SPECIAL AGENT NINE
★
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.
“This isn’t going to be easy to do, Bob,” he said, “but I’m counting on
you going to your assignment at Atalissa at once. This gang must be about
to pull off a really big job and I have a feeling the disappearance of
your uncle is a step to keep federal men from concentrating further south
along the coast. Get all of the information you can and turn it over to
Condon Adams when he arrives. Then you continue south and Adams will take
up the search for your uncle. As soon as additional men can be spared,
they will be sent to aid you.”