“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.”