ON A LONELY STREET
★
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.