Bob Dexter and the Storm Mountain Mystery or, The Secret of the Log Cabin

He seemed so hale and hearty that one could not help having a friendly feeling for him, and his weather-beaten face shone with the honesty of his purpose, while his shiny bald head seemed to give promise of a brighter sun rising on the affairs of Hiram Beegle.

“I’ll take you over to Shan’s place now, in my car,” offered Dr. Martin. “You need rest and quiet more than anything else. The police will look after things here.”

“Yes, we’ll look after things,” promised Chief Drayton. “I’ll lock up the cabin and bring you the key after this young man gets through dropping the key down the chimney, though I don’t see what good it’s going to do. I’ll lock up the place for you.”

“There isn’t much – to – to lock up – now,” said the old man slowly. “The treasure is gone!”

“Oh, we’ll get it back!” promised Chief Duncan. “What was in the box – diamonds or gold?”

“Neither one,” was the answer.

“Neither one? Then what was the treasure?” Chief Drayton wanted to know.

“Papers! Papers!” somewhat testily answered Mr. Beegle.

“Oh, stocks and bonds, I reckon. Well, you can stop payment on them. Better tell Judge Weston about it.”

“Yes! Yes! He must be told,” mumbled Hiram. “Now I want to sleep.”

He closed his eyes weakly, and the physician and others helped him into the auto. Bob had taken the big brass key, and as he and his chums went outside, followed by the police officers and a curious crowd, the young detective said to Jolly Bill:

“How long have you known Mr. Beegle?”

“Off and on all my life.”

“Do you know anything about this Rod Marbury and what sort of inheritance it was that Mr. Denby left?”

“I don’t know anything good about Rod Marbury,” was the answer. “As for Hiram’s treasure, well, I can tell a story about that if you want me to.”

“I wish you would,” said Bob, as he looked about for a way of getting up on the roof to drop the key down the chimney in the experiment. “It might help some in solving the mystery.”

Ned, who had gone on ahead a little way, around the side of the house where the chimney was built, suddenly uttered a cry of surprise.

“Look at these queer marks!” he called. He pointed to broad, flat impressions in the soft ground – impressions as though made by the foot of an elephant!

CHAPTER VII

THE KEY EXPERIMENT

Bob Dexter, when he had caught sight of the carious marks, to which attention was called by his chum Ned, found himself wishing that he was a little more alone on this mystery case.

“There are altogether too many cooks here – they’ll spoil the broth,” mused Bob, as he saw the ever-growing crowd following him and his companions around to the side of the cabin where the chimney of the fireplace was erected.

True though the “murder” had turned out to be only a mysterious robbery, coupled with an assault on the old hermit, and in this way spoiling a sensation, there was still much curiosity regarding everything connected with the matter. Even though Hiram had been taken away in the physician’s automobile.

“Where they going?” asked more than one in the throng, as he followed the milling crowd, when the police chiefs, Bob and his two chums and Jolly Bill Hickey had started away from the front door of the cabin. “What are they after?”

“I guess they think the murderer is hiding around here,” was one of the answers.

“Shucks! There ain’t been no murder!” declared a teamster who had left his load of sand near the home of Hiram Beegle. “It’s only a robbery, and not much of one at that I’m going to quit!”

Then, unexpectedly, there came a burst of hand organ music out in front, and Storm Mountain was such an isolated place that even the wheezy tones of an ancient hand organ was sufficient to create diversion. Coupled with this was a cry from some one:

“He’s got a monkey!”

This was enough to attract away most of the crowd that was following Bob and his friends (much to the annoyance of the young detective) so that by the time he reached the place of the queer marks, to which Ned had referred, the most interested investigators had that side of the cabin comparatively to themselves. And by the term “most interested investigators,” I mean Bob and the police chiefs. Of course, Jolly Bill Hickey, a lifelong messmate of the stricken man, must be included. And, of course, Ned and Harry were always anxious to help Bob.

The wheezy organ continued to grind out its “music,” if such it could be called, and accompanying it was the shrill chatter of a monkey. The crowd of men and youths laughed in delight. It did not take much to make a Storm Mountain crowd laugh.

“Well, I’m glad that dago happened along,” remarked Bob to Ned, as he bent over the marks in the soft ground.

“Do you mean you think he can help you solve this mystery?” asked Harry.

“No, but he’ll keep the crowd back while we experiment with the key by dropping it down the chimney, though I know now what the result will be.”

“Yes, he’ll keep the crowd busy,” agreed Ned. “But what do you suppose these marks are, Bob?”

Well might he ask that, for the impressions were curious. They were about a foot in diameter, and roughly circular in shape. As much as anything they resembled the marks left by an elephant’s foot.

And yet it needed but an instant’s thought to shatter that theory. There had been no small circus in the vicinity of Cliffside in many months. The place was not large enough to attract the large traveling shows. And even if it had been no show would go so far off the beaten path as to ascend Storm Mountain with a herd of elephants.

Granting that a circus had been there, and that a lone elephant had wandered off to tramp around the lonely cabin of Hiram Beegle, the marks were too few in number to have been made by any normal elephant.

“What are they, Bob?” asked Ned again. “How could they be made by an elephant?”

The young detective did not answer for a moment, but he was rapidly thinking. The elephant idea was absurd, of course. An elephant has four feet. Taking ten steps would result in forty marks having been made, and there were not half this number visible. Granting that an elephant could jump from one stand to another, and so leaving a place without any marks for a considerable distance, did not fit in with the theory.

“I can tell you what made these marks,” broke out Jolly Bill with his characteristic laugh, while Bob was on the verge of saying something.

“What did?” asked Harry. “A bird?”

“No,” replied the bald-headed, and wooden-legged man who had appeared so unexpectedly on the scene, claiming to be a friend of Hiram Beegle. “No! They were made by some one carrying a sack of potatoes, and setting it down every now and then to rest. Isn’t that it, my young detective friend?” he asked, appealing to Bob. If the latter wondered how Jolly Bill knew his claims to being a sleuth, the lad said nothing. He only remarked:

“Yes, a heavy bag of potatoes, set here and there to ease the arms of whoever was carrying it, would make just such marks as these.”

“That’s right!” cried Chief Drayton. “I’d never have thought of that – a potato sack sure enough! What do you know about that? I s’pose, Chief,” he went on, addressing the head of the Cliffside police, “that it wasn’t a sack of potatoes though, at all.”

“What do you mean – not a sack of potatoes?” asked Mr. Duncan.

“Well, I mean the scoundrel that robbed old Hiram Beegle piled his booty in a potato sack and carried it off this way. He left us a good clew, I’ll say. We can see jist which way he went with his potato sack full of booty!”

The chief seemed to relish this word “booty,” rolling it around on his tongue as if it were a choice tidbit.

“We’ve got him now!” he declared. “Come on over this way!”

“Just a moment!” spoke Chief Duncan. “We came out here to let Bob experiment with a key dropped down the chimney. We want to see if it was possible for the thief to have assaulted Hiram, gone out, locked the door after him and then have gotten the key back inside.”

“Sure we want to find that out,” agreed the Storm Mountain police force.