he told me everything else about his affairs. He said Hiram would have
no trouble locating the gold if he followed directions on the map in the
brass-bound box. It was very peculiar on the part of Hank to bury the
fortune this way, instead of keeping it in a bank vault, but it was his
business, not mine, and though I did my best to persuade him to use
business methods, it was of no use. He clung to his old sailor
superstitions."
"Yes," agreed Bob, "and Hiram and Jolly Bill Hickey are much the same. I
suppose you know Jolly Bill is staying at the Mansion House?"
"So I heard, yes. Well, I think I'll go up and look over this piece of
old Hank's land this monkey merchant wants to rent to raise food for his
nimble charge. I want to see that he has no ulterior motive, so to
speak."
"What do you mean?" asked Bob, a bit puzzled.
"Well, he may know of some land development out in that
neighborhood--something like a railroad going through or a new trolley
line. If he had a lease on some property that was needed, he might hold
up matters until we paid him a big price."
"Oh, I see," remarked Bob. "These Italians are sharp and tricky when it
comes to matters of property, I've heard."
"That's right, Bob. This fellow may be all right, but I owe it to the
estate not to take any chances. So I'll take a look over the ground
before I sign the lease."
"I'll run you up there, if you're going now," offered Bob. "That is if
you don't mind riding in my flivver."
"I've ridden in many a worse car. Bob. And I was on my way to look over
old Hank's property. Come on, we'll go together."
Judge Weston had truly spoken of the vacant lot near the Denby house as
a "bramble patch." It was just that and nothing more. Nor were there any
signs in the neighborhood of any real estate boom. It was far off the
line of the railroad, and not near the trolley.
"I guess there's no harm in letting Pietro have this place on a lease,"
said the judge, when he had gone around the bramble patch. Going over or
through it was out of the question.
"It doesn't seem to be good even for monkey food," laughed Bob.
"No, I should say not. But then we don't know what monkeys like. I'll go
back and draw up the papers."
Bob drove the lawyer back to his office, and as they parted Mr. Weston
said:
"If you get any trace of this Rod Marbury, Bob, or get a line on where
Hiram can find the missing map, let me know, will you?"
"I will," promised the lad.
"I feel a friendly interest in Hiram," went on the lawyer, "and I'd like
to see him get what's coming to him."
"I'm going to help him all I can," declared the young detective.
It was several days after this, during which time Bob had worked in vain
to get a clew to the mysterious happenings at the log cabin on Storm
Mountain that, one evening, on his way home in his car, having done an
errand for his uncle, he passed the old house where Hank Denby had died.
In the glow of the setting sun Bob saw some one moving about in the
field behind the house--the field which Judge Weston had rented to
Pietro Margolis as a garden in which to raise monkey food.
"It's the Italian organ grinder himself!" exclaimed Bob as he caught
sight of the black-bearded fellow.
Bob stopped his flivver, and the noise of the squeaking brakes caused
the Italian to look up. He saw and must have recognized the lad. But if
he was at all disturbed at being observed he did not show it. Instead he
smiled, showing his white, even teeth.
"Hallo!" greeted Pietro. "Hallo-hallo!" He had a queer pronunciation of
it--not unpleasant, though.
"Hello," replied Bob. "You grow monkeys here?" he jokingly asked.
"No--not maka da _monk_ grow--maka him _eats_ grow."
"You mean peanuts?" asked Bob, though he knew it couldn't be goobers, or
ground-nuts, that Pietro contemplated raising in the bramble patch. The
lad was throwing out feelers, so to speak.
"No peanuts!" laughed the Italian. "Look--monkey lika deese!"
He held out in his hand, having taken them from the pocket of his
coat--some sort of dried fruit or nuts, Bob couldn't decide which.
"Oh, you're going to plant these, eh, Pietro?"
"Sure--plant for da monk."
"But they won't grow this time of year, Pietro. Cold weather, you
know--Jack Frost kill 'em. Look, everything now almost dead," and Bob
waved his hand over the sear and yellow weeds in the bramble patch.
"Oh, sure, I know--cold--not plant now--plant by next summer time. Just
dig now--maka da holes."
"Holes!" exclaimed Bob.
And then he became aware of some curious digging operations that the
Italian had been carrying on. There were a number of deep holes here and
there in the bramble patch--holes newly dug.
*CHAPTER XIV*
*A NIGHT PURSUIT*
Smilingly, Pietro Margolis leaned on his spade and regarded Bob Dexter.
The Italian had been using a spade to good advantage in the bramble
patch of old Hank Denby.
"You plant these monkey nuts very deep, don't you?" asked Bob, calling
the objects the Italian had shown him "nuts," though he was not certain
on this point.
"Sure--got to be deep," said the organ grinder, though he had
temporarily abandoned that occupation it seemed. "No deep--no grow."
He tossed into the last hole he had dug a few of the dried objects from
his coat pocket, shoveled in the earth and tramped it down.
Bob Dexter knew, or thought he knew, something of farming.
"You'll never make anything grow planting it as deep as that and then
stamping the ground down as hard as a brick!" declared the lad.
"Oh, sure da monkey nuts grow!" declared the Italian with a smile. "Alla
same we plant dem lika deese in Italy."
He smiled his white-tooth smile.
"Oh, in Italy," conceded Bob. He couldn't dispute this. He had never
been in Italy and knew nothing of these strange fruits or nuts.
"Sure--Italy. Deese grow fine when da warm weather he come back. Put 'em
in deep so no freeze."
There might be something in that theory Bob admitted to himself. Idly he
watched the Italian dig. He cut aside, with wide sweeps of the sharp
spade, the dead and dying weeds and brambles, and when he had a cleared
place he began on another hole, not far from where he had dug several
others, as evidenced by the mounds of fresh earth.
"How's the monkey?" asked Bob, seeing no object in lingering longer on
the scene.
"Jacko--he good--I leave him by friend while I plant hees food for da
next year."
"What does he live on while these things are growing--there won't be any
until next year," said the young detective.
"I got some I breeng from Italy--'nough, mebby, to last. I dunno! Jacko
eat da banana too, mebby."
"Um," mused Bob. "Well, I wish you luck, but I don't think much of your
farm," and he laughed as he started away.
"Sure, I have da good luck--t'anks," and the Italian smiled and waved a
hand in farewell. Then he resumed his digging.
Bob Dexter was doing some hard thinking as he drove his little flivver
down the road and away from the bramble patch, where he left the Italian
digging away at the holes, into which he dropped those queer, dried nuts
or fruits. And Bob was still thinking on the many problems caused by the
robbery and assault on Hiram Beegle as he went to his uncle's store and
reported on the business matter that had taken him out of town.
The young detective was still puzzling away over the many queer angles
to the case when he reached home, and in the twilight he rather started
nervously as he heard his name called when he was putting the car in the
garage.
"Hello, Bob!" some one hailed him.
"Who's that?"
"What's the matter?" laughed the voice of Harry Pierce. "Any one would
think I was a detective after you."
"Oh--yes, I was thinking of something else," admitted Bob with a laugh.
"Come on in! Seen anything of Ned?"
"I'm here," replied the other chum, as he stepped out of the darkness.
"Where you been?"
"Over to the courthouse for Uncle Joel. Anything happened in town while
I was away?"
"Nothing much. Say, what you going to do to-morrow?"
"Same answer, Harry--nothing much."
"Then let's go after chestnuts."
"Chestnuts! There aren't any left!" declared Bob. "The blight has killed
them all."
"Not all," declared Ned. "I know a grove on Storm Mountain where there
are still a few good trees left. I found it by accident this summer.
I've been saving it."
"Good enough!" cried Bob. "I'm with you. Chestnuts are great, but I
didn't think there were any left. Sure I'll go."
"All right--Harry and I'll stop for you early in the morning. There's
likely to be a hard frost to-night and that will open the burrs," spoke
Ned.
Bob thought of the frost and the holes the Italian was digging to plant
his monkey nuts. But the holes seemed to be below the effect of anything
but a hard and deep frost, and that kind didn't come so early in the
season.
"I'll be ready," promised the young detective, "Is the chestnut grove
anywhere near Hiram Beegle's log cabin?"
"Not so far away--why?" asked Harry.
"Oh, I thought I might want to stop over and see the old man--just to
see if there's anything new in the case."
"Sure, we can do that," agreed Ned.
"How you coming on with the case?" Harry wanted to know.
"I'm not coming on at all, fellows. It's at a dead standstill, as far as
I'm concerned."
"Oh, well, you'll pop off with something unexpectedly, like you did when
you discovered the wireless station that was putting out the lighthouse
beacon," said Harry.
"Maybe--I hope so," sighed Bob.
His chums called for him next morning before he had finished his
breakfast. But Bob hurried through the meal, found an old sack to hold
the chestnuts he hoped to gather, and soon the three chums were chugging
in the flivver up the trail of Storm Mountain.
The day was pleasant, with just the tang of winter in the air, for Ned's
prediction of a heavy frost had been borne out and there was every
prospect of a good fall of the sweet, brown nuts.
"If the squirrels and chipmunks haven't been there ahead of us,"
remarked Harry as they talked over the possibilities.
"Or that dago's monkey!" added Ned. "Say, what do you know about that
fellow, anyhow? He's still hanging around town. Lives at the Railroad
House and goes out with his organ every night. Charlie McGill was
telling me he takes in a lot of nickels, too, playing down around the
post office. His monkey does a lot of tricks."
"So I've heard," admitted Bob. But he did not tell of what he had seen
in the bramble patch.
"But I guess he won't be up here with his monkey," stated Ned.
"Do monkeys eat chestnuts?" asked Harry.
"Sure they do!" declared Bob. "Don't you remember the story we used to
read in school, of the monkey who hired a cat to pull the roasted
chestnuts out of the fire?"
"Oh--that's moving picture stuff!" laughed Ned.
Talking and joking they wended their way up Storm Mountain. They passed
the cabin of Hiram Beegle, but saw no signs of life about it, and, as it
was rather early, Bob thought it best not to stop then to speak to the
old sailor.
"We'll give him a hail on our way back," he decided, the others agreeing
to this.
Ned's promise to lead his chums to a grove of chestnut trees not killed
by the blight which swept over this country a few years ago, was carried
out. And, parking the car in a quiet lane, the boys were soon gathering
a goodly supply of the new, brown nuts.
The lads were not alone in their garnering, for the grove was a scene of
activity on the part of squirrels and chipmunks who took this
opportunity of laying up their winter's store of food. But there were
enough chestnuts for all, and having filled the bags they had brought
with them, the boys began to think of returning.
The sun was higher and warmer when they passed the log cabin again, and
Hiram Beegle was pulling weeds from between his rows of dahlias, for he
had a small but beautiful garden of these large and showy flowers.
"Hello, boys!" greeted the old sailor heartily, for he was by this time
fully recovered from the effects of the strange attack made on him at
the time of the robbery of the treasure map.
"Hello!" greeted Bob, Ned and Harry.
"Come on in," invited the old man. "I can give you some cookies and
milk."
"That sounds good to me!" declared Ned.
His long years of sailor life had fitted Hiram Beegle to keep house by
himself, and, not only do that but cook well--an art to which his three
visitors soon bore testimony. For not only did he set out a plate of
excellent molasses cookies before them, but some sandwiches and pie, all
of which he had made himself.
The boys had eaten an early breakfast, and chest-nutting, or, indeed,
any excursion in the open, creates a good appetite, of which our heroes
had no lack. So they did full justice to the little lunch the old seaman
prepared for them.
"I don't s'pose you've heard anything about your missing box, or about
Rod Marbury, have you?" asked Bob when a lull came in the eating.
"Nary a word. I've kept pretty close to my cabin. I didn't want that
scoundrel attacking me again."
"Oh, he won't come around again," said Harry.
"I guess not. He got what he was after," remarked Ned.
"While we're here," proceeded Bob, "I'd like to have another look at
this room, Mr. Beegle. It seems as if there must be some way of getting
a key in through the wall."
"Well, Bob, look as much as you like, but you won't find even a crack. I
took good care of that. The chimney hole is the only opening, and you
proved that couldn't have been used."
In spite of the assertion of the old sailor, Bob went carefully over
each foot of the partition wall, aided by Ned and Harry. The strong room
was built across one end of the log cabin, in the end. The three outer
sides were of solid logs, chinked and sealed with real mortar, not mud
as is sometimes used. There was no break in this. The chimney was built
at the rear, and on the outside. It was made of field stone, both
attractive in appearance and strong. There were no chinks or cracks
through which the key might have been tossed.
The inside wall was of a double thickness of narrow wooden boards, and
Bob thought there might be some secret panel in this, as there was a
concealed slide hiding the niche where the brass key was kept.
But a careful examination showed no opening, and Hiram declared there
was no secret panel.
"What I was thinking of," said Bob, "was that the thief, using a very
fine saw, might have sawed out a piece and have fitted the piece back
again, after throwing the key inside."
But the boards were so closely fitted and as solidly nailed to the
partition uprights as when Hiram had the work done, some years before.
"Well, I guess I'll have to give it up," remarked Bob in disappointed
and baffled tones at the conclusion of the examination. "It's a deep
mystery," The lads thanked the old sailor for his hospitality and rode
on back to Cliffside, bearing with them a goodly supply of chestnuts
which they divided among their friends.
It was after supper that evening when Bob was settling down to read a
book that the telephone in his uncle's house rang a summons. Mr. Dexter
answered it and, after listening a moment, said:
"It's you they want, Bob. Chief of Police Duncan!"
"The chief!" exclaimed the lad, his heart suddenly beating fast. "I
wonder if he's found out anything?"
He greeted the officer.
"Say, Bob," came the eager voice, "I think we're on the trail of that
fellow who robbed Hiram!"
"You mean Rod Marbury?"
"Yes. I just got a tip that there's a strange sailor over in Cardiff,
spending money freely. I'm going over and have a look at him. Would you
like to come along? You heard Hiram describe this chap--you might know
him. Want to come?"
"Sure I do! Wait a minute!"
Bob quickly explained to his uncle the nature of the summons.
"You mean chase off in the night after this suspect?" asked Mr. Dexter,
not at all pleased.
"Yes. The chief wants to catch him. May I go?"
"Oh, I suppose so, Bob. But be careful!" The consent was reluctantly
given.
"I will, Uncle Joel."
"Oh, Bob, I hate to have you go out at night on this detective
business!" objected Aunt Hannah.
"You've got to do night work if you're going to be a detective," said
Bob cheerfully. He was even elated at the prospect before him of a night
pursuit.
Quickly he made ready and soon he was chugging in his flivver down to
police headquarters.
*CHAPTER XV*
*A SINGER IN THE DARK*
"This tip just came in," explained Chief Duncan when Bob had joined him,
a little excited by the news and by his quick trip from home. "I thought
I'd rather have you with me chasing it down, than to take Caleb or even
Sam Drayton."
"Glad you thought of me," murmured Bob. Caleb Tarton was the chief
constable of Cliffside, while Mr. Drayton, of course, was the chief of
Storm Mountain.
"Yes," went on Mr. Duncan as he got into Bob's car, for it had been
decided to use that. "Of course this may be only a wild goose chase, but
often you can catch chickens when you're after geese. And, speaking of
chickens, that's the sort of case Caleb is on now. That's another reason
I couldn't bring him."
"A chicken case?" murmured Bob.
"Yes, seems that Tume Mellick has been missing a lot of his fowls
lately, and he asked us to investigate. So I sent Caleb over."
"Hope he finds the thief," said Bob.
"Yes. Well, he'll get a chicken supper out of it, anyhow. Tume always
serves chicken to his company. But now about this case, Bob. Do you
think you would know this fellow Rod Marbury if you were to see him?"
"It's hard to say. I've never laid eyes on him, as far as I know. All I
have to go by is the description Hiram gives."
"Yes, that's all I have. I wrote it down but I remember it. A short,
stout fellow, with dark hair and a long scar on one cheek that he got in
a fight."
"That's the description I remember," stated Bob. "But of course if this
fellow didn't want to be discovered he could disguise himself."
"Oh, sure," agreed the Cliffside chief. "But they can't hide all the
marks. And when you take into consideration the fact that this suspect
is a sailor, and bound to act like one, that may give him away."
"There's something in that," admitted the lad. "How did you hear about
him?"
"Oh, Hank Miller just got back from Cardiff--went over to sell a load of
apples to the cider mill, and I've got my suspicions of that cider mill;
by the way, I think they make a whole lot stronger cider than the law
allows. But that's for the Cardiff police to look after--'tisn't in my
territory. Anyhow, Hank was telling me about a fellow he saw in town,
spending money pretty freely, and boasting that he could get a lot more
when that was gone. He acted like a sailor, so Hank said, and right away
it occurred to me it might be this Rod."
"Yes, it might be," assented Bob. "But it doesn't seem likely, that if
this is Rod Marbury, he'd stay around here and spend the money so close
to the place where he robbed Hiram Beegle."
"You can't always tell by that," declared the chief wisely. "I've known
many a criminal to keep out of the hands of the detectives a long time
just by staying right near the spot where the crime was committed. He
figured out they'd never look for him there, and they didn't. They went
to all sorts of other places and never thought of looking or inquiring
near home."
"Yes, I've heard of such cases," admitted Bob. "I suppose it would be a
good plan for a robber to live next door to the place he robbed--or very
near it--for no one would think he had the nerve to do that."
"There's a whole lot to that!" declared the chief.
It was a dark night, and a storm was coming up, but this did not daunt
the old chief nor the young detective. They made as good time as was
possible to Cardiff and then there confronted them the problem of
finding the suspect.
Hank Miller had said the fellow whom he supposed might be Rod Marbury
had been seen in many places in Cardiff, spending his money freely and
foolishly. Of course the Cardiff police might have knowledge of such an
individual. He could hardly escape notice. But neither Bob nor Chief
Duncan wanted to disclose their hand In this matter. That is they wanted
to make the capture alone, if capture there was to be made.
"I tell you what we can do," said the chief, as they passed slowly into
the town. "We can park the car and shift about a bit on foot. We'll
learn more that way. And we can drop into some of these pool parlors
where Hank said he saw this fellow."
"Yes, we can do that," agreed Bob.
It was not a very pleasant way to spend an evening, particularly as it
was now beginning to drizzle, and was cold, too. But Bob and the chief
grimly resolved to go through with it.
"I don't much care for any of the Cardiff police to see me," remarked
Mr. Duncan as Bob parked the flivver. "Not that they're any great shakes
at picking out folks, but one of them might spot me and it would make
talk. So I'll just pull my hat down over my eyes and turn up my coat
collar--the rain will be a good excuse, anyhow."
"Good idea," declared Bob, and a little later hardly any of their
friends would have recognized the two had they seen them slouching
through the streets of Cardiff--the place was rather more of a city than
was Cliffside.
Chief Duncan knew the less inviting parts of Cardiff--the haunts which
would, most likely, prove attractive to those who liked their pleasures
strong, or who had reason to keep out of the ken of the police. So it
was to not very respectable pool rooms and cigar stores that Bob was
led. However, he steeled himself against the sights he saw and went
through with it.
All sorts and conditions of men were met with--young men, old men and
middle-aged men--far too many young men, be it said, who seemed to have
nothing better to do this evening than to hang around a pool table, a
flopping cigarette dangling from their lips as they squinted down the
length of a cue.
The places were blue with smoke--vile tobacco it was, too--but those
moving about in the blue, acrid haze seemed to like it. However, it
wasn't very good for complexions. Most of the faces were a pasty white
in hue.
There were many men, it seemed, who might be wanted for one criminal
charge or other, but not one of them seemed to be a free spender. In
fact, few of those in the pool rooms and cigar stores appeared to have
any more money than they actually needed. They were a poor lot.
"Tin horn sports and cheap skate gamblers," was the way Chief Duncan
characterized them, and Bob agreed.
In some places there were dance halls attached to the pool rooms, and
these were the worst of all, for women and girls were there who might
have done better to have remained away.
The blare of horrible "jazz" shot out of many an open door, and in their
quest Bob and the chief entered. The air in some of the dance places was
almost as blue with smoke as in the pool "parlors," but the women and
girls--nearly all the latter with bobbed hair--did not seem to mind. In
fact, some of the girls were leeringly puffing on cigarettes.
"Not very nice places, eh, Bob?" asked the chief as they left one,
filling their lungs with the clean air outside--air filled with rain and
frost, but clean--just clean!
"They're rotten!" declared Bob Dexter.
"Well, there aren't many more," said Mr. Duncan. "Are you game?"
"Oh, sure! We'll go through with it. But the sailor doesn't seem to be
on hand."
"We may locate him yet. These fellows drift from one night haunt to
another. We may go back to the first place and pick him up."
The rain was now falling smartly, but our seekers did not turn back.
They kept on with the quest.
"There's one place down this street I'd like to look into," murmured Mr.
Duncan.
He turned down what was more of an alley than a street. Here and there a
dim gas lamp flickered, adding to rather than relieving the blackness.
Halfway down there was a blur of brightness, showing where the light
streamed from the doors of another pool place.
"We'll take a look in there," said the chief.
They made their way down the alley, splashing in puddles, tramping in
the mud and getting more and more wet and miserable every moment.
Suddenly, out of the shadow of some ramshackle building, or perhaps from
some hole in the ground, there lurched a swaying figure. And the figure
was that of a man who raised his cracked voice in what he doubtless
intended for a melody and howled, rather than sang:
"Then spend yer money free,
An' come along o' me,
An' I'll show yer where th' elephant is hidin'!"
The chief caught Bob by the arm, halting him.
"Maybe that's Rod!" he whispered.
*CHAPTER XVI*
*THE WORM DIGGER*
Somehow Bob Dexter thought that the game wasn't going to fall into their
hands as easily as all that It would be too good to be true. Of course
they had trailed after the suspect through a long, dreary evening, and
at much personal discomfort But here, in front of them, it being only
necessary for the chief to step forward and arrest him, was the man
answering the description of the free spender.
He had betrayed himself, and yet--Bob could not credit their good luck.