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

CHAPTER XV
A SINGER IN THE DARK

“This tip just came in,” explained Chief Duncan when Bob had joined him, a little excited by the news and by his quick trip from home. “I thought I’d rather have you with me chasing it down, than to take Caleb or even Sam Drayton.”

“Glad you thought of me,” murmured Bob. Caleb Tarton was the chief constable of Cliffside, while Mr. Drayton, of course, was the chief of Storm Mountain.

“Yes,” went on Mr. Duncan as he got into Bob’s car, for it had been decided to use that. “Of course this may be only a wild goose chase, but often you can catch chickens when you’re after geese. And, speaking of chickens, that’s the sort of case Caleb is on now. That’s another reason I couldn’t bring him.”

“A chicken case?” murmured Bob.

“Yes, seems that Tume Mellick has been missing a lot of his fowls lately, and he asked us to investigate. So I sent Caleb over.”

“Hope he finds the thief,” said Bob.

“Yes. Well, he’ll get a chicken supper out of it, anyhow. Tume always serves chicken to his company. But now about this case, Bob. Do you think you would know this fellow Rod Marbury if you were to see him?”

“It’s hard to say. I’ve never laid eyes on him, as far as I know. All I have to go by is the description Hiram gives.”

“Yes, that’s all I have. I wrote it down but I remember it. A short, stout fellow, with dark hair and a long scar on one cheek that he got in a fight.”

“That’s the description I remember,” stated Bob. “But of course if this fellow didn’t want to be discovered he could disguise himself.”

“Oh, sure,” agreed the Cliffside chief. “But they can’t hide all the marks. And when you take into consideration the fact that this suspect is a sailor, and bound to act like one, that may give him away.”

“There’s something in that,” admitted the lad. “How did you hear about him?”

“Oh, Hank Miller just got back from Cardiff – went over to sell a load of apples to the cider mill, and I’ve got my suspicions of that cider mill; by the way, I think they make a whole lot stronger cider than the law allows. But that’s for the Cardiff police to look after – ’tisn’t in my territory. Anyhow, Hank was telling me about a fellow he saw in town, spending money pretty freely, and boasting that he could get a lot more when that was gone. He acted like a sailor, so Hank said, and right away it occurred to me it might be this Rod.”

“Yes, it might be,” assented Bob. “But it doesn’t seem likely, that if this is Rod Marbury, he’d stay around here and spend the money so close to the place where he robbed Hiram Beegle.”

“You can’t always tell by that,” declared the chief wisely. “I’ve known many a criminal to keep out of the hands of the detectives a long time just by staying right near the spot where the crime was committed. He figured out they’d never look for him there, and they didn’t. They went to all sorts of other places and never thought of looking or inquiring near home.”

“Yes, I’ve heard of such cases,” admitted Bob. “I suppose it would be a good plan for a robber to live next door to the place he robbed – or very near it – for no one would think he had the nerve to do that.”

“There’s a whole lot to that!” declared the chief.

It was a dark night, and a storm was coming up, but this did not daunt the old chief nor the young detective. They made as good time as was possible to Cardiff and then there confronted them the problem of finding the suspect.

Hank Miller had said the fellow whom he supposed might be Rod Marbury had been seen in many places in Cardiff, spending his money freely and foolishly. Of course the Cardiff police might have knowledge of such an individual. He could hardly escape notice. But neither Bob nor Chief Duncan wanted to disclose their hand In this matter. That is they wanted to make the capture alone, if capture there was to be made.

“I tell you what we can do,” said the chief, as they passed slowly into the town. “We can park the car and shift about a bit on foot. We’ll learn more that way. And we can drop into some of these pool parlors where Hank said he saw this fellow.”

“Yes, we can do that,” agreed Bob.

It was not a very pleasant way to spend an evening, particularly as it was now beginning to drizzle, and was cold, too. But Bob and the chief grimly resolved to go through with it.

“I don’t much care for any of the Cardiff police to see me,” remarked Mr. Duncan as Bob parked the flivver. “Not that they’re any great shakes at picking out folks, but one of them might spot me and it would make talk. So I’ll just pull my hat down over my eyes and turn up my coat collar – the rain will be a good excuse, anyhow.”

“Good idea,” declared Bob, and a little later hardly any of their friends would have recognized the two had they seen them slouching through the streets of Cardiff – the place was rather more of a city than was Cliffside.

Chief Duncan knew the less inviting parts of Cardiff – the haunts which would, most likely, prove attractive to those who liked their pleasures strong, or who had reason to keep out of the ken of the police. So it was to not very respectable pool rooms and cigar stores that Bob was led. However, he steeled himself against the sights he saw and went through with it.

All sorts and conditions of men were met with – young men, old men and middle-aged men – far too many young men, be it said, who seemed to have nothing better to do this evening than to hang around a pool table, a flopping cigarette dangling from their lips as they squinted down the length of a cue.

The places were blue with smoke – vile tobacco it was, too – but those moving about in the blue, acrid haze seemed to like it. However, it wasn’t very good for complexions. Most of the faces were a pasty white in hue.

There were many men, it seemed, who might be wanted for one criminal charge or other, but not one of them seemed to be a free spender. In fact, few of those in the pool rooms and cigar stores appeared to have any more money than they actually needed. They were a poor lot.

“Tin horn sports and cheap skate gamblers,” was the way Chief Duncan characterized them, and Bob agreed.

In some places there were dance halls attached to the pool rooms, and these were the worst of all, for women and girls were there who might have done better to have remained away.

The blare of horrible “jazz” shot out of many an open door, and in their quest Bob and the chief entered. The air in some of the dance places was almost as blue with smoke as in the pool “parlors,” but the women and girls – nearly all the latter with bobbed hair – did not seem to mind. In fact, some of the girls were leeringly puffing on cigarettes.

“Not very nice places, eh, Bob?” asked the chief as they left one, filling their lungs with the clean air outside – air filled with rain and frost, but clean – just clean!

“They’re rotten!” declared Bob Dexter.

“Well, there aren’t many more,” said Mr. Duncan. “Are you game?”

“Oh, sure! We’ll go through with it. But the sailor doesn’t seem to be on hand.”

“We may locate him yet. These fellows drift from one night haunt to another. We may go back to the first place and pick him up.”

The rain was now falling smartly, but our seekers did not turn back. They kept on with the quest.

“There’s one place down this street I’d like to look into,” murmured Mr. Duncan.

He turned down what was more of an alley than a street. Here and there a dim gas lamp flickered, adding to rather than relieving the blackness. Halfway down there was a blur of brightness, showing where the light streamed from the doors of another pool place.

“We’ll take a look in there,” said the chief.

They made their way down the alley, splashing in puddles, tramping in the mud and getting more and more wet and miserable every moment.

Suddenly, out of the shadow of some ramshackle building, or perhaps from some hole in the ground, there lurched a swaying figure. And the figure was that of a man who raised his cracked voice in what he doubtless intended for a melody and howled, rather than sang:

 
“Then spend yer money free,
An’ come along o’ me,
An’ I’ll show yer where th’ elephant is hidin’!”
 

The chief caught Bob by the arm, halting him.

“Maybe that’s Rod!” he whispered.

CHAPTER XVI
THE WORM DIGGER

Somehow Bob Dexter thought that the game wasn’t going to fall into their hands as easily as all that It would be too good to be true. Of course they had trailed after the suspect through a long, dreary evening, and at much personal discomfort But here, in front of them, it being only necessary for the chief to step forward and arrest him, was the man answering the description of the free spender.

He had betrayed himself, and yet – Bob could not credit their good luck.

“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.