We finally got to the island with the maps and papers.
Bob Dexter and the Storm Mountain Mystery
OR
The Secret of the Log Cabin
By
WILLARD F. BAKER
Author of “Bob Dexter and the Club House Mystery,”
“Bob Dexter and the Beacon Beach Mystery,”
“The Boy Ranchers,”
“The Boy Ranchers on the Trail,” etc.
ILLUSTRATED
NEW YORK
CUPPLES & LEON COMPANY
BOOKS BY WILLARD F. BAKER
THE BOB DEXTER MYSTERY SERIES
12 mo. Cloth. Illustrated.
BOB DEXTER AND THE CLUB HOUSE MYSTERY
BOB DEXTER AND THE BEACON BEACH MYSTERY
BOB DEXTER AND THE STORM MOUNTAIN MYSTERY
Other Volumes in preparation
THE BOY RANCHERS SERIES
THE BOY RANCHERS
THE BOY RANCHERS IN CAMP
THE BOY RANCHERS ON THE TRAIL
THE BOY RANCHERS AMONG THE INDIANS
THE BOY RANCHERS AT SPUR CREEK
THE BOY RANCHERS IN THE DESERT
CUPPLES & LEON COMPANY, New York
Copyright, 1925, by
Cupples & Leon Company
Bob Dexter and the Storm Mountain Mystery
Printed in the U. S. A.
Contents
- [The Man with the Box]
- [The Log Cabin]
- [Startling News]
- [Wooden Leg]
- [A Mysterious Robbery]
- [Strange Marks]
- [The Key Experiment]
- [Jolly Bill’s Tale]
- [On the Trail]
- [Sailor’s Knots]
- [No Potatoes]
- [Monkey Land]
- [Queer Planting]
- [A Night Pursuit]
- [A Singer in the Dark]
- [The Worm Digger]
- [Bob Gives a Party]
- [The Man with the Hook]
- [The Last Chord]
- [New Suspicions]
- [New Tactics]
- [The Brass Box]
- [Solving a Puzzle]
- [The Treasure]
- [The Key Trick]
BOB DEXTER AND THE STORM MOUNTAIN MYSTERY
CHAPTER I
THE MAN WITH THE BOX
“Come on, Bob, going to the ball game!”
“It’s going to be a corker! Better hurry if you want a good seat!”
Two young men paused at the front gate of a neat cottage, standing somewhat back from a quiet side street of the village, and looked toward another youth who was seated on the porch. This lad glanced up from a book he was reading as his two chums, Harry Pierce and Ned Fuller, hailed him.
“Come on, Bob!” urged Harry, opening the gate. “What’s the idea? You’re usually the first one in the grand stand when our club plays the Midvale nine.”
“Looks as if you didn’t want to root for the home team,” went on Ned as he followed his companion up the front walk.
“Oh, I’d like to root for them all right, and I’d like to see them win, of course,” answered Bob Dexter, as he closed the book he had been reading. But his chums noticed that he kept one finger in between the pages so he would not lose his place.
“Well, then, you’d better get a move on!” urged Harry. “They won’t keep club members’ seats for them much longer, and there’ll be a big mob there—this is the deciding game of the series.”
“Yes, I know,” said Bob, “but I’m not going!”
“Not going!” cried the other two, and there was much surprise in their voices.
“What’s wrong?” demanded Harry. “You aren’t soured on the club, are you?”
“Of course I’m not,” and Bob smiled. “I should have said I can’t go. I’ve got something to do.”
“What do you mean—finish that book—a detective story, I’ll stake a cookie on it!” exclaimed Ned. “I thought so!” he added, as he turned the book over in Bob’s hand and disclosed the title which was “The Strange Case of the Twisted Ear.”
“Say, look here!” broke in Harry, as he playfully snatched the book from Bob. “If you’re going to stay here and read one of your everlasting detective stories, when the most important club ball game of the season is being played—well, all I’ve got to say is that Ned and I won’t let you!”
“Atta boy! You let out an earful that time!” cried Ned.
The two chums caught hold of Bob and pulled him from the chair. Laughingly he protested and made fast to one of the porch pillars to avoid being yanked off.
“Cut it out, fellows! Cut it out!” begged Bob. “It isn’t that at all! I’m not staying here to read a detective story, though I was glancing over this French one while I was waiting. But I’ve got to do something for my uncle, and that’s why I’m staying here. I want to go to the ball game as badly as you fellows do. And I’m coming as soon as a certain man appears with some important papers for Uncle Joel. But I can’t go until then—really, I can’t. Uncle Joel told me to stay here, waiting for this man. It’s very important.”
There was that in Bob’s voice which impressed his chums. They released their holds on him, rather reluctantly be it said, and Bob picked up the book that had fallen to the porch floor, and resumed his seat in the chair, albeit somewhat ruffled by the dragging process.
“Well, that’s different, of course,” admitted Ned as he straightened his collar which had been shifted in the struggle.
“Why didn’t you say at first that you were staying here because your uncle asked you to?” inquired Harry. He and Ned knew the stern qualities of Bob’s Uncle Joel. Though a just man, Mr. Dexter, who was brother to Bob’s dead father, insisted on strict obedience from his nephew, especially in matters of business.
“This is a business matter,” said Bob. “I would have told you fellows, if you’d given me a chance. But you went off, half cocked, and I couldn’t make myself heard.”
“Oh, all right. Maybe we were a bit hasty,” conceded Ned.
“But when we saw you sitting here, doing nothing but reading a detective story, we concluded you didn’t have anything else to do, and that you could just as well as not come to the ball game with us,” added Harry.
“I’d come in a minute if Uncle Joel hadn’t wished this job on me!” declared Bob. “But you know how it is—I’m not exactly my own boss.”
“Yes, we know,” admitted Harry.
Bob Dexter was an orphan, dependent on his uncle, and while Mr. Dexter was just and kind, still he had rights that must be respected, and Bob realized this.
“Uncle Joel is pretty good to me,” went on Bob. “And I’ve got to pay him back as much as I can. Look how he let me have a lot of time to myself going to Beacon Beach this summer.”
“And a mighty good thing you did go to Beacon Beach!” exclaimed Ned. “If you hadn’t the mystery there never would have been solved.”
“Oh, I guess some one else would have stumbled on it,” said Bob, modestly.
“I’m not so sure of that,” chimed in Harry. “Anyhow, we won’t bother you any more. Go on—finish the job, whatever it is.”
“Couldn’t you come to the ball game and do it afterward—whatever your uncle wants you to do?” asked Ned.
Bob shook his head.
“It can’t be done,” he replied. “If I can get over to the park later I’ll be there. I hope I can see the last half of the game, anyhow. But it’s like this. Mr. Sheldon, a man with whom my uncle does a lot of business of one kind or another, is sending some important papers on to-day to be signed. If they aren’t signed to-day it means the loss of a lot of money. Mr. Sheldon is passing through Cliffside on the train that gets here at 2:30. He hasn’t time to get off, as he has to go on to a conference with his lawyer. But he’s going to hand me the papers at the depot, when the train stops, and I’ve got to rush them up to my uncle’s office. That’s why I can’t go to the ball game.”
“Why doesn’t your uncle himself meet this Mr. Sheldon at the train and sign the papers?” asked Ned. “Oh why can’t some one else meet this man who’s in such a hurry?”
“I don’t know why it can’t be done that way, but it can’t, or my uncle wouldn’t ask me to do it,” said Bob, simply. “I suppose he has good reasons for not going to the train himself. And he doesn’t want to trust an ordinary messenger to get the papers. So I’ll have to do it. Then, after I get through, if there’s time enough, I’ll come to the game.”
“All right,” assented Harry, satisfied with this explanation. “We’ll try and save a seat for you—you know where we usually sit.”
“Yes, I know,” said Bob, as he laid his book just inside the front door.
“And if you’re going to meet that 2:30 train it’s time you got a move on,” added Ned.
“Yes, I’m going to start now,” said Bob. “Have to make a time allowance for the little old flivver,” he added with a laugh. “If you fellows like I’ll drop you off at the ball park.”
“Drop us off is good!” laughed Ned.
“If the old flivver doesn’t drop apart itself on the way down,” added Harry.
“Oh, I guess she’ll hold together that long,” chuckled the young detective—for Bob was just that, as some of you know, and as others of you will learn in the course of this story. Bob walked around to the side drive where stood an ancient and honorable automobile of the class generally called flivvers. Truly it was ancient, and Bob had added the title honorable, for it had given him good service in spite of the small price he paid for it.
“Can you get her going?” asked Ned, as he and his chum looked somewhat dubiously at the machine.
“Well, I don’t want to make any rash statements,” chuckled Bob, “but I think if I give her a good dose of talcum powder, and rub a lip stick on the carburetor she may be induced to give us service. Hop in and I’ll have a go at her.”
“Better wait until he gets her started before you hop in,” cautioned Ned to Harry. “She may buck with you.”
“Oh, she isn’t as temperamental as all that,” laughed Bob. He climbed to the seat, turned on the ignition and pressed the self-starter pedal. There was a sort of groaning hum.
“I thought so! Come on, Ned, we’ll walk!” laughed Harry.
But a moment later the engine began to turn over with a steady throb, hum and roar that told of plenty of power, each of the four cylinders firing evenly and regularly.
“Not so bad!” announced Ned, listening with a critical ear.
“Yes, I’ve got her pretty well tuned up,” admitted Bob with pardonable pride. “I guess she’ll take me there and back.”
“Well, we’ll take a chance,” said Harry, and soon the three chums were rattling down the road. Rattling is the proper word, for though the flivver certainly moved, she also rattled, as do most of her kind. But rattling is no crime.
“Say, there’s going to be a big crowd,” observed Bob as he slowed up at the ball park to let his chums jump off. “Wish I could see the game!”
“Same here,” remarked Harry. “Yes, there’s going to be a mob all right!”
Though it would be nearly an hour before the game started, already throngs were congregating at the park. For the contest was an important one.
There had long been a rivalry between the Boys’ Athletic Club, to which Bob, Ned and Harry belonged, and the team from Midvale, a town about ten miles from Cliffside where Bob Dexter lived. Each year a series of games took place, and up to date the championship had wavered between the two.
This year the rivalry was keener than before, and should the Boys’ Club clinch this contest it meant winning the pennant for the season. Hence the interest.
“Root hard, fellows!” begged Bob as he started his machine off again, while his chums hastened to get the seats reserved for club members. “I’ll get back in time for the last inning if I can!”
“Atta boy!” called Ned.
It was with rather a disappointed air that Bob continued on to the railroad station. But, after all, he knew he must do his duty, and helping his uncle, who was bringing him up, was part of this.
The 2:30 train pulled in a little late, and Bob, who had been told what Mr. Sheldon looked like, so he would know him, caught sight of this individual out on the platform of one of the cars, while the train was yet moving. Mr. Dexter had arranged for the transfer of the papers, and to make sure that Mr. Sheldon would know Bob, the latter carried in his hand a red dahlia from his aunt’s garden.
“You’re Bob Dexter, aren’t you?” cried Mr. Sheldon as he held a bundle of legal-looking documents to the lad. “Yes, I see you have the red flower. It’s all right, tell your uncle, but the papers must be signed before two witnesses before three o’clock. I’ll look after the other matters for him. Glad the train wasn’t any later and I’m glad you are here on time. I was getting a bit worried. If things had gone wrong it would mean a big loss. Don’t lose any time getting those papers back to your uncle now. Good-by!”
“Good-by,” was all Bob had time to say, and then the train pulled out again, for it seldom stopped long at Cliffside. Mr. Sheldon went back to his seat in his car, waving his hand to Bob. The latter looked at the bundle of papers, though they told him nothing of the business they represented. However, Bob did not think much about that. His affair was to get the documents to his uncle as soon as he could. And it was now twenty minutes to three by the depot clock.
“Hope the old flivver doesn’t go back on me!” mused Bob as he climbed to his seat. He was glad to find that the motor turned over at the first touch on the self-starter pedal, and he was about to let in the clutch and dart away when he was hailed by a voice calling:
“I say there young feller, can you give me a lift?”
He turned to see, beckoning to him, an old man—a grizzled old man with a short, stubby beard. Under his arm the man, whose clothing was not of the best nor most up to date, carried a small brass-bound box—a box such as might contain papers or other things of value. And yet the appearance of the man did not indicate that he was in the habit of carrying things of value.
He was, to put it bluntly, but a few degrees removed in appearance from a tramp, though Bob noticed his face and hands were clean, which is not often the case with tramps.
“I’m in a hurry,” said Bob, as civilly as he could under the circumstances.
“So am I,” said the man with the box. “I’ve got to get to Storm Mountain as quick as I can.”
Storm Mountain was a town well up amid the hills, about five miles from Cliffside. It was located on the side of a big hill also called Storm Mountain.
“Sorry, but I’m not going up Storm Mountain way,” said Bob, as he slowly allowed the flivver to get up speed.
“But I’m willing to pay you!” said the man, shifting his brass-bound box under his other arm as he limped forward—Bob noticed that he walked with a slight limp.
“I’m not a taxicab—you can hire one in town or over there,” and Bob pointed to where usually some ancient autos stood—representing the jitney and taxi service of Cliffside. Just now there were no vehicles there, as they seldom met the 2:30 train.
“I’d hire one if I could,” said the man with the box. “But I can’t. I’ll pay you well to take me to Storm Mountain.”
“I’m sorry, but I have an important engagement in town,” said Bob, as he let his car gather speed. “You’ll have to get some one else.”
“All right,” said the man good-naturedly enough. He turned back to the station, and as he drove off Bob was rather glad that he could conscientiously refuse the service.
“For, to tell the truth,” said Bob to himself, “I don’t altogether like your looks, nor the looks of that box you carry. You may be all right, but I’ve got important papers and I’ve got to look after them.” He made good time to his uncle’s office, and found Mr. Dexter rather anxiously waiting for him.
“Oh, you have them, I see!” exclaimed Mr. Dexter as he took the bundle of papers from his nephew. “Mr. Sheldon was there all right, I take it?”
“Yes, and he said he’d attend to the other matters. But these must be signed before two witnesses by three o’clock.”
“I know it, Bob. I’ll attend to it right away. You had no other trouble, did you—I mean no one stopped you to ask to look at the papers—or anything like that?” Mr. Dexter seemed anxious and nervous.
“No, I wasn’t exactly stopped,” Bob answered. “But there was an old man with a box who wanted me to take him to Storm Mountain.”
“What sort of a man, Bob?” eagerly asked his uncle.
Bob described the individual, and a look of relief came over Mr. Dexter’s face.
“It isn’t any one I know,” he said. “I guess it’s all right, Bob. You may go now. Thanks for attending to this for me. I can look after matters now.”
“Then I’ll go to the ball game,” announced Bob.
He was on his way to the park, taking a short cut along a back road when, in a lonely spot he saw a huddled figure lying beside the road.
“It’s a man!” exclaimed Bob, as he stopped his machine and jumped out. “The man with the box—looks as if he’d been killed!”
CHAPTER II
THE LOG CABIN
Bob Dexter, young as he was, had been through too many strenuous experiences to be turned aside at the thought of a dead man. Besides, this was right in the line of Bob’s ambition, if you get my meaning. That is, he had fully determined to become a detective, and here seemed right at hand a mystery that needed solving. He was first on the scene—a most advantageous thing from a detective’s standpoint.
“I’ve got to keep my wits about me,” thought the lad to himself as he approached the prostrate man who lay suspiciously still and quiet in the grass beside the lonely road.
And while Bob is getting ready to solve what he hopes may be a most baffling mystery, perhaps it would be just as well if I told my new readers a little about the youth who is to figure as the hero of this story.
Bob Dexter’s father and mother died when he was quite young, and his uncle Joel Dexter agreed to care for the lad and bring him up as his own son. Uncle Joel and his wife Aunt Hannah had faithfully kept their promise, and Bob could not have asked for a better home nor for more loving care than he received.
But though loving and kind, Mr. Dexter insisted on Bob “toeing the mark,” as he called it in the matter of work and duties, including attending school. Bob’s uncle was “well fixed” as regards this world’s goods, though not exactly a man of wealth. He was interested in several businesses in Cliffside, including a hardware store he owned. He also loaned money on mortgages and kept a private office over the First National Bank, in which enterprise he was said to own several shares.
Thus Bob grew from boyhood to young manhood, and when he began to develop a taste for detective stories, and, not only that but a desire to solve local crimes and mysteries, Uncle Joel rather “put his foot down,” as he expressed it.
However, when Bob scored a point on the Cliffside police, by finding Jennie Thorp, who, it was supposed, had been kidnaped (though she wasn’t) Bob’s stock went up several points. And when, as I have told you in the first volume of this series, entitled “Bob Dexter and the Club House Mystery,” the youth solved the secret of the Golden Eagle, well, then Uncle Joel “drew in his horns,” as his wife said, and Bob “detected” to his heart’s content.
The Golden Eagle was the mascot of the Boys’ Athletic Club, and when it vanished there was a great deal of astonishment, which only subsided when Bob got the eagle back.
Following that, in the volume just preceding this one, called “Bob Dexter and the Beacon Beach Mystery,” the lad added other laurels.
He and his chums, Ned and Harry, had gone camping at Beacon Beach for their summer vacation. Almost as soon as they arrived they were enveloped in a mystery which did not end until Bob had found out why the beacon in the lighthouse went out so often, and until he had learned what the “yellow boys” were in the wreck of the Sea Hawk.
“And now I seem to be up against something else,” murmured Bob, as he approached the prostrate man in the grass, and caught sight of the brass-bound box lying near his motionless hand. “Just got back from the Beacon Beach trouble and I run into this. Well, the more the better for me—though I hope this poor old chap isn’t dead!”
He wasn’t, as Bob soon discovered. The man was breathing, and when the lad had dashed into his face some water from a nearby spring, and had poured between the stranger’s lips some from a cup Bob carried in his car for use in filling his storage battery, the man opened his eyes, looked at the youth and cried:
“Did he get it?”
“Did who get what?” Bob wanted to know.
The man’s eyes wildly roved the ground about him, and, lighting on the box he breathed a sigh of relief. He reached out a hand, drew the little chest to him and then, slipping it under his legs as he sat up on the ground he put both hands to the back of his head.
“Um!” he murmured, with a wince of pain. “Quite a lump there. Big as a hen’s egg, I guess. Would you mind taking a look, young feller, and seeing how badly I’m cut? Though I guess I’m not cut at all,” he went on, as he looked at his fingers and saw no sign of blood.
“No, you aren’t cut,” said Bob, taking a look as requested. “But what happened to you? Did you fall?”
“Sort of,” admitted the man with a half smile. “But I reckon I was tapped on the head first, or else struck with a rock to help in the falling business. Though they didn’t dare take it after they knocked me out. Rod Marbury’s nerve must have failed him in the pinch. So much the better for me. I told him I’d play fair, but he hasn’t. Now he can whistle for his share! He can whistle for a wind that he’ll never get!” and the old man, who looked but a few degrees removed from a tramp, started to get up.
“Better wait a minute,” advised Bob kindly. “You’ve been knocked out. If you rest a bit longer, and take some more water you’ll feel stronger.”
“Oh, I’m all right, young feller!” was the answer, and the man’s actions and voice betokened that he was almost his vigorous self again. “It takes more than a knock on the head with a belaying pin to do for old Hiram Beegle. I’m all right. Rod didn’t get the box, and that’s what he was after. Did you see anything of him?”
“Of whom?” Bob wanted to know.
“Of Rodney Marbury, the slickest chap I ever dealt with. He’s cute, Rod is, but his nerve failed him at the last minute, even after he knocked me out. He must have been hiding in the bushes and heaved a rock out at me as I went by. Then I passed out and he must have been frightened away by hearing you coming along.”
“It’s possible that he did,” admitted Bob. “My old machine rattles enough to be heard a long distance. But I didn’t see anybody running away from you.”
“You didn’t, eh?” asked Hiram Beegle, for that, evidently, was his name. “Well, very likely he run the other way so he wouldn’t meet you. But I’m much obliged to you, and now I’ll be on my way.”
He got to his feet and stowed the box under his left arm. Then he looked about and found a stout cudgel which he grasped in his right hand. He was the vigorous figure of a man now, ready for a fray.
“Excuse me,” said Bob, “but didn’t I see you down at the station a little while ago?”
“Yes, I was there. I asked some young feller to give me a lift to Storm Mountain, but——”
“You asked me,” spoke Bob with a smile. “I’m sorry, but I had an important engagement just then and couldn’t spare the time to take you.”
“Hum! Yes, you’re the same chap,” said Mr. Beegle, looking critically at Bob. “I don’t blame you a bit. Business first always—that’s a good rule. I waited for one of them taxi fellers like you told me to, but they wanted ten dollars to take me to Storm Mountain. I said I wanted to hire one of their cars, not buy it, and they laughed at me.”
“Ten dollars was too much,” observed Bob, looking at his watch, and trying to decide if he could make the baseball park in time to see the end of the big game. He wanted to do the Samaritan act, also, in looking after this stranger, for he did not think it either kind or wise to let him go off by himself on the five mile tramp.
“It was about eight dollars too much,” said the old man. “I would be willing to pay two, but not ten. Well, I can walk it.”
“No,” said Bob, coming to a sudden decision, “I’ll take you. I have a car and I’ve got nothing important to do now.” He had a somewhat selfish motive in making this offer—he wanted to find out more about Hiram Beegle and about Rod Marbury. He wanted to know what valuables the box contained, and why the attack had been made.
“Well, it’s mighty decent of you to want to give me a lift,” said Mr. Beegle. “I take it right kind of you. But if you do take me to my cabin I want to pay you. I’ll give you two dollars.”
“I don’t want your money,” laughed Bob.
“Then I won’t ride with you!” The old man was very firm about this. “Hiram Beegle can pay his way—there are a few shots left in the locker yet, and if things go right I’ll be rich some day,” and he shook the brass-bound box, “I’ll pay you two dollars or I’ll walk!” he concluded with a shake of his grizzled head.
“Oh, well, have it your own way,” chuckled the lad. “I’m in neither the taxi nor jitney business, but I’ll take your money, though it won’t take that much gasolene or oil to put you in Storm Mountain. Where in the town do you live?”
“I don’t live in the town, exactly,” said the old man. “I live all alone in a log cabin up on the side of the mountain. It’s a fairly good road there, or I wouldn’t let you take your car up it.”
“A flivver can go anywhere!” said Bob.
“Yes, I reckon they can. Well, I’m much obliged to you—both for coming along and scaring away Rod Marbury after he knocked me out, and for giving me a lift.”
“I’m not sure I scared away any one,” said Bob. “I didn’t see any one at all. I was coming along the road and saw you stretched out.”
“Yes, I was stretched out, all right,” chuckled Mr. Beegle, who seemed to have quite recovered now, except for the lump on the back of his head. “And I didn’t exactly see Rod myself. But I’d be willing to wager a marlin spike to a rope’s end that he had a hand in it.”
Mr. Beegle headed for Bob’s machine, the engine of which was still running, but before starting off with the old man the young detective bethought him that he had better make a few inquiries.
“Look here, Mr. Beegle,” said the lad frankly, “I’m very glad to be able to help you and give you a lift, but I must know that this is all straight. I don’t want to find out afterward that I’ve been taking part in a crime.”
“A crime, what do you mean?” the old man seemed indignant.
“I mean there’s been violence done to you. You carry something you intimate is valuable,” and Bob nodded toward the box. “You say some one tried to get it away from you. Now has there been a robbery—is that part of the spoil and is there a fight over the division of it? I have a right to know before I take you to Storm Mountain.”
Mr. Beegle seemed greatly surprised and then a smile came over his grizzled face.
“Young man, you’re right!” he exclaimed. “You have a right to know certain things. But I’ll tell you at once there has been no robbery. I came into possession of this box in a legal way, though some one would be glad to get it away from me. I inherited this. Here, I’ll prove it to you. Do you know Judge Weston?”
“The lawyer? Of course I do!” exclaimed Bob.
“Then stop at his office on the way to my cabin. Judge Weston will tell you how I came by this box. I’ll not say another word until you talk to Judge Weston.”
Bob felt a trifle mean at seeming to doubt the old man’s word, but he felt he had a right to be assured that everything was all right. So, accordingly, he drove to the office of the lawyer, who had once been a county judge, the title still clinging to him as such titles will.
“Hello, Mr. Beegle, back again!” greeted the lawyer, as Bob and his new friend entered. “Wasn’t everything in the box all right?”
“Why, yes, Judge, I think so,” was the answer. “I only took a casual look inside, but all the papers seem to be there. But I ran into a little trouble after leaving your office,” and he told of the assault on him. “Then this young feller comes along,” resumed Hiram Beegle, “and offers to take me home. But he wants to be sure I didn’t steal this box,” and Mr. Beegle chuckled.
“No, I can testify to that,” said Judge Weston with a smile. “You came into possession of it rightfully and legally. I can see Bob’s point though, and it is well taken, you being a stranger to him.
“But it’s all right, Bob. I handed this box to Mr. Beegle about two hours ago. He inherited it under the will of Hank Denby, a client of mine who died in Fayetteville about a month ago. I have been settling up the Denby estate—what there was of it—and this box comes to Mr. Beegle. I just turned it over to him.”
“And Rod Marbury didn’t have a share in it—did he?” asked the old man.
“He was not mentioned in Mr. Denby’s will,” was the lawyer’s answer. “In fact, I know nothing of this Rod Marbury except what you have told me, Mr. Beegle. And you told me in confidence so I cannot reveal that.”
“Oh, I don’t want to know any more!” broke in Bob. “I just wanted to know, after I heard there was a fight over the possession of this box, that Mr. Beegle had a right to it. Now I’ll take him home.”
“That’s very kind of you, Bob,” said the former judge. “You have my word that everything is all right, as far as Mr. Beegle’s legal possession of that box is concerned.”
“Well, are you satisfied?” asked the old man.
“Perfectly,” answered the young detective. And he made up his mind that if there was a further mystery in the matter he would try to solve it later.
“Then let’s pull up our mud hook,” went on Mr. Beegle. “It’s getting late and I’d like soon to be back safe in my log cabin. Much obliged to you, Judge.”
“Don’t mention it. The case is now closed as far as I am concerned.”
As Bob drove his machine out through Cliffside, in the direction of Storm Mountain, he saw some of his friends coming home from the ball game.
“Who won?” he called to Fred Merton.
“We did, eight to six!”
“Wow! Good enough!”
The lad and his old companion were soon on a quiet country road. Mr. Beegle had not talked a great deal, occasionally putting his hand up to his injured head.
“Does it hurt much?” asked Bob. “Had you better stop and see a doctor?”
“No, thanks. I’ll be all right. I’m not going to give Marbury another chance at me.”
“Do you think he might try to waylay you again?” asked Bob, not a little apprehensive of being in the companionship of a man against whom, it was evident, some one had a grudge.
“Oh, he won’t get me now,” was the chuckled answer. “I’ve got the weather gage on him all right. We’ll soon be at my place.”
Storm Mountain was a small village at the foot of the mountain bearing that name, and Bob soon was driving through it, taking the turns pointed out by Mr. Beegle who sat beside him.
“The next turn to the left is the road that leads to my place,” said the old man, pointing ahead. They were on a quiet stretch of country thoroughfare, steadily ascending the grade. The flivver puffed and wheezed, but kept on going.
“Here we are—my shack!” exclaimed Mr. Beegle a little later, after the turn had been made into a sort of dirt lane. “Now I’m all right.”
Bob saw before him a small log cabin, rather neat and trim, with a flower garden in front, or, rather, the remains of one, for it was now October. And in the rear were standing some lima bean poles and shocks of dried corn.
Hiram Beegle leaped out of the flivver and stood still for a moment. He looked fixedly at the log cabin and then in a low voice said to Bob:
“Would you mind waiting here a moment?”
“No. What for?” inquired the lad.
“Well, I just want to make sure nobody’s hiding in there to give me another knock on the head. I’ve been away all day—the place has been shut up. It’s just possible——”
“I’ll wait until you see if it’s all right,” said Bob, as the old man began a cautious approach toward his cabin.
CHAPTER III
STARTLING NEWS
Since noon that day so many things had happened in Bob Dexter’s life that as he watched the old man walk toward the log cabin, the lad was almost prepared for something else of a startling nature.
To begin with there had been that hurried trip to the train to get the important papers from Mr. Sheldon. And then there had been his Uncle Joel’s fear lest some one might have tried to get the documents away from Bob.
Followed then his discovery of Hiram Beegle, knocked out at the side of the road, after the young detective’s encounter with him at the railroad station, and mixed up with this was the mystery of the brass-bound box, the vindictive Rod Marbury and the lawyer’s guarantee as to Hiram’s legal right to the little chest.
And now, on top of this, some enemy might burst forth from the lonely log cabin.
But Bob was spared this last act, though as a matter of fact the strong, healthy and excitement-loving young detective would have welcomed something more to bring the day to a fitting close.
However, nothing happened. For after Hiram Beegle had cautiously scouted about the cabin for several minutes he unlocked the door, swung it back and himself jumped to one side, flattening his body out against the side of the cabin.
Bob almost wanted to laugh at this—it was like something in a moving picture melodrama. Doubtless the old man had good reason for his caution, but there was no need of it. No one leaped out at him, there was no shooting and no flashing of a thrown knife.
All was peace and quietness.
“It’s just as well to be on the safe side,” remarked Mr. Beegle as he stepped away from the side of the cabin and prepared to enter it. “No telling what Rod might be up to. Now, young man, I’ll pay you off, say much obliged and give you a drink of buttermilk right cold out of my spring house if you’ll take it.”
“Thanks,” answered Bob. “I’m very fond of buttermilk, but I’d rather not take your money,” for the old man passed over two one dollar bills.
“You got to take it—that was the bargain. And if you’ll come in and sit down a minute I’ll get you the buttermilk. I buy it off Jason Studder, down the road, and keep it cool in the spring. But first I’ll just take care of this. I’ve had trouble enough to get it, and I don’t want to lose it again.”
Bob followed the old man into the long cabin. Hiram Beegle carried the box under his arm, and without setting it down he went to a cupboard in the wall and thrust in his hand. There was a sort of clicking sound, as if machinery was operating and Bob started.
Well he might, for close beside him, as he stood near a wall of the log cabin—a wall made of smooth boards—a sort of secret panel dropped, revealing a little recess or hiding place. And in this niche was a large brass key.
“It isn’t every one I let see the place I keep the key to my strong room,” chuckled the old man. “But I trust you and Judge Weston. Rod Marbury could search a week and never find this, I’m thinking.”
“I’m not so sure of that,” replied Bob. “I think I could get at it.”
“No, you couldn’t—not even knowing that there’s a catch in this cupboard,” challenged Mr. Beegle. “Here, you try it.”
He closed the dropped panel, leaving the big brass key in the niche, and then waved his hand toward the cupboard beside the fireplace—an invitation to Bob to try.
The young detective could not see much in the cupboard—it was too small—but he felt about with trained fingers. He found a number of knobs and catches, but pressing and pulling on them one after another, and on several at the same time, produced no effect.
“You couldn’t work it in a year unless you knew how,” boasted the old man. “Of course you could tear the cabin apart and find the key that way—but it would take time.”
Once more, after Bob’s failure, Hiram put his hand within the cupboard and an instant later the secret panel dropped. So cleverly was the hidden niche made and so closely did the sliding panel fit into place, that not even with his sharp eyes could Bob see where the joining was in the wall, after the niche had been closed again.
For the old man closed it after taking out the brass key. And with this key in one hand, and the mysterious box in the other, he approached a small inner door.
“This is what I call my strong room,” he said to Bob, as he put the ponderous key in the lock. And it was a big key—like one that might be part of the great lock on some prison door. There was a clicking of the wards and tumblers of the lock, and the door was opened. It was of heavy oak, cross planks being spiked to the inner side.
Bob had his first glimpse into a room that, soon, was to play a part in a strange mystery. In fact, this was Bob’s first view of the cabin where Hiram Beegle lived, though he knew the cabin was situated on this road, for he had seen it before, some years ago. Then no one lived in it, and the place was somewhat in ruins. Now it was a most picturesque home for the old man who lived alone in it.
Bob expected to see a sort of vault when the ponderous door swung back, but he was rather surprised to note that the place contained a table, a chair and a bed, in addition to a strong chest, iron-bound and fastened with a heavy black padlock.
“Do you sleep in here, Mr. Beegle?” asked the lad and he accented the word “sleep,” so that the old man looked at him in some surprise and remarked:
“Of course I sleep here. Why not?”
“Well, there aren’t any windows in the place. How do you get fresh air?”
“Oh, that!” he laughed. “I reckon you can tell that I like fresh air as much as anybody. I’m an outdoor man—always was. Well, I don’t make a practice of sleeping here, but when I do I get plenty of fresh air through the fireplace,” and he pointed to a hearth in the room. Bob knew that an open fireplace is one of the best methods known of ventilating a room.
And certainly if ever a room needed ventilation this inner one in the lonely log cabin did, for the strong door was the only opening in it. Not a window, not a porthole, nor so much as a crack gave on the outside. It was a veritable vault, the chimney opening being the only one by which a person shut in the room could save himself from smothering.
“Yes, once I’m shut up in here not even Rod Marbury can get at me!” chuckled Hiram Beegle.
“Couldn’t he get down the chimney?” asked Bob.
“I’d like to see him try it I There’s a crook in the flue and a raccoon that once tried to get down, though why I don’t know, was stuck until I tore a hole in the outside and set the poor thing free. That’s what would happen to Rod Marbury if he tried it. No, he’d better not try to play Santa Claus with me!” and again the old man chuckled.
While Bob looked about the room, noting how strong the walls were and the thickness of the door, the old man opened the chest in the corner and in it placed the brass-bound box, snapping the padlock shut after he made his deposit.
“There!” he announced, “I guess it’s all right now. It’s safe! Rod Marbury can whistle for a breeze but that’s all the good it will do him. Now for your buttermilk, young man.”
“Oh, don’t trouble about me!” begged Bob.
“It isn’t any trouble. It’s only a step to the spring and I’d like a drink myself after what I’ve been through.”
“Aren’t you going to notify the police?” asked Bob as he preceded the old man from the strong room, watching him turn the ponderous key in the lock.
“Notify the police? What about?” asked Hiram Beegle.
“About the attack on you—by Rodney Marbury as you think.”
“As I know, you mean, young man. But I don’t need the police. I can deal with that chap myself if need comes. But I guess he knows he’s through. He won’t bother me again. Now for the buttermilk.”
There was a small spring house not far from the log cabin, and from this cool repository Hiram brought a can of rich, cool buttermilk, which was most refreshing to Bob, for the day was hot, even though It was October.
“Well, much obliged to you, Bob Dexter,” said Hiram, as Bob was about to take his leave, having seen the big brass key deposited in the secret niche and the panel closed. “If it’s all the same to you, I’d just as soon you wouldn’t tell everybody what you’ve seen and heard to-day.”
“I’ll keep quiet about it,” the lad promised.
He rode off down the mountain trail in his flivver, looking back to see the odd but kindly old man waving a farewell to him. Bob little knew under what circumstances he would see Hiram Beegle again.
It was late afternoon when Bob returned home, for he got a puncture when halfway to Cliffside and had to stop to change a tire. As he drew up in front of his house he met his two chums, Harry and Ned.
“Too bad you missed the game,” remarked Ned.
“Yes,” assented Bob, “I’m sorry, too.”
“What did you do with Rip Van Winkle?” asked Harry.
“Rip Van Winkle?” repeated Bob, wondering.
“Yes. The old codger Fred Merton saw you with.”
“Oh, Hiram Beegle,” chuckled Bob. “Yes, he is a queer character,” and he told as much of the story as would not violate his promise.
“Well, I s’pose you know what you’re doing,” said Ned. “But from what Fred said about this old codger I wouldn’t want to meet him alone after dark, Bob.”
“Oh, he’s all right,” protested the young detective with a laugh. “But I suppose there’ll be great doings at the club house to-night.”
“There sure will—to celebrate the game to-day. Going to be there?”
“Surest thing you know. I’ll see you there. So long!”
“So long, Bob!”
The two chums went on their way and Bob went into the house after putting his car in the barn that had been turned into a garage.
The Boys’ Athletic Club had a jollification meeting that night over the baseball victory, and the Golden Eagle mascot looked down most approvingly from his perch to which he had been restored by the efforts of the young detective.
“I don’t believe we’d have had half such a good game out of it to-day if it hadn’t been for the Golden Eagle,” remarked Ned, as he sat with his chums, looking up at the mascot bird.
“You’re right!” chimed in Harry.
“Oh, I guess you imagine a lot of that,” laughed Bob. “Still, I’m glad the old bird is back in place.”
“You said it!” exclaimed his chums.
It was next morning, when Bob was on his way to his uncle’s hardware store where he now worked, that the lad met Harry and Ned.
“Did you hear the news?” cried Harry.
“What news?” asked Bob, slowing up his flivver so his chums might leap in.
“Old Hiram Beegle was murdered last night in his cabin!” cried Ned.
CHAPTER IV
WOODEN LEG
Suspecting that his chums were playing some joke on him, though he thought this rather a poor subject for humor, and believing that Harry and Ned wanted to get a rise out of him, Bob Dexter did not at once show the astonishment that was expected. Instead he merely smiled and remarked:
“Hop in! If I believe that I s’pose you’ll tell me another!”
“Say, this is straight!” cried Ned.
“No kidding!” added Harry. “The old man was killed last night. You know who we mean—Rip Van Winkle—the old codger you took over to Storm Mountain in this very flivver.”
“Yes, I know, who you mean all right,” assented Bob. “But who told you he was killed? How, why, when, where and all the rest of it?”
“We didn’t hear any of the particulars,” explained Harry. “But Chief Drayton, of the Storm Mountain police force—guess he’s the whole force as a matter of fact—Drayton just came over here to get our chief to help solve the mystery.”
“Oh, then there’s a mystery about it, is there?” asked Bob, and his chums noticed that he at once began to pay close attention to what they were saying.
“Sure there’s a mystery,” asserted Ned. “Wouldn’t you call it a mystery if a man was found dead in a locked room—a room without a window in it, and only one door, and that locked on the inside and the man dead inside? Isn’t that a mystery, Bob Dexter—just as much of a mystery as who took our Golden Eagle?”
“Or what the ‘yellow boys’ were in the wreck of the Sea Hawk?” added Harry.
“Sure that would be a mystery if everything is as you say it is,” asserted Bob. “But in the first place if old Hiram Beegle has been killed and if his body is in that room, with only one door leading into it, how do the authorities know anything about it? Why, you can’t even see into that room when the door is shut!”
“How do you know?” asked Ned quickly.
“Because I’ve been in that room. I was in there yesterday afternoon with Hiram Beegle. There is only one entrance to it and that by the door, for the fireplace doesn’t count.”
“You were in that room?” cried Harry in surprise.
“Certainly I was.”
“Why didn’t you tell us?” asked Ned, feeling that his announcement of the murder was as nothing compared with this news.
“Oh, well, there wasn’t any need of speaking about it,” said Bob.
“Well, I guess you’ve seen the last of Hiram Beegle,” went on Harry. “That is unless you want to go to the scene of the crime, as the Weekly Banner will put it.”
“Yes, I’d like to go there,” said Bob quietly. “There may be a mystery about who killed Hiram Beegle, but to my mind there’s a greater mystery in discovering how it is Chief Drayton knows the old man was killed, instead of, let us say, dying a natural death, if he can’t get in the room.”
“Who said he couldn’t get in the room?” asked Ned.
“Well, it stands to reason he can’t get in the room, if the only door to it is locked on the inside, if Hiram Beegle is dead inside; for I’ve been there and you can’t go down the chimney. How does the chief know Hiram is dead?”
“You got me there,” admitted Ned. “I didn’t get it directly from Chief Drayton. Tom Wilson was telling me—he heard it from some one else, I guess.”
“That’s the trouble,” remarked Bob as he guided the flivver around a corner and brought it to a stop in front of his uncle’s hardware store. “There’s too much second-hand talk.”
“Then let’s go over to Storm Mountain and get some first-hand information!” cried Ned.
“Yes—what do you say to that?” added Harry.
Bob considered for a moment.
“I guess I can go in about an hour if you fellows can,” he replied. “Uncle Joel will let me have some time off.”
“I think I can string dad so he’ll let me go,” remarked Ned.
“Same here,” echoed Harry.
The two lads worked for their respective fathers, and the latter were not too exacting. Bob and his chums attended High School, but owing to the fact that the building was being repaired the usual fall term would be two months late in opening. Hence they still had considerable of a vacation before them, for which they were duly grateful.
Many thoughts were surging through the mind of Bob Dexter as he went about his duties in the hardware store. It was rather a shock to him to learn that the odd but kindly old man, with whom he had been drinking buttermilk less than twenty-four hours ago, was now dead.
“But who killed him, and why?” mused Bob.
“He was fearfully afraid of some one he called Rod Marbury. Could that fellow have had a hand in it? And if the old man was locked in his strong room how could anyone get in to kill him? I should like to find out all about this, and I’m going to.”
Uncle Joel chuckled silently when Bob asked if he could be excused for the remainder of the day.
“Going fishing, Bob?” he asked.
“No, not exactly,” was the answer.
“Well, I can guess. You’ll be heading for Storm Mountain, I suppose.”
“Did you hear about the murder?” exclaimed the lad.