Three security guards, led by stocky Phil Radnor, leaped out.
Within moments they had the man subdued.
Tom quickly briefed the security men on what had happened.
"All right, mister, start talking!" snapped Radnor, head security police
officer.
The man's only reply was a scowl of rage.
"Okay, take him away till he cools off," Tom ordered.
Disheveled and still panting, the man was bundled into the jeep and
driven off to the security building.
Tom arrived there by motor scooter several minutes later. Harlan Ames,
the slim, dark-haired security chief of Enterprises, had taken charge of
the case, and the prisoner was now being fingerprinted and photographed.
"Any leads?" Tom inquired.
Ames shook his head. "He won't talk and we've nothing on him in our
files. His clothes have no tags or laundry marks, but I'd say they're of
foreign make."
Tom nodded. "He's definitely foreign. He spoke with an accent and he
also muttered something at Chow--I didn't catch it, but it certainly
wasn't in English."
Ames frowned. "I don't like the looks of this, skipper. He may be a
spy."
"Have you notified the police?" Tom asked.
"Right. Also the FBI. They're on the way right now to pick him up. Maybe
they'll be able to worm something out of him."
Tom spent the morning in routine work in the big double office which he
shared with his father in Enterprises' main building. It was equipped
with huge twin modern desks, deep-pile carpeting, and roomy leather
chairs.
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