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

“Guess they had you barkin’ up the wrong tree, didn’t they, Bob?” asked the constable as they rode on back to Cliffside.

“In a way, yes. But, after all, maybe it’s just as well it turned out like this.”

“Just as well, Bob? Why, don’t you want to help find the rascal that robbed Hiram?”

“Yes, but I don’t believe either of these fellows did.”

“Who did then?”

“That’s what I’m going to find out.”

It was with this end in view that, two days later, Bob paid a visit to the Mansion House where Jolly Bill Hickey was still staying. Bob had a long talk with Nelson Beel, the proprietor.

“Certainly, Bob, I’ll let you do it,” was the permission given. “But I don’t like any disturbance about my place.”

“There won’t be any, Mr. Beel, I promise you that. It will all be done very quietly.”

“All right, Bob, go to it.”

Thereupon the young detective began some new tactics.

CHAPTER XXII
THE BRASS BOX

Nearly every town, or small city has, or had at one time, a large hotel known as the “Mansion House.” In this Cliffside was no exception, and the chief hostelry bore that name. It was a big, rambling, old-fashioned structure and, in its day, had housed many a “gay and festive scene,” to quote the Cliffside Weekly Banner which once ran a series of stories about famous men and places in the community.

However, though the Mansion House may once have had such a distinction as being a place (one of several thousand) where George Washington stayed overnight, now were its glories departed, and it was but an ordinary hotel. Some old residents, who had given up their homes, lived there the year around. It was the stopping place of such traveling men, or drummers, who occasionally came to the place, and the annual “assembly ball” was held there.

Being an old-fashioned hotel it had many connecting and adjoining rooms, with doors between, and transoms of glass over the said doors. It was a “family” hotel, to use the expression Mr. Beel often applied to his place.

Consequently it wasn’t difficult for Bob Dexter to secure a place of observation near the room where Jolly Bill Hickey had elected to stay for a time.

“I don’t know how long I’ll be here,” Bill had said to Mr. Beel, when Bob drove him to the place the morning of the discovery of the crime on Storm Mountain.

“Stay as long as you like – we’ll try and make you welcome!” Mr. Beel had said with the bluff heartiness that characterized him when greeting a new guest.

“And you’re sure no one will object to my wooden leg?” asked Jolly Bill.

“Huh! I’d like to see ’em!” snapped out the proprietor. “You got just as good a right to have a wooden leg as another man has to have two of flesh and blood, I reckon.”

“Thanks. I’ll do my best not to make any trouble.”

So had Jolly Bill taken up his residence, and his reference to having a “few shots left in the locker” to pay his way was amply borne out, for he met his weekly bills with great regularity.

“There’s a little cubbyhole of a room next to his,” Mr. Beel had said when Bob broached his new tactics. “It used to be used to store drummers’ trunks in, when Cliffside did a bigger business than it does now. You can get in there and look over the transom if you like.”

“Well, I’ll try it. Maybe it will be a longer session than I anticipate. But don’t let it be known that I’m there.”

“I won’t, Bob. You can slip in any time you like. I’ll furnish you with a key. And you’ll have a good excuse in being here.”

“Yes – arranging for the annual banquet of the Boys’ Club.”

For there was such a function, and it was always held at the Mansion House, the club house not being large enough. Bob had gone to the trouble of getting himself appointed a member of the Banquet Committee, and though it was still some weeks before that affair would take place, it gave sufficient excuse, in case he was questioned, to account for his presence in the hotel.

Thus it was arranged and Bob, deserting his friends and relatives for the time being, took up his quarters in the little cubbyhole of a room, adjoining that which harbored Jolly Bill and his wooden leg.

Just what Bob hoped to find out or prove he hardly knew in his own mind. Certainly he did not tell Ned or Harry, for he couldn’t. It was all so vague – merely a suspicion.

“What’s got into old Bob lately?” asked Harry of Ned, a few days after the futile chase of the milk train.

“Oh, he’s working on that Storm Mountain mystery, you can depend on that.”

“Has he said anything to you about it?”

“Nothing special. Bob never does when he’s following close on a clew. But he said he might not see us for a few days.”

“Well, I guess we’d just better let him alone.”

“Sure. He won’t thank us for butting in, and if he wants any help he knows we’ll give it to him.”

“Sure.”

Thereupon the two chums had gone off nutting again, leaving Bob Dexter to his own devices.

Taking advantage of the fact that there were few late arrivals in the Mansion House, which, unlike the Railroad hotel, did not keep open all night, Bob made his entry as an unregistered guest in his little room about two o’clock one morning. Mr. Beel was the only one around at the time.

“Good luck to you, Bob,” the proprietor had said, as he watched the lad enter his room quietly. “He’s in there,” and he motioned to the apartment of Jolly Bill and his wooden leg.

Bob’s first activity, after settling himself, was to mount on a chair and examine, as best he could in the feeble light of one electric bulb in his room, the transom over the door between his apartment and that of Jolly Bill.

At one time these two rooms had formed part of a suite, but when there was little call except for single rooms, the transom had been closed and painted black to prevent surreptitious views from one room to the other.

“And the paint’s on my side,” exclaimed Bob. “That makes it easier. I’ll scrape a peep-hole in the morning, after Jolly Bill goes out.”

Bob was concentrating his efforts and suspicions on this wooden-legged sailor now, since all efforts to trace the man with the iron hook, and his companion, had failed.

Bob did not sleep very well the remainder of that night. His mind was too filled with the possibilities that might follow his action. But toward morning he fell asleep, and the early winter sun was quite high when he opened his eyes.

“Gosh,” he exclaimed in a whisper. “I ought to have been up long ago. Wonder if he’s gone out?”

He listened but could hear no sound from the next room.

“I wish I hadn’t gone to sleep,” mused Bob, rather chagrined at himself. “Maybe he’s flown the coop and gone out on the milk train.”

But he was reassured, a little later, by hearing the voice of Jolly Bill himself. The voice followed a knock on his door – evidently a summons to arise – for there were no room telephones in the Mansion House. A chambermaid or bell boy had to come up and knock on the doors of guests to arouse them in case they requested such attention.

“All right I All right!” sounded the voice of the man with the wooden leg. “All right! I’m getting up! Got lots to do to-day!”

This was rather amusing, from the fact that since he had arrived in Cliffside Jolly Bill had done nothing in the line of work – unless digging worms to go fishing could be so called.

“All right! I’m on the job, too!” said Bob, silently to himself. Quickly he mounted to a chair which raised him so that he could look through the transom over his door. He moved silently. He did not want Bill to know, if it could be avoided, that there was a guest in the next room.

With the point of a knife blade, Bob removed a little of the black paint on his side of the transom. It gave him a peep-hole and he applied his eye to it.

Rather a mean and sneaking business, this of spying through peep-holes, the lad thought. The only consolation was that he was going through it in a good cause – his desire to bring criminals to justice and aid Hiram Beegle.

To Bob’s delight he found that he had a good view of the interior of Jolly Bill’s room, and he had sight of that individual himself, sitting on the edge of his bed and vigorously stretching himself as a preliminary to his morning ablutions.

Bill’s wooden leg was unstrapped from the stump, and lay on a chair near him, as did the heavy cane he used to balance himself, for he was a stout man.

“It couldn’t be better – if it works out the way I think it will,” mused the lad. Eagerly and anxiously he watched now for the next move on the part of the old sailor. For it was on this move that much might depend.

Having stretched himself, and rubbed his eyes to remove therefrom as much as possible of the “sleep,” by a process of dry washing, Jolly Bill prepared for his day’s activities by reaching out for his wooden leg.

“Now,” whispered Bob to himself, as he stood gazing through his peep-hole in the painted transom, “am I right or am I wrong? It won’t take long to tell if things work out the way I expect they will. Steady now!” he told himself.

Jolly Bill pulled his wooden leg toward him as he sat on the bed. He must strap it on before he could begin stumping about to begin his day of “work,” whatever that mysterious occupation was.

And then, as Bob watched, the old sailor, with a look toward the window, to make sure the shades were pulled down, plunged his hand into the interior of his wooden leg.

This artificial limb, like many of its kind, was hollow to make it lighter. There was quite a cavity within.

Another look toward the curtained window, but never a glance did Jolly Bill bestow on the painted transom over the door between his room and the cubbyhole. Why should he look there? No one had occupied it since he had been in the Mansion House. And it was unoccupied when Bill went to bed last night. He had made sure of that as he always did. But Bob had come in since.

And then, as the young detective peered through his peep-hole, he saw a sight which thrilled him.

For, from the hollow interior of his wooden leg, Jolly Bill pulled out the brass-bound box that had been so mysteriously stolen from the strong room of Hiram Beegle – the strong room which was locked in such a queer way, with the key inside and the criminal outside.

Jolly Bill held up the brass box, and smiled as he observed it.

“I guess,” he murmured, “I guess it’s about time I had another go at you, to see if I can get at what you mean. For blessed if I’ve been able to make head or tail of you yet! Not head or tail!”

And, sitting on the bed, his wooden leg beside him, Jolly Bill Hickey began fumbling with the brass box.

The eyes of Bob Dexter shone eagerly.

CHAPTER XXIII
SOLVING A PUZZLE

Many a detective, amateur or professional, having seen what Bob Dexter saw through the scratched hole in the painted transom, would have rushed in and demanded the box which held the secret of the buried treasure. But Bob knew that his case was only half completed when he discovered who had the box.

Up to within a few days ago he had suspected the mysterious and missing Rod Marbury. But with the linking up of that character with the organ grinder, and the departure of the latter with the hook-armed man, Bob had to cast some new theories.

Now he had succeeded beyond his wildest hopes, but still he was not ready to spring the trap. There were many things yet to be established.

True, there was the brass box, and as Bill, with his wooden leg not yet strapped to his stump sat looking at it on the edge of his bed, Bob could not but believe that it was the treasure box willed to Hiram Beegle, and stolen from that old sailor.

The half-whispered, exulting words of Jolly Bill himself as he eagerly eyed the box proved it to be the one sought. But Bill’s words also indicated that there was still some mystery connected with the casket – some secret about it that needed solving.

For the wooden-legged man had said:

“I’ve not been able to make head or tail of you – not head or tail!”

That indicated a failure to ascertain the hiding place of the gold buried by Hank Denby.

“But Bill’s had a try for it,” mused Bob as he watched the man. “That digging of fish worms was only a bluff. He was digging to see if the treasure might not be buried on Hiram’s place.

“And that story of monkey nuts – that was bluff, too. The Italian, or whatever Rod is, was digging for the treasure. But he didn’t have whatever is in the box to guide him. Now I wonder what’s in that box?”

Bob did not have to wait long in wonder, for the wooden-legged man, after fumbling with what seemed to be a complicated lock or catch, opened the brass-bound box, and took out a folded paper. That was all there was in the box it seemed, bearing out Hiram’s story to the effect that Hank had left him directions for finding the treasure – a most peculiar proceeding. But then the whole story of digging up the treasure on the South Sea island was peculiar – like a dream, Bob thought. Sometimes he found himself doubting the whole yarn.

But there was a paper in the brass box, that was certain, and Jolly Bill had gone to considerable trouble, not to say risk, in securing it. He had played his cards well, not to have been suspected by Hiram, Bob thought.

“But if Bill, smart as he is, can’t make head or tail of that paper, which tells where the treasure is buried, how can Hiram do so?” mused Bob. “He hasn’t as much education as Bill has. They were all common sailors, though Hank may have been the best educated – he probably was. But he would know Hiram couldn’t solve any complicated directions for digging up buried treasure, so he would have to leave him simple rules to follow.

“Now if Bill can’t make head or tail of it, how could Hiram be expected to?” That was bothering Bob now more than he liked to admit. But he was far from giving up the quest. He must watch Bill.

The one-legged sailor, unconscious that he was being observed in his “undress uniform,” was eagerly looking over the paper. He held it right-side up, and upside down. He turned it this way and that, and held it up to the light. But all to no purpose as indicated by his slowly shaking head.

“No, I can’t make head or tail of you, and that’s a fact,” he said with a sigh. “I’ll have to get help on this. But I don’t want to if I don’t have to. If I could only get Hiram to talk he might give me the lead I want. I’ll have another go at Hiram, I guess. He doesn’t suspect anything yet.”

Bill returned the paper to the little casket, closed the lid with a snap and then put the brass box back in the interior of his wooden leg. Having done this Bill proceeded to get dressed for the day.

And Bob Dexter prepared to make so quiet an exit from the Mansion House that the old sailor would not know he had been there. To this end Bob left before Bill was downstairs, slipping out the back way as arranged with Mr. Beel.

In first planning his work looking to the discovery of the thief who had taken Hiram’s box, Bob Dexter had in mind a very spectacular bit of play. It was based on some of the stories of celebrated detectives – real or imagined sleuths.

How Bob had come, by a process of elimination, to suspect that Jolly Bill was the thief, I think you can reason out for yourselves. If not I shall disclose it to you. Sufficient now to say that Bob did suspect Jolly Bill, and with good reason, though there was one big gap in the sequence of steps leading to the crime. And that was to learn how the key had been put back in the room where the unconscious Hiram lay. But of that more later.

As I say, Bob had in mind a daring bit of work as soon as he discovered for a fact that Bill had the box. This was nothing more or less than a false alarm of fire at the Mansion House. Bob reasoned that if the cry of fire were to be shouted Bill, and all the other guests, would at once rush to save that which they considered most valuable. And that if Bill kept the brass box locked somewhere in his room, he would rush to get it out, Bob fully believed.

However the discovery that the sailor kept the box in what, to him, was the best hiding place in the world, namely his wooden leg, made it unnecessary for Bob to go to the length he had planned.

Bill, himself, had given away the secret. The box was always with him. It was only necessary to take off his wooden leg and the secret of the treasure would be laid bare, so to speak.

“That is I’ll get the directions for finding the gold,” mused Bob. “But whether I can make any sense of the directions is another matter. However, well have a try.”

Bob’s first act, after emerging from the hotel by the back way, was to go home and get a good breakfast. He was just in time to eat with his uncle who was preparing to leave for his office.

“Well, Bob, you’re quite a stranger,” said Mr. Dexter, smiling.

“Yes,” admitted the lad. “But I’m going to be at home more, from now on.”

“I do hope so,” sighed his aunt. “I’m so worried about you, Bob! You aren’t going to get into danger, are you?”

“No, indeed, Aunt Hannah.”

“Well, I know one thing he’s going to get into next week,” said Uncle Joel dryly.

“What’s that?” asked Bob.

“School,” was the laconic reply. “School opens next week.”

“I shan’t be sorry,” replied Bob. “I’ll clean up this case and be glad to get back to my books. There’s a lot of fun at school.”

But there yet remained considerable work to be done on the Storm Mountain mystery and the solving of the secret of the log cabin. To this end the young detective visited Hiram Beegle in the lonely shack that morning. To the old sailor Bob told certain things, and certain things he didn’t tell him. But what he said was enough to cause Hiram to sit down and write Jolly Bill a letter, a letter worded as Bob suggested.

Whether it was this letter, or because he wanted to see his old messmate is not certain, but, at any rate, Jolly Bill Hickey called at the log cabin next day. And Bob Dexter was there.

So, also, were Bob’s chums, Ned and Harry. None of the lads, however, was in evidence, being in fact, concealed in the strong room – that same room which had been so mysteriously locked after the theft of the brass box.

Bob had given up, for the time being, any attempt to solve the mystery of the key. He found it better to concentrate on one thing at a time, and the principal matter was to get Hiram into possession of the treasure that was rightfully his.

“What do you want us to do, Bob?” asked Ned as, with Harry, he sat in the strong room, waiting the development of the plot.

“Well, well have to be guided pretty much by circumstances,” Bob answered. “Jolly Bill is coming here, and Hiram is going to talk to him. Bill doesn’t know we’re here. At least I hope he doesn’t. Perhaps you’d just better leave it to me. Follow me when I go out and back me up.”

“Sure well do that,” promised Harry.

So they waited and, in due time, Bill came stumping up the path. He had engaged a taxicab, or one of the decrepit autos in Cliffside which passed for such, and so rode up to the log cabin in style. At Bob’s suggestion, Hiram had offered to pay for the taxi, in order to insure Bill’s presence.

“Well, here I am, old timer! Here’s your old friend Jolly Bill Hickey! Here’s your old messmate!” greeted the one-legged man as he clapped Hiram heartily on the shoulder. “We must stick together, messmate. You’ve had hard luck and I’ve had hard luck. Now well stick together.”

“He’ll stick Hiram all right, if he gets the chance,” whispered Ned.

“Quiet,” urged Bob, who was listening at the keyhole of the strong room, the door of which was closed, but not locked.

After some general conversation, during which Bill emphasized his friendship for Hiram, the one-legged man asked:

“Haven’t you any idea, Hiram, where old Hank would be likely to bury that treasure of his? If you had you could go dig it up, you know, without waiting to find the box with the map in. If you had an idea, you know, I could help you dig. I only got one leg, that’s true, but I can dig. Look how I dug the fish worms.”

“Yes, you did dig worms, Bill,” admitted Hiram gently. “And I don’t see how you did it. It must have hurt your leg – I mean the stump where your wooden leg is fastened on. Why don’t you take off your wooden leg, Bill, and rest yourself. Come on, take off your wooden leg.”

“What’s that!” cried Bill, with more emphasis than the simple request seemed to call for. “Take off my leg? I guess not! I only take it off when I go to bed.”

“Well, take it off now, and go to bed,” urged Hiram. He was following a line of talk suggested by Bob, though the latter had not disclosed the reason therefor.

“What – take off my wooden leg and go to bed – in the morning?” cried Bill. “You must be crazy, Hiram! What’s gotten into you?”

“I want to see you take off that wooden leg, Bill,” was the mild reply. “I’d like to see that wooden leg off you.”

“Well, you aren’t going to see it off me!” snapped out Jolly Bill, who was anything but that now. “I’m not going to take off my wooden leg to please any one! There’s something wrong with you, Hiram. I can tell that.”

His voice was suspicious. Bob looked toward his silent chums. The time to act was approaching.

“You won’t take off your wooden leg, Bill?” asked Hiram.

“Not for anybody – not until I go to bed!” declared the other vigorously.

“Well, then, it’s time you went to bed!” cried Bob, as he swung open the door and walked out into the main room of the log cabin, closely followed by Ned and Harry.

“Wha – what – what’s the meaning of this?” cried Jolly Bill, when he could get his breath. “What – why, it’s my friend Bob!” he cried, with seeming pleasure as he arose and stumped forward with extended hands. “My old friend Bob. Shake with Jolly Bill!”

“We’ll shake your leg – that’s all we’ll shake!” cried Ned, taking his cue from what Bob had said.

“And you might as well go to bed now,” added Harry.

Jolly Bill was standing near a couch, and suddenly, with a gentle push, Harry sent him backward so that he fell, full length on this improvised bed.

So sudden was the push, gentle as it was, that it took away the breath of Jolly Bill. He gasped and spluttered on the couch, trying in vain to raise his head, for Ned was holding him down. And as a horse cannot rise if you hold his head down, so, neither, can a man, and Bill was in just this situation.

“Let me up, you young rascals! Let me up! I’ll have the law on you for this! I’ll call the police! What do you mean? Hiram, what’s the game? You asked me here to talk about the treasure – you said you might divide it, and now – stop! stop!” yelled Jolly Bill.

And well might he yell “stop!” for he felt many hands fumbling at his wooden leg. Hands were unbuckling the straps that held the wooden limbs to his stump. And Hiram’s hands were among these.

“Stop! Stop!” angrily cried Bill. “What are you doing to me?”

“Taking off your leg – that’s all,” answered Bob quietly as he finally pulled the wooden member away from its owner. “But it isn’t going to hurt you, Jolly Bill. This is all we want – now you may have your leg back again!”

As Bob spoke he pulled from the hollow interior of the wooden limb the brass-bound box. At the sight of it Hiram raised a cry of delight.

“That’s mine! That’s mine!” he shouted. “It was stolen from me! It holds the secret of the buried treasure. And you had it all the while, Bill Hickey. You tried to rob me! Give me that box! Scoundrel!”

Bob, with a smile, passed it over. Nor could he cease smiling at the look of chagrin in the face of Jolly Bill Hickey. That individual seemed in a daze as he fumbled at his wooden leg and looked within the hollow of it.

“Empty! Gone!” he gasped.

“Yes, Bill, the jig is up for you,” remarked Bob. “You had your try at solving the puzzle, but you couldn’t make head or tail of it, could you? Not head or tail!”

At hearing repeated to him the very words he had used in reference to the brass box, Bill turned pale.

“Wha – what’s it all about? Who are you, anyhow?” he gasped and there was a look of fear on his face as he gazed at Bob.

“He’s just an amateur detective, that’s all,” chuckled Harry.

“But I guess he’s solved this mystery,” added Ned.

“No, not quite all,” admitted Bob with a smile. “We have yet to find the treasure. Bill had a try at it, but he couldn’t locate it. Now we’ve got to solve the puzzle. Do you mind opening that box, Mr. Beegle? It isn’t difficult. The difficulty lies inside, I think.

“And don’t try any of your tricks, Bill Hickey,” he sternly warned the wooden-legged sailor, who was still holding his artificial limb with a look of wonder on his face. “If things turn out all right, and Hiram doesn’t want to make a complaint against you, we’ll let you stump off. But if you cut up rough – we’ll have the police here in no time.”

“I’m not going to cut up rough,” said Bill, humbly enough, “But you won’t make anything out of that,” he added, as Hiram drew a folded paper from the brass box. “I tried. I might as well admit it, for you seem to know all about it,” he went on. “I tried but I couldn’t make head or tail of it. There’s no sense to it. I don’t believe there is any treasure. I believe Hank used it all up himself and then left this silly paper to tease you, Hiram. It’s a lot of bosh!”

And when Bob Dexter and his chums glanced at the paper they were inclined to agree with Jolly Bill, who now was far from what his name indicated.

For written in a plain, legible hand in black ink on what seemed to be a bit of old parchment, was this strange message:

It will not do to dignify, or, let us say, to magnify a sun spot. For ten million years thousands of feet have, to give them their due, tried to travel east or west, and have not found ten of these spots. The sunny south of the Red Sea makes a gateway that entices many away from their post of duty. In summer cows eat buttercups and they fatten up a lot.

“Whew!” ejaculated Ned as he read this. “What does it mean?”

“Reads like some of the stuff we have to translate in High School,” added Harry.

“It’s a puzzle, that’s what it is,” said Bob. “But we’ll have to solve it. Now, Mr. Beegle – ”

“Look out – there he goes!” cried the sailor, as he jumped toward the door. But he was too late to intercept Bill Hickey who, having strapped on his wooden leg, was now pegging away at top speed down the trail from Storm Mountain.