Produced by Roger Frank.
[Illustration: We finally got to the island with the maps and papers.]
Bob Dexter and the Storm Mountain Mystery
OR
The Secret of the Log Cabin
By
WILLARD F. BAKER
Author of "Bob Dexter and the Club House Mystery,"
"Bob Dexter and the Beacon Beach Mystery,"
"The Boy Ranchers,"
"The Boy Ranchers on the Trail," etc.
ILLUSTRATED
NEW YORK
CUPPLES & LEON COMPANY
BOOKS BY WILLARD F. BAKER
THE BOB DEXTER MYSTERY SERIES
12 mo. Cloth. Illustrated.
BOB DEXTER AND THE CLUB HOUSE MYSTERY
BOB DEXTER AND THE BEACON BEACH MYSTERY
BOB DEXTER AND THE STORM MOUNTAIN MYSTERY
Other Volumes in preparation
THE BOY RANCHERS SERIES
THE BOY RANCHERS
THE BOY RANCHERS IN CAMP
THE BOY RANCHERS ON THE TRAIL
THE BOY RANCHERS AMONG THE INDIANS
THE BOY RANCHERS AT SPUR CREEK
THE BOY RANCHERS IN THE DESERT
CUPPLES & LEON COMPANY, New York
Copyright, 1925, by
Cupples & Leon Company
Bob Dexter and the Storm Mountain Mystery
Printed in the U. S. A.
*Contents*
I. The Man with the Box
II. The Log Cabin
III. Startling News
IV. Wooden Leg
V. A Mysterious Robbery
VI. Strange Marks
VII. The Key Experiment
VIII. Jolly Bill's Tale
IX. On the Trail
X. Sailor's Knots
XI. No Potatoes
XII. Monkey Land
XIII. Queer Planting
XIV. A Night Pursuit
XV. A Singer in the Dark
XVI. The Worm Digger
XVII. Bob Gives a Party
XVIII. The Man with the Hook
XIX. The Last Chord
XX. New Suspicions
XXI. New Tactics
XXII. The Brass Box
XXIII. Solving a Puzzle
XXIV. The Treasure
XXV. The Key Trick
*BOB DEXTER AND THE STORM MOUNTAIN MYSTERY*
*CHAPTER I*
*THE MAN WITH THE BOX*
"Come on, Bob, going to the ball game!"
"It's going to be a corker! Better hurry if you want a good seat!"
Two young men paused at the front gate of a neat cottage, standing
somewhat back from a quiet side street of the village, and looked toward
another youth who was seated on the porch. This lad glanced up from a
book he was reading as his two chums, Harry Pierce and Ned Fuller,
hailed him.
"Come on, Bob!" urged Harry, opening the gate. "What's the idea? You're
usually the first one in the grand stand when our club plays the Midvale
nine."
"Looks as if you didn't want to root for the home team," went on Ned as
he followed his companion up the front walk.
"Oh, I'd like to root for them all right, and I'd like to see them win,
of course," answered Bob Dexter, as he closed the book he had been
reading. But his chums noticed that he kept one finger in between the
pages so he would not lose his place.
"Well, then, you'd better get a move on!" urged Harry. "They won't keep
club members' seats for them much longer, and there'll be a big mob
there--this is the deciding game of the series."
"Yes, I know," said Bob, "but I'm not going!"
"Not going!" cried the other two, and there was much surprise in their
voices.
"What's wrong?" demanded Harry. "You aren't soured on the club, are
you?"
"Of course I'm not," and Bob smiled. "I should have said I can't go.
I've got something to do."
"What do you mean--finish that book--a detective story, I'll stake a
cookie on it!" exclaimed Ned. "I thought so!" he added, as he turned the
book over in Bob's hand and disclosed the title which was "The Strange
Case of the Twisted Ear."
"Say, look here!" broke in Harry, as he playfully snatched the book from
Bob. "If you're going to stay here and read one of your everlasting
detective stories, when the most important club ball game of the season
is being played--well, all I've got to say is that Ned and I won't let
you!"
"Atta boy! You let out an earful that time!" cried Ned.
The two chums caught hold of Bob and pulled him from the chair.
Laughingly he protested and made fast to one of the porch pillars to
avoid being yanked off.
"Cut it out, fellows! Cut it out!" begged Bob. "It isn't that at all!
I'm not staying here to read a detective story, though I was glancing
over this French one while I was waiting. But I've got to do something
for my uncle, and that's why I'm staying here. I want to go to the ball
game as badly as you fellows do. And I'm coming as soon as a certain man
appears with some important papers for Uncle Joel. But I can't go until
then--really, I can't. Uncle Joel told me to stay here, waiting for this
man. It's very important."
There was that in Bob's voice which impressed his chums. They released
their holds on him, rather reluctantly be it said, and Bob picked up the
book that had fallen to the porch floor, and resumed his seat in the
chair, albeit somewhat ruffled by the dragging process.
"Well, that's different, of course," admitted Ned as he straightened his
collar which had been shifted in the struggle.
"Why didn't you say at first that you were staying here because your
uncle asked you to?" inquired Harry. He and Ned knew the stern qualities
of Bob's Uncle Joel. Though a just man, Mr. Dexter, who was brother to
Bob's dead father, insisted on strict obedience from his nephew,
especially in matters of business.
"This is a business matter," said Bob. "I would have told you fellows,
if you'd given me a chance. But you went off, half cocked, and I
couldn't make myself heard."
"Oh, all right. Maybe we were a bit hasty," conceded Ned.
"But when we saw you sitting here, doing nothing but reading a detective
story, we concluded you didn't have anything else to do, and that you
could just as well as not come to the ball game with us," added Harry.
"I'd come in a minute if Uncle Joel hadn't wished this job on me!"
declared Bob. "But you know how it is--I'm not exactly my own boss."
"Yes, we know," admitted Harry.
Bob Dexter was an orphan, dependent on his uncle, and while Mr. Dexter
was just and kind, still he had rights that must be respected, and Bob
realized this.
"Uncle Joel is pretty good to me," went on Bob. "And I've got to pay him
back as much as I can. Look how he let me have a lot of time to myself
going to Beacon Beach this summer."
"And a mighty good thing you did go to Beacon Beach!" exclaimed Ned. "If
you hadn't the mystery there never would have been solved."
"Oh, I guess some one else would have stumbled on it," said Bob,
modestly.
"I'm not so sure of that," chimed in Harry. "Anyhow, we won't bother you
any more. Go on--finish the job, whatever it is."
"Couldn't you come to the ball game and do it afterward--whatever your
uncle wants you to do?" asked Ned.
Bob shook his head.
"It can't be done," he replied. "If I can get over to the park later
I'll be there. I hope I can see the last half of the game, anyhow. But
it's like this. Mr. Sheldon, a man with whom my uncle does a lot of
business of one kind or another, is sending some important papers on
to-day to be signed. If they aren't signed to-day it means the loss of a
lot of money. Mr. Sheldon is passing through Cliffside on the train that
gets here at 2:30. He hasn't time to get off, as he has to go on to a
conference with his lawyer. But he's going to hand me the papers at the
depot, when the train stops, and I've got to rush them up to my uncle's
office. That's why I can't go to the ball game."
"Why doesn't your uncle himself meet this Mr. Sheldon at the train and
sign the papers?" asked Ned. "Oh why can't some one else meet this man
who's in such a hurry?"
"I don't know why it can't be done that way, but it can't, or my uncle
wouldn't ask me to do it," said Bob, simply. "I suppose he has good
reasons for not going to the train himself. And he doesn't want to trust
an ordinary messenger to get the papers. So I'll have to do it. Then,
after I get through, if there's time enough, I'll come to the game."
"All right," assented Harry, satisfied with this explanation. "We'll try
and save a seat for you--you know where we usually sit."
"Yes, I know," said Bob, as he laid his book just inside the front door.
"And if you're going to meet that 2:30 train it's time you got a move
on," added Ned.
"Yes, I'm going to start now," said Bob. "Have to make a time allowance
for the little old flivver," he added with a laugh. "If you fellows like
I'll drop you off at the ball park."
"Drop us off is good!" laughed Ned.
"If the old flivver doesn't drop apart itself on the way down," added
Harry.
"Oh, I guess she'll hold together that long," chuckled the young
detective--for Bob was just that, as some of you know, and as others of
you will learn in the course of this story. Bob walked around to the
side drive where stood an ancient and honorable automobile of the class
generally called flivvers. Truly it was ancient, and Bob had added the
title honorable, for it had given him good service in spite of the small
price he paid for it.
"Can you get her going?" asked Ned, as he and his chum looked somewhat
dubiously at the machine.
"Well, I don't want to make any rash statements," chuckled Bob, "but I
think if I give her a good dose of talcum powder, and rub a lip stick on
the carburetor she may be induced to give us service. Hop in and I'll
have a go at her."
"Better wait until he gets her started before you hop in," cautioned Ned
to Harry. "She may buck with you."
"Oh, she isn't as temperamental as all that," laughed Bob. He climbed to
the seat, turned on the ignition and pressed the self-starter pedal.
There was a sort of groaning hum.
"I thought so! Come on, Ned, we'll walk!" laughed Harry.
But a moment later the engine began to turn over with a steady throb,
hum and roar that told of plenty of power, each of the four cylinders
firing evenly and regularly.
"Not so bad!" announced Ned, listening with a critical ear.
"Yes, I've got her pretty well tuned up," admitted Bob with pardonable
pride. "I guess she'll take me there and back."
"Well, we'll take a chance," said Harry, and soon the three chums were
rattling down the road. Rattling is the proper word, for though the
flivver certainly moved, she also rattled, as do most of her kind. But
rattling is no crime.
"Say, there's going to be a big crowd," observed Bob as he slowed up at
the ball park to let his chums jump off. "Wish I could see the game!"
"Same here," remarked Harry. "Yes, there's going to be a mob all right!"
Though it would be nearly an hour before the game started, already
throngs were congregating at the park. For the contest was an important
one.
There had long been a rivalry between the Boys' Athletic Club, to which
Bob, Ned and Harry belonged, and the team from Midvale, a town about ten
miles from Cliffside where Bob Dexter lived. Each year a series of games
took place, and up to date the championship had wavered between the two.
This year the rivalry was keener than before, and should the Boys' Club
clinch this contest it meant _winning_ the pennant for the season. Hence
the interest.
"Root hard, fellows!" begged Bob as he started his machine off again,
while his chums hastened to get the seats reserved for club members.
"I'll get back in time for the last inning if I can!"
"Atta boy!" called Ned.
It was with rather a disappointed air that Bob continued on to the
railroad station. But, after all, he knew he must do his duty, and
helping his uncle, who was bringing him up, was part of this.
The 2:30 train pulled in a little late, and Bob, who had been told what
Mr. Sheldon looked like, so he would know him, caught sight of this
individual out on the platform of one of the cars, while the train was
yet moving. Mr. Dexter had arranged for the transfer of the papers, and
to make sure that Mr. Sheldon would know Bob, the latter carried in his
hand a red dahlia from his aunt's garden.
"You're Bob Dexter, aren't you?" cried Mr. Sheldon as he held a bundle
of legal-looking documents to the lad. "Yes, I see you have the red
flower. It's all right, tell your uncle, but the papers must be signed
before two witnesses before three o'clock. I'll look after the other
matters for him. Glad the train wasn't any later and I'm glad you are
here on time. I was getting a bit worried. If things had gone wrong it
would mean a big loss. Don't lose any time getting those papers back to
your uncle now. Good-by!"
"Good-by," was all Bob had time to say, and then the train pulled out
again, for it seldom stopped long at Cliffside. Mr. Sheldon went back to
his seat in his car, waving his hand to Bob. The latter looked at the
bundle of papers, though they told him nothing of the business they
represented. However, Bob did not think much about that. His affair was
to get the documents to his uncle as soon as he could. And it was now
twenty minutes to three by the depot clock.
"Hope the old flivver doesn't go back on me!" mused Bob as he climbed to
his seat. He was glad to find that the motor turned over at the first
touch on the self-starter pedal, and he was about to let in the clutch
and dart away when he was hailed by a voice calling:
"I say there young feller, can you give me a lift?"
He turned to see, beckoning to him, an old man--a grizzled old man with
a short, stubby beard. Under his arm the man, whose clothing was not of
the best nor most up to date, carried a small brass-bound box--a box
such as might contain papers or other things of value. And yet the
appearance of the man did not indicate that he was in the habit of
carrying things of value.
He was, to put it bluntly, but a few degrees removed in appearance from
a tramp, though Bob noticed his face and hands were clean, which is not
often the case with tramps.
"I'm in a hurry," said Bob, as civilly as he could under the
circumstances.
"So am I," said the man with the box. "I've got to get to Storm Mountain
as quick as I can."
Storm Mountain was a town well up amid the hills, about five miles from
Cliffside. It was located on the side of a big hill also called Storm
Mountain.
"Sorry, but I'm not going up Storm Mountain way," said Bob, as he slowly
allowed the flivver to get up speed.
"But I'm willing to pay you!" said the man, shifting his brass-bound box
under his other arm as he limped forward--Bob noticed that he walked
with a slight limp.
"I'm not a taxicab--you can hire one in town or over there," and Bob
pointed to where usually some ancient autos stood--representing the
jitney and taxi service of Cliffside. Just now there were no vehicles
there, as they seldom met the 2:30 train.
"I'd hire one if I could," said the man with the box. "But I can't. I'll
pay you well to take me to Storm Mountain."
"I'm sorry, but I have an important engagement in town," said Bob, as he
let his car gather speed. "You'll have to get some one else."
"All right," said the man good-naturedly enough. He turned back to the
station, and as he drove off Bob was rather glad that he could
conscientiously refuse the service.
"For, to tell the truth," said Bob to himself, "I don't altogether like
your looks, nor the looks of that box you carry. You may be all right,
but I've got important papers and I've got to look after them." He made
good time to his uncle's office, and found Mr. Dexter rather anxiously
waiting for him.
"Oh, you have them, I see!" exclaimed Mr. Dexter as he took the bundle
of papers from his nephew. "Mr. Sheldon was there all right, I take it?"
"Yes, and he said he'd attend to the other matters. But these must be
signed before two witnesses by three o'clock."
"I know it, Bob. I'll attend to it right away. You had no other trouble,
did you--I mean no one stopped you to ask to look at the papers--or
anything like that?" Mr. Dexter seemed anxious and nervous.
"No, I wasn't exactly stopped," Bob answered. "But there was an old man
with a box who wanted me to take him to Storm Mountain."
"What sort of a man, Bob?" eagerly asked his uncle.
Bob described the individual, and a look of relief came over Mr.
Dexter's face.
"It isn't any one I know," he said. "I guess it's all right, Bob. You
may go now. Thanks for attending to this for me. I can look after
matters now."
"Then I'll go to the ball game," announced Bob.
He was on his way to the park, taking a short cut along a back road
when, in a lonely spot he saw a huddled figure lying beside the road.
"It's a man!" exclaimed Bob, as he stopped his machine and jumped out.
"The man with the box--looks as if he'd been killed!"
*CHAPTER II*
*THE LOG CABIN*
Bob Dexter, young as he was, had been through too many strenuous
experiences to be turned aside at the thought of a dead man. Besides,
this was right in the line of Bob's ambition, if you get my meaning.
That is, he had fully determined to become a detective, and here seemed
right at hand a mystery that needed solving. He was first on the
scene--a most advantageous thing from a detective's standpoint.
"I've got to keep my wits about me," thought the lad to himself as he
approached the prostrate man who lay suspiciously still and quiet in the
grass beside the lonely road.
And while Bob is getting ready to solve what he hopes may be a most
baffling mystery, perhaps it would be just as well if I told my new
readers a little about the youth who is to figure as the hero of this
story.
Bob Dexter's father and mother died when he was quite young, and his
uncle Joel Dexter agreed to care for the lad and bring him up as his own
son. Uncle Joel and his wife Aunt Hannah had faithfully kept their
promise, and Bob could not have asked for a better home nor for more
loving care than he received.
But though loving and kind, Mr. Dexter insisted on Bob "toeing the
mark," as he called it in the matter of work and duties, including
attending school. Bob's uncle was "well fixed" as regards this world's
goods, though not exactly a man of wealth. He was interested in several
businesses in Cliffside, including a hardware store he owned. He also
loaned money on mortgages and kept a private office over the First
National Bank, in which enterprise he was said to own several shares.
Thus Bob grew from boyhood to young manhood, and when he began to
develop a taste for detective stories, and, not only that but a desire
to solve local crimes and mysteries, Uncle Joel rather "put his foot
down," as he expressed it.
However, when Bob scored a point on the Cliffside police, by finding
Jennie Thorp, who, it was supposed, had been kidnaped (though she
wasn't) Bob's stock went up several points. And when, as I have told you
in the first volume of this series, entitled "Bob Dexter and the Club
House Mystery," the youth solved the secret of the Golden Eagle, well,
then Uncle Joel "drew in his horns," as his wife said, and Bob
"detected" to his heart's content.
The Golden Eagle was the mascot of the Boys' Athletic Club, and when it
vanished there was a great deal of astonishment, which only subsided
when Bob got the eagle back.
Following that, in the volume just preceding this one, called "Bob
Dexter and the Beacon Beach Mystery," the lad added other laurels.
He and his chums, Ned and Harry, had gone camping at Beacon Beach for
their summer vacation. Almost as soon as they arrived they were
enveloped in a mystery which did not end until Bob had found out why the
beacon in the lighthouse went out so often, and until he had learned
what the "yellow boys" were in the wreck of the _Sea Hawk_.
"And now I seem to be up against something else," murmured Bob, as he
approached the prostrate man in the grass, and caught sight of the
brass-bound box lying near his motionless hand. "Just got back from the
Beacon Beach trouble and I run into this. Well, the more the better for
me--though I hope this poor old chap isn't dead!"
He wasn't, as Bob soon discovered. The man was breathing, and when the
lad had dashed into his face some water from a nearby spring, and had
poured between the stranger's lips some from a cup Bob carried in his
car for use in filling his storage battery, the man opened his eyes,
looked at the youth and cried:
"Did he get it?"
"Did who get what?" Bob wanted to know.
The man's eyes wildly roved the ground about him, and, lighting on the
box he breathed a sigh of relief. He reached out a hand, drew the little
chest to him and then, slipping it under his legs as he sat up on the
ground he put both hands to the back of his head.
"Um!" he murmured, with a wince of pain. "Quite a lump there. Big as a
hen's egg, I guess. Would you mind taking a look, young feller, and
seeing how badly I'm cut? Though I guess I'm not cut at all," he went
on, as he looked at his fingers and saw no sign of blood.
"No, you aren't cut," said Bob, taking a look as requested. "But what
happened to you? Did you fall?"
"Sort of," admitted the man with a half smile. "But I reckon I was
tapped on the head first, or else struck with a rock to help in the
falling business. Though they didn't dare take it after they knocked me
out. Rod Marbury's nerve must have failed him in the pinch. So much the
better for me. I told him I'd play fair, but he hasn't. Now he can
whistle for his share! He can whistle for a wind that he'll never get!"
and the old man, who looked but a few degrees removed from a tramp,
started to get up.
"Better wait a minute," advised Bob kindly. "You've been knocked out. If
you rest a bit longer, and take some more water you'll feel stronger."
"Oh, I'm all right, young feller!" was the answer, and the man's actions
and voice betokened that he was almost his vigorous self again. "It
takes more than a knock on the head with a belaying pin to do for old
Hiram Beegle. I'm all right. Rod didn't get the box, and that's what he
was after. Did you see anything of him?"
"Of whom?" Bob wanted to know.
"Of Rodney Marbury, the slickest chap I ever dealt with. He's cute, Rod
is, but his nerve failed him at the last minute, even after he knocked
me out. He must have been hiding in the bushes and heaved a rock out at
me as I went by. Then I passed out and he must have been frightened away
by hearing you coming along."
"It's possible that he did," admitted Bob. "My old machine rattles
enough to be heard a long distance. But I didn't see anybody running
away from you."
"You didn't, eh?" asked Hiram Beegle, for that, evidently, was his name.
"Well, very likely he run the other way so he wouldn't meet you. But I'm
much obliged to you, and now I'll be on my way."
He got to his feet and stowed the box under his left arm. Then he looked
about and found a stout cudgel which he grasped in his right hand. He
was the vigorous figure of a man now, ready for a fray.
"Excuse me," said Bob, "but didn't I see you down at the station a
little while ago?"
"Yes, I was there. I asked some young feller to give me a lift to Storm
Mountain, but----"
"You asked me," spoke Bob with a smile. "I'm sorry, but I had an
important engagement just then and couldn't spare the time to take you."
"Hum! Yes, you're the same chap," said Mr. Beegle, looking critically at
Bob. "I don't blame you a bit. Business first always--that's a good
rule. I waited for one of them taxi fellers like you told me to, but
they wanted ten dollars to take me to Storm Mountain. I said I wanted to
_hire_ one of their cars, not _buy_ it, and they laughed at me."
"Ten dollars was too much," observed Bob, looking at his watch, and
trying to decide if he could make the baseball park in time to see the
end of the big game. He wanted to do the Samaritan act, also, in looking
after this stranger, for he did not think it either kind or wise to let
him go off by himself on the five mile tramp.
"It was about eight dollars too much," said the old man. "I would be
willing to pay two, but not ten. Well, I can walk it."
"No," said Bob, coming to a sudden decision, "I'll take you. I have a
car and I've got nothing important to do now." He had a somewhat selfish
motive in making this offer--he wanted to find out more about Hiram
Beegle and about Rod Marbury. He wanted to know what valuables the box
contained, and why the attack had been made.
"Well, it's mighty decent of you to want to give me a lift," said Mr.
Beegle. "I take it right kind of you. But if you do take me to my cabin
I want to pay you. I'll give you two dollars."
"I don't want your money," laughed Bob.
"Then I won't ride with you!" The old man was very firm about this.
"Hiram Beegle can pay his way--there are a few shots left in the locker
yet, and if things go right I'll be rich some day," and he shook the
brass-bound box, "I'll pay you two dollars or I'll walk!" he concluded
with a shake of his grizzled head.
"Oh, well, have it your own way," chuckled the lad. "I'm in neither the
taxi nor jitney business, but I'll take your money, though it won't take
that much gasolene or oil to put you in Storm Mountain. Where in the
town do you live?"
"I don't live in the town, exactly," said the old man. "I live all alone
in a log cabin up on the side of the mountain. It's a fairly good road
there, or I wouldn't let you take your car up it."
"A flivver can go anywhere!" said Bob.
"Yes, I reckon they can. Well, I'm much obliged to you--both for coming
along and scaring away Rod Marbury after he knocked me out, and for
giving me a lift."
"I'm not sure I scared away any one," said Bob. "I didn't see any one at
all. I was coming along the road and saw you stretched out."
"Yes, I was stretched out, all right," chuckled Mr. Beegle, who seemed
to have quite recovered now, except for the lump on the back of his
head. "And I didn't exactly see Rod myself. But I'd be willing to wager
a marlin spike to a rope's end that he had a hand in it."
Mr. Beegle headed for Bob's machine, the engine of which was still
running, but before starting off with the old man the young detective
bethought him that he had better make a few inquiries.
"Look here, Mr. Beegle," said the lad frankly, "I'm very glad to be able
to help you and give you a lift, but I must know that this is all
straight. I don't want to find out afterward that I've been taking part
in a crime."
"A crime, what do you mean?" the old man seemed indignant.
"I mean there's been violence done to you. You carry something you
intimate is valuable," and Bob nodded toward the box. "You say some one
tried to get it away from you. Now has there been a robbery--is that
part of the spoil and is there a fight over the division of it? I have a
right to know before I take you to Storm Mountain."
Mr. Beegle seemed greatly surprised and then a smile came over his
grizzled face.
"Young man, you're right!" he exclaimed. "You have a right to know
certain things. But I'll tell you at once there has been no robbery. I
came into possession of this box in a legal way, though some one would
be glad to get it away from me. I inherited this. Here, I'll prove it to
you. Do you know Judge Weston?"
"The lawyer? Of course I do!" exclaimed Bob.
"Then stop at his office on the way to my cabin. Judge Weston will tell
you how I came by this box. I'll not say another word until you talk to
Judge Weston."
Bob felt a trifle mean at seeming to doubt the old man's word, but he
felt he had a right to be assured that everything was all right. So,
accordingly, he drove to the office of the lawyer, who had once been a
county judge, the title still clinging to him as such titles will.
"Hello, Mr. Beegle, back again!" greeted the lawyer, as Bob and his new
friend entered. "Wasn't everything in the box all right?"
"Why, yes, Judge, I think so," was the answer. "I only took a casual
look inside, but all the papers seem to be there. But I ran into a
little trouble after leaving your office," and he told of the assault on
him. "Then this young feller comes along," resumed Hiram Beegle, "and
offers to take me home. But he wants to be sure I didn't steal this
box," and Mr. Beegle chuckled.
"No, I can testify to that," said Judge Weston with a smile. "You came
into possession of it rightfully and legally. I can see Bob's point
though, and it is well taken, you being a stranger to him.
"But it's all right, Bob. I handed this box to Mr. Beegle about two
hours ago. He inherited it under the will of Hank Denby, a client of
mine who died in Fayetteville about a month ago. I have been settling up
the Denby estate--what there was of it--and this box comes to Mr.
Beegle. I just turned it over to him."
"And Rod Marbury didn't have a share in it--did he?" asked the old man.
"He was not mentioned in Mr. Denby's will," was the lawyer's answer. "In
fact, I know nothing of this Rod Marbury except what you have told me,
Mr. Beegle. And you told me in confidence so I cannot reveal that."
"Oh, I don't want to know any more!" broke in Bob. "I just wanted to
know, after I heard there was a fight over the possession of this box,
that Mr. Beegle had a right to it. Now I'll take him home."
"That's very kind of you, Bob," said the former judge. "You have my word
that everything is all right, as far as Mr. Beegle's legal possession of
that box is concerned."
"Well, are you satisfied?" asked the old man.
"Perfectly," answered the young detective. And he made up his mind that
if there was a further mystery in the matter he would try to solve it
later.
"Then let's pull up our mud hook," went on Mr. Beegle. "It's getting
late and I'd like soon to be back safe in my log cabin. Much obliged to
you, Judge."
"Don't mention it. The case is now closed as far as I am concerned."
As Bob drove his machine out through Cliffside, in the direction of
Storm Mountain, he saw some of his friends coming home from the ball
game.
"Who won?" he called to Fred Merton.
"We did, eight to six!"
"Wow! Good enough!"
The lad and his old companion were soon on a quiet country road. Mr.
Beegle had not talked a great deal, occasionally putting his hand up to
his injured head.
"Does it hurt much?" asked Bob. "Had you better stop and see a doctor?"
"No, thanks. I'll be all right. I'm not going to give Marbury another
chance at me."
"Do you think he might try to waylay you again?" asked Bob, not a little
apprehensive of being in the companionship of a man against whom, it was
evident, some one had a grudge.
"Oh, he won't get me now," was the chuckled answer. "I've got the
weather gage on him all right. We'll soon be at my place."
Storm Mountain was a small village at the foot of the mountain bearing
that name, and Bob soon was driving through it, taking the turns pointed
out by Mr. Beegle who sat beside him.
"The next turn to the left is the road that leads to my place," said the
old man, pointing ahead. They were on a quiet stretch of country
thoroughfare, steadily ascending the grade. The flivver puffed and
wheezed, but kept on going.
"Here we are--my shack!" exclaimed Mr. Beegle a little later, after the
turn had been made into a sort of dirt lane. "Now I'm all right."
Bob saw before him a small log cabin, rather neat and trim, with a
flower garden in front, or, rather, the remains of one, for it was now
October. And in the rear were standing some lima bean poles and shocks
of dried corn.
Hiram Beegle leaped out of the flivver and stood still for a moment. He
looked fixedly at the log cabin and then in a low voice said to Bob:
"Would you mind waiting here a moment?"
"No. What for?" inquired the lad.
"Well, I just want to make sure nobody's hiding in there to give me
another knock on the head. I've been away all day--the place has been
shut up. It's just possible----"
"I'll wait until you see if it's all right," said Bob, as the old man
began a cautious approach toward his cabin.
*CHAPTER III*
*STARTLING NEWS*
Since noon that day so many things had happened in Bob Dexter's life
that as he watched the old man walk toward the log cabin, the lad was
almost prepared for something else of a startling nature.
To begin with there had been that hurried trip to the train to get the
important papers from Mr. Sheldon. And then there had been his Uncle
Joel's fear lest some one might have tried to get the documents away
from Bob.
Followed then his discovery of Hiram Beegle, knocked out at the side of
the road, after the young detective's encounter with him at the railroad
station, and mixed up with this was the mystery of the brass-bound box,
the vindictive Rod Marbury and the lawyer's guarantee as to Hiram's
legal right to the little chest.
And now, on top of this, some enemy might burst forth from the lonely
log cabin.
But Bob was spared this last act, though as a matter of fact the strong,
healthy and excitement-loving young detective would have welcomed
something more to bring the day to a fitting close.
However, nothing happened. For after Hiram Beegle had cautiously scouted
about the cabin for several minutes he unlocked the door, swung it back
and himself jumped to one side, flattening his body out against the side
of the cabin.
Bob almost wanted to laugh at this--it was like something in a moving
picture melodrama. Doubtless the old man had good reason for his
caution, but there was no need of it. No one leaped out at him, there
was no shooting and no flashing of a thrown knife.
All was peace and quietness.
"It's just as well to be on the safe side," remarked Mr. Beegle as he
stepped away from the side of the cabin and prepared to enter it. "No
telling what Rod might be up to. Now, young man, I'll pay you off, say
much obliged and give you a drink of buttermilk right cold out of my
spring house if you'll take it."
"Thanks," answered Bob. "I'm very fond of buttermilk, but I'd rather not
take your money," for the old man passed over two one dollar bills.
"You got to take it--that was the bargain. And if you'll come in and sit
down a minute I'll get you the buttermilk. I buy it off Jason Studder,
down the road, and keep it cool in the spring. But first I'll just take
care of this. I've had trouble enough to get it, and I don't want to
lose it again."
Bob followed the old man into the long cabin. Hiram Beegle carried the
box under his arm, and without setting it down he went to a cupboard in
the wall and thrust in his hand. There was a sort of clicking sound, as
if machinery was operating and Bob started.
Well he might, for close beside him, as he stood near a wall of the log
cabin--a wall made of smooth boards--a sort of secret panel dropped,
revealing a little recess or hiding place. And in this niche was a large
brass key.
"It isn't every one I let see the place I keep the key to my strong
room," chuckled the old man. "But I trust you and Judge Weston. Rod
Marbury could search a week and never find this, I'm thinking."
"I'm not so sure of that," replied Bob. "I think I could get at it."
"No, you couldn't--not even knowing that there's a catch in this
cupboard," challenged Mr. Beegle. "Here, you try it."
He closed the dropped panel, leaving the big brass key in the niche, and
then waved his hand toward the cupboard beside the fireplace--an
invitation to Bob to try.
The young detective could not see much in the cupboard--it was too
small--but he felt about with trained fingers. He found a number of
knobs and catches, but pressing and pulling on them one after another,
and on several at the same time, produced no effect.
"You couldn't work it in a year unless you knew how," boasted the old
man. "Of course you could tear the cabin apart and find the key that
way--but it would take time."
Once more, after Bob's failure, Hiram put his hand within the cupboard
and an instant later the secret panel dropped. So cleverly was the
hidden niche made and so closely did the sliding panel fit into place,
that not even with his sharp eyes could Bob see where the joining was in
the wall, after the niche had been closed again.
For the old man closed it after taking out the brass key. And with this
key in one hand, and the mysterious box in the other, he approached a
small inner door.
"This is what I call my strong room," he said to Bob, as he put the
ponderous key in the lock. And it was a big key--like one that might be
part of the great lock on some prison door. There was a clicking of the
wards and tumblers of the lock, and the door was opened. It was of heavy
oak, cross planks being spiked to the inner side.
Bob had his first glimpse into a room that, soon, was to play a part in
a strange mystery. In fact, this was Bob's first view of the cabin where
Hiram Beegle lived, though he knew the cabin was situated on this road,
for he had seen it before, some years ago. Then no one lived in it, and
the place was somewhat in ruins. Now it was a most picturesque home for
the old man who lived alone in it.
Bob expected to see a sort of vault when the ponderous door swung back,
but he was rather surprised to note that the place contained a table, a
chair and a bed, in addition to a strong chest, iron-bound and fastened
with a heavy black padlock.
"Do you sleep in here, Mr. Beegle?" asked the lad and he accented the
word "sleep," so that the old man looked at him in some surprise and
remarked:
"Of course I sleep here. Why not?"
"Well, there aren't any windows in the place. How do you get fresh air?"
"Oh, that!" he laughed. "I reckon you can tell that I like fresh air as
much as anybody. I'm an outdoor man--always was. Well, I don't make a
practice of sleeping here, but when I do I get plenty of fresh air
through the fireplace," and he pointed to a hearth in the room. Bob knew
that an open fireplace is one of the best methods known of ventilating a
room.
And certainly if ever a room needed ventilation this inner one in the
lonely log cabin did, for the strong door was the only opening in it.
Not a window, not a porthole, nor so much as a crack gave on the
outside. It was a veritable vault, the chimney opening being the only
one by which a person shut in the room could save himself from
smothering.
"Yes, once I'm shut up in here not even Rod Marbury can get at me!"
chuckled Hiram Beegle.
"Couldn't he get down the chimney?" asked Bob.
"I'd like to see him try it I There's a crook in the flue and a raccoon
that once tried to get down, though why I don't know, was stuck until I
tore a hole in the outside and set the poor thing free. That's what
would happen to Rod Marbury if he tried it. No, he'd better not try to
play Santa Claus with me!" and again the old man chuckled.
While Bob looked about the room, noting how strong the walls were and
the thickness of the door, the old man opened the chest in the corner
and in it placed the brass-bound box, snapping the padlock shut after he
made his deposit.
"There!" he announced, "I guess it's all right now. It's safe! Rod
Marbury can whistle for a breeze but that's all the good it will do him.
Now for your buttermilk, young man."
"Oh, don't trouble about me!" begged Bob.
"It isn't any trouble. It's only a step to the spring and I'd like a
drink myself after what I've been through."
"Aren't you going to notify the police?" asked Bob as he preceded the
old man from the strong room, watching him turn the ponderous key in the
lock.
"Notify the police? What about?" asked Hiram Beegle.
"About the attack on you--by Rodney Marbury as you think."
"As I know, you mean, young man. But I don't need the police. I can deal
with that chap myself if need comes. But I guess he knows he's through.
He won't bother me again. Now for the buttermilk."
There was a small spring house not far from the log cabin, and from this
cool repository Hiram brought a can of rich, cool buttermilk, which was
most refreshing to Bob, for the day was hot, even though It was October.
"Well, much obliged to you, Bob Dexter," said Hiram, as Bob was about to
take his leave, having seen the big brass key deposited in the secret
niche and the panel closed. "If it's all the same to you, I'd just as
soon you wouldn't tell everybody what you've seen and heard to-day."
"I'll keep quiet about it," the lad promised.
He rode off down the mountain trail in his flivver, looking back to see
the odd but kindly old man waving a farewell to him. Bob little knew
under what circumstances he would see Hiram Beegle again.
It was late afternoon when Bob returned home, for he got a puncture when
halfway to Cliffside and had to stop to change a tire. As he drew up in
front of his house he met his two chums, Harry and Ned.
"Too bad you missed the game," remarked Ned.
"Yes," assented Bob, "I'm sorry, too."
"What did you do with Rip Van Winkle?" asked Harry.
"Rip Van Winkle?" repeated Bob, wondering.
"Yes. The old codger Fred Merton saw you with."
"Oh, Hiram Beegle," chuckled Bob. "Yes, he is a queer character," and he
told as much of the story as would not violate his promise.
"Well, I s'pose you know what you're doing," said Ned. "But from what
Fred said about this old codger I wouldn't want to meet him alone after
dark, Bob."
"Oh, he's all right," protested the young detective with a laugh. "But I
suppose there'll be great doings at the club house to-night."
"There sure will--to celebrate the game to-day. Going to be there?"
"Surest thing you know. I'll see you there. So long!"
"So long, Bob!"
The two chums went on their way and Bob went into the house after
putting his car in the barn that had been turned into a garage.
The Boys' Athletic Club had a jollification meeting that night over the
baseball victory, and the Golden Eagle mascot looked down most
approvingly from his perch to which he had been restored by the efforts
of the young detective.
"I don't believe we'd have had half such a good game out of it to-day if
it hadn't been for the Golden Eagle," remarked Ned, as he sat with his
chums, looking up at the mascot bird.
"You're right!" chimed in Harry.
"Oh, I guess you imagine a lot of that," laughed Bob. "Still, I'm glad
the old bird is back in place."
"You said it!" exclaimed his chums.
It was next morning, when Bob was on his way to his uncle's hardware
store where he now worked, that the lad met Harry and Ned.
"Did you hear the news?" cried Harry.
"What news?" asked Bob, slowing up his flivver so his chums might leap
in.
"Old Hiram Beegle was murdered last night in his cabin!" cried Ned.
*CHAPTER IV*
*WOODEN LEG*
Suspecting that his chums were playing some joke on him, though he
thought this rather a poor subject for humor, and believing that Harry
and Ned wanted to get a rise out of him, Bob Dexter did not at once show
the astonishment that was expected. Instead he merely smiled and
remarked:
"Hop in! If I believe that I s'pose you'll tell me another!"
"Say, this is straight!" cried Ned.
"No kidding!" added Harry. "The old man was killed last night. You know
who we mean--Rip Van Winkle--the old codger you took over to Storm
Mountain in this very flivver."
"Yes, I know, who you mean all right," assented Bob. "But who told you
he was killed? How, why, when, where and all the rest of it?"
"We didn't hear any of the particulars," explained Harry. "But Chief
Drayton, of the Storm Mountain police force--guess he's the whole force
as a matter of fact--Drayton just came over here to get our chief to
help solve the mystery."
"Oh, then there's a mystery about it, is there?" asked Bob, and his
chums noticed that he at once began to pay close attention to what they
were saying.
"Sure there's a mystery," asserted Ned. "Wouldn't you call it a mystery
if a man was found dead in a locked room--a room without a window in it,
and only one door, and that locked on the inside and the man dead
inside? Isn't that a mystery, Bob Dexter--just as much of a mystery as
who took our Golden Eagle?"
"Or what the 'yellow boys' were in the wreck of the _Sea Hawk_?" added
Harry.
"Sure that would be a mystery if everything is as you say it is,"
asserted Bob. "But in the first place if old Hiram Beegle has been
killed and if his body is in that room, with only one door leading into
it, how do the authorities know anything about it? Why, you can't even
see into that room when the door is shut!"
"How do you know?" asked Ned quickly.
"Because I've been in that room. I was in there yesterday afternoon with
Hiram Beegle. There is only one entrance to it and that by the door, for
the fireplace doesn't count."
"You were in that room?" cried Harry in surprise.
"Certainly I was."
"Why didn't you tell us?" asked Ned, feeling that his announcement of
the murder was as nothing compared with this news.
"Oh, well, there wasn't any need of speaking about it," said Bob.
"Well, I guess you've seen the last of Hiram Beegle," went on Harry.
"That is unless you want to go to the scene of the crime, as the _Weekly
Banner_ will put it."
"Yes, I'd like to go there," said Bob quietly. "There may be a mystery
about who killed Hiram Beegle, but to my mind there's a greater mystery
in discovering how it is Chief Drayton knows the old man was killed,
instead of, let us say, dying a natural death, if he can't get in the
room."
"Who said he couldn't get in the room?" asked Ned.
"Well, it stands to reason he can't get in the room, if the only door to
it is locked on the inside, if Hiram Beegle is dead inside; for I've
been there and you can't go down the chimney. How does the chief know
Hiram is dead?"
"You got me there," admitted Ned. "I didn't get it directly from Chief
Drayton. Tom Wilson was telling me--he heard it from some one else, I
guess."
"That's the trouble," remarked Bob as he guided the flivver around a
corner and brought it to a stop in front of his uncle's hardware store.
"There's too much second-hand talk."
"Then let's go over to Storm Mountain and get some first-hand
information!" cried Ned.
"Yes--what do you say to that?" added Harry.
Bob considered for a moment.
"I guess I can go in about an hour if you fellows can," he replied.
"Uncle Joel will let me have some time off."
"I think I can string dad so he'll let me go," remarked Ned.
"Same here," echoed Harry.
The two lads worked for their respective fathers, and the latter were
not too exacting. Bob and his chums attended High School, but owing to
the fact that the building was being repaired the usual fall term would
be two months late in opening. Hence they still had considerable of a
vacation before them, for which they were duly grateful.
Many thoughts were surging through the mind of Bob Dexter as he went
about his duties in the hardware store. It was rather a shock to him to
learn that the odd but kindly old man, with whom he had been drinking
buttermilk less than twenty-four hours ago, was now dead.
"But who killed him, and why?" mused Bob.
"He was fearfully afraid of some one he called Rod Marbury. Could that
fellow have had a hand in it? And if the old man was locked in his
strong room how could anyone get in to kill him? I should like to find
out all about this, and I'm going to."
Uncle Joel chuckled silently when Bob asked if he could be excused for
the remainder of the day.
"Going fishing, Bob?" he asked.
"No, not exactly," was the answer.
"Well, I can guess. You'll be heading for Storm Mountain, I suppose."
"Did you hear about the murder?" exclaimed the lad.
"Murder!" repeated his uncle. "I didn't hear there was a murder. Old
Hiram Beegle was badly hurt but he wasn't killed. He was robbed,
though--robbed of some treasure box he had."
"Robbed!" murmured Bob. "The treasure box! It must have been that
brass-bound little chest he had when I saw him. But are you sure he
wasn't killed, Uncle Joel?"
"Well, I'm as sure of it as I can be of anything that Sam Drayton
tells."
"You mean Chief Drayton of Storm Mountain?"
"Huh! Chief Drayton! I like that. He's nothing but a constable, and
never will be anything but a constable. He calls himself chief because
the selectmen wouldn't raise his salary. I've known Sam Drayton ever
since he was knee high to a grasshopper and he's no more fit to be Chief
of Police than I am--not half as much as you are, Bob Dexter, though I
don't set any great store by your detective work."
Bob smiled. His uncle poked good-natured fun at his abilities as a
sleuth, but, at the same time, Uncle Joel was rather proud of his
nephew, particularly since the affair of the Golden Eagle.
"Well, I'm glad the old man isn't dead," said Bob. "But how did the
robbery happen? How did the thief get in the strong room?"
"I don't know. You'd better go over and find out for yourself. There's
no use asking Sam Drayton, for he won't know."
"I understand he came over here to get help from our police," stated
Bob.
"I don't know that he's much better off than if he stayed at home,"
chuckled Mr. Dexter. "But go ahead, Bob. I guess the store will still be
doing business when you get back."
"I hope so, Uncle Joel. Thanks," and Bob ran out to his flivver,
intending to hurry and pick up Ned and Harry and make a quick trip to
Storm Mountain.
However, he found his chums already on hand. They had come over to get
him, having prevailed on their fathers to let them off for the remainder
of the day.
"Old Rip Van Winkle isn't dead after all--that was a false report, Bob!"
exclaimed Ned, who, with Harry, insisted on giving Hiram Beegle the name
of Irving's mythical character.
"So I heard."
"But there's been a big robbery," said Harry.
"I heard that, too."
"Say, is there anything you haven't heard?" inquired Ned, admiringly.
"Well, that's really all I do know," admitted Bob. "I haven't any
particulars and it seems as much of a mystery as before. Let's go!"
They found a curious throng gathered about the lonely cabin of the old
man, with Chief Drayton fussing about trying to keep the crowd back.
"Don't tramp all over the place!" he kept saying. "How am I goin' to
examine for footprints of the robber if you tramp and mush all over the
place? Keep back!"
But it was a waste of words to admonish the curiosity seekers who
crowded up toward the front door. Then out came Chief Miles Duncan of
the Cliffside police. He noticed Bob and his chums in the forefront of
the gathering.
"Hello, Bob!" he greeted pleasantly. "This is one of those things you'll
be interested in--quite a mystery. Come in and take a look."