CHAPTER XIIIQUEER PLANTINGBob Dexter did not know whether to laugh with Judge Weston or to remain serious, for he felt there might be something serious in the visit of the Italian to the lawyer’s office. Bob was seeing altogether too much of that Italian organ grinder of late—at least so thought the young detective.However, as Judge Weston continued to smile, as though amused at something, the lad thought it couldn’t be very serious, so he repeated:“Monkey land?”“Yes,” went on the lawyer. “It seems he is a traveling organ grinder, and——”“Yes, I know him,” interrupted Bob. “I beg your pardon,” he hastened to add, as he saw the legal man look at him somewhat strangely. “But I was trying to save your time in explanation.”“You say you know this Italian, Bob—er—let me see, I put his name down somewhere—Pietro Margolis, he calls himself.”“Well, I don’t exactlyknowhim, Judge Weston, but I’ve seen him around town a lot. He’s staying at the Railroad House. I first saw him at the log cabin of Hiram Beegle, right after the robbery. He walked down the road playing his wheezy old organ and showing off his monkey’s tricks.”“Yes, that’s what he came to see me about,” said the lawyer. “It was his monkey. It seems the animal must have a certain kind of food, and it doesn’t grow in this country. So this Margolis wanted to buy a piece of land and plant the peanuts or whatever it is that monkeys eat. I know he doesn’t want to plant peanuts, though I know monkeys eat them, but I use peanuts for an illustration. He told me the name of the nut, or fruit or whatever it was he intended to plant, but I’ve forgotten.”“And he wants to buy land for that purpose?” exclaimed Bob. “Why, it’s too late to plant anything now. It might not be in the tropics, where monkeys come from, but here——”“Oh, he doesn’t intend to start planting until spring,” said the lawyer. “He just wants to get the land now.”“But you aren’t a real estate agent,” said Bob. “Why didn’t he go to Mr. Landry for what he wanted?”“I suppose he came to me because he happened to learn that I controlled the very piece of land he wanted to rent, or buy,” said the judge.“Some of your property?”“No, Bob. Some that belongs to the estate of old Hank Denby. You see, I’m executor of Hank’s will, and there are several pieces of land to dispose of.”“Yes, I heard he left quite a little,” admitted Bob. “He was pretty well off, even if he didn’t use all the pirate gold he dug up at the South Sea islands.”“Oh, you know that story, do you, Bob?” asked the lawyer in some surprise.“Yes, Jolly Bill Hickey told me part of it and Hiram Beegle the rest.”“Um! Well, I didn’t know it was out, but I wouldn’t spread it too widely, if I were you. Folks think Hiram queer enough as it is, without having this added to his reputation. Of course if it’s necessary, in order to capture the scoundrel who robbed him, to tell the story, I wouldn’t ask you to hold it back.”“I understand,” stated Bob. “There doesn’t seem to be any need, at present, of broadcasting it. The police don’t need to know it in order to catch this Rod Marbury.”Again Judge Weston laughed.“Offhand, Bob, I should say the kind of police we have around here would need to know a great more than this story in order to capture this fellow Marbury. But that’s neither here nor there. Are you working on the case?”“In a way, yes. Of course I’m not officially connected with it. Uncle Joel wouldn’t allow that. But some day I’m going to be a regular detective. However, he said I could do whatever I might think was right in trying to find out things about this mystery.”“I wish you luck, Bob.”“Thanks. But did you rent or sell this Italian any land for his monkey food?”“I have, practically, Bob, though the deal isn’t closed yet. He was willing to pay a good price for a piece of otherwise waste land on which he could raise these monkey nuts, or whatever they were. He doesn’t want to start planting until spring, but he wants to get control of the land now to prepare it, he says.”“Where’s the land?” asked Bob. “I didn’t know we had any in Cliffside that was suitable for monkey business,” and he laughed.“Why, this Pietro Margolis said he had been looking at land around here, and he found a piece that just suited him. It’s that overgrown bramble patch back of the house where Hank Denby lived at the time of his death.”“You mean some of Mr. Denby’s land?”“Yes, Bob. I’ve practically rented this Italian, for a year, that bramble patch, and I consider, as executor of the estate of the old man, that I got a good price for it. You know it’s the duty of an executor, Bob, to Increase the estate if possible. And though I don’t imagine the nieces and nephews of Hank—for those are all the relatives he left—I don’t imagine they appreciate what I’ve done, still it was my duty.”“Yes,” agreed Bob. “So he left his estate to nieces and nephews, did he? But what about the pirate fortune that went to Hiram Beegle—that is if Hiram ever gets it—what about that? Won’t these nieces and nephews want a part of that?”“It wouldn’t do them any good to want it, Bob,” stated the lawyer. “You see that gold, or whatever form the wealth was in that was dug up on the island—that fortune was held by Hank in trust, so to speak. At his death it went to the survivors of the original four—or such of them as had played fair and kept the agreement Hiram Beegle was the only one, so he got all the others’ shares.”“That is he has them to get,” remarked Bob, somewhat grimly. For the stealing of the brass-bound box, containing the directions for finding the hidden wealth, had effectually blocked Mr. Beegle’s chances.“Yes, it’s very much in distant prospect, Bob. But perhaps you’ll be able to help the old man.”“Maybe. I don’t suppose Hank ever intimated to you where he had buried the stuff?”“Never a word, Bob. He was as close as an oyster on that point, though 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 damonkgrow—maka himeatsgrow.”“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 XIVA NIGHT PURSUITSmilingly, 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 XVA 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 XVITHE WORM DIGGERSomehow 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.“Never say die, boys! Set ’em up in th’ other alley! I got money to spend an’ I’m spendin’ it! Whoop-la!”It was a characteristic attitude of one in his condition.“We won’t have any trouble with him, Bob,” whispered the chief. “He’ll come along with us for the asking.”“Unless some of his friends, or would-be friends object,” remarked Bob. For, as he spoke, the doors of several dark hovel-like buildings opened, letting out dim shafts of light. And in this illumination stood half-revealed, sinister figures—men and women, too, who were on the lookout for just such a gay and reckless spender as this foolish fellow proclaimed himself to be.“Oh, I’ll handle them all right,” said the chief.“You’ve got to be quick then,” remarked the young detective. “There goes some one after him now.”A moment later there darted from one of the evil buildings, a slouching figure of a man. The shaft of light from the open door put him in dark relief. He ran to the swaying, staggering figure of the singer, who was now mumbling to himself, clapped it jovially on the back and cried:“Come on, Jack! We’ve been looking for you! Everything is all ready! Right in here, Jack! Everything’s lovely!”He swung the victim around, and the latter, taken by surprise, followed for a few steps. Then, as Bob and the chief watched, the singer unexpectedly stiffened and braced himself back.“Whoa!” he exclaimed. “Hold on! Where you goin’?”“For a good time, Jack! To see the elephants you know!”“Yep—I know! I seen elephants before—big ones, too—in India! I’m elephant hunter, I am—but my name ain’t Jack.”“Oh, well, Jill then—Jack or Jill, it’s all the same to me. I’m a friend of yours.”But a spirit of opposition had been awakened in the victim. It was a small matter—that of a name, but small matters turn the tide in cases like these.“If you’re friend of mine, you oughter know my name,” went on the celebrator, swaying and reeling as the other held him up, “You tell me my name an’ I’ll go with you.”The other laughed and then tried a bluff.“Sure, I know your name!” he declared. “It’s Bill—good old Bill! Now come on!”He had made a shot in the dark—in the dark in more ways than one. The chances were in his favor. Bill is a fairly common name, and many a “sport” answers to it even though he may be Tom, Dick or Harry. But again the spirit of perverseness took control of the victim.“No ’tain’t!” he cried. “I ain’t Bill—never was—never will be. You guessed wrong—you’re no friend of mine. Now lemme be! I’m goin’ to find elephant. Tom’s my name—Tom Black, an’ I’m proud of it. Now lemme go!”He shook off the hold of the other, and the man who had slipped out of the den of thieves stood irresolute for a moment. He was taken aback, but did not want to use too much force in getting his victim within his clutches. He must try another game, and still be gentle about it.But at the mention of the name Tom Black the chief nudged Bob.“Guess we’re on the wrong lay,” he said.“Do you think he’d give his right name?” asked the lad.“They generally do—in his condition. Of course he may be going under two names, but I don’t believe this is Rod Marbury.”Bob had begun to think so from the moment he had seen how easy it was—that is comparatively easy—to pick up the trail of the suspect.“If we could get a look at him,” the young detective suggested.“That’s what we’ve got to do, Bob. Come on. It’s getting lighter now. We’ll catch him in front of one of these doorways.”It was getting lighter, but not because the blackness of the night was passing, nor because the blessed sun was rising, nor because the rain was ceasing—for none of these things were happening. It was still night and the rain was coming down harder than ever.But down the lane of the sordid street more doors were opening, and from each one streaked a shaft of light. In some mysterious way, like the smoke signal of the Indians, it was being telegraphed through the district of crime that “pickings” were on the way. The aforesaid “pickings” being an intoxicated man with money in his pockets. This was the sort of victim much sought after by the dwellers of the “Barbary Coast,” as the district was called by the police.The man who had accosted the singer, if such he might be called, had slipped away in the darkness, either to get help, to concoct some new scheme, or to await a more propitious occasion.But, meanwhile, other would-be despoilers were on the scene. And Chief Duncan proposed to take advantage of the light they were letting into the darkness.“Come on, Bob,” he whispered. “He’s in a good position now to get a look at.”The man was again singing, or, rather, groaning about his desire to see where the elephant was hiding. And just as he came in focus of one of the better lighted doorways, the young detective and the officer walked alongside of him. As they did so another man darted from the lighted doorway as if to swoop down like some foul bird of prey.But, seeing the other two figures—and a glance told him they were not of his ilk—he drew back.It needed but a glance on the part of Bob and the chief to let them see that this man bore no resemblance whatever to the description they had of Rod Marbury. Neither in build, stature nor appearance did he bear any likeness to the suspected sailor.“No go, Bob,” spoke the chief, turning to flash a look full in the face of the staggering man.“No,” was the answer.“Who says I shan’t go?” angrily demanded the man, mistaking the words spoken. “I’m my own boss. I’ll go see elephant if I like!”“I’m not going to stop you,” declared the chief. “You’re your own boss, though I wouldn’t give much for your pocketbook when you come off the Barbary Coast. Go ahead, I don’t want you.”“Don’t you think it would be a good plan,” suggested Bob, “to get him away from this neighborhood? He’s sure to be robbed and maybe injured if he stays here.”“You never said a truer thing in all your life, Bob Dexter,” spoke the chief. “But trying to get him to come with us wouldn’t do a bit of good. We couldn’t keep him with us all night, or until he is in better senses. He’d only be an elephant on our hands. And if we took him away from here he’d wander back again in a few hours. The night is young yet.”“Then what can we do? I hate to see him get plucked.”“So do I, and I have a plan. I don’t want the Cardiff police to know I’m in town. But I can telephone to headquarters, in the guise of a citizen who has seen a man with money in this dangerous neighborhood, and they’ll send the wagon and a couple of men in uniform. Brass buttons are the only thing that will impress this fellow.“Of course they can’t arrest him, for he hasn’t done anything more than get himself into a foolish and miserable state. But they can detain him until morning, when he’ll be sober. That’s often done, and that will save his money for him. Come on, we’ll slip out of here and find a telephone.”“Yes, but while we’re gone some one of these sharks will pull him into their holes.”“He’ll be easy to find, Bob. Every resident here wants a chance at picking his bones, and for the one who gets him there’ll be a dozen envious ones ready to squeal. A stool-pigeon will tip the police off as to what den this fellow was hauled into, and they can take him out. There’s time enough—he won’t give up his roll easily. It takes a little time to work the game and before it’s played out I’ll have the officers here.”Content with this Bob followed the chief out of the vile and evil district. The telephone tip was gladly received, for the police of Cardiff were not anxious to have it broadcasted that irresponsible and foolish strangers were robbed, even along the Barbary Coast. Word was given to the chief, who, of course, did not reveal his identity, that the matter would be looked after.Having done their duty, Bob and the chief returned to the district long enough to see the clanging wagon rumble in and take away the “elephant hunter.” He had been enticed into one of the dens, but, as Mr. Duncan had said, some one “squealed,” and the police easily located the place.“Well, I guess this ends it, Bob,” remarked the head of the Cliffside police. “It was a wild goose chase.”“I wish it had been a wild duck,” murmured Bob.“Why?”“Well, a duck’s back would have shed water better than mine. I’m soaked.”“So ’m I. But it couldn’t be helped. You’ll have to get used to worse than this, Bob, if you’re going to be a detective. And not only one night but many nights in succession.”“Oh, I know that. I’m not kicking. Only I wish we had picked up Rod.”“So do I. But it wasn’t to be. It was a good tip, as far as it went. But I guess Rod is safe enough, for a time. But we’ll have another shot at finding him.”“Of course,” agreed Bob, as they chugged back to Cliffside in the rain and darkness.It cannot be said that the young detective was very much discouraged or disappointed at the result of this excursion. It had been but a slim chance, at best, but slim chances must be taken when trying to solve mysteries or catch criminals.As a matter of fact Bob Dexter would have been rather sorry, in a way, had the foolish man turned out to be Rod Marbury. For the credit of the capture would have gone to Chief Duncan. And Bob wanted to solve the mystery himself.“And I want to find out the secret of the log cabin,” he told himself as he got into bed late that night, or, rather, early the next morning. “I want to find out how the key got back in the room.”For about a week there were no more moves in the case—that is, moves which appeared on the surface. What was going on beneath no one could tell.Pietro Margolis continued to dig holes and plant his “monkey nuts,” as Bob called them. Jolly Bill Hickey continued to reside at the Mansion House, now and then going to Storm Mountain to visit Hiram Beegle. The old sailor was now quite himself again, but he could throw no additional light on the strange robbery.“I don’t know where the treasure is, nor whether Rod is digging it up or not,” he said. “I’m fogbound—that’s about it—fogbound.”But Bob Dexter was anything except discouraged. He had youth and health, and these are the two best tonics in the world. Of course he would have been glad to come at a quick solution of the mystery.“Though if I did there wouldn’t be much credit in solving it,” he told himself more than once. “If it was as easy as all that, Ned or Harry could do as well as I, and I wouldn’t like to think that. A regular detective wouldn’t give up now, and I’m not going to!”Bob squared his shoulders, clenched his hands and walked about with such a defiant air that his chums, more than once, asked him after that why he was carrying a “chip on his shoulder.”It was one day, about two weeks after Bob’s night trip to Cardiff that, as he passed the log cabin he saw, in what was the garden during the summer, a figure using a spade.“I wonder if that dago is planting monkey nuts on Hiram’s place?” thought Bob, for the figure, that of a man, had his back turned. “It isn’t Hiram. I wonder——”The man with the spade straightened up. It was Jolly Bill. He saw Bob and waved a hand.“I’m digging worms!” he called. “Not having much luck though.”“Digging worms?” repeated the young detective in questioning tones. “I wonder what his game is?” he said to himself as he alighted from his flivver.
CHAPTER XIII
QUEER PLANTING
Bob Dexter did not know whether to laugh with Judge Weston or to remain serious, for he felt there might be something serious in the visit of the Italian to the lawyer’s office. Bob was seeing altogether too much of that Italian organ grinder of late—at least so thought the young detective.
However, as Judge Weston continued to smile, as though amused at something, the lad thought it couldn’t be very serious, so he repeated:
“Monkey land?”
“Yes,” went on the lawyer. “It seems he is a traveling organ grinder, and——”
“Yes, I know him,” interrupted Bob. “I beg your pardon,” he hastened to add, as he saw the legal man look at him somewhat strangely. “But I was trying to save your time in explanation.”
“You say you know this Italian, Bob—er—let me see, I put his name down somewhere—Pietro Margolis, he calls himself.”
“Well, I don’t exactlyknowhim, Judge Weston, but I’ve seen him around town a lot. He’s staying at the Railroad House. I first saw him at the log cabin of Hiram Beegle, right after the robbery. He walked down the road playing his wheezy old organ and showing off his monkey’s tricks.”
“Yes, that’s what he came to see me about,” said the lawyer. “It was his monkey. It seems the animal must have a certain kind of food, and it doesn’t grow in this country. So this Margolis wanted to buy a piece of land and plant the peanuts or whatever it is that monkeys eat. I know he doesn’t want to plant peanuts, though I know monkeys eat them, but I use peanuts for an illustration. He told me the name of the nut, or fruit or whatever it was he intended to plant, but I’ve forgotten.”
“And he wants to buy land for that purpose?” exclaimed Bob. “Why, it’s too late to plant anything now. It might not be in the tropics, where monkeys come from, but here——”
“Oh, he doesn’t intend to start planting until spring,” said the lawyer. “He just wants to get the land now.”
“But you aren’t a real estate agent,” said Bob. “Why didn’t he go to Mr. Landry for what he wanted?”
“I suppose he came to me because he happened to learn that I controlled the very piece of land he wanted to rent, or buy,” said the judge.
“Some of your property?”
“No, Bob. Some that belongs to the estate of old Hank Denby. You see, I’m executor of Hank’s will, and there are several pieces of land to dispose of.”
“Yes, I heard he left quite a little,” admitted Bob. “He was pretty well off, even if he didn’t use all the pirate gold he dug up at the South Sea islands.”
“Oh, you know that story, do you, Bob?” asked the lawyer in some surprise.
“Yes, Jolly Bill Hickey told me part of it and Hiram Beegle the rest.”
“Um! Well, I didn’t know it was out, but I wouldn’t spread it too widely, if I were you. Folks think Hiram queer enough as it is, without having this added to his reputation. Of course if it’s necessary, in order to capture the scoundrel who robbed him, to tell the story, I wouldn’t ask you to hold it back.”
“I understand,” stated Bob. “There doesn’t seem to be any need, at present, of broadcasting it. The police don’t need to know it in order to catch this Rod Marbury.”
Again Judge Weston laughed.
“Offhand, Bob, I should say the kind of police we have around here would need to know a great more than this story in order to capture this fellow Marbury. But that’s neither here nor there. Are you working on the case?”
“In a way, yes. Of course I’m not officially connected with it. Uncle Joel wouldn’t allow that. But some day I’m going to be a regular detective. However, he said I could do whatever I might think was right in trying to find out things about this mystery.”
“I wish you luck, Bob.”
“Thanks. But did you rent or sell this Italian any land for his monkey food?”
“I have, practically, Bob, though the deal isn’t closed yet. He was willing to pay a good price for a piece of otherwise waste land on which he could raise these monkey nuts, or whatever they were. He doesn’t want to start planting until spring, but he wants to get control of the land now to prepare it, he says.”
“Where’s the land?” asked Bob. “I didn’t know we had any in Cliffside that was suitable for monkey business,” and he laughed.
“Why, this Pietro Margolis said he had been looking at land around here, and he found a piece that just suited him. It’s that overgrown bramble patch back of the house where Hank Denby lived at the time of his death.”
“You mean some of Mr. Denby’s land?”
“Yes, Bob. I’ve practically rented this Italian, for a year, that bramble patch, and I consider, as executor of the estate of the old man, that I got a good price for it. You know it’s the duty of an executor, Bob, to Increase the estate if possible. And though I don’t imagine the nieces and nephews of Hank—for those are all the relatives he left—I don’t imagine they appreciate what I’ve done, still it was my duty.”
“Yes,” agreed Bob. “So he left his estate to nieces and nephews, did he? But what about the pirate fortune that went to Hiram Beegle—that is if Hiram ever gets it—what about that? Won’t these nieces and nephews want a part of that?”
“It wouldn’t do them any good to want it, Bob,” stated the lawyer. “You see that gold, or whatever form the wealth was in that was dug up on the island—that fortune was held by Hank in trust, so to speak. At his death it went to the survivors of the original four—or such of them as had played fair and kept the agreement Hiram Beegle was the only one, so he got all the others’ shares.”
“That is he has them to get,” remarked Bob, somewhat grimly. For the stealing of the brass-bound box, containing the directions for finding the hidden wealth, had effectually blocked Mr. Beegle’s chances.
“Yes, it’s very much in distant prospect, Bob. But perhaps you’ll be able to help the old man.”
“Maybe. I don’t suppose Hank ever intimated to you where he had buried the stuff?”
“Never a word, Bob. He was as close as an oyster on that point, though 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 damonkgrow—maka himeatsgrow.”
“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’!”
“Then spend yer money free,An’ come along o’ me,An’ I’ll show yer where th’ elephant is hidin’!”
“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.
“Never say die, boys! Set ’em up in th’ other alley! I got money to spend an’ I’m spendin’ it! Whoop-la!”
It was a characteristic attitude of one in his condition.
“We won’t have any trouble with him, Bob,” whispered the chief. “He’ll come along with us for the asking.”
“Unless some of his friends, or would-be friends object,” remarked Bob. For, as he spoke, the doors of several dark hovel-like buildings opened, letting out dim shafts of light. And in this illumination stood half-revealed, sinister figures—men and women, too, who were on the lookout for just such a gay and reckless spender as this foolish fellow proclaimed himself to be.
“Oh, I’ll handle them all right,” said the chief.
“You’ve got to be quick then,” remarked the young detective. “There goes some one after him now.”
A moment later there darted from one of the evil buildings, a slouching figure of a man. The shaft of light from the open door put him in dark relief. He ran to the swaying, staggering figure of the singer, who was now mumbling to himself, clapped it jovially on the back and cried:
“Come on, Jack! We’ve been looking for you! Everything is all ready! Right in here, Jack! Everything’s lovely!”
He swung the victim around, and the latter, taken by surprise, followed for a few steps. Then, as Bob and the chief watched, the singer unexpectedly stiffened and braced himself back.
“Whoa!” he exclaimed. “Hold on! Where you goin’?”
“For a good time, Jack! To see the elephants you know!”
“Yep—I know! I seen elephants before—big ones, too—in India! I’m elephant hunter, I am—but my name ain’t Jack.”
“Oh, well, Jill then—Jack or Jill, it’s all the same to me. I’m a friend of yours.”
But a spirit of opposition had been awakened in the victim. It was a small matter—that of a name, but small matters turn the tide in cases like these.
“If you’re friend of mine, you oughter know my name,” went on the celebrator, swaying and reeling as the other held him up, “You tell me my name an’ I’ll go with you.”
The other laughed and then tried a bluff.
“Sure, I know your name!” he declared. “It’s Bill—good old Bill! Now come on!”
He had made a shot in the dark—in the dark in more ways than one. The chances were in his favor. Bill is a fairly common name, and many a “sport” answers to it even though he may be Tom, Dick or Harry. But again the spirit of perverseness took control of the victim.
“No ’tain’t!” he cried. “I ain’t Bill—never was—never will be. You guessed wrong—you’re no friend of mine. Now lemme be! I’m goin’ to find elephant. Tom’s my name—Tom Black, an’ I’m proud of it. Now lemme go!”
He shook off the hold of the other, and the man who had slipped out of the den of thieves stood irresolute for a moment. He was taken aback, but did not want to use too much force in getting his victim within his clutches. He must try another game, and still be gentle about it.
But at the mention of the name Tom Black the chief nudged Bob.
“Guess we’re on the wrong lay,” he said.
“Do you think he’d give his right name?” asked the lad.
“They generally do—in his condition. Of course he may be going under two names, but I don’t believe this is Rod Marbury.”
Bob had begun to think so from the moment he had seen how easy it was—that is comparatively easy—to pick up the trail of the suspect.
“If we could get a look at him,” the young detective suggested.
“That’s what we’ve got to do, Bob. Come on. It’s getting lighter now. We’ll catch him in front of one of these doorways.”
It was getting lighter, but not because the blackness of the night was passing, nor because the blessed sun was rising, nor because the rain was ceasing—for none of these things were happening. It was still night and the rain was coming down harder than ever.
But down the lane of the sordid street more doors were opening, and from each one streaked a shaft of light. In some mysterious way, like the smoke signal of the Indians, it was being telegraphed through the district of crime that “pickings” were on the way. The aforesaid “pickings” being an intoxicated man with money in his pockets. This was the sort of victim much sought after by the dwellers of the “Barbary Coast,” as the district was called by the police.
The man who had accosted the singer, if such he might be called, had slipped away in the darkness, either to get help, to concoct some new scheme, or to await a more propitious occasion.
But, meanwhile, other would-be despoilers were on the scene. And Chief Duncan proposed to take advantage of the light they were letting into the darkness.
“Come on, Bob,” he whispered. “He’s in a good position now to get a look at.”
The man was again singing, or, rather, groaning about his desire to see where the elephant was hiding. And just as he came in focus of one of the better lighted doorways, the young detective and the officer walked alongside of him. As they did so another man darted from the lighted doorway as if to swoop down like some foul bird of prey.
But, seeing the other two figures—and a glance told him they were not of his ilk—he drew back.
It needed but a glance on the part of Bob and the chief to let them see that this man bore no resemblance whatever to the description they had of Rod Marbury. Neither in build, stature nor appearance did he bear any likeness to the suspected sailor.
“No go, Bob,” spoke the chief, turning to flash a look full in the face of the staggering man.
“No,” was the answer.
“Who says I shan’t go?” angrily demanded the man, mistaking the words spoken. “I’m my own boss. I’ll go see elephant if I like!”
“I’m not going to stop you,” declared the chief. “You’re your own boss, though I wouldn’t give much for your pocketbook when you come off the Barbary Coast. Go ahead, I don’t want you.”
“Don’t you think it would be a good plan,” suggested Bob, “to get him away from this neighborhood? He’s sure to be robbed and maybe injured if he stays here.”
“You never said a truer thing in all your life, Bob Dexter,” spoke the chief. “But trying to get him to come with us wouldn’t do a bit of good. We couldn’t keep him with us all night, or until he is in better senses. He’d only be an elephant on our hands. And if we took him away from here he’d wander back again in a few hours. The night is young yet.”
“Then what can we do? I hate to see him get plucked.”
“So do I, and I have a plan. I don’t want the Cardiff police to know I’m in town. But I can telephone to headquarters, in the guise of a citizen who has seen a man with money in this dangerous neighborhood, and they’ll send the wagon and a couple of men in uniform. Brass buttons are the only thing that will impress this fellow.
“Of course they can’t arrest him, for he hasn’t done anything more than get himself into a foolish and miserable state. But they can detain him until morning, when he’ll be sober. That’s often done, and that will save his money for him. Come on, we’ll slip out of here and find a telephone.”
“Yes, but while we’re gone some one of these sharks will pull him into their holes.”
“He’ll be easy to find, Bob. Every resident here wants a chance at picking his bones, and for the one who gets him there’ll be a dozen envious ones ready to squeal. A stool-pigeon will tip the police off as to what den this fellow was hauled into, and they can take him out. There’s time enough—he won’t give up his roll easily. It takes a little time to work the game and before it’s played out I’ll have the officers here.”
Content with this Bob followed the chief out of the vile and evil district. The telephone tip was gladly received, for the police of Cardiff were not anxious to have it broadcasted that irresponsible and foolish strangers were robbed, even along the Barbary Coast. Word was given to the chief, who, of course, did not reveal his identity, that the matter would be looked after.
Having done their duty, Bob and the chief returned to the district long enough to see the clanging wagon rumble in and take away the “elephant hunter.” He had been enticed into one of the dens, but, as Mr. Duncan had said, some one “squealed,” and the police easily located the place.
“Well, I guess this ends it, Bob,” remarked the head of the Cliffside police. “It was a wild goose chase.”
“I wish it had been a wild duck,” murmured Bob.
“Why?”
“Well, a duck’s back would have shed water better than mine. I’m soaked.”
“So ’m I. But it couldn’t be helped. You’ll have to get used to worse than this, Bob, if you’re going to be a detective. And not only one night but many nights in succession.”
“Oh, I know that. I’m not kicking. Only I wish we had picked up Rod.”
“So do I. But it wasn’t to be. It was a good tip, as far as it went. But I guess Rod is safe enough, for a time. But we’ll have another shot at finding him.”
“Of course,” agreed Bob, as they chugged back to Cliffside in the rain and darkness.
It cannot be said that the young detective was very much discouraged or disappointed at the result of this excursion. It had been but a slim chance, at best, but slim chances must be taken when trying to solve mysteries or catch criminals.
As a matter of fact Bob Dexter would have been rather sorry, in a way, had the foolish man turned out to be Rod Marbury. For the credit of the capture would have gone to Chief Duncan. And Bob wanted to solve the mystery himself.
“And I want to find out the secret of the log cabin,” he told himself as he got into bed late that night, or, rather, early the next morning. “I want to find out how the key got back in the room.”
For about a week there were no more moves in the case—that is, moves which appeared on the surface. What was going on beneath no one could tell.
Pietro Margolis continued to dig holes and plant his “monkey nuts,” as Bob called them. Jolly Bill Hickey continued to reside at the Mansion House, now and then going to Storm Mountain to visit Hiram Beegle. The old sailor was now quite himself again, but he could throw no additional light on the strange robbery.
“I don’t know where the treasure is, nor whether Rod is digging it up or not,” he said. “I’m fogbound—that’s about it—fogbound.”
But Bob Dexter was anything except discouraged. He had youth and health, and these are the two best tonics in the world. Of course he would have been glad to come at a quick solution of the mystery.
“Though if I did there wouldn’t be much credit in solving it,” he told himself more than once. “If it was as easy as all that, Ned or Harry could do as well as I, and I wouldn’t like to think that. A regular detective wouldn’t give up now, and I’m not going to!”
Bob squared his shoulders, clenched his hands and walked about with such a defiant air that his chums, more than once, asked him after that why he was carrying a “chip on his shoulder.”
It was one day, about two weeks after Bob’s night trip to Cardiff that, as he passed the log cabin he saw, in what was the garden during the summer, a figure using a spade.
“I wonder if that dago is planting monkey nuts on Hiram’s place?” thought Bob, for the figure, that of a man, had his back turned. “It isn’t Hiram. I wonder——”
The man with the spade straightened up. It was Jolly Bill. He saw Bob and waved a hand.
“I’m digging worms!” he called. “Not having much luck though.”
“Digging worms?” repeated the young detective in questioning tones. “I wonder what his game is?” he said to himself as he alighted from his flivver.