“I saw such a boat just about mid-forenoon,” he said. “It was coming up from the south, and coming fast, maybe forty an hour, but I didn’t see it put in any place.”
A radio in one of the fishing shacks screeched as though in agony and the owner of the set hurried away to tune it down.
“Somebody ought to break that thing up; it’s been doing that all afternoon,” grunted another fisherman.
“Did it work all right before?” asked Bob.
“Sure. But this afternoon something went wrong and we can’t get anything.”
Bob knew then that the end of the trail was nearing.
“Tell me this: Are there any old estates near here which have been recently occupied?”
The owner of the radio, who had shut it off, rejoined the group in time to hear Bob’s question, and it was he who replied.
“There’s the old Haskins place about five miles up the shore,” he said. “Someone’s been around there for the last month or so. I went up one day to try and sell some provisions, but they ordered me off.”
“Could this speedboat have been bound for the Haskins place?” asked Bob, aiming his question at the young fisherman who had told him about the boat.
“Sure, it was going up the shore. But I’ve never seen that boat around here before.”
Bob turned to Lieutenant Gibbons.
“Looks to me like the Haskins place is our goal. Let’s reconnoiter it in the plane.”
“The sooner the better,” agreed the intelligence officer.
Bob swung back to the fishermen.
“Federal agents are coming in here from Baltimore by car and from Washington by plane. If they arrive before we return, direct them to the Haskins place.”
With its motor on full, the amphibian flashed across the cove and wheeled into the air. Bob felt that they were on the last leg of their hunt and he sensed a tenseness of his whole body that was unsettling. Lieutenant Gibbons realized how Bob felt and he leaned over and spoke to the young federal agent.
“Let your nerves loosen up a little and keep your head when we get on the ground. If we get in a jam, use your gun only as a last resort. Remember that help will be along soon.”
The intelligence officer took out his own automatic and examined it, making sure that the firing mechanism was working perfectly. Bob did likewise and shifted the gun into his right-hand coat pocket. He knew that with the gun there he could shoot through his pocket if necessary.
The village of Rubio dropped behind them and a desolate stretch of shore unfolded before their eyes.
Lieutenant Gibbons was the first to sight the Haskins place, a rambling old structure well out on a neck of land that projected into the Atlantic. He signalled to the pilot that this was their destination and the naval airman banked the amphibian gracefully.
The plane dropped low, flying not more than a hundred feet above the shore. The expansive old house, which had several long wings, was badly in need of paint, as were the outbuildings clustered to the rear. A long, low boathouse was built as a part of the run-down pier and one door was closed, but as the plane flashed by Bob caught a glimpse of a black motorboat and his heart leaped. He seized Lieutenant Gibbons’ arm.
“I saw a boat in the shed!” cried Bob. “Let’s get down as soon as possible.”
But already the flyer was dropping the amphibian low. They spattered down on the water and their speed dropped off as they neared the old wharf.
Bob watched the house closely for some sign of life. The windows, many of them broken, betrayed no movements. From all outward appearances the house had not been occupied in years.
The amphibian, now less than 50 yards from the beach, lost headway and drifted.
“Looks like some bad rocks ahead,” said the pilot. “I don’t dare get any closer. You’ll have to swim if you want to land here unless I taxi out and down a ways. It looked better further down.”
But Bob had no intention of wasting any more time.
“I’m going ashore,” he told Lieutenant Gibbons. “You can stay here and see if anything happens.”
Before the intelligence officer could protest, Bob eased himself out of the cabin and started swimming for shore. In a few yards he was able to touch bottom, but just as he straightened up there was a sharp puff from one of the lower windows of the old house and a bullet ricocheted along the water.
Bob, acting by instinct, ducked and started swimming under water. He should have been greatly alarmed, but instead he felt a strange exultation for the firing of that shot had told him what he wanted to know—he was at the end of the trail.
The young federal agent came up for air and as soon as his head appeared, three shots sounded in rapid succession, each fired from different windows in the house.
Two of the bullets went wide of their mark, but the third splashed water in Bob’s eyes. Before he ducked again he heard Lieutenant Gibbons firing back and then another gun joined in the battle and Bob knew that the naval flyer had taken a hand in the party.
Swimming with a powerful stroke, Bob shot along under water. When he came up this time he was in the shelter of the boathouse. He was able to stand erect and he waved back to Lieutenant Gibbons. The firing from the house had suddenly ceased and Bob made his way alongside the squat, powerful speedboat.
He climbed into the craft and with several well aimed blows with the butt of his gun disabled the ignition apparatus. At least the kidnapers would not escape in the boat.
From some place behind the house the sound of an automobile exhaust roared out and Bob leaped to the door of the boathouse. A car wheeled around the far corner of the house and he saw three men inside, two in front and one in the rear. It was the first time Bob had ever fired a gun with a human being as a target, but he fired rapidly from the automatic and it seemed to him that a whole volley of bullets issued from the weapon in his hands. Then the gun was silent and before he could get the other clip from his pocket the car had disappeared.
Bob started running for the house, pausing only once when a cry from Lieutenant Gibbons caused him to turn his head. The intelligence officer was wading ashore and motioning for Bob to wait for him. But Bob had more pressing duties.
The front door of the house was half open and Bob charged through. The interior was dusty and unkempt, although there were some signs that an effort had been made to live in two of the front rooms.
Lieutenant Gibbons pounded up the front steps and burst into the hallway. He joined Bob and together they resumed the frantic search of the house. The first floor was combed, room for room and closet by closet, and it was not until they reached a shed at the back of the house that they found what they were seeking. There, laying on a roll of dirty bedding, was Merritt Hughes, bound, gagged and with a red welt along one side of his head.
Bob, a cry of joy at finding his uncle on his lips, bent down to untie the gag while Lieutenant Gibbons slashed at the rope which fastened the federal agent’s wrists and ankles.
Together they helped Merritt Hughes to his feet. His tongue was badly swollen from the gag, but he managed to say a few words.
“Did they get away?” he asked slowly.
“Yes, but I don’t think they’ll get far. Agents are on their way from Baltimore and Washington,” said Bob.
“How about their radio?”
“The Department of Commerce heard them come on the air and gummed up their broadcasts,” replied Bob.
Lieutenant Gibbons, who had gone in search of water, returned with a tin cup and Merritt Hughes drank it with relish, taking slow, deep draughts of the refreshing liquid.
Then he bathed his face and hands and felt much refreshed. He looked quizzically at Bob and the lieutenant.
“You fellows may catch pneumonia running around here in wet clothes,” he warned.
“What happened to your head?” demanded the lieutenant.
“They creased me with a bullet during the scrap back in Washington last night,” replied the federal agent grimly. “I want you to see their radio.”
He led them to the top floor of the old house where one room had been fitted up for broadcasting purposes. Bob knew little about radio, but he could tell that a great deal of money had been expended here.
“Where’s the aerial?” he asked.
“They used an underground antennae,” replied his uncle.
Lieutenant Gibbons picked up a heavy chair which was in the room and deliberately smashed the delicate equipment.
“I guess that’s the end of this station.”
“But we haven’t recovered the radio document,” groaned Bob.
“I rather think we have,” replied the lieutenant, pointing from a window to a cavalcade of cars which was approaching through a clearing.
The scene that night in the office of the chief of the bureau of investigation was one that would remain stamped forever in Bob’s memory.
Waldo Edgar was there. So was Bob’s uncle and on the other side of the room were Tully Ross and Condon Adams and in the background Lieutenant Gibbons chuckled occasionally.
It was a brief session with Waldo Edgar doing most of the talking in that close, clipped manner of speech of his which inspired his own agents and instilled fear in the hearts of the men he was pursuing.
“The reports you have turned over to me tonight are highly gratifying,” he said, “and I think we can call this case completed. While most of the honor of the final catch goes to Bob Houston, Condon Adams and Tully Ross deserve credit for uncovering that vital clue in the fireplace of Arthur Jacobs’ apartment.”
The federal chief shuffled through some papers on his desk.
“All of the men involved in the case have been apprehended, including Fritz Jacobs, who appeared to be the ringleader. Their radio station has been destroyed and they were unable to make use of the information which they had for nearly 24 hours. You may be sure that their punishment will be swift and sure. As for Arthur Jacobs, I am inclined to feel sorry for him for his record in the government service up to this time had been excellent and I will do all that I can to help him.”
Then Waldo Edgar turned to Tully Ross.
“As a result of your work on this case, I am pleased to be able to tell you that you are now a full fledged federal agent.”
The chief of the bureau of investigation then faced Bob and he smiled warmly as he spoke.
“To you, Bob, I extend my most sincere congratulations. You were under a great strain, yet you used your head every minute of the time and when the showdown came, you were in there fighting. I don’t know when anything has pleased me more than to hand you your commission as a federal agent. You’re young, but I predict that as Agent Nine you are going a long ways in the federal service.”
In spite of himself, tears welled into Bob’s eyes for his heart was overflowing with happiness.
“I’ll do my best to make good,” he promised. “When do I go on another case?”
Waldo Edgar chuckled. “You’d better rest a day or two from this one. There will be plenty for you later.”
He was, indeed, a wise prophet, for in less than 24 hours Bob was to get the call that was to send him out on the famous Jewel Mystery, about which you will learn in “Agent Nine and the Jewel Mystery.”
THE END