masquerading under a false name," thought Bob to himself. "And that's so
common he isn't likely to talk about it. If I work fast I may pull this
thing off myself without the police coming in on it. But I've had a lot
of surprises to-night, and I don't quite see all the ends of this thing.
Who was that man with the iron hook? His name was no more Dauber than
mine is, though he must have used it more than once or Pietro wouldn't
have recognized it--no, not Pietro--Rodney Marbury--the man who has the
brass box!"
This thought excited Bob and he stepped on the gas, sending his flivver
along at a fast clip. He had had a foot gas pedal attached to his car,
enabling him to drive it more easily.
"And so he isn't an Italian at all," was his further musing.
"Queer I never suspected that. Though of course this Rod may be of
Italian birth--enough so as to enable him to disguise himself as a dago
organ grinder and talk broken English. He did it to perfection, though.
But hold on--wait a minute----"
Bob was doing some quick thinking and this had its effect on his speed,
for he cut along at a lively clip. However, at this hour of the early
morning the roads were practically deserted.
"If this fellow was Rodney Marbury, the shipmate of Jolly Bill and Hiram
Beegle--why didn't either of them recognize him? They ought to, for they
saw him often enough. They had sailed with him--they went on the
treasure hunt together. And yet this supposed Italian comes to town, and
passes close to Hiram and Jolly Bill, and neither of them says a word.
Hiram ought to, if anybody would--for he was assaulted by this chap. And
yet this Pietro didn't hang back any. He associated right with Bill and
Hiram. I can't understand it unless----"
Bob ceased his musing for a moment and made a turn around a bad place in
the highway. He was on a straight stretch now to the station.
"Disguised!" he exclaimed aloud, the word floating out into the cool,
night air. "That's it--he was disguised as a dago, with false hair and a
false beard, I'm sure! Queer I never thought of that. He had an awful
thick mop of hair and enough beard for a sofa cushion. But I never
tumbled. Must have been pretty well made and stuck on. Or he may have
let his own hair and beard grow--that would be the best disguise ever!
Say, I've missed a lot of tricks in this--I've got to get busy and
redeem myself. But I'm on some sort of a track now, and that's better
than chasing off through the bushes as I've been doing.
"Speaking of bushes--I wonder if this Rod--or Pietro--really was
planting monkey nuts in that bramble patch or--or--jimminity crickets!"
fairly shouted Bob in his excitement--"I have it now! He was digging
after the treasure! Of course! That's it. He had the map from the brass
box and he was searching over Hank's land for the treasure. Why didn't I
think of that before? Digging holes to plant monkey nuts! I might have
known nothing of that sort could have been done. He was on the search
for the treasure, of course. Oh, if I can only catch him!"
But as Bob neared the station another thought came to him.
"If he had the map, which told exactly where the treasure was buried,
why did he have to dig all over the bramble patch on a chance of finding
it? A man who buries treasure, and makes a map of it, gives the exact
location so he can find it again, or so he can direct those whom he
wants to find it.
"Now Hank buried the treasure and he made a map of it so Hiram, coming
after him, could find it. Hiram isn't any too well educated so the map
would have to be fairly simple. Any one could read it.
"Then this Rodney could follow the directions, and if he had the map he
could have gone at once to the right spot and dug up the treasure.
Instead he digs holes all over the bramble patch. What's the answer?
"He didn't have the map--of course. Or, if he did, he didn't know how to
read it. The answer is that he didn't have it and was making a blind
hunt.
"Then, if he didn't have the map who has it? Who is the other party most
interested?"
There was but one answer to this. New suspicions were fast forming in
the mind of Bob Dexter--new suspicions which might mean the solving of
the Storm Mountain mystery.
*CHAPTER XXI*
*NEW TACTICS*
With a grinding and squeaking of the brakes, which was a reminder to Bob
that he must get some new lining, the little car came to a stop near the
silent and deserted railroad station in Cliffside. Deserted it was save
for the presence of the lone agent in the ticket office, as evidenced by
a gleam of light shining out into the cold and clammy mists of the
night.
The milk train had just left, Bob knew. If he had hoped to intercept
either the man with the hook or the man with the monkey he was
disappointed, but Bob did not show any signs of this.
"Hello, Mr. Dawson," he greeted the agent, who peered wonderingly out at
him through the brass bars of his window.
"Well, bless my ticket stamp--if it isn't Bob Dexter!" exclaimed the
agent. "What in the world are you doing here at this hour? The milk
train's gone, Bob!"
"I know it. Heard her pulling up Storm Mountain."
"And there isn't another until the accommodation at 5:15."
"Which I'm not going to take, thank goodness."
"Well, then--" there was mild questioning in the agent's voice.
"It's just a private matter I'm working on, Mr. Dawson," said Bob,
making sure no early morning travelers were sitting on the deserted
benches in the dimly-lighted waiting room of the station.
"Oh, up to your old tricks, eh, Bob?" The agent knew the reputation the
lad was earning for himself.
"Something like that--yes."
"Another Jennie Thorp case, Bob?"
"Not exactly. But tell me, Mr. Dawson, did a couple of men get on the
milk train just now?"
"Yes--two men--one with an iron hook in place of a hand."
"Those are the ones. The other was a fellow with a big bunch of whiskers
and hair enough to stuff a sofa pillow, and a hand organ and a monkey."
"No, Bob, not exactly."
"Not exactly--what do you mean, Mr. Dawson?"
"I mean there wasn't any man with a hand organ and a monkey."
"Oh, well, he could have left that behind, though what the poor monk
will do I don't know. Anyhow he had a lot of hair and whiskers, didn't
he?"
"No, Bob," answered the agent, "he didn't. You got that one man
right--he had a hook all right. But the other was smooth-shaved and his
hair wasn't any longer than mine."
Bob was staggered for a minute. Then a light broke in on him.
"Of course!" he cried. "He could have taken off the false beard and wig,
or have stopped long enough, somewhere, to get a hair cut and a shave."
"He had a shave, Bob, I'll testify to that. I was close to him when he
bought the tickets."
"Bought tickets, did he? Where to, Mr. Dawson?"
"Perry Junction."
"Um, down where they can catch the fast trains. But there aren't so many
trains at this time of the morning. Maybe I can nab them yet."
"What are you going to do, Bob?" asked Mr. Dawson, as the lad started
from the station.
"I'm going to take the short cut to Perry Junction. I can beat the milk,
for it's got half a dozen stops between here and there to pick up cans.
I want to see these fellows."
"Better not take any chances with them, Bob," advised Mr. Dawson. "They
didn't look like very nice customers, especially that man with the iron
hook. If he made a dig at you with that--zowie, boy!" The agent drew in
his breath sharply.
"Don't worry--I'm not going to take any chances, Mr. Dawson. I'm going
to stop and pick up an officer at headquarters."
"I think that's wise. I didn't like the looks of these chaps from the
time they came in. I was suspicious of them, and I thought I might be in
for a hold-up, until I remembered that I didn't have enough money on
hand to make it worth while. But they were civil enough."
"And you say the man with the smooth face bought the tickets?"
"Yes--two, for Ferry Junction."
"Did he talk like an Italian?"
"No, Bob, I can't say he did. Talked like as American, as far as I could
judge."
"Then he must have dropped his pretended Italian jargon along with his
hair and whiskers," thought the young detective. "Well, things are
beginning to work out--though what the end will be I can't tell." Aloud,
to the agent, he said:
"Well, I guess I'll be getting along if I'm going to beat the milk,
though that won't be so hard. She's got a bad grade ahead of her up
Storm Mountain. Much obliged for your information, Mr. Dawson."
"Don't mention it, Bob. Hope you make out all right with your case."
"Thanks, I hope I do."
"I reckon, before long, you'll be on the police force of some big city,
Bob."
"No such luck as that, Mr. Dawson. But that's what I'm working for.
Good-night."
"Good-morning, you mean!" chuckled Mr. Dawson as he smiled at the lad.
"It'll soon be daylight."
So it will. Well, I've got to get a hustle on.
The young detective found Constable Tarton on night duty at police
headquarters. Mr. Tarton had considerable respect for Bob, for he knew
of the outcome of the case of the Golden Eagle. In fact Caleb would
rather work with Bob than with Chief Miles Duncan.
So it was with eagerness that Mr. Tarton agreed to accompany the lad in
the flivver to Perry Junction, there, if need arose, to make an arrest
on suspicion.
"I'll just wake up Sim Nettlebury, and let him take charge of matters,"
the constable said with a chuckle. "Not that anything is likely to
happen in Cliffside at this hour of the morning, but I got to follow
regulations. Sim won't like it, though, being woke up."
Sim didn't, as was evident from his grumbles and growls as the night
constable aroused him in the room over the main office of police
headquarters. A certain proportion of the limited police force of
Cliffside slept on the premises, taking turns the different nights.
"Now I'm ready to go with you, Bob," announced Mr. Tarton, as the
half-awake Sim, rubbing his eyes, tried to find a comfortable place
behind the desk with its green-shaded lamp.
Bob Dexter had thought out his plan carefully, and yet he was not at all
sure of the outcome. The identity of Rod Marbury, the man suspected of
assaulting Hiram and stealing the brass-bound box, with Pietro Margolis
was a surprise to the young detective. How the man with the iron hook
fitted into the mystery Bob could not yet fathom.
But that something had occurred between the two to make Rod leave off
his disguise, and hurry out of town was evident.
"He fooled Hiram and he fooled Jolly Bill," thought Bob. "The question
is now can he fool me. I was taken in by his monkey nuts, but from now
on I'll be on my guard. And yet I don't believe he took the brass box.
But he may know who did. The man with the iron hook couldn't have--I'm
sure. Hiram never mentioned such a character, and he would have done so,
I'm sure, if there had been any such character to mention. You don't
meet a man with an iron hook every day. Well, it may be working
out--this Storm Mountain mystery--but it's doing so in a queer way."
"All set, Bob," said the constable, as he got in the flivver.
"Let's go!" was the grim rejoinder.
The roads were clear of traffic, save for an occasional farmer bringing
to town, for the early market, a load of produce. And, as Bob had said,
he could take a short cut, intercepting the milk train, almost before it
reached Perry Junction. The train, as the lad had stated, would have to
make a number of stops to pick up cans of milk which the dairymen had
left at the different stations along the route.
"Those fellows must have been in a desperate hurry, Bob, to take the
milk train," said the constable, as they jolted along side by side in
the flivver.
"Hurry--on the milk?" laughed Bob.
"Well, I mean in a hurry to get out of town. Of course the train is a
slow-poke, but they could get out of Cliffside on her, and that's what
they wanted, maybe."
"That's so," agreed Bob. "I didn't think of that"
"Think of what?" asked Caleb Tarton.
"Oh--nothing much. Hold fast now, here's a bit of rough road."
It was rough--so much so that at the speed which Bob drove all the
constable could do was to hold on. And he didn't dare open his mouth to
ask questions for fear of biting off his tongue.
Which, perhaps, was Bob's object. I'm not saying it was, but it would
have been a good way to insure silence.
Then they got onto a smooth, concrete highway, leading directly to Perry
Junction. A faint light was showing, now, in the east.
"Soon be sun-up, Bob," remarked Mr. Tarton.
"Yep. It's been a long night, I'll say. I haven't been to bed yet"
"You haven't?"
"No. I ran off a party. Then I ran onto this clew and I've been busy on
it ever since."
"Well, we'll soon know what's what, Bob. There's the station right ahead
of us."
"Yes, and here comes the milk," added Bob, as a shrill whistle cut the
keen, morning air.
"We're just about in time," remarked the constable.
Perry Junction was not a station of any importance save that certain
fast trains stopped there to pick up passengers from other points along
the line. And it was evidently the object of the two men to take
advantage of this. Bob had made his plans well, and they would have
worked out admirably save for one thing.
The two men he was after weren't on the train. A simple thing, but it
loomed big.
Bob and the constable leaped from their flivver as the milk train drew
to a screeching stop, and the two hid themselves behind a corner of the
station. It was now light enough so that they could see who got off the
milk train. But the man with the iron hook and the man who had been
masquerading as an organ grinder, were not among the passengers that
alighted.
"Looks like they give us the slip, Bob," observed Mr. Tarton.
"Yes, it does. But they may be on there yet. This isn't the end of the
milk run. I'll ask the conductor."
The latter was walking up and down the platform waiting for the
completion of loading on more rattling cans of milk. He knew Bob, and
greeted him.
"Man with an iron hook?" questioned the ticket puncher. "Yes, he got on
at Cliffside."
"Was there another man with him--a smooth-shaved man?"
"Yes, Bob, there was. I didn't have many passengers--we seldom do this
time of year, with the excursion business over. But I remember those
two."
"They had tickets for Perry Junction, didn't they?"
"Yes, now I recall it, they did."
"But they aren't here."
"No, Bob, they got off somewhere between Tottenville and Andover. I
noticed them at Tottenville, but I didn't see them at Andover."
"But there isn't a station between those two places."
"No station, Bob, but we stop at three white posts to pick up milk.
Farm-stations we call them--not regular stops for any except my train.
These fellows could have gotten off anywhere along there, and they
probably did."
"Shucks!" ejaculated Bob. "That's it! I might have known they wouldn't
give themselves away by coming to the place for which they have tickets.
They got off at some place where they wouldn't be noticed. Well, I guess
we might as well go back," he told the constable.
"How about searching the train?" asked the latter eagerly. "They might
be concealed somewhere on board, Bob."
"No, I don't think so," said the conductor. "They just dropped off at
one of the white post stops between Tottenville and Andover. Why, was
there anything wrong about them?"
"Suspicions, mostly, that's all," said Bob.
The last can rattled aboard, the conductor gave the signal, the engineer
gave two toots to the whistle and the milk train pulled away from Perry
Junction.
"Guess they had you barkin' up the wrong tree, didn't they, Bob?" asked
the constable as they rode on back to Cliffside.
"In a way, yes. But, after all, maybe it's just as well it turned out
like this."
"Just as well, Bob? Why, don't you want to help find the rascal that
robbed Hiram?"
"Yes, but I don't believe either of these fellows did."
"Who did then?"
"That's what I'm going to find out."
It was with this end in view that, two days later, Bob paid a visit to
the Mansion House where Jolly Bill Hickey was still staying. Bob had a
long talk with Nelson Beel, the proprietor.
"Certainly, Bob, I'll let you do it," was the permission given. "But I
don't like any disturbance about my place."
"There won't be any, Mr. Beel, I promise you that. It will all be done
very quietly."
"All right, Bob, go to it."
Thereupon the young detective began some new tactics.
*CHAPTER XXII*
*THE BRASS BOX*
Nearly every town, or small city has, or had at one time, a large hotel
known as the "Mansion House." In this Cliffside was no exception, and
the chief hostelry bore that name. It was a big, rambling, old-fashioned
structure and, in its day, had housed many a "gay and festive scene," to
quote the Cliffside _Weekly Banner_ which once ran a series of stories
about famous men and places in the community.
However, though the Mansion House may once have had such a distinction
as being a place (one of several thousand) where George Washington
stayed overnight, now were its glories departed, and it was but an
ordinary hotel. Some old residents, who had given up their homes, lived
there the year around. It was the stopping place of such traveling men,
or drummers, who occasionally came to the place, and the annual
"assembly ball" was held there.
Being an old-fashioned hotel it had many connecting and adjoining rooms,
with doors between, and transoms of glass over the said doors. It was a
"family" hotel, to use the expression Mr. Beel often applied to his
place.
Consequently it wasn't difficult for Bob Dexter to secure a place of
observation near the room where Jolly Bill Hickey had elected to stay
for a time.
"I don't know how long I'll be here," Bill had said to Mr. Beel, when
Bob drove him to the place the morning of the discovery of the crime on
Storm Mountain.
"Stay as long as you like--we'll try and make you welcome!" Mr. Beel had
said with the bluff heartiness that characterized him when greeting a
new guest.
"And you're sure no one will object to my wooden leg?" asked Jolly Bill.
"Huh! I'd like to see 'em!" snapped out the proprietor. "You got just as
good a right to have a wooden leg as another man has to have two of
flesh and blood, I reckon."
"Thanks. I'll do my best not to make any trouble."
So had Jolly Bill taken up his residence, and his reference to having a
"few shots left in the locker" to pay his way was amply borne out, for
he met his weekly bills with great regularity.
"There's a little cubbyhole of a room next to his," Mr. Beel had said
when Bob broached his new tactics. "It used to be used to store
drummers' trunks in, when Cliffside did a bigger business than it does
now. You can get in there and look over the transom if you like."
"Well, I'll try it. Maybe it will be a longer session than I anticipate.
But don't let it be known that I'm there."
"I won't, Bob. You can slip in any time you like. I'll furnish you with
a key. And you'll have a good excuse in being here."
"Yes--arranging for the annual banquet of the Boys' Club."
For there was such a function, and it was always held at the Mansion
House, the club house not being large enough. Bob had gone to the
trouble of getting himself appointed a member of the Banquet Committee,
and though it was still some weeks before that affair would take place,
it gave sufficient excuse, in case he was questioned, to account for his
presence in the hotel.
Thus it was arranged and Bob, deserting his friends and relatives for
the time being, took up his quarters in the little cubbyhole of a room,
adjoining that which harbored Jolly Bill and his wooden leg.
Just what Bob hoped to find out or prove he hardly knew in his own mind.
Certainly he did not tell Ned or Harry, for he couldn't. It was all so
vague--merely a suspicion.
"What's got into old Bob lately?" asked Harry of Ned, a few days after
the futile chase of the milk train.
"Oh, he's working on that Storm Mountain mystery, you can depend on
that."
"Has he said anything to you about it?"
"Nothing special. Bob never does when he's following close on a clew.
But he said he might not see us for a few days."
"Well, I guess we'd just better let him alone."
"Sure. He won't thank us for butting in, and if he wants any help he
knows we'll give it to him."
"Sure."
Thereupon the two chums had gone off nutting again, leaving Bob Dexter
to his own devices.
Taking advantage of the fact that there were few late arrivals in the
Mansion House, which, unlike the Railroad hotel, did not keep open all
night, Bob made his entry as an unregistered guest in his little room
about two o'clock one morning. Mr. Beel was the only one around at the
time.
"Good luck to you, Bob," the proprietor had said, as he watched the lad
enter his room quietly. "He's in there," and he motioned to the
apartment of Jolly Bill and his wooden leg.
Bob's first activity, after settling himself, was to mount on a chair
and examine, as best he could in the feeble light of one electric bulb
in his room, the transom over the door between his apartment and that of
Jolly Bill.
At one time these two rooms had formed part of a suite, but when there
was little call except for single rooms, the transom had been closed and
painted black to prevent surreptitious views from one room to the other.
"And the paint's on my side," exclaimed Bob. "That makes it easier. I'll
scrape a peep-hole in the morning, after Jolly Bill goes out."
Bob was concentrating his efforts and suspicions on this wooden-legged
sailor now, since all efforts to trace the man with the iron hook, and
his companion, had failed.
Bob did not sleep very well the remainder of that night. His mind was
too filled with the possibilities that might follow his action. But
toward morning he fell asleep, and the early winter sun was quite high
when he opened his eyes.
"Gosh," he exclaimed in a whisper. "I ought to have been up long ago.
Wonder if he's gone out?"
He listened but could hear no sound from the next room.
"I wish I hadn't gone to sleep," mused Bob, rather chagrined at himself.
"Maybe he's flown the coop and gone out on the milk train."
But he was reassured, a little later, by hearing the voice of Jolly Bill
himself. The voice followed a knock on his door--evidently a summons to
arise--for there were no room telephones in the Mansion House. A
chambermaid or bell boy had to come up and knock on the doors of guests
to arouse them in case they requested such attention.
"All right I All right!" sounded the voice of the man with the wooden
leg. "All right! I'm getting up! Got lots to do to-day!"
This was rather amusing, from the fact that since he had arrived in
Cliffside Jolly Bill had done nothing in the line of work--unless
digging worms to go fishing could be so called.
"All right! I'm on the job, too!" said Bob, silently to himself. Quickly
he mounted to a chair which raised him so that he could look through the
transom over his door. He moved silently. He did not want Bill to know,
if it could be avoided, that there was a guest in the next room.
With the point of a knife blade, Bob removed a little of the black paint
on his side of the transom. It gave him a peep-hole and he applied his
eye to it.
Rather a mean and sneaking business, this of spying through peep-holes,
the lad thought. The only consolation was that he was going through it
in a good cause--his desire to bring criminals to justice and aid Hiram
Beegle.
To Bob's delight he found that he had a good view of the interior of
Jolly Bill's room, and he had sight of that individual himself, sitting
on the edge of his bed and vigorously stretching himself as a
preliminary to his morning ablutions.
Bill's wooden leg was unstrapped from the stump, and lay on a chair near
him, as did the heavy cane he used to balance himself, for he was a
stout man.
"It couldn't be better--if it works out the way I think it will," mused
the lad. Eagerly and anxiously he watched now for the next move on the
part of the old sailor. For it was on this move that much might depend.
Having stretched himself, and rubbed his eyes to remove therefrom as
much as possible of the "sleep," by a process of dry washing, Jolly Bill
prepared for his day's activities by reaching out for his wooden leg.
"Now," whispered Bob to himself, as he stood gazing through his
peep-hole in the painted transom, "am I right or am I wrong? It won't
take long to tell if things work out the way I expect they will. Steady
now!" he told himself.
Jolly Bill pulled his wooden leg toward him as he sat on the bed. He
must strap it on before he could begin stumping about to begin his day
of "work," whatever that mysterious occupation was.
And then, as Bob watched, the old sailor, with a look toward the window,
to make sure the shades were pulled down, plunged his hand into the
interior of his wooden leg.
This artificial limb, like many of its kind, was hollow to make it
lighter. There was quite a cavity within.