The Limited heeled sharply as it struck a curve and the whistle moaned a warning through the wetness of the night. A street light flickered by and in the flash of light that penetrated the car Bob caught a fleeting glimpse of a man in the aisle. The figure of the intruder was heavy and he was hunched forward. There had been no chance to recognize the face, but Bob was sure now that the other man in the car was Hamsa.
Another street light shot a beam through the windows and it played squarely on the face of the man in the aisle. It was Hamsa!
Bob felt in his coat pockets for something to defend himself and his groping hands came on the blackjack which Hamsa had used on Tully. There was the grim hint of a smile on Bob’s lips as he slipped his right hand through the leather thong on the leaden slug. He now had both an effective and dangerous weapon and he knew he would be justified in using it.
Once more there came the streak of light in the car as the Limited roared over another crossing and Bob saw that Hamsa was nearer, almost at the head of the berth.
With his muscles tense and his whole body balanced, Bob waited for another flash of light from the street which would give him an opportunity to strike down the intruder. Then the clatter of the trucks over switch points told him the train was out of the village. Whatever happened from that point on would probably be in utter darkness unless the porter happened to come back into the car and turn on the lights.
The Limited settled down to its steady stride again and Bob, tense and crouching waited. His breath was coming in short jerks and he was afraid that his heart was pounding so hard its beats would be audible to the other who was intent on catching him by surprise in the darkened berth.
By straining his eyes Bob finally made out the approaching shadow that was Hamsa. He drew back his right arm and waited.
Hamsa came nearer, treading cautiously lest he alarm the youth he believed was sleeping soundly in the berth.
Suddenly a beam of light shot out from Hamsa’s hand as he turned on a flash light, but the rays fell only on the rumpled bedclothes.
Bob heard a smothered exclamation from the other and before Hamsa could swing the beam of the flash light around in search of him he struck forth with the blackjack.
Just as Bob swung the weapon the trucks hit a sag in the track and the young federal agent was thrown partially off balance. He had aimed at Hamsa’s head, and although his blow missed that the weapon crashed down on his shoulder and Bob heard a sharp cry of pain.
He jerked back the weapon and struck again and again. Each time he heard a cry of pain and then the flash light thudded to the floor and its beam went out.
They went at it hand to hand then, Hamsa wresting the blackjack away from Bob and hurling it to the far end of the car. The other man was much older and twice as heavy as Bob, but he was not as lithe and his fists could not move as rapidly.
It was a bitter struggle there in the narrow, darkened aisle of the Pullman. Hamsa kicked out viciously and the blow caught Bob in the stomach. He felt sick all over and dropped into the aisle, crouching there and seeking temporary shelter until he felt able to resume the battle.
Hamsa bent down and searched for the flash light and Bob lashed out at him with one foot. The blow caught the other in the face and was answered by a startled exclamation of pain and rage.
Then Bob’s own hands came upon the flash light. He picked it up and his fingers sought the little button which controlled its beam of light. Bob turned on the light and the rays swept down the aisle, coming to rest on the battered face of Hamsa.
It was not until then that Bob realized how powerful had been his own blows for it was obvious that his assailant was in distress. Now if he could land a real knockout he would be able to leave Hamsa long enough to summon assistance from the trainmen.
Bob started down the aisle, but pulled up short when Hamsa drew a gun from his coat pocket. The young federal agent, unarmed, was in no position to face a man with a gun and he tried to duck behind a seat. But Hamsa fired a snap shot and the flash light, shattered by the bullet, dropped out of Bob’s numbed hand.
The tables had been turned. Where Bob had held the advantage a moment before with the flash light, Hamsa, aided by the darkness and his gun, was in a position to win.
But he had evidently had enough of hand to hand encounters for one night and Bob heard him running toward the rear of the car. A moment later the door of the Pullman slammed shut.
Bob stepped out into the aisle and massaged his right hand. It prickled sharply as the blood flowed back into the fingers which had been bruised by the flash light as the bullet had torn it out of his hands.
Then Bob took up the chase, for he felt sure that Hamsa must be seeking his hideout on the train. If he could trace him to it, he would summon the trainmen to assist in the capture.
Bob stepped cautiously into the rear vestibule of the car. There was no one there and the door to the next Pullman was open. He hastened inside and met a startled porter in the aisle.
“Did a man just go down the aisle?” asked Bob.
“Yes, sir, Boss, and he looked like he’d been in a fight.”
“That’s the fellow I’m after,” said Bob. “Run up ahead and get the conductor and any other trainmen you can. Tell them to get back here as fast as they can.”
Then Bob hastened down the aisle and the porter, willing enough to leave the car, went forward to carry out Bob’s instructions.
The young federal agent hastened through a second Pullman where the lights were low and finally stepped into the observation car. So far there had been no trace of Hamsa and no indication that he had sought shelter under one of the trap doors in the vestibules.
Bob entered the observation car cautiously. The lights had been turned down and he stopped at the head end of the car and snapped on all of the switches, a torrent of light illuminating the interior of the car. Even the observation platform at the back end leaped into view as a special light out there came on under the magic touch of the switches.
Bob stared hard at the back of the car. The door to the observation platform was open but beyond that he could see a man’s legs dangling, apparently in midair. Bob threw caution aside then and raced toward the half open door at the rear of the car. The legs were being drawn upward, twisting and kicking as the man attempted to pull himself onto the roof of the observation car. This then was Hamsa’s hiding place—on the roof of the rear car of the train!
Bob leaped through the door and grabbed at Hamsa’s legs. The other man kicked viciously, but Bob wrapped his arms around the legs and hung on. Once he had a good grip, he started pulling the other man down.
Hamsa was big and he was powerful, but the steady pull from below weakened his grip on the steep rungs of the ladder which led to the top of the car and Bob could feel himself gaining. In less than a minute the other man would be down on the platform beside him and by that time the trainmen should be on hand to help him subdue Hamsa.
There was a strange exultation in Bob’s heart for he felt sure now that he was about to make the first capture in what he felt was to be the clean-up of the international gang of smugglers. It made little difference whether Hamsa had been trailing them south or whether they had encountered each other by accident. The message from Washington had indicated that Hamsa was deeply involved and Bob was determined to make the capture.
The steady pull Bob put on Hamsa’s legs and the tightness of his grasp was relentless. Slowly the other man was weakening and Bob braced himself and prepared to release Hamsa’s legs and cut loose with a half dozen hard punches when the other man finally dropped to the observation platform.
There was a commotion at the head end of the car and Bob shifted his head just enough to see the train conductor and brakeman, followed by a wide-eyed Pullman porter, hurry in.
Hamsa kicked convulsively with his legs, but Bob tightened his grasp. Then, without warning, without giving Bob a chance to get set, Hamsa suddenly released his hold and dropped. It all happened so quickly that Bob later found it a little hard to remember just what took place.
On the split second while he was dropping to the observation platform, Hamsa must have seen the trainmen charging down the aisle of the car, for when he landed, he was a bundle of tremendous energy that seemed to explode in Bob’s face.
Great, bear-like arms wrapped themselves around Bob and the young federal agent felt himself being lifted upward. For a moment he was helpless, too surprised even to attempt to struggle, but a sharp cry from behind him caused him to try to strike out with his feet for beneath came the sudden rumble of the trucks on a trestle and he knew that Hamsa, in a last desperate effort, was attempting to hurl him from the rear platform of the train.
The young federal agent wrapped his own arms around Hamsa and clung to him desperately. If Bob went, Hamsa would go with him. Of that he was certain. The rail of the platform struck Bob’s hips and he felt himself being forced backward. It was sickening to hear the rumble of the trestle beneath and a flood of rain beat down on his face, drenching the upper half of his body.
Then Hamsa gave one last, tremendous shove and Bob knew that he was going over the edge of the railing, but Hamsa was going with him. The speed of the Limited had slackened, but it was still doing at least twenty miles an hour when Bob and Hamsa, locked arm in arm, went over the rear platform. Bob closed his eyes for the shock of striking the trestle would be terrific. If he could only remain on the bridge there would be some chance of rescue for the trainmen had seen them go over the back end and would hurry back in a searching party.
As they left the train, Bob managed to get one last twist with his toes and as they fell, he was on top. The drop from the train to the trestle seemed endless. The clatter of the train trucks had dimmed, but a whistle up ahead was blaring an alarm.
Then they struck the trestle—struck it hard and rolled over once. The fall dazed Bob, but through his foggy mind he could hear the rush of water somewhere below.
Hamsa had rolled away from him but it was too dark to see just where and Bob clung to the wet steel of one of the rails. He was too weak and shaken to think of attempting to get to his feet and back of him he could hear the shriek of the air brakes as they clamped down on the wheels of the Limited and brought the Southern to an emergency stop just beyond the edge of the long trestle.
Bob ached in every muscle and he wondered, as he lay there on the trestle with the rain beating down on him, if the dangers of being a federal agent were worth the rewards. Then he swept that thought aside. Of course it was worth it, for he was on the side of right and honor—a side for which many a sacrifice could be willingly made.
As he lay on the bridge, trying to rally his senses and waiting for enough strength to flow back through his body to enable him to sit up, Bob’s eyes became more accustomed to the rain and the night. He tried to pick out the form of Hamsa, who must be close to him, for the other man had been underneath when they fell. The shock had been severe enough for Bob and he wondered if the other had been seriously injured.
Finally Bob’s straining eyes picked out the form of the other man. He was some feet away and beyond the outside rail of the trestle—on the very edge of the bridge where a false move would plunge him into the rushing waters below.
Bob tried to move, but he was still too weak and Hamsa was a dozen feet away. He wanted to reach him and pull him away from the edge.
Someone at the end of the bridge was shouting and Bob turned his head to see a group of trainmen, lanterns in their hands, making their way out on the long trestle. They were coming cautiously for the long rain had made the timbers slippery and treacherous.
As the trainmen moved out on the bridge, Bob’s eyes went back to Hamsa. To his surprise the other man was moving, struggling to sit up, and Bob called out a warning.
“Don’t move, Hamsa!” he ordered. “You’re under arrest. Stay where you are or you’ll fall off the bridge.”
There was no reply from the other, but he continued his struggle to sit up and Bob tried to drag himself closer to the man he had placed under arrest. There was no strength left in his own arms or legs and he could go only a foot or two.
The glow from the lanterns of the approaching trainmen now penetrated the blackness and Bob could see Hamsa’s face turned toward him.
“You’re clever, Kid,” growled the other, “but you’re not going to arrest me this time. I’ll see you later and when I do, watch out!”
Then the other turned and deliberately rolled to the edge of the trestle.
“Hamsa, you’re under arrest!” cried Bob. But he knew the words were futile for the only reply was a mocking laugh. Then Hamsa disappeared over the edge and seconds later there was the dull splash of a heavy body striking the water. Bob thought he heard the mocking laugh once more, but he couldn’t be sure.
Then the trainmen, led by the conductor, reached the scene.
“Where’s the other fellow?” demanded the conductor.
Bob pointed to the darkness below.
“He just rolled over the edge,” he said.
The startled conductor went to the edge of the trestle and swung his lantern over the side, but only the rush of dark waters could be seen.
“That’s the last you’ll see of him,” he said. “This stream is on a rampage and only a powerful man could get to shore.”
Bob nodded, but he was not sure about the conductor’s surmise that he had seen the last of Hamsa for he was both a powerful and resourceful man.
The trainmen helped Bob to his feet and assisted him back to the Limited.
“I guess now you’ll be content to go to bed and give us a little rest,” said the conductor when Bob reached his own berth.
“I’ve got to get off a telegram first,” replied Bob. “Give me the name of that stream and the correct time.”
The conductor supplied the information and Bob wrote a brief report of the night’s events and addressed it to Waldo Edgar, the chief of the division of investigation back in Washington.
“See that this message is dispatched at the first stop,” said Bob. Then he turned, crawled between the crisp, cool sheets, and dropped into a deep sleep of exhaustion.
When he awoke the Limited was pulling into the train shed at Jacksonville and his uncle, Merritt Hughes, was waiting for him on the platform.
The older federal agent jumped aboard the Limited before it came to a full stop and hastened down the aisle to the berth where Bob, still the only occupant of the car, was partially dressed.
“How are you, Bob?” There was real anxiety in the question as Merritt Hughes looked down on his capable young nephew.
“I’m a little stiff, but otherwise all right,” grinned Bob. “My bag is under the berth. See if you can find a clean shirt for me.”
“Never mind the shirt now. I want to know what happened last night. We got only the briefest word from Washington over the wires and Condon Adams left before dawn for the hospital up the line where they took Tully.”
“Is he all right?” asked Bob.
“I understand he’ll have to stay in bed for a couple of days.”
“What about the man we knew as Joe Hamsa?”
Merritt Hughes shook his head.
“There are no reports on him. There’s a large searching party out looking along the banks of the stream where he disappeared, but it looks like we’ve seen the last of him.”
Bob wished that he could have had the confidence his uncle displayed in believing that Joe Hamsa was gone forever.
At his uncle’s urging, Bob recounted in detail everything that had taken place after the Limited left Washington.
“So Hamsa hid out on top of the observation car?” mused the federal agent. “Well, that’s a new one for me. No wonder you failed to find him even though you went through the train several times.”
Bob motioned toward his bag beneath the berth, “Now how about my shirt? Then some breakfast, and I’ll be ready to go along on my assignment.”
“You’ll do nothing of the kind. You’re going to spend the rest of the day in bed in my room at the hotel. Tomorrow we’ll talk about your going on to Atalissa. I’m not sure that I want you to go there alone. It’s a tough little town. People know too much there, but they won’t talk. Either scared or in league with some illegal racket.”
“And you figure the racket is the jewel smuggling?”
Merritt Hughes nodded gravely.
“This thing is big, Bob,” he went on. “As you know from the confidential report you got, we feel sure that only a few men are actually involved in the ring, but they must be men of great daring and resourcefulness, for they have managed to elude some of the best detectives.”
“Then it seems kind of foolish for me to tackle it,” said Bob, half to himself and half to his uncle.
“Not at all. A new, younger man may have some ideas that older men in the service would not have. You’ve had one break in getting Hamsa out of the way and we’re sure that he was linked with the gang.”
“I guess there’s no question about that for he stole the confidential reports Tully and I had.”
“Then what does that mean to you?” asked Bob’s uncle.
The younger agent, struggling to button a shirt collar that was too tight, stopped and sat down on the edge of the berth.
“In the first place it means that he wanted to find out just what the federal people knew about the operations of the gang. Then it appears pretty obvious that he didn’t want any more federal men nosing around Atalissa and Nira.”
“Right in both cases,” agreed Merritt Hughes. “Now what?”
“Well, it follows that there must be some good reason for this interest in federal operations, and all I can figure out is that the gang is getting ready to smuggle in a large amount of gems.”
“Go to the head of the class; you’ve had a perfect score. The question now follows, what shall we do?”
“Are you going to try to demote me now?” grinned Bob.
“No, I’m just trying to find out how far along the way you’ll get by sound deduction and logic.”
“Then I’d say that we ought to go through with our original plans and that Tully and I proceed on to our assignments at once with additional agents held ready to back us up if we get in a jam or things break wide open and we need help.”
“You’re not worrying about Hamsa having escaped from the river and getting word to the others in the gang?”
“Of course I’m thinking about that angle, but that’s a chance we’ll have to take,” replied Bob.
“We’ll make the decision tomorrow. There may be some further advices from Washington by that time.”
Bob finished dressing and his uncle picked up his bag and together they walked out into the train shed.
“Breakfast is going to taste good to me,” said Bob. “Don’t waste any time in getting there.”
“Then we’ll eat at the restaurant in the station,” decided his uncle.
Breakfast was served quickly after they placed their orders and Bob ate the meal with real relish. Corn cakes with a thick coating of maple syrup especially pleased him and he had a second order.
After the meal was finished, they walked through the main waiting room of the station and to the taxi stand just beyond where Merritt Hughes signalled for a vehicle, and they were soon speeding toward the hotel.
Bob, still stiff and sore from his encounter the night before with Joe Hamsa, leaned back against the cushions and enjoyed the trip, for this was his first visit to Florida. The streets were broad, the homes hospitable and life seemed to move at a more leisurely pace than it did in the northern cities with which he was familiar.
The hotel, a modest sized structure, was done in Spanish architecture and his uncle had two rooms on the fourth floor looking down on an inner court where there was a spacious swimming pool flanked by stubby palm trees.
“Now for a shower bath and I’ll feel like I really wanted to live again,” said Bob.
“I’ve got several reports to make out and mail to the bureau in Washington,” said his uncle, “and I’ll get them out of the way while you’re taking your shower.”
Bob undressed and adjusted the spray in the shower to his liking. For ten minutes he relaxed under the soothing flow of the water and when he finally emerged his muscles were not as sore and tight and his head felt clearer. As he rubbed his body briskly with a heavy towel, one thought troubled him. What had caused the sudden illness which had befallen Tully and later had nearly struck him down on the train? While he dressed, Bob told his uncle about these incidents.
“You say you felt something like a sharp blow on the face before you became ill?” asked the older federal agent.
“That’s right.”
“Then you were gassed.”
“Gassed!” exclaimed Bob incredulously.
“Certainly. Tully got a full-sized dose and you probably got only half a one, which accounts for the varying degrees of your illness and nausea.”
“But we couldn’t have been gassed,” replied Bob.
“Oh yes you could. Modern crooks sometimes turn to science to help them and I know as a fact that small amounts of gas, which make the victim desperately ill, can be obtained in thin glass capsules. These capsules are so small they can be flipped off the end of a finger or thrown in some other manner with great accuracy. If they strike near the nose, the impact shatters them and the gas is released, causing a violent illness which usually makes the victim unconscious.”
“That’s what happened,” cried Bob. “Why your explanation fits perfectly, only I didn’t get a full dose. Perhaps there was too much fresh air in the car I was in.”
“The pellet of glass might have struck you a glancing blow,” suggested his uncle.
“How can you defend yourself against this?” asked Bob.
“The only safe way would be by a gas mask, but now that you know such things can happen you can be on the lookout. If you ever feel a similar impact that arouses your suspicion, don’t breathe, but rush to some other spot before you take another gulp of air. That should enable you to escape the gas.”
“I’m going to remember that,” promised Bob.
“Better take a nap now. After you wake up you can type out your detailed report for Washington,” advised Merritt Hughes.
Bob didn’t especially relish the idea of sleeping when he felt he should be on his way to Atalissa, but he was thoroughly relaxed and a great fatigue had crept over him. So it was with real gratitude that he crept in between crisp sheets. He was asleep in less than a minute. Some time later his uncle looked in and pulled down the shades at the windows. Later he went out for a time, and when he returned Bob was still in a deep sleep. It was late afternoon before Bob finally roused from his slumber, but he felt much like his former self. Of course there were a few bruises and several strained muscles, but he could walk without creaking in every joint.
Bob dressed and went into the adjoining room which his uncle occupied. The federal agent had gone out several hours before, but his portable typewriter was on a low table and Bob sat down and started to work on his report which was to be air mailed to Washington.
The report was lengthy for Bob went into great detail and the afternoon faded into early night. He snapped on a desk light and continued with his work. When he was through he straightened up and stretched his arms for he had been hunched over the typewriter for more than an hour and a half.
Bob leaned back in his chair and read the report with care, correcting an occasional error which he had made in the manuscript. That done, he addressed a large envelope, and went down to the desk in the lobby where he secured air mail stamps and learned that by prompt mailing the letter would be delivered in Washington the next morning.
Bob was hungry, but he waited for a time for his uncle. Now that he was thoroughly rested, he was anxious to make plans for the trip to Atalissa. After waiting in the lobby for half an hour, Bob went into the dining room which opened to the right, leaving word where he could be found.
A supper with a fresh fish steak as the main course appeased his hunger and he ate leisurely. A newsboy, walking through the restaurant, attracted his attention and he purchased an evening paper, scanning the headlines while he completed his meal with a chocolate sundae.
Bob wondered if the reporters had been tipped off by the trainmen as to what had taken place the night before on the Southern Limited. He searched every page of the paper, but there was no mention of the disappearance of Joe Hamsa.
It was nearly mid-evening by the time Bob was through with his meal and he returned to the lobby, inquiring for any possible information about his uncle.
“He left about four o’clock,” said the clerk on duty. “I happened to see him step into the street and he turned to the right. I’m positive he hasn’t been back since then.”
Bob thanked the clerk for the information, meager though it was. It would do no harm to go for a stroll and he stepped out into the street. Like his uncle had done, he turned right on a street which led down to the water front.
He soon found himself in a poorer part of the city. Street lights were far apart and their globes dirty. Houses and shops seemed to be hiding and the men who went along the street did not look up.
Two policemen strolled by and Bob whistled for he knew what it meant when officers made their beat in pairs. He doubted whether his uncle had visited this district and he turned and walked back to the hotel.
A clock was striking ten when Bob re-entered the lobby. He was almost at the elevators when the clerk called to him.
“Telephone call just coming in for you,” he said. “You can answer here if you wish.”
Bob hastened over to the desk. It must be his uncle, phoning to tell him that he had been detained.
Bob picked up the instrument which the clerk handed him and placed the receiver to his ear. A gruff voice spoke, “Is this Bob Houston?”
It was a strange voice and Bob tried to catalog its timbre, for it was pitched unusually low.
“This is Bob Houston speaking,” he replied quietly.
“Then listen to what I’ve got to say. We’ve got your uncle and we’ll get you and any other federal men who attempt to trail us. Get off this case and stay off if you ever want to see him alive again and you can tell that to Washington.”
Before Bob could reply he heard the receiver on the other end of the line click. He whirled to the hotel clerk.
“Any idea where that call came from?” he asked.
“No.”
“Get the chief operator for me at once,” said Bob, pulling out his badge to speed the clerk’s efforts. To the chief operator Bob explained who he was and what he wanted.
“Hold the line,” said the telephone official.
Bob leaned his elbows hard against the desk. He needed the extra support for he had suddenly gone weak all over. There had been grave menace in the throaty voice which had come over the wire and he did not doubt the truth of the threat.
It was entirely possible that his uncle had been captured by the smugglers they were trailing and Bob knew, after his encounter with Hamsa, that they were perfectly capable of using the most drastic means to put out of the way any obstacle to the success of their plans.
The chief operator spoke again.
“Your call came from a pay station in a drug store near the water front.”
Bob obtained the name of the drug store and he whirled away from the desk and ran outside to the taxi stand. He jumped into the first cab and gave the address of the drug store.
“Step on it driver. I’ll clear you with any traffic officer that stops us.”
“I’ve heard that story before,” grunted the driver as he shifted the gears.
“This talks,” said Bob, shoving his badge into view of the driver.
“You said it, mister,” said the taxi man, and the cab leaped ahead as he trod heavily on the accelerator.
The cab wove in and out of a web of traffic, then shot away down a dark street, took several corners on two wheels, and after threading through several narrower streets, drew up beside a well lighted corner drug store.
“Wait here,” ordered Bob, jumping from the cab and hurrying into the store.
Two clerks were on duty and Bob addressed himself to the older man.
Motioning toward the telephone booth at the rear of the store, he fired his first question.
“Give me a description of the man who put in a call from here not more than fifteen minutes ago.”
The man to whom Bob addressed the question appeared to resent his intrusion, and his reply was far from courteous.
“You’ve got the wrong place and besides I don’t like you.”
That touched off Bob’s temper and his anger blazed.
“Give me the information I want and give it to me at once or you’re going on a quick ride to jail. Who phoned from that booth?”
At the same time Bob revealed the metal shield in his hand which identified him, and the entire attitude of the clerk changed.
“Why didn’t you tell me you were a federal man in the first place?” he grumbled.
“I want to know who made that call,” insisted Bob.
“Well, I didn’t pay a whole lot of attention. There were a couple of other customers in the store. He was kind of tall, and about thirty-five I’d say.”
“What kind of clothes was he wearing?”
“He had on a coverall suit and a dark hat.”
“How about his hair and eyes. Was there anything on his face that would make it easy to identify him?”
The younger clerk spoke up.
“I noticed his low, deep voice,” he said, “and there was a little scar just in front of one ear.”
“Which one?”
The clerk turned half away from Bob as though assuming the position in which the stranger had appeared to him.
“It was the left ear,” he replied. “I’m sure about that now.”
“Notice anything else about him? Did he appear nervous or in a hurry to get away?”
“He wasn’t exactly nervous, but after he came out of the booth he didn’t linger around.”
“Did he have a car?”
“No, he walked in here, but just after he left I heard a motorboat getting under way. You know it’s less than a block to the water front.”
There was no more information to be gained from the clerks in the store and Bob returned to the street where the cab was waiting.
“Roll on down to the water front,” he told the driver.
Along the river the docks appeared deserted and there was not even a watchman in sight. Bob returned to the cab.
“Wheel for the central police station and don’t lose any time,” he commanded.
The cab shot away and Bob sank back into the seat, his head in a whirl. Somehow, he felt sure, the tangled threads would weave into a pattern that he could solve, but he had to admit that right now he was up against a seeming impasse.
The cab driver broke almost every speed record in Jacksonville that night and more than once they averted smashed fenders by the narrowest of margins.
A police siren shrilled behind them and the driver looked over his shoulder.
“Motorcycle cop coming,” he cried.
“How far is it to the station?” asked Bob.
“Two blocks.”
“Then keep on going.”
The driver pressed the accelerator to the floor boards and the cab leaped ahead, ran through a red light in spite of the waving arms of another traffic officer, and then shrieked to a stop before the central police station.
Behind them the siren rose and then fell as the motorcycle officer wheeled to the curb.
“Smart guys, smart guys,” he yelled. “Look where you stopped?”
Grinning, he pointed to the sign which designated the building as the police station.
“Just go right on in and make yourselves at home. You’ll be there long enough. I’m going to slap half a dozen traffic charges against you.”
Bob had no time to waste words with a traffic officer.
“Come on in and place all of the charges you want to,” he snapped, motioning to the taxi driver to accompany him.
Once inside the station, Bob hastened to the main desk where a night captain was on duty.
“I’m Bob Houston, special agent nine of the Department of Justice,” he explained, displaying the badge which he held in his hand. “It was necessary for me to reach here without loss of time and the driver of my cab ran through some red lights. Please see that any charges against him are dismissed.”
The night captain nodded and waved the motorcycle officer aside.
“Why all the hurry?” he asked.
“My uncle, a federal agent, walked out of the hotel this afternoon and failed to return. A few minutes ago I was warned that unless the federal men were taken off a certain case, he would never be seen alive again.”
“Think it was a fake threat?”
“No. It was serious enough. I traced the call to a public booth in a drug store down near the water front. The clerks were able to give me only a fair description of the man who made the call, but one of them told me a motorboat had started down river shortly after the man left.”
“Any description of the boat?” pressed the night captain.
“There was no one along the water front.”
“Then I’m afraid it’s going to be tough to pick up that boat. It’s as black as pitch tonight, but we’ll see what we can do.”
“I’d like to use a private room where I can phone Washington,” said Bob and the officer pointed to a doorway to the left and rear of his own desk. Before he entered, Bob paid his taxi bill and handed the driver a generous tip.
Once in the private room, Bob dropped into a leather upholstered chair. Calling long distance, he asked for a certain number in Washington that was called only when something of the utmost importance happened.
“Lines north are busy at present,” said the operator.
But the information Bob had could not wait and he asked for the chief operator. In quick, terse sentences he explained who he was and the importance of his message.
Faint clicking sounds could be heard in the receiver, then Washington answered and Bob knew that his call was being given the right-of-way over everything else.
A quiet voice asked, “Who’s speaking?” and Bob knew that he was in contact with Waldo Edgar, the grim, efficient head of the government’s greatest man-hunting division.
“This is Bob Houston. I’m at the central police station at Jacksonville. Merritt Hughes, my uncle, has been kidnaped within the last few hours.”
“What’s that?” There was explosive energy in the question which was hurled back over the wires.
Bob repeated his message, elaborating a little this time.
“But Bob, that’s impossible.”
“I thought so too, at first,” confessed Bob, “but after that warning phone call I changed my mind.”
“Call your hotel again. I’ll hold the line.”
Bob stepped outside and from another phone got in touch with his hotel. There had been no word about his uncle, the clerk assured him, and Bob returned to the private room, where he relayed the news northward.
He heard Waldo Edgar’s breath suck in.
“What have you done?” came the question, and Bob was ready.
He told of his own attempt and added that he had enlisted the aid of the Jacksonville police.
“That’s right as far as you’ve gone,” said his chief. “Unfortunately a big kidnaping has broken in the midwest and all of the extra men are concentrated there. Condon Adams will be back in Jacksonville shortly after midnight and you must get in touch with him.”
There was a brief pause while the federal chief mulled over plans for his next strategy.