Chapter XXIII

ANXIOUS HOURS
★

Mixed sounds penetrated through a maze of pain which filled Bob’s head when he finally started to regain consciousness.

First of all there was the noise of police sirens which seemed to fill the night air with their shrieks.

Bob managed to raise himself up on one elbow just as a car careened around the corner and screeched to a stop. Men fairly poured from the car and Bob could see that each was heavily armed.

Lights gleamed in the disrupted street and Bob turned to look for the car which he had commandeered and from which he had been so roughly jerked. It had vanished and only the damaged taxi remained.

The echo of the gunfire had died away.

A beam of light focused on Bob and a sharp command followed.

“Don’t move!”

At the moment Bob ached too much to care whether he ever moved. Someone came up from behind him and jerked him roughly to his feet.

“Snap a pair of handcuffs on this bird. We’ll question him later.” The command was from an officer who seemed to be in charge of the squad. From back down the street more sirens shrilled and Bob saw two more cars pull to a stop and officers unload hastily.

“Let me explain,” protested Bob. “If you’ll only look in the case inside my coat you’ll find my identification papers. I’m a provisional federal agent.”

One of the police laughed scornfully.

“That’s a fine story. You’re only a kid.”

Bob was tired and worried now about his uncle. Hot tears of anger welled into his eyes and his voice trembled as he replied.

“You’d better take the time to make sure before you handcuff me. A federal agent has been kidnaped on this street and you’d better hunt for him instead of wasting your time on me.”

“Who was kidnaped?” the question was asked by a newcomer who had joined the group.

“My uncle, Merritt Hughes,” replied Bob. “He’s in the Department of Justice.”

“Say, maybe there is something to his story,” chimed in another officer. “I know there is a federal agent by the name of Hughes.”

“Then you’d better start looking for him. He was down at the end of this street a couple of minutes ago, the target for three gunmen. We were trapped here in the taxi that’s deserted over there.”

“Get busy, boys, and see what you can find,” ordered the sergeant who was in command of the squad. “I’ll take this boy down to the corner and we’ll phone the Department of Justice and check up on his story.”

While the police detail spread out to comb the street, the sergeant and Bob walked back to the police car.

“It will go hard on you, kid, if you’re trying to pull anything on us,” warned the sergeant.

“Don’t worry about that,” Bob reassured him. “Just let me get to a telephone where I can get in touch with Waldo Edgar.”

They walked to the corner and then turned to their right. Half way down the next block there was a small drug store and they found a pay telephone there. Bob entered the booth while the sergeant, a blocky, dark-haired man of about 40, stuck his foot in the door so that it would remain open and he could hear the conversation.

“Hand me your papers,” he told Bob, and the young federal agent handed over the small leather case which he carried in an inner pocket.

Bob’s fingers skimmed the pages of the telephone directory until he found the desired number. Dropping a nickel in the phone, he dialed for the Department of Justice. When an operator answered, he gave his message quickly and concisely.

“I’ll give you Mr. Edgar at once,” promised the operator.

It was only a few seconds later when Bob heard the voice of the chief of the division of investigation of the Department of Justice. It was a rich full voice, that once heard would never be forgotten. Bob identified himself quickly and then in rapid sentences told what had happened.

“Your uncle had the paper the last you saw of him?” asked the federal chief.

“Yes,” replied Bob. “He was attempting to reach the far end of the street and escape while I attracted the attention of the men trying to capture him. But I was knocked out and I don’t know what happened. When the police arrived the street was deserted and the bullet-proof sedan was missing.”

“We’ll spread an alarm at once,” said Edgar. “See that you are released at once by the police. Then come here at once.”

Bob turned to the sergeant.

“Satisfied about my identity?” he asked.

“You’re okay,” grinned the sergeant, handing back the leather case, which Bob slipped into his coat.

“I’ll be over at once,” he promised the federal chief.

He stepped out of the booth and started to hasten toward the door, but a question from the sergeant detained him.

“Can you give us a description of that car? We’ll have it broadcast over the police radio and also on the teletype circuit. Some of our men may pick up the machine and the sooner we can get a report the better chance we’ll have of finding your uncle.”

Bob’s description of the car was meager. He wasn’t even sure of the make, but it had looked like a large Romney sedan.

“The windshield is shattered and there ought to be a number of bullet marks on the body,” he said. “I guess that will be the best way to identify it.”

“We’ll shut down on every road out of the city. They can’t get away,” promised the sergeant, as he stepped back into the booth to telephone the description to police headquarters.

But Bob had his own doubts as to whether the police would be able to apprehend the car. Too much time had elapsed. Even now the big machine might be speeding out of the city.

It was then that Bob disobeyed his orders from the federal chief. Instead of summoning a taxi, he hastened back to the street where the attack had taken place. He wanted to be sure that his uncle had not been wounded and left there.

When he arrived the police squad had completed its search.

“Find anyone?” asked Bob anxiously.

“Not even a good ghost,” grumbled one of the officers. “Say, that taxi’s a wreck.”

But Bob had no time to waste in talk over a damaged taxi. He half ran and half walked to the nearest thoroughfare where he flagged a taxi and ordered the driver to take him to the Department of Justice building.

On the way over, Bob reviewed the events of the night. With the disappearance of his uncle the case had deepened and he felt as though he was drifting in a sea of puzzling problems.

On reaching the Department of Justice building, Bob went directly to the upper floor where the federal chief’s office was located. An agent, evidently watching for him, escorted him into the inner office and Bob’s eyes widened as he saw Condon Adams and Tully Ross seated beside Waldo Edgar’s desk.

The federal chief rose as Bob came in.

“Have a chair, Bob. We want to hear in detail everything that went on tonight. Now that your uncle has disappeared, you’ll have to work with Adams and Ross here on the case. I’m counting on you for a lot of good work.”