ON THE EAST SHORE
★
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.
“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.”