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.”