A SOLITARY HAND
★
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.”
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.