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.