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

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 exactly know him, 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 da monk grow – maka him eats grow.”

“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.