Bob’s words had so amazed both Adams and his nephew that they were speechless and the young federal agent turned and stepped through the main doorway.
Tully Ross, angry words crowding to his lips, started to follow Bob, but the firm hands of Condon Adams stopped him.
“Keep your head, Tully,” he warned. “The boy’s mad clear through and he’d do just what he said—clean up on both of us. Maybe we’ve got it coming, though. We baited him too much. But we’re going to find that missing radio document.”
The same resolution was in Bob’s heart as he stepped down the avenue, but in addition was the grim determination that he would find his uncle.
The coolness of the fall night helped to clear the mad whirl of Bob’s fatigued mind and he mulled over the things that had happened as he walked down the avenue.
For nearly 24 hours the missing paper had been in his possession, which accounted for the attempt to kidnap him. But how had it leaked that the paper had been sent over to the archives division for filing—who had known that he would be alone that night?
Bob felt that knowing the answer to this question, he would have something on which to base his further investigation.
Then there was the disappearance of his uncle that night. Bob knew that both the radio document and the federal agent were in the hands of ruthless and relentless men. From what his uncle had told him before, the radio secret was worth a huge amount to almost every foreign power and he dared not guess what country might be interested in obtaining its possession through such means as had been employed.
Bob’s walk took him to the archives building and he automatically turned in and went up to the office where he worked.
The guard on duty on that floor was a familiar one, and Bob spoke to him briefly.
“Anything unusual tonight?” he asked.
“Not a thing,” was the quick and honest reply.
Bob walked down the corridor, unlocked the door of the office, switched on the lights, and stepped inside.
The room appeared to be just as he had left it in the afternoon and Bob sat down at his desk. It was quiet here and he would have an opportunity to think out some of his problems.
But he found himself too tired even for that. His head was heavy and he drowsed at his desk. Half an hour passed and Bob fell into a sound slumber. For an hour he slept at his desk until the tapping of the guard at the door aroused him.
Bob opened the door in response to the summons.
“Thought something might have happened to you,” said the guard, half apologetically.
“Something did,” smiled Bob. “I went sound asleep. I’d better get out of here and get to bed.”
While the guard looked on, Bob turned off the lights, locked the room and started toward the elevator.
The guard halted him a few paces down the hall.
“Sorry, Mr. Houston, but I’ll have to search you. There’s a new rule that anyone working on this floor out of hours must be searched.”
Bob was half inclined to be angry, but he realized the soundness of this rule, especially after what had just taken place. He quietly submitted to a careful search of his clothing by the guard.
“You know your job,” said Bob when the search was over.
“I used to be a store detective,” replied the other, with not a little pride in his voice, “and if I do say it myself, I was one of the best in Washington.”
It was only a few blocks to the hotel at which Bob had decided to take up temporary quarters, and he walked the short distance at a brisk pace.
He registered, asking for a quiet, inside room, but the clerk looked dubious when Bob informed him he had no baggage, but would arrange to have his clothes sent down in the morning.
“You’ll have to pay in advance,” he said.
Bob delved into his pockets in search of money and to his embarrassment found that he had less than a dollar.
The clerk appeared skeptical. It was late and after the fight in the street Bob’s clothes were in none too good condition.
“Perhaps you’d better try another hotel,” he suggested.
By that time Bob longed for nothing more than a comfortable bed and a few hours of sleep and his feet were heavy. They wouldn’t have carried him another block.
Reaching inside his coat he pulled out the billfold and drew out the identification badge which had been given to him by the federal chief.
“I guess this will identify me, even though I’m temporarily short of funds,” said Bob. “Now I want that room and I don’t want to be disturbed unless there is something really important. Understand?”
The clerk stared at the identification card and his whole manner changed into one of the utmost courtesy. In less than ten minutes Bob was in bed, to drop into a sleep that was to be disturbed hours later by the strident ringing of the telephone on the stand beside his bed.
It was broad daylight when Bob rubbed the sleep from his eyes and answered the telephone.
“Yes, this is Bob Houston speaking,” he said.
The words which came over the wire caught and held his attention.
“Yes, I understand. Of course, come right over. I’ll be dressed and ready to go over the entire affair.”
Bob hung up the receiver, reached the bathroom in one long jump, and in another had the shower on and was under it.
After a brisk shower, he rubbed his body down thoroughly, feeling ready for what he knew was to be a busy day. The caller was Lieutenant Frederick Gibbons of the intelligence unit of the War Department, who had been assigned to help on the case. He had promised Bob information of vital importance and almost before Bob had finished dressing there was a knock.
When Bob opened the door a trim, soldierly figure was standing in the hall.
“Lieutenant Gibbons?” asked Bob.
“Right. I take it you’re Bob Houston?”
Bob nodded.
“How about breakfast?” asked the intelligence officer.
“I’m ready now and hungry,” grinned Bob.
“Then we’ll eat and talk. The coffee shop downstairs is excellent.”
After they had placed their orders for breakfast, Lieutenant Gibbons leaned toward Bob.
“How long have you been asleep?” he asked.
“It must have been nearly three o’clock before I went to bed here,” was the reply.
“Then a lot of things have happened since you dropped out of this thing.”
“Has my uncle been found?” asked Bob anxiously.
“I’m sorry, but he hasn’t. However, we’ve turned up some clues that may prove mighty interesting. The car in which he was abducted has been found.”
“Where?” The question was sharp and anxious.
“Down near the tidal basin.”
“Was there any trace of him?”
“There was a stain or two on the rear cushions of the car, but nothing serious, so if he was wounded last night, I don’t think we need to worry about that.”
“But the tidal basin? Does that mean——?”
Though Bob left the question unfinished, the lieutenant guessed what he feared and was quick to ease his mind.
“I’m sure your uncle is still a captive. We’ve learned that sometime late in the night a high-speed motor boat dashed out of the basin and down the Potomac. It was a strange boat that came up the river early in the evening. We’ve a fairly good description of the craft and may be able to trace it down. Now our first mission is to locate your uncle and recover that paper.”
Bob liked the manner in which Lieutenant Gibbons spoke. The intelligence officer looked keen and alive to everything. He was a little taller than Bob and slender with a slenderness that was wiry. His eyes were a sparkling brown and there was an upward twist to his lips that Bob liked.
“Have you heard whether Condon Adams and Tully Ross have turned up anything?” asked Bob.
A frown marred the lieutenant’s forehead.
“They’ve been busy,” he said. “As a matter of fact, they’ve caused the arrest of Arthur Jacobs. They found some rather suspicious looking things at his apartment, including some half burned scraps of paper in a fireplace in which someone was offering Jacobs $5,000 for information on the radio secrets.”
“Does it look like a real lead?” Bob was anxious.
“It may, but I hate to believe it. Jacobs is a foreigner and he has a brother who only recently escaped from a midwestern prison and who has made a bad record.”
“Does his description tally with that of the fellow who escaped from jail?”
“That’s just it. There is a real resemblance and Condon Adams says he is certain that Jacobs’ brother, Fritz, is the man who escaped from him.”
“Maybe Adams is too anxious to build up a case,” said Bob.
“That’s true, but the facts are starting to click and it looks like the Jacobs brothers are going to be in for some unpleasant hours. Arthur is down at the central station now.”
“But it doesn’t seem possible. I’ve known him for a long time; he didn’t seem like the kind who would get involved in anything like this.”
“That’s just when you lose your way,” he said. “Don’t take anything for granted. If you want to succeed in intelligence work you have to put a question mark around everyone.”
Breakfast at an end, they left the hotel and the intelligence officer hailed a taxicab.
“We’ll go down and listen in on this grilling,” he said.
Bob didn’t relish seeing Arthur Jacobs, his filing chief, under the barrage of questions he knew Condon Adams would hurl at the little man, but he steeled his nerves for he knew that in his new work he must be willing and prepared to face many an ordeal.
They found a small group in a plain room. There was none of the pictured “third degree” methods.
Arthur Jacobs looked worried and tired. He sat behind a table, a pitcher and glass of water within easy reach. Lounging across the table from him was Adams, his fingers drumming incessantly on the table. At another table at one side sat a stenographer and Tully Ross was sitting in a chair tilted back against the wall.
Just after Bob and the intelligence officer arrived, Waldo Edgar looked in.
“Any results?” he asked.
“Not so far,” grunted Condon Adams, “but this fellow has a story to tell and he’s going to break pretty soon.”
A look of desperation flickered for a moment in Arthur Jacobs’ eyes and he turned toward Bob.
“Hello, Mr. Jacobs,” said Bob. “I didn’t think I’d ever see you here.”
There was just a trace of a smile around the filing chief’s lips when he replied.
“I never thought I would be here, Bob. Who’s in charge of the office with both of us away?”
“I don’t know, but I’ll find out if you like.”
“I would,” said the filing chief simply and Bob stepped into an adjoining office and telephoned the archives division, where he was informed that a senior clerk from another office had taken over the duties temporarily.
When Bob stepped back into the larger room, Jacobs was sweating freely.
“Everything’s all right at the office,” volunteered Bob, who felt sorry for the little man. “Bondurance, from the next office, is taking charge and they’re getting along all right. Of course they miss you.”
“I’m afraid they won’t get those papers back in the proper order. It’s an awful mess.”
Bob agreed that it was and he couldn’t make himself feel that Arthur Jacobs, so obviously worried about the routine at the office, could be guilty of anything very bad.
“Come on, now Jacobs,” broke in the heavy voice of Condon Adams. “Quit this stalling and get down to business. How much did you get for selling out this secret?”
“But I tell you I didn’t get anything,” replied the filing chief, spreading his hands out on the table in a dramatic denial. “How many times must I tell you this?”
“Until you tell me the truth and admit that you were paid to sell information on a government secret.”
“Oh, go away; quit bothering me,” cried the man behind the table.
He stood up and pointed at Adams.
“Get out! Get out! Leave Bob here I’ll talk to him; I can trust him!”
Condon Adams half rose in utter surprise at the force of Jacobs’ words. Then he dropped back into his chair and a look of sullen resentment swept over his face.
“You’ll tell me, or no one,” he growled.
But from the back of the room, where he had stepped in unnoticed, Waldo Edgar spoke quietly.
“Let Jacobs talk in his own way,” he ruled. “The rest of us will step out while Bob talks with him.”
The legs of the chair in which Tully Ross had been leaning back against the wall struck the floor with a thud and Tully started to protest, but his uncle, realizing the futility, waved him into silence.
Lieutenant Gibbons grinned at Bob as the others left the room. He was the last to step out and he closed the door carefully behind him.
When they were alone a tremendous burden seemed to lift from the shoulders of the filing chief.
“I’ve got to talk,” he told Bob, in a voice so low that it would have been impossible for anyone at the door to hear. “But I had to talk with someone I could trust.”
He paused for a moment.
“Your uncle is missing?”
“He was kidnaped last night,” replied Bob. “There were three in the gang and they got him and the radio paper which was stolen from our file.”
Arthur Jacobs nodded sorrowfully.
“I’m sorry about that, Bob, for he is in great danger then. I’ll tell my story as quickly as I can; then you must act without loss of time.”
Arthur Jacobs wiped the perspiration from his forehead and then reached for the glass of water. He drained it at one gulp and leaned back in his chair, an air of relief on his face.
Bob, tense, waited for him to speak. When the words finally came they rushed out in a torrent and Bob heard a story that wrenched at his own heart.
“It’s been terrible, Bob, terrible. I’ve got to tell you the whole story. When Fritz escaped from prison he made his way east and I had letters from him. He needed money; he had always needed money as far as that was concerned. When I sent word that I had none to spare, he started threatening me. Then he fell in with bad company and the first thing I knew he was here in Washington.”
The filing chief paused a moment and wiped his forehead again for the perspiration was running freely.
“Fritz came to my apartment and demanded money, but I actually didn’t have it. He went away for a while, and then came again later. It was on this visit last week that I got some inkling of what was in his mind. He started hinting around about the secrets which passed through my hands for filing and for safe-guarding. After an hour or so he came out in the open and made me a proposition. He knew where he could sell the secret of this new radio-propelled and guided plane if I could get my hands on the War Department papers.”
The filing chief stopped to pour out another glass of water.
“Go on,” urged Bob, who was desperately anxious to learn the full story and then resume the hunt for his uncle.
“Fritz offered me $5,000 for my share if I would only tell him when the papers reached the office. He said that was all they needed to know. I could have used the $5,000, but I told him I wouldn’t do such a thing. Then a couple of days later I got a letter from him. It was mailed somewhere over in Maryland and he repeated his offer and threatened me with exposing an old family scandal.”
“That was the letter Condon Adams found,” exclaimed Bob, and the filing chief nodded.
“I was careless about that. I tossed it in the fireplace, but didn’t make sure that it had been consumed.”
“But did you supply your brother with the necessary information?” asked Bob, pressing hard for more concrete information.
Arthur Jacobs lowered his head.
“Fritz came back the other night. He was in a terrible rage. He had promised to get this information from me, and had failed. You’ll never know the fear I’ve always had of Fritz. He was bigger, older and he always bullied me. He threatened to beat me to death and I finally told him what he wanted to know.”
Bob saw tears welling into the chief clerk’s eyes and he turned his own face away, for it had not been easy to hear this confession. When the young federal agent finally looked back, Arthur Jacobs was composed and calm once more.
“When did you give him this information?”
“It was the night before you caught Fritz in the office,” replied Jacobs.
“Have you seen him since then?”
“Yes, he came to my apartment after his escape and I sheltered him for a few hours. I didn’t want to, but he was armed and forced me to do it. That’s all I know about it.”
“Don’t you know who’s behind Fritz? Who is supplying him with the money?”
Arthur Jacobs shook his head.
“I didn’t even see any money,” he said bitterly. “Fritz said that would come later after this thing had been forgotten.”
Bob felt sorry for the little man, for he knew now that Jacobs had been the unwilling dupe of an older and bullying brother.
There was one bit of information Bob must have, one thing that was vital.
“Did you save the envelope in which the letter Fritz sent you from Maryland was mailed?” he asked.
Jacobs ran his fingers through his thinning hair.
“I can’t remember.”
“Did you toss it in the fireplace?”
“No, I don’t think so. I probably dropped it in the wastebasket. The maid cleans my apartment each day.”
“Then where would this type of rubbish go?”
“Down to the janitor, who would burn it in the incinerator.”
Bob reached for the telephone on the other table.
“Give me the number of your apartment house,” he urged, and Jacobs supplied the needed information.
The building superintendent answered and Bob’s words fairly tumbled over the wire.
“This is Bob Houston, a federal agent speaking,” he said. “Get hold of your janitor at once. Don’t allow him to burn any more waste paper or refuse of any type from the floor on which Arthur Jacobs lives. I’ll be there within half an hour to check up on you.”
The building superintendent was inclined to argue, but Bob cut him short.
“This is no time for words,” he said. “Do as you’re told or I’ll file a charge against you for interfering with the work of a federal officer.”
Actually Bob didn’t know whether he had that power or not, but the words sounded well and the threat did what was intended—the superintendent changed his tone and agreed to halt the burning of any more wastepaper or refuse.
Bob turned back from the telephone and Jacobs looked at him with a brighter face.
“I don’t know what’s going to happen to me,” he said, “but I feel better for having told you.”
“I’ll help you all I can,” promised Bob heartily, turning to call for Lieutenant Gibbons.
The intelligence officer opened the door almost instantly and Condon Adams and Tully Ross crowded in close behind him.
“Well, can you solve the mystery for us now?” asked Adams, his voice heavy with sarcasm.
“I think so,” replied Bob.
“Let’s have it, then.”
“Hardly. Solve it in your own way. Remember that I’m working with my uncle on this case. You have the invaluable help of Tully.”
“That’s enough of smart cracks like that,” replied Adams, his face flushing a little. “I want to know what Jacobs said.”
“I’m making my report direct to Mr. Edgar. You’ll have to get it from him.”
With that Bob left the room and went directly to the office of the federal chief, Lieutenant Gibbons trailing at his heels.
Waldo Edgar listened intently while Bob recounted what Jacobs had told him.
“I rather sensed what his story would be,” mused the chief investigator.
“Don’t you believe it?” asked Bob.
“Yes, every word of it. Just another case of an older and bullying brother taking advantage of a weaker one. It looks like Jacobs has supplied us with the key information we have been groping for. Good work, Bob.”
“I’m afraid I don’t deserve any congratulations. Adams turned up Jacobs as a suspect.”
“True enough, but Jacobs would never have talked for Adams or any of the rest of us. The important thing is that he did talk to you. Now what are you planning?”
Bob told of the letter from Maryland and of his orders to the building superintendent.
“The postmark on that letter should give us a clue to where the gang took my uncle,” he said. “There isn’t much chance of finding it, but it’s worth the time and effort.”
Waldo Edgar’s eyes brightened.
“You’re going to do, my boy. It’s things like that that count. You never can tell when even the tiniest slip of paper is going to give you the key to the case you’re working on.”
The chief agent turned to Lieutenant Gibbons.
“You’re staying on the case with Bob?” he asked.
“I’m going to try and keep up with him,” smiled the intelligence officer.
“Splendid. Then we’ll expect your uncle and the missing radio paper within the next twenty-four hours, Bob.”
There was a real feeling of hope in Bob’s heart as he stepped out of the Department of Justice building with Lieutenant Gibbons at his side.
“Things are going to move fast from now on,” predicted the lieutenant. “By the way, Bob, aren’t you a little young to be a federal agent?”
“I’m not a full-fledged agent,” explained Bob. “When my uncle was assigned to this case and it looked like some valuable information might be gained by an inside man in our office, I was delegated to help him and given papers as a provisional agent. If I make good on this case I may get into the service permanently, even though I’m a little young.”
“I think you’re going in with a rush and I know you’re going to make good even though Edgar gave you a pretty short time when he said you’d have the case solved within twenty-four hours.”
“That’s what scares me,” confessed Bob, “but I’ve got to find my uncle. Once he’s safe I’ll start worrying about the radio secret.”
“When you find him you’ll recover the radio secret,” predicted the intelligence officer.
Fifteen minutes of fast driving in a taxi took them to the apartment where Arthur Jacobs resided.
The building superintendent, curious and somewhat worried over Bob’s telephoned orders, was waiting at the door to meet them.
Bob identified himself and the superintendent admitted them to the building, taking them into the basement where an incinerator bulked in the background. Beside it were a number of bales of paper.
“We’ve been baling and selling the waste paper,” he explained, “but I can’t tell you in what bale the paper from the fourth floor, where Jacobs lives, can be found. It’s a good thing you phoned. We were going to have this trucked out sometime during the day.”
Bob looked at the bales and a feeling of dismay crept into his heart. All he wanted was one envelope—a small slip of paper—yet there were literally hundreds of pieces of paper in each one of the bales. He turned to Lieutenant Gibbons. The intelligence officer grinned.
“Looks like we’re in for it. Better get off your coat, Bob, and we’ll start on the first bale.”
“You mean you want to open up all those bales?” demanded the building superintendent.
“That’s right,” nodded the intelligence officer. “We not only want to, but we’re going to do it. Get some snippers and cut through the wires on this bale.” He indicated the huge stack of paper nearest him.
The superintendent snapped on additional lights and grudgingly cut the wires on the first bale while Bob took off his coat.
“Save every envelope with a Maryland postmark on it,” he said.
It looked like an endless task, but Bob and the lieutenant, squatting on their heels, started through the pile of paper.
The building superintendent, after watching them for several minutes, joined in the hunt.
At the end of half an hour they had found four letters with Maryland postmarks on them, but none of them addressed to Arthur Jacobs.
“We’ve got to have more help,” decided the intelligence officer when an hour had slipped away and they had gone through only one bale. He went to a telephone and called the Department of Justice, with the result that within half an hour six other agents were on the job, delving through the growing pile of papers.
By noon they had examined every scrap of paper from five bales and their arms and backs were aching sharply.
“I’m dizzy,” confessed the intelligence officer when they finally stopped for lunch. Leaving one of the agents to guard the bales in the basement, the others went to a nearby restaurant. Lunch was eaten quickly and with a minimum of talk, for every one of them knew that perhaps a man’s life hinged on the quickness with which they could find the tell-tale envelope.
They carried a tray of lunch back to the agent who had been left on guard and plunged once more into the mountainous task which still faced them.
The early hours of the afternoon slipped away. Bale after bale of paper was scanned with care and Bob felt his hopes sinking.
Another bale was finished and one more pulled down and clipped open. He knelt down again and picked up a handful of waste paper. An envelope drew his attention, but it was for another resident on the floor on which the filing chief lived.
Lieutenant Gibbons, whose lanky form was almost doubled in a knot from the hours of bending down and looking at slips of paper, suddenly straightened up with a triumphant cry.
“Here’s the letter!” he cried, waving a badly torn envelope.
The federal men, dropping the paper they had been sorting, rushed to his side.
Bob was the first to see the postmark on the envelope. It was marked from Rubio, Maryland, and was addressed to Arthur Jacobs.
The handwriting on the envelope was large and heavy and the pen which had been used was none too good for it had dropped ink in two places on the envelope.
Bob felt his heart leap. This was the clue they had sought for so many weary, back-breaking hours in the litter of paper in the basement.
“How far is it to Rubio?” Bob asked the intelligence officer.
“I’m not sure that I even know what part of Maryland it’s in, but I believe if we go by plane, we should be there in an hour.”
“Then we’ll go by plane,” decided Bob.
Just how he could obtain a plane was a question he couldn’t have answered at the moment, but he was determined to make the trip with the least possible loss of time for he felt that either in Rubio or near it he would find the solution to the mystery.
Bob and Lieutenant Gibbons left the other federal agents at the apartment building to help the superintendent clean up the litter of paper they had strewn about the basement while they hastened back to the Department of Justice building.
Waldo Edgar himself was waiting for their report and he smiled contentedly when he heard it.
“You’re on the right track, Bob. Follow it hard and don’t let a single trick get away from you. How are you going to Rubio?”
Bob turned to a wall map which showed the entire state of Maryland. As Lieutenant Gibbons had surmised, Rubio was on the east shore, a tiny dot of a town, well isolated from any of the other shore villages.
“That’s a desolate stretch,” said the chief. “You may need help in rounding up this gang.”
“We’ll try it alone,” said Bob. “If we find them, we can send in a call for assistance. Can you arrange for us to fly there?”
The chief of the division of investigation looked at his watch. It was just three o’clock.
“A plane will be ready in half an hour at Antacostia,” he said. “Make sure that you are well armed and don’t take unnecessary risks. Understand?”
“Yes, sir,” replied Bob.
“Then start for Antacostia at once. You’re going, too, lieutenant?”
“I wouldn’t miss this,” replied the intelligence officer. “Besides, we have a considerable stake in this game.”
“Splendid. But don’t let Bob take any needless risks. I’m counting on his developing into one of my aces one of these days.”
Bob’s temperature rose about three degrees and he looked at the federal chief to see if he was joking, but Waldo Edgar was serious.
“Looks to me like you’re making headway rapidly,” said Lieutenant Gibbons as they left the Department of Justice building. “You carrying a gun?” he asked.
Bob patted his coat pocket.
“I’ve got a special .45 with an extra clip of cartridges. That ought to be enough for a trip like this.”
“Let’s hope so,” said the intelligence officer.
When they reached Antacostia, a cabin plane, a navy ship, was out on the ramp waiting for them. It was an amphibian and while they were paying the driver of their cab, the pilot started the motor with a roar that shook the ground.
An officer ran toward them.
“Which one of you is Bob Houston?” he asked.
Bob stepped forward.
“You’re wanted on the phone at once,” he said.
“Step on it, Bob. We’re ready to go,” warned Lieutenant Gibbons.
Bob ran toward the administration building and a clerk there handed him a telephone.
Bob recognized instantly the voice of the chief of the bureau of investigation. Waldo Edgar, usually so calm, was deeply moved.
“Bob, get to Rubio with all possible speed. We’ve just had reports that an unknown yet tremendously powerful radio station has just come on the air. The Department of Commerce has had radio direction finders on it for the last ten minutes and they report that the station must be on the east shore of Maryland, probably near Rubio. They’re throwing on extra power on their experimental station here to gum up the sending from this unknown outfit. I’m afraid they’re trying to get the secret of the radio-controlled plane out of the country in this way.”
“We’re all ready to go. The plane’s on the ramp now with the motor on.”
“Then hurry. Let me know the minute you land at Rubio and I can send more information. I’m starting agents out of Baltimore by motor and I’ll send another plane with men within the hour. Good luck.”
Bob turned and raced toward the waiting plane.
“What news?” asked Lieutenant Gibbons.
“Tell you when we’re in the air,” replied Bob.
They climbed into the cabin and were no sooner seated than the ship started rolling across the field.
Almost before they knew it the ground was dropping away and they were headed for the east shore of Maryland.
The air that fall afternoon was clear and the entire panorama of the city of Washington spread out below them. But Bob’s thoughts were not on the beauties of the afternoon or of the flight. His mind was centered far ahead on the east shore village of Rubio and what he might learn there.
The cabin was well insulated, so Bob and Lieutenant Gibbons could converse in comparative ease.
“What did Edgar have to say?” asked the intelligence officer.
“He’s afraid the gang is trying to get the secret radio information out of the country by using an unlicensed station which has just started broadcasting from somewhere along the east shore of Maryland.”
Lieutenant Gibbons whistled.
“What’s he doing about it?”
“Federal agents are being sent from Baltimore by motor and another plane is to follow us within a few minutes. The Department of Commerce believes the station is near Rubio and they’re trying to gum up the broadcast as much as possible. Oh, it all clicks beautifully. My uncle was taken down the river in a fast boat and landed somewhere near Rubio. He had the paper they desired and now they are trying to send the information someplace in Europe by using this powerful but unlicensed radio.”
“Sounds logical,” agreed the lieutenant. “Looks like we’re going to have some busy hours ahead of us. Made any plans yet?”
Bob shook his head.
“I haven’t thought any beyond getting to Rubio as fast as we can and trying to learn there whether a boat like the one which slipped out of the tidal basin last night has been sighted there.”
“Think we can swing it alone or are you going to wait for the other agents to catch up with us?”
There was no hesitation in Bob’s reply.
“We’re going on as rapidly as we can. Every minute counts now. We may run straight into a whole kettle of trouble, but we’ll have to handle it in some fashion.”
They lapsed into silence as the sturdy amphibian sped out over Chesapeake Bay. Fishing boats could be seen below and several freighters, bound for Baltimore, churned up a white wake in the blue of the bay. It was indeed a calm and peaceful afternoon but Bob’s mind was anything but peaceful or calm.
Then they were over Maryland and a few minutes later the uneven line of the east shore was visible.
The pilot, in his cockpit up ahead, was scanning the ground intently. The ship veered a little to the right and they circled over a sprawling village before which a broad, sandy beach broke the gentle swell of the Atlantic. Half a mile from the village proper was a sheltered cove with a score of small fishing wharfs. It was toward this that the pilot of the amphibian nosed his craft.
As they swung over the cove Bob could see the upturned faces of fishermen as they stared at the unexpected visitor. Bob looked at the boats in the cove with extreme care, but none of them were unusual and none appeared capable of great speed.
The amphibian smacked the water and spray flew out on both sides as they slowed down and taxied in toward the shore. The pilot cut the engine when they were near a low wharf and dropped a light anchor.
A friendly fisherman put out in a dory and pulled alongside the plane.
“Any trouble?” he asked.
“Not yet,” replied Lieutenant Gibbons, “but we’re looking for a black speed boat. It’s been described as about 30 feet long and capable of 40 miles an hour. It’s a cabin boat with an antennae above the cabin. Ever seen anything like it around here?”
Bob, watching the fisherman closely, thought he detected a slight narrowing of the other’s eyes, but he knew that the men of the east shore were by nature extremely cautious.
“Don’t know as I’ve seen just that boat,” replied the fisherman, “but there’s a good many crafts slip around the coves here.”
“This boat would have come in this morning.”
“Better climb in. We’ll ask some of the other boys.”
Bob and the intelligence officer seated themselves in the dory and were quickly put ashore, where a little group gathered about them.
The man who had brought them ashore acted as spokesman.
“These fellows are looking for a speedboat that might have come around here this morning. Anybody seen anything of such a craft?”
There was no immediate reply and Bob could see doubt as to the wisdom of answering the question in the eyes of a number of the men. It was then that he decided to tell them the importance of their visit.
He drew out his billfold and handed the nearest man his identification card.
“We’re federal officers,” he explained, “and we’re looking for a man who was kidnaped last night in Washington in a speedboat and brought somewhere near Rubio. If you can give us any information it may save a man’s life.”
The entire attitude of the group changed and a young man who had been in the background stepped forward.