The cab shot away and Bob sank back into the seat, his head in a whirl. Somehow, he felt sure, the tangled threads would weave into a pattern that he could solve, but he had to admit that right now he was up against a seeming impasse. The cab driver broke almost every speed record in Jacksonville that night and more than once they averted smashed fenders by the narrowest of margins. A police siren shrilled behind them and the driver looked over his shoulder. “Motorcycle cop coming,” he cried. “How far is it to the station?” asked Bob. “Two blocks.” “Then keep on going.” The driver pressed the accelerator to the floor boards and the cab leaped ahead, ran through a red light in spite of the waving arms of another traffic officer, and then shrieked to a stop before the central police station. Behind them the siren rose and then fell as the motorcycle officer wheeled to the curb. “Smart guys, smart guys,” he yelled. “Look where you stopped?” Grinning, he pointed to the sign which designated the building as the police station. “Just go right on in and make yourselves at home. You’ll be there long enough. I’m going to slap half a dozen traffic charges against you.” Bob had no time to waste words with a traffic officer. “Come on in and place all of the charges you want to,” he snapped, motioning to the taxi driver to accompany him. Once inside the station, Bob hastened to the main desk where a night captain was on duty. “I’m Bob Houston, special agent nine of the Department of Justice,” he explained, displaying the badge which he held in his hand. “It was necessary for me to reach here without loss of time and the driver of my cab ran through some red lights. Please see that any charges against him are dismissed.” The night captain nodded and waved the motorcycle officer aside. “Why all the hurry?” he asked. “My uncle, a federal agent, walked out of the hotel this afternoon and failed to return. A few minutes ago I was warned that unless the federal men were taken off a certain case, he would never be seen alive again.” “Think it was a fake threat?” “No. It was serious enough. I traced the call to a public booth in a drug store down near the water front. The clerks were able to give me only a fair description of the man who made the call, but one of them told me a motorboat had started down river shortly after the man left.” “Any description of the boat?” pressed the night captain. “There was no one along the water front.” “Then I’m afraid it’s going to be tough to pick up that boat. It’s as black as pitch tonight, but we’ll see what we can do.” “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.