Chapter XXXI

THE CHASE ENDS
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With its motor on full, the amphibian flashed across the cove and wheeled into the air. Bob felt that they were on the last leg of their hunt and he sensed a tenseness of his whole body that was unsettling. Lieutenant Gibbons realized how Bob felt and he leaned over and spoke to the young federal agent.

“Let your nerves loosen up a little and keep your head when we get on the ground. If we get in a jam, use your gun only as a last resort. Remember that help will be along soon.”

The intelligence officer took out his own automatic and examined it, making sure that the firing mechanism was working perfectly. Bob did likewise and shifted the gun into his right-hand coat pocket. He knew that with the gun there he could shoot through his pocket if necessary.

The village of Rubio dropped behind them and a desolate stretch of shore unfolded before their eyes.

Lieutenant Gibbons was the first to sight the Haskins place, a rambling old structure well out on a neck of land that projected into the Atlantic. He signalled to the pilot that this was their destination and the naval airman banked the amphibian gracefully.

The plane dropped low, flying not more than a hundred feet above the shore. The expansive old house, which had several long wings, was badly in need of paint, as were the outbuildings clustered to the rear. A long, low boathouse was built as a part of the run-down pier and one door was closed, but as the plane flashed by Bob caught a glimpse of a black motorboat and his heart leaped. He seized Lieutenant Gibbons’ arm.

“I saw a boat in the shed!” cried Bob. “Let’s get down as soon as possible.”

But already the flyer was dropping the amphibian low. They spattered down on the water and their speed dropped off as they neared the old wharf.

Bob watched the house closely for some sign of life. The windows, many of them broken, betrayed no movements. From all outward appearances the house had not been occupied in years.

The amphibian, now less than 50 yards from the beach, lost headway and drifted.

“Looks like some bad rocks ahead,” said the pilot. “I don’t dare get any closer. You’ll have to swim if you want to land here unless I taxi out and down a ways. It looked better further down.”

But Bob had no intention of wasting any more time.

“I’m going ashore,” he told Lieutenant Gibbons. “You can stay here and see if anything happens.”

Before the intelligence officer could protest, Bob eased himself out of the cabin and started swimming for shore. In a few yards he was able to touch bottom, but just as he straightened up there was a sharp puff from one of the lower windows of the old house and a bullet ricocheted along the water.

Bob, acting by instinct, ducked and started swimming under water. He should have been greatly alarmed, but instead he felt a strange exultation for the firing of that shot had told him what he wanted to know—he was at the end of the trail.

The young federal agent came up for air and as soon as his head appeared, three shots sounded in rapid succession, each fired from different windows in the house.

Two of the bullets went wide of their mark, but the third splashed water in Bob’s eyes. Before he ducked again he heard Lieutenant Gibbons firing back and then another gun joined in the battle and Bob knew that the naval flyer had taken a hand in the party.

Swimming with a powerful stroke, Bob shot along under water. When he came up this time he was in the shelter of the boathouse. He was able to stand erect and he waved back to Lieutenant Gibbons. The firing from the house had suddenly ceased and Bob made his way alongside the squat, powerful speedboat.

He climbed into the craft and with several well aimed blows with the butt of his gun disabled the ignition apparatus. At least the kidnapers would not escape in the boat.

From some place behind the house the sound of an automobile exhaust roared out and Bob leaped to the door of the boathouse. A car wheeled around the far corner of the house and he saw three men inside, two in front and one in the rear. It was the first time Bob had ever fired a gun with a human being as a target, but he fired rapidly from the automatic and it seemed to him that a whole volley of bullets issued from the weapon in his hands. Then the gun was silent and before he could get the other clip from his pocket the car had disappeared.

Bob started running for the house, pausing only once when a cry from Lieutenant Gibbons caused him to turn his head. The intelligence officer was wading ashore and motioning for Bob to wait for him. But Bob had more pressing duties.

The front door of the house was half open and Bob charged through. The interior was dusty and unkempt, although there were some signs that an effort had been made to live in two of the front rooms.

Lieutenant Gibbons pounded up the front steps and burst into the hallway. He joined Bob and together they resumed the frantic search of the house. The first floor was combed, room for room and closet by closet, and it was not until they reached a shed at the back of the house that they found what they were seeking. There, laying on a roll of dirty bedding, was Merritt Hughes, bound, gagged and with a red welt along one side of his head.

Bob, a cry of joy at finding his uncle on his lips, bent down to untie the gag while Lieutenant Gibbons slashed at the rope which fastened the federal agent’s wrists and ankles.

Together they helped Merritt Hughes to his feet. His tongue was badly swollen from the gag, but he managed to say a few words.

“Did they get away?” he asked slowly.

“Yes, but I don’t think they’ll get far. Agents are on their way from Baltimore and Washington,” said Bob.

“How about their radio?”

“The Department of Commerce heard them come on the air and gummed up their broadcasts,” replied Bob.

Lieutenant Gibbons, who had gone in search of water, returned with a tin cup and Merritt Hughes drank it with relish, taking slow, deep draughts of the refreshing liquid.

Then he bathed his face and hands and felt much refreshed. He looked quizzically at Bob and the lieutenant.

“You fellows may catch pneumonia running around here in wet clothes,” he warned.

“What happened to your head?” demanded the lieutenant.

“They creased me with a bullet during the scrap back in Washington last night,” replied the federal agent grimly. “I want you to see their radio.”

He led them to the top floor of the old house where one room had been fitted up for broadcasting purposes. Bob knew little about radio, but he could tell that a great deal of money had been expended here.

“Where’s the aerial?” he asked.

“They used an underground antennae,” replied his uncle.

Lieutenant Gibbons picked up a heavy chair which was in the room and deliberately smashed the delicate equipment.

“I guess that’s the end of this station.”

“But we haven’t recovered the radio document,” groaned Bob.

“I rather think we have,” replied the lieutenant, pointing from a window to a cavalcade of cars which was approaching through a clearing.