but it was of heavy material, probably a pure rag paper.
But it was not the paper that caught and held Bob’s attention. It was the crest of the War Department which was centered at the top of the page.
Merritt Hughes saw Bob staring at the paper and looked at his nephew curiously.
“What’s the matter, Bob? Forget to file something this afternoon?”
When Bob did not answer at once, he reached over and picked up the paper. It was his turn to stare at the sheet and his eyes widened as he looked up at his nephew.
“Great heavens, Bob. Where did this come from?”
Bob shook his head.
“I haven’t any idea. I put my hands in my pockets just now and the paper was in the right hand pocket.”
“But you know what this is?”
Bob nodded. “Yes, I know. It’s the missing paper with the radio secrets.”
Uncle and nephew stared at each other across the litter of dishes and for a moment neither was able to speak.
“Bob, Bob, how did you get mixed up in this thing? What have you done?” There was anxiety and agony in every word that came from the lips of the federal agent.
Bob’s eyes widened.
“But surely you don’t think I took this? I couldn’t have done that.”
His uncle waved his hands impatiently.
“No, no, Bob. Of course that wasn’t what I meant. I spoke hastily. You’re clean enough in this thing. What I want to know is how did that paper get into your coat pocket and how long has it been there.”
“I only wish I knew,” retorted Bob, the color surging back into his cheeks.
He stared steadily at the paper on the table before him. It was incredible that it could have been in his coat pocket all during the long hours of the frantic search for it. Yet it must have been, for there had been no opportunity for anyone to slip it into his coat recently.
“I think the discovery of the paper in your pocket explains the mysterious attacks which have been aimed at you,” said his uncle slowly. “Certainly it was the reason for the rifling of your room and the attempt to kidnap you this morning. What a dumb-bell I was not to have guessed something like this before. It’s as plain as day now.”
“I wish I could see it that way,” replied Bob, shaking his head.
“The paper has been in your pocket ever since you encountered that marauder in the office last night. During the tussle he slipped it into your coat pocket when he realized that his capture was inevitable.”
“That sounds plausible,” agreed Bob. “Why didn’t I search my own clothes?”
“Because that was the last place in the world we would have surmised that paper had been hidden. What chumps we have been.” The federal agent look gloomy.
“Well, I guess we might as well get going. We’ll report this directly to the chief and see what he has to say about it.”
“Will he be on the job during the evening?”
“When a case like this breaks he practically lives in his office. He’ll be there all right.”
They left the restaurant, secured a taxi, and drove rapidly toward the Department of Justice building.
Bob, catching the reflection of lights behind them in the mirror at the front, looked back.
“Someone’s following us,” he said.
The federal agent turned quickly. There was no mistake. A car several hundred feet to the rear was making every turn their own machine took.
Merritt Hughes leaned ahead and spoke to the driver.
“We’re being trailed. Step on it. I’ll take care of any officers who try to stop us.”
“Nothing doin’, mister. I’m not getting myself into trouble. We’re stopping right here.”
The driver slammed on the brakes and swung his car toward the curb, but a curt command from Bob’s uncle stopped him.
“Get this car under way. I’m a federal agent and I’m in no mood to have you playing any tricks. Wheel this buggy for the Department of Justice building and make it snappy.” At the same time he thrust the little emblem of his office under the driver’s nose.
The motor of the taxi roared as the driver tramped on the accelerator and their vehicle leaped ahead, widening the distance between the car which was trailing them. They took a corner so fast the tires screeched in protest and Bob wondered whether the other machine would be able to make the turn.
Looking back he saw the car swing wildly, veer toward the far side of the street, and finally straighten out in pursuit of them.
“You seem to spell ’trouble’ with capital letters,” said the federal agent as he joined Bob in peering out the window. “Maybe you’d better give me that paper. They know you’ve got it and if we get in a jam they’ll try and get it away from you.”
Bob handed over the paper and his uncle slipped it into a small leather portfolio which he carried in an inside pocket of his coat.
The taxi swung wildly around another corner and the brakes screeched as a string of red lights barred their way. The street was undergoing repairs.
The driver of their vehicle jammed on his brakes just as the pursuing machine lurched around the corner.
“Keep on going!” cried Bob’s uncle, grabbing the driver by the shoulder and shaking him roughly. “Keep on!”
It was a command the driver dared not disobey, and their car leaped ahead once more, aimed straight at the first of the red lights.
Their headlights revealed a wooden barrier, but there was no stopping now and the taxi crashed into the stringers. Several red lights were bowled over as the barrier went down. Then they were bouncing along over the uneven paving, the wheels dropping into deep ruts.
Bob turned and looked behind them. The pursuing car had stopped at the barrier and he could see men leaping out. It was evident that they intended to pursue the chase, even on foot.
“I’m wrecking this car,” cried the taxi driver in protest as they struck a particularly deep rut.
“Keep going; don’t worry about the car!” cried Merritt Hughes. “We’ve got to get out of this trap.”
The engine of the taxi groaned in protest of the punishment which it was undergoing, but it labored on, dragging the heavy vehicle out of one hole and into another.
Bob kept his eyes on the pursuers, who were now plainly revealed in the lights from the other car. They seemed to be gaining on the struggling taxi.
“We’d better take a chance on foot,” he warned his uncle.
“It’s only a little ways to the end of this construction work. If we can get that far, we’ll soon outdistance them,” replied Merritt Hughes. “If we get stalled, make a break for it. Don’t worry about me. Once you get clear go directly to the Department of Justice and report in person to Waldo Edgar.”
“But we’ll have a better chance together,” protested Bob.
“No. We’ll go it alone,” his uncle decided. “That will confuse them and one of us is bound to get away.”
“But how about the radio secret?”
“We’ve got to chance that. But remember that you are the one they’ll be after. Maybe that’s putting you on the spot, but I’ve got to do it now. It’s our only chance.”
The headlights of the taxi showed the end of the construction work. A smooth street was less than 100 feet ahead of them, but Bob thought the remainder of the distance they must go looked even rougher than that portion of the street they had negotiated so far.
He looked behind again. Several dim shadows, the men chasing them, were dodging down the street. He doubted if they were gaining now.
The taxi dropped into a deep rut and the engine groaned. The driver shifted gears with a clash that racked the entire car and the wheels spun in the rut. Then they shot into reverse, but the wheels couldn’t climb out.
“We’re stuck!” cried the driver. “I’m unloading.”
With a single motion of his hand he struck the ignition switch and the motor, overheated and steaming, sputtered and died. The headlights also went out and Bob saw the now dim bulk of the cab driver leap away from the car and vanish.
“Get out, Bob. Duck and keep low. Make for the side of the street. Here’s where we separate.”
The order was accompanied by a firm shove toward the door and then Bob was rolling in the street, for he had missed his step and fallen. He heard the door on the other side of the cab open and knew that his uncle had made his escape at least for the time.
The street was long, flanked by what appeared to be warehouses, and there were street lights only at the ends of the block. For at least 400 feet in the middle there was no light and it was in this dismal area that Bob and his uncle were trapped.
A pile of construction materials offered the first shelter for Bob and he ducked behind this.
From this shelter, he listened for some sound from the men who had been pursuing them. He did not have long to wait for sharp voices could be heard a little further back along the street.
“The taxi’s stalled,” someone said. “Spread out and let them have it if they make a break. We’ve got to get them to be sure we’ll get the paper.”
Bob, behind the pile of construction materials, heard someone pounding down the street.
The beam from a flashlight shot through the night and focused on the taxi driver.
“Snap off that light!” came a tense command. “That’s only the driver. Let him go.”
“He’ll bring the cops on us,” came a sharp protest, but the first voice came back tartly.
“Let him. We’ll be out of here long before he can get his nerve back and talk to the police. Spread out, I tell you. We’ve got to move fast. If they break for the far end of the street we’ll see them under the street lights. There’s no place they can hide at each side.”
The last words confirmed Bob’s fears. That meant that there was no shelter in the buildings which flanked the street. This time there was no friendly hedge into which he could leap. He would have been glad to have risked the barberry thorns again if he had only had the chance.
The taxi was less than twenty feet away and Bob knew that the men hunting for him and his uncle would reach it in a few more seconds. Then one of the first places where they would search would be the pile of bricks and timbers behind which he had sought refuge.
Bob moved away cautiously, a plan of action quickly forming in his mind. He would get as far away as possible, then make some noise to attract their attention. It seemed like a good move for by concentrating their attention on himself, he would provide an opportunity for his uncle to slip away unnoticed and the radio document could be delivered safely back to the War Department.
Bob felt a nervous tension gripping his entire body. It was as though the very night was alive to the danger which filled the deserted street. The pounding footsteps of the taxi driver gradually died away and only Bob and his uncle and three unknown pursuers were in the street.
A flashlight gleamed for a moment at the taxi as the beam sought the interior.
“Nothing here,” Bob heard someone mutter as he backed away from the sheltering pile of materials.
A piece of board crunched under his feet and he stumbled and half fell to the ground.
“What’s that!” the exclamation was sharp and commanding and a beam of light swung toward him.
Bob forgot caution and scuttled away on his hands and feet, dodging behind the piles of dirt which had been heaped indiscriminately around the street.
The flashlight seemed to be playing a game of hide and seek with him, for not once did the beam strike him and he found temporary shelter again behind a pile of bricks.
But the sanctuary was not to last for long. From the voices near the taxi, Bob knew that at least three men were after them and as he listened he heard a command that sent a chill racing along his spine.
“Don’t shoot unless you have to. But let them have it if it looks like they’re going to get away.”
Bob remembered that his uncle had a gun. That was some consolation. He would have to depend upon his fists for self protection and right now both hands were sore and aching from his encounter earlier in the day with the thorns of the barberry.
The young federal agent crouched close to the ground listening for some sound that might indicate the whereabouts of his uncle. He only knew that Merritt Hughes had dodged out the other side of the taxi. Since then there had been no sign or noise to reveal where he had sought shelter.
Bob strained his eyes, but the darkness in the middle of the block was intense. Perhaps, after all, that was a blessing for it gave them a better opportunity to hide and made the task of the searchers all the harder.
Impatient and cramped from hiding behind the pile of bricks, Bob moved away. He was determined to escape from the trap into which they had fallen and he decided that by working his way back along the street toward the car which had been used by their pursuers might offer the best avenue of escape.
A bold thought occurred. It might even be possible to seize their car and make his own escape.
Bob, crouching low, crept along the street, at times almost crawling. It wasn’t a pleasant task, but he was steadily putting distance between himself and the stalled taxi, where he knew the hunt for his uncle and himself was being concentrated.
The young federal agent stumbled over a timber and sprawled headlong on the dirt.
To Bob it sounded as though the noise of his fall must have echoed and re-echoed along the street. He remained motionless, almost breathless on the ground, waiting for the pursuit to swing toward him. But evidently the noise of his tumble was not as great as he had feared and the hunt continued near the taxi.
Bob continued his cautious advance toward the car which had brought their pursuers. He was not certain whether anyone had been left to guard the machine and he moved carefully as he neared the vehicle.
He was now at least 200 feet from the stalled taxi, and he had no desire to give an alarm which would bring the others swarming toward him.
Bob now had decided what he would do when he reached the car. In turning it about he would race the engine, which would be sure to attract the attention of the men seeking his uncle and allow him to escape from the far end of the street. There should be ample time for Bob to maneuver the car about and get it started back down the street before he could be overhauled.
The young federal agent was less than twenty feet from the car, close enough to hear the soft purring of its powerful engine, when a gun blazed from behind him and the echoes of a shot resounded between the buildings which flanked the street.
All thoughts of escaping in the car vanished from Bob’s mind on the echoes of the shot, which meant that his uncle had been discovered, that he was a target for gunfire from the guns of their pursuers.
The young federal agent swung about in his tracks and started back down the street, stumbling over the piles of debris as he raced forward, forgetful now of any danger to himself and thinking only of his chance to help his uncle protect the precious paper which was in his possession.
From the vicinity of the stalled taxi cab guns were barking steadily now and Bob paused.
The scarlet flashes marked the night and the sharp reports from the guns rang back and forth between the high-walled street. Bob counted three guns in action, all directed toward a darker mass near the far end of the street.
Then another gun joined in the fusillade, this time from what apparently was a pile of debris and from its heavy roar Bob knew that it was his uncle’s automatic.
Merritt Hughes, who had made his way cautiously toward the far end of the street, had been discovered just before he could make a final break to safety. After the first shot from the guns of his pursuers, he had taken refuge behind a pile of bricks and concrete slabs, where he was ready to make a determined resistance.
If he could stand off the attack for several minutes, a swarm of police, attracted by the gunfire, would descend upon them. But the men in the street were shooting carefully and spreading out, attempting to encircle him and force his surrender. They were moving rapidly, dodging so quickly that it was almost impossible to single them out in the shadows or to flip an accurate shot at them.
His ammunition was confined to the one clip in his gun and a spare clip in his coat pocket. It wouldn’t last long in an encounter with three gunmen and every shot must be made to count.
A close shot, which struck a slab of concrete, threw a fine cloud of dust into his eyes and blinded him for the moment. He wondered about Bob and whether he had been able to make his escape. If he hadn’t before this, now surely, with all of the firing, he would be able to escape from the street. Perhaps he would even be able to lead the rescuing police which he felt sure would come soon.
But Bob, at the other end of the street, had his own ideas about the police and the need for a hasty rescue.
He paused in his mad dash down the block. Unarmed, he would be no match for the gunmen who were attempting to surround his uncle and obtain the paper.
A new plan formed in Bob’s mind and he turned determinedly and headed for the car. It was a large and powerful sedan with a motor under its hood that equalled the power of a hundred and twenty horses.
There was no one in the car and Bob slid into the driver’s seat. The doors were unusually high and heavy and he guessed that the car was bullet proof.
Bob reached for the headlight switch, then thought better of it, and meshed the gears into low. He tramped on the throttle and the motor roared into action. With a lurch the heavy car plunged off the pavement and into the street which was undergoing repairs.
Bob would have liked to have used the headlights for they would have revealed the menace of hidden mounds of dirt and bricks and other construction materials, but to have switched them on would have made the car too easy a target for the gunmen.
Looking ahead, Bob saw the flashes of gunfire cease, as though the men who had been pulling the triggers were surprised and alarmed at the approach of the car.
Then there was a spurt of flame and something smacked hard against the windshield. He saw the glass shatter, but it did not break, and it gave him new confidence in the knowledge that the car was protected against bullets.
Now there were more flashes of crimson ahead of him and bullets spanked against the car. The glass of a headlight shattered into a thousand bits.
The big machine rammed into a pile of bricks and stalled. They were only half way down the block and Bob reversed quickly and backed the car away. With a sharp flip of the wheel he skirted the obstruction and once more roared ahead, the car gaining speed as it went along in second gear.
The roar of the motor was so loud that it drowned out the explosions of the guns.
Bob, watching for some sign of his uncle, thought he saw a form flit toward the side of the street, but he couldn’t be sure.
The car bounced in and out of a ditch, the wheels spinning frantically and finally gaining enough traction to send it ahead once more.
The windshield, which had been struck four times, was a maze of shattered glass, and Bob could see only dimly the light which marked the end of the street. It was impossible to discern anything ahead of him and he turned on the headlights. It didn’t matter much now, for the car was too large a target to miss.
But the lights failed to come on. Some bullet had probably clipped the wires, and Bob, his hands wrapped around the steering wheel, hung on grimly as the big car bounced along the uneven street.
There was a jarring crash and the big car, its wheels still spinning futilely, came to a stop. Bob was knocked against the steering wheel and his head reeled from the shock.
Dimly he heard someone jerk open the door and he tried to rally his dulled senses and put up a resistance, but a rough hand reached him and seized him by the shoulders. He was conscious that a light blazed suddenly in his face.
“It’s the kid!” cried the heavy voice. “I’ll search him. Get the other guy!”
Bob was jerked from the car and dropped to the ground. Once more the flashlight blazed, this time shielded behind a pile of bricks, and heavy hands went through his pockets.
As his head cleared, Bob realized his situation. Resistance right now to the search might give his uncle a few more precious minutes and Bob suddenly doubled up his knees and aimed a heavy kick at the man who was bending over him.
The maneuver caught the other unaware, and he stumbled back against the pile of bricks. The flashlight, dropping to the ground, went out.
“Give me a hand, over here! The kid’s busted my flashlight,” called the man Bob had kicked.
Then it felt as though a ton of beef had suddenly been dropped on him for the man who had captured him was trying to make sure that Bob would not squirm away from him. Just to make sure, he fell heavily on the young federal agent and Bob cried out in pain as the breath was forced from his lungs.
From the distance came the shrill siren of a police car.
“Hurry it up, over there,” a voice called. “We’ve got to make a break out of here.”
“Did you get the other guy?” demanded the man who was almost smothering Bob.
“Not yet.”
On the echo of those words there came a shot and a cry.
“We’ve got him!”
Bob attempted to throw off his assailant, but a thousand stars seemed to descend upon him, police sirens mixed in with roaring motors and blazing guns and in spite of his efforts he dropped into a jumbled sleep.
Mixed sounds penetrated through a maze of pain which filled Bob’s head when he finally started to regain consciousness.
First of all there was the noise of police sirens which seemed to fill the night air with their shrieks.
Bob managed to raise himself up on one elbow just as a car careened around the corner and screeched to a stop. Men fairly poured from the car and Bob could see that each was heavily armed.
Lights gleamed in the disrupted street and Bob turned to look for the car which he had commandeered and from which he had been so roughly jerked. It had vanished and only the damaged taxi remained.
The echo of the gunfire had died away.
A beam of light focused on Bob and a sharp command followed.
“Don’t move!”
At the moment Bob ached too much to care whether he ever moved. Someone came up from behind him and jerked him roughly to his feet.
“Snap a pair of handcuffs on this bird. We’ll question him later.” The command was from an officer who seemed to be in charge of the squad. From back down the street more sirens shrilled and Bob saw two more cars pull to a stop and officers unload hastily.
“Let me explain,” protested Bob. “If you’ll only look in the case inside my coat you’ll find my identification papers. I’m a provisional federal agent.”
One of the police laughed scornfully.
“That’s a fine story. You’re only a kid.”
Bob was tired and worried now about his uncle. Hot tears of anger welled into his eyes and his voice trembled as he replied.
“You’d better take the time to make sure before you handcuff me. A federal agent has been kidnaped on this street and you’d better hunt for him instead of wasting your time on me.”
“Who was kidnaped?” the question was asked by a newcomer who had joined the group.
“My uncle, Merritt Hughes,” replied Bob. “He’s in the Department of Justice.”
“Say, maybe there is something to his story,” chimed in another officer. “I know there is a federal agent by the name of Hughes.”
“Then you’d better start looking for him. He was down at the end of this street a couple of minutes ago, the target for three gunmen. We were trapped here in the taxi that’s deserted over there.”
“Get busy, boys, and see what you can find,” ordered the sergeant who was in command of the squad. “I’ll take this boy down to the corner and we’ll phone the Department of Justice and check up on his story.”
While the police detail spread out to comb the street, the sergeant and Bob walked back to the police car.
“It will go hard on you, kid, if you’re trying to pull anything on us,” warned the sergeant.
“Don’t worry about that,” Bob reassured him. “Just let me get to a telephone where I can get in touch with Waldo Edgar.”
They walked to the corner and then turned to their right. Half way down the next block there was a small drug store and they found a pay telephone there. Bob entered the booth while the sergeant, a blocky, dark-haired man of about 40, stuck his foot in the door so that it would remain open and he could hear the conversation.
“Hand me your papers,” he told Bob, and the young federal agent handed over the small leather case which he carried in an inner pocket.
Bob’s fingers skimmed the pages of the telephone directory until he found the desired number. Dropping a nickel in the phone, he dialed for the Department of Justice. When an operator answered, he gave his message quickly and concisely.
“I’ll give you Mr. Edgar at once,” promised the operator.
It was only a few seconds later when Bob heard the voice of the chief of the division of investigation of the Department of Justice. It was a rich full voice, that once heard would never be forgotten. Bob identified himself quickly and then in rapid sentences told what had happened.
“Your uncle had the paper the last you saw of him?” asked the federal chief.
“Yes,” replied Bob. “He was attempting to reach the far end of the street and escape while I attracted the attention of the men trying to capture him. But I was knocked out and I don’t know what happened. When the police arrived the street was deserted and the bullet-proof sedan was missing.”
“We’ll spread an alarm at once,” said Edgar. “See that you are released at once by the police. Then come here at once.”
Bob turned to the sergeant.
“Satisfied about my identity?” he asked.
“You’re okay,” grinned the sergeant, handing back the leather case, which Bob slipped into his coat.
“I’ll be over at once,” he promised the federal chief.
He stepped out of the booth and started to hasten toward the door, but a question from the sergeant detained him.
“Can you give us a description of that car? We’ll have it broadcast over the police radio and also on the teletype circuit. Some of our men may pick up the machine and the sooner we can get a report the better chance we’ll have of finding your uncle.”
Bob’s description of the car was meager. He wasn’t even sure of the make, but it had looked like a large Romney sedan.
“The windshield is shattered and there ought to be a number of bullet marks on the body,” he said. “I guess that will be the best way to identify it.”
“We’ll shut down on every road out of the city. They can’t get away,” promised the sergeant, as he stepped back into the booth to telephone the description to police headquarters.
But Bob had his own doubts as to whether the police would be able to apprehend the car. Too much time had elapsed. Even now the big machine might be speeding out of the city.
It was then that Bob disobeyed his orders from the federal chief. Instead of summoning a taxi, he hastened back to the street where the attack had taken place. He wanted to be sure that his uncle had not been wounded and left there.
When he arrived the police squad had completed its search.
“Find anyone?” asked Bob anxiously.
“Not even a good ghost,” grumbled one of the officers. “Say, that taxi’s a wreck.”
But Bob had no time to waste in talk over a damaged taxi. He half ran and half walked to the nearest thoroughfare where he flagged a taxi and ordered the driver to take him to the Department of Justice building.
On the way over, Bob reviewed the events of the night. With the disappearance of his uncle the case had deepened and he felt as though he was drifting in a sea of puzzling problems.
On reaching the Department of Justice building, Bob went directly to the upper floor where the federal chief’s office was located. An agent, evidently watching for him, escorted him into the inner office and Bob’s eyes widened as he saw Condon Adams and Tully Ross seated beside Waldo Edgar’s desk.
The federal chief rose as Bob came in.
“Have a chair, Bob. We want to hear in detail everything that went on tonight. Now that your uncle has disappeared, you’ll have to work with Adams and Ross here on the case. I’m counting on you for a lot of good work.”
Bob, as he eased his weary body into a chair, looked at Condon Adams and Tully Ross. Both of them looked tired and worn and their faces reflected the strain they had been under since the escape of the prisoner from the police station.
“Some more bungling, I expect,” snapped Condon Adams. The words were harsh and uncalled for, and Bob’s temper flared quickly.
“If it was bungling, it wasn’t the first bit of it today,” he shot back at the older federal agent.
Adams’ face flushed. He started to reply, then thought better of it, and remained silent.
“I want to know everything in detail, Bob,” said the federal chief. “Just tell me all that happened this evening.”
“We were eating dinner,” said Bob, “when I happened to put my hand in my coat pocket and I felt a paper in there. When I pulled it out and discovered what it was, I was dumfounded.”
“Dumb-bell!” The word was whispered, but everyone in the room heard it and Bob whirled toward Tully.
“Another crack like that out of you and I’ll take you all apart,” he flared.
“Calm down, boys,” said Waldo Edgar. “We’ve got to get facts and get them at once. A man’s life may be hanging in the balance. Go on Bob.”
Bob went on to describe the start of their trip to the Department of Justice building.
“We saw a car following us, but we were holding our own until we turned into a street where there was a lot of repair work going on. Our taxi driver tried to get through, but the cab became stalled and he took to his heels.”
Bob paused a moment. The recent action in the street was so vivid that it was hard to describe.
“Uncle Merritt and I decided it would be better to try to make it alone and we parted just as these gunmen unloaded. I managed to crawl back to their car and when they started shooting at Uncle Merritt I took their car and rammed it down the street in an effort to attract their attention and give him a chance to escape.”
“Is there any chance that he got away?” asked the federal chief, leaning forward anxiously in his chair.
Bob shook his head.
“The last thing I remember was a single shot and then someone cried, ’We’ve got him.’ Then someone slugged me and I didn’t regain consciousness until the police arrived. They haven’t found a trace of him.”
“I was afraid that was the case,” said the federal chief. “We’ve swung a tight cordon around the entire city and I’m even having the airports checked. We won’t overlook a single angle. Something will turn up before morning.”
The telephone buzzed and the federal chief, seized it eagerly, but his face fell as some routine message came over the wire.
When he had completed the conversation, he turned toward Condon Adams.
“Now that Merritt Hughes is off the case, you’ll be in direct charge of finding him and recovering that paper. I’m assigning Bob to give you some help wherever you need it.”
Adams showed his displeasure, but he was careful not to make it too obvious to Waldo Edgar.
“Thanks,” he granted. “I may need the kid for some leg work, but he always seems to be getting into trouble.” It was biting sarcasm, but Bob chose to ignore it.
“This latest development,” went on the federal chief, “puts us right back where we were after we thought the paper had vanished from the office, while in reality it was in Bob’s pocket. The one prisoner who could have given us some information slipped out of our hands and one of my best agents has been abducted. That means whoever is after this information is both desperate and daring.”
The federal chief looked at Bob, whose face was still flushed from the recent fight in the street.
“Got a gun, Bob?”
“I’ve a .32.”
Waldo Edgar shook his head.
“That’s not heavy enough,” he summoned an assistant, who returned shortly with a stubby but serviceable gun and two clips of cartridges.
“This is a new gun with which we are equipping our agents,” explained Edgar. “It’s a .45 and when you hit anything with that, you stop it, even if it is a freight train. You can’t afford to go rummaging around Washington at night without ample protection while you’re on this case.”
“So far I’ve been able to make pretty good use of my fists,” grinned Bob, “but this may come in handy in a pinch.”
“Any orders for Bob tonight?” asked Edgar, directing his question at Condon Adams.
“I won’t need him,” was the tart reply. “He might as well go home and get some sleep.”
“I may get a little sleep, but I’m not going home,” replied Bob. “That’s too popular with certain unpleasant people. You can find me at a hotel and I’ll probably change my address every night.”
He named a small hotel which was near his own room.
“That’s a good idea,” said Waldo Edgar, “but be sure to keep us informed every time you shift to a new address. We’ll let you know the minute we get any information on your uncle. Now you’d better get home and get some sleep.”
Bob admitted that he was mighty tired, but he was far from sleepy for his mind was still spinning in circles.
When he left the office Condon Adams and Tully Ross stepped out into the hall with him and they descended to the main floor in the same elevator. Bob could feel the cold wave of animosity which engulfed the others and he knew that though they would make every effort to recover the radio secret, they probably would not overtax their energies in finding his uncle.
As they walked toward the main door, Condon Adams spoke.
“We’ll call on you when we need help, but this thing is going to be easy. Too bad your uncle muffed it this afternoon.”
Bob wheeled and faced him squarely.
“Let’s have an understanding right now. In the first place, my uncle didn’t muff anything. I’d like to have seen you do any better than he did when three gunmen were shooting at you in a dark street and the only escape was at an end where there was a brilliant street light. Now as far as getting things in a mess, it seems to me that you did a perfect job when you let that prisoner, the one man who could have supplied valuable information, take your gun away from you in the police station this afternoon. That makes you out to be quite a chump and I’ve always thought you were.”
Bob was surprised at his own words and his own boldness, but he saw a look something like apprehension in Condon Adams’ eyes.
“You don’t like my uncle; you never have. You’ve always been jealous of his brains and his ability. Your nephew doesn’t like me. Well, that goes for me, too. I don’t think you’ll make any effort to find my uncle. If you can recover that paper, well and good—that’s your first thought. But I’m serving notice on you right now that I’m going to find him and I’m going to recover that paper. And I’ll do it without any help from either one of you. So here’s a tip. I’m tired and I’m mad and I don’t like you. Right now I can think of nothing I’d like to do better than give each of you a biff on the nose and if you open your mouths again about my uncle, I’ll do just that thing. Good night.”