They left the restaurant, secured a taxi, and drove rapidly toward the Department of Justice building.
Bob, catching the reflection of lights behind them in the mirror at the front, looked back.
“Someone’s following us,” he said.
The federal agent turned quickly. There was no mistake. A car several hundred feet to the rear was making every turn their own machine took.
Merritt Hughes leaned ahead and spoke to the driver.
“We’re being trailed. Step on it. I’ll take care of any officers who try to stop us.”
“Nothing doin’, mister. I’m not getting myself into trouble. We’re stopping right here.”
The driver slammed on the brakes and swung his car toward the curb, but a curt command from Bob’s uncle stopped him.
“Get this car under way. I’m a federal agent and I’m in no mood to have you playing any tricks. Wheel this buggy for the Department of Justice building and make it snappy.” At the same time he thrust the little emblem of his office under the driver’s nose.
The motor of the taxi roared as the driver tramped on the accelerator and their vehicle leaped ahead, widening the distance between the car which was trailing them. They took a corner so fast the tires screeched in protest and Bob wondered whether the other machine would be able to make the turn.