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

“Naw, they weren’t goin’ to any party! They wanted to catch the milk train to get out of town. There was something in the wind, I’m sure of that. And I’m just as glad they got out of my hotel. I keep a respectable place, I do!” growled the big, burly Irishman.

He did – when he thought it served his purpose to do so. The police, more than once, had combed Mike Brennan’s place in a search for criminals, and Bob knew this.

“So they took the milk train, did they?” he asked.

“Yep! Got out of town as soon as they could – hand organ, monkey and all.”

“Well, then I can’t give him another job,” remarked the young detective, as if this was the object which had brought him at that early morning hour to the Railroad House. “We’ll have to get a man with a harp next time we want special music,” and he laughed.

“A harp is good!” chuckled Mike Brennan. “Sure, I might have a go at that meself! Good-night t’ you!”

“Good-night!” echoed Bob, as he jumped into his flivver. “I guess he hasn’t tumbled,” he said to himself as he steered in the direction of the railroad station. “I may have this all to myself yet.”

Bob’s idea is clear to you, I suppose. The name Rodney had opened up big possibilities to him. Rodney – Rod – Rod Marbury – the suspect. And yet Mike Brennan either had not heard this name used in connection with the robbery at Storm Mountain, or he did not connect Rodney with Rod. For Rod was the name most often used by the police and in the stories circulated about the queer case.

“Rodney doesn’t mean anything to him, except that his Italian guest was 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?”