“Now that Merritt Hughes is off the case, you’ll be in direct charge of finding him and recovering that paper. I’m assigning Bob to give you some help wherever you need it.”
Adams showed his displeasure, but he was careful not to make it too obvious to Waldo Edgar.
“Thanks,” he granted. “I may need the kid for some leg work, but he always seems to be getting into trouble.” It was biting sarcasm, but Bob chose to ignore it.
“This latest development,” went on the federal chief, “puts us right back where we were after we thought the paper had vanished from the office, while in reality it was in Bob’s pocket. The one prisoner who could have given us some information slipped out of our hands and one of my best agents has been abducted. That means whoever is after this information is both desperate and daring.”
The federal chief looked at Bob, whose face was still flushed from the recent fight in the street.
“Got a gun, Bob?”
“I’ve a .32.”
Waldo Edgar shook his head.
“That’s not heavy enough,” he summoned an assistant, who returned shortly with a stubby but serviceable gun and two clips of cartridges.
“This is a new gun with which we are equipping our agents,” explained Edgar. “It’s a .45 and when you hit anything with that, you stop it, even if it is a freight train. You can’t afford to go rummaging around Washington at night without ample protection while you’re on this case.”