SHERIFF McCURDY TALKS
★
There was nothing else for Bob to do and with his hands raised high above
his head, he turned slowly and faced the water cooler. He could imagine
how Tully Ross would have chuckled if he could have seen his predicament
now.
Firm hands whisked the gun out of the shoulder holster and Bob heard the
sheriff step back.
“Turn around slowly now, but keep your hands up.”
Bob obeyed the command and the sheriff waved him toward a seat on the
opposite side of the car.
“Now that you’ve got my gun, you’d better let me explain,” said Bob.
“You can do your explaining in jail,” retorted the sheriff. “No big-town
gunman is going to run another trick on me.”
The last words were said with grim determination and Bob saw the
sheriff’s jaw muscles tighten.
“Turn up the lapel of my coat and you’ll find that you’re making a
mistake,” pressed Bob. “I’m an agent of the bureau of investigation of
the United States Department of Justice.”
“You’re just a kid,” scoffed the older officer.
“Turn up the lapel of my coat and see what’s there. This thing has gone
far enough,” insisted Bob.
There was something in Bob’s voice which forced the sheriff to act and he
reached over cautiously and turned up the lapel of Bob’s coat. The small
badge which was revealed there brought an instant change in his attitude
and he lowered the gun which he held in his hands.
“Looks like I’ve made a bad mistake,” he said. “I’m sorry, but after what
I’ve been through you can’t blame me.”
The sheriff, who introduced himself as Abel McCurdy, handed the gun back
to Bob and the federal agent, after breaking open the gun and looking at
the chambers, returned it to his shoulder holster.
“What’s happened?” asked Bob, for he recalled that only a minute earlier
the sheriff hinted at some trick of which he had been the victim.
“Oh, it’s kind of a crazy story and I don’t suppose it would interest a
federal man,” replied the older officer.
“I’m interested in anything that’s going on around here,” said Bob.
“Then you may run right smack into trouble,” cautioned the other, and he
shook his head a little sadly. “That’s what was the matter with me—too
interested in other people’s business.”
“Tell me what happened,” pressed Bob, for he had a feeling that in some
way or another the sheriff might be connected with the smugglers who were
known to be operating around Atalissa.
“There’s been some strange things going on along the coast,” began the
sheriff, “and I’ve been trying to figure them out, but I didn’t have much
luck until last night when I was south of Atalissa. A big touring car
came roaring along the road and I stopped it. Car was going too fast.”
“What happened?” asked Bob.
“Too much,” admitted the sheriff. “Fellow driving got out, but when he
did he had a machine gun in his hands and I wasn’t any match for that
even though I’m a pretty good shot with a revolver. He handcuffed me with
my own handcuffs and made me get into the back seat and then drove off
like mad. After a while he stopped and blindfolded me, and then went on
for a time.”
“What did he look like?” asked Bob.
“Well, he was kind of short and heavy, I’d say.” The sheriff went on with
his description of the man who had kidnaped him and before he was through
Bob was convinced that the other was Joe Hamsa.