Chapter XV A Singer in the Dark
“This tip just came in,” explained Chief Duncan when Bob had joined him, a little excited by the news and by his quick trip from home. “I thought I’d rather have you with me chasing it down, than to take Caleb or even Sam Drayton.”
“Glad you thought of me,” murmured Bob. Caleb Tarton was the chief constable of Cliffside, while Mr. Drayton, of course, was the chief of Storm Mountain.
“Yes,” went on Mr. Duncan as he got into Bob’s car, for it had been decided to use that. “Of course this may be only a wild goose chase, but often you can catch chickens when you’re after geese. And, speaking of chickens, that’s the sort of case Caleb is on now. That’s another reason I couldn’t bring him.”
“A chicken case?” murmured Bob.
“Yes, seems that Tume Mellick has been missing a lot of his fowls lately, and he asked us to investigate. So I sent Caleb over.”
“Hope he finds the thief,” said Bob.
“Yes. Well, he’ll get a chicken supper out of it, anyhow. Tume always serves chicken to his company. But now about this case, Bob. Do you think you would know this fellow Rod Marbury if you were to see him?”
“It’s hard to say. I’ve never laid eyes on him, as far as I know. All I have to go by is the description Hiram gives.”
“Yes, that’s all I have. I wrote it down but I remember it. A short, stout fellow, with dark hair and a long scar on one cheek that he got in a fight.”
“That’s the description I remember,” stated Bob. “But of course if this fellow didn’t want to be discovered he could disguise himself.”
“Oh, sure,” agreed the Cliffside chief. “But they can’t hide all the marks. And when you take into consideration the fact that this suspect is a sailor, and bound to act like one, that may give him away.”
“There’s something in that,” admitted the lad. “How did you hear about him?”
“Oh, Hank Miller just got back from Cardiff—went over to sell a load of apples to the cider mill, and I’ve got my suspicions of that cider mill; by the way, I think they make a whole lot stronger cider than the law allows. But that’s for the Cardiff police to look after—’tisn’t in my territory. Anyhow, Hank was telling me about a fellow he saw in town, spending money pretty freely, and boasting that he could get a lot more when that was gone. He acted like a sailor, so Hank said, and right away it occurred to me it might be this Rod.”
“Yes, it might be,” assented Bob. “But it doesn’t seem likely, that if this is Rod Marbury, he’d stay around here and spend the money so close to the place where he robbed Hiram Beegle.”
“You can’t always tell by that,” declared the chief wisely. “I’ve known many a criminal to keep out of the hands of the detectives a long time just by staying right near the spot where the crime was committed. He figured out they’d never look for him there, and they didn’t. They went to all sorts of other places and never thought of looking or inquiring near home.”
“Yes, I’ve heard of such cases,” admitted Bob. “I suppose it would be a good plan for a robber to live next door to the place he robbed—or very near it—for no one would think he had the nerve to do that.”
“There’s a whole lot to that!” declared the chief.
It was a dark night, and a storm was coming up, but this did not daunt the old chief nor the young detective. They made as good time as was possible to Cardiff and then there confronted them the problem of finding the suspect.
Hank Miller had said the fellow whom he supposed might be Rod Marbury had been seen in many places in Cardiff, spending his money freely and foolishly. Of course the Cardiff police might have knowledge of such an individual. He could hardly escape notice. But neither Bob nor Chief Duncan wanted to disclose their hand In this matter. That is they wanted to make the capture alone, if capture there was to be made.
“I tell you what we can do,” said the chief, as they passed slowly into the town. “We can park the car and shift about a bit on foot. We’ll learn more that way. And we can drop into some of these pool parlors where Hank said he saw this fellow.”
“Yes, we can do that,” agreed Bob.
It was not a very pleasant way to spend an evening, particularly as it was now beginning to drizzle, and was cold, too. But Bob and the chief grimly resolved to go through with it.
“I don’t much care for any of the Cardiff police to see me,” remarked Mr. Duncan as Bob parked the flivver. “Not that they’re any great shakes at picking out folks, but one of them might spot me and it would make talk. So I’ll just pull my hat down over my eyes and turn up my coat collar—the rain will be a good excuse, anyhow.”
“Good idea,” declared Bob, and a little later hardly any of their friends would have recognized the two had they seen them slouching through the streets of Cardiff—the place was rather more of a city than was Cliffside.
Chief Duncan knew the less inviting parts of Cardiff—the haunts which would, most likely, prove attractive to those who liked their pleasures strong, or who had reason to keep out of the ken of the police. So it was to not very respectable pool rooms and cigar stores that Bob was led. However, he steeled himself against the sights he saw and went through with it.
All sorts and conditions of men were met with—young men, old men and middle-aged men—far too many young men, be it said, who seemed to have nothing better to do this evening than to hang around a pool table, a flopping cigarette dangling from their lips as they squinted down the length of a cue.
The places were blue with smoke—vile tobacco it was, too—but those moving about in the blue, acrid haze seemed to like it. However, it wasn’t very good for complexions. Most of the faces were a pasty white in hue.
There were many men, it seemed, who might be wanted for one criminal charge or other, but not one of them seemed to be a free spender. In fact, few of those in the pool rooms and cigar stores appeared to have any more money than they actually needed. They were a poor lot.
“Tin horn sports and cheap skate gamblers,” was the way Chief Duncan characterized them, and Bob agreed.
In some places there were dance halls attached to the pool rooms, and these were the worst of all, for women and girls were there who might have done better to have remained away.
The blare of horrible “jazz” shot out of many an open door, and in their quest Bob and the chief entered. The air in some of the dance places was almost as blue with smoke as in the pool “parlors,” but the women and girls—nearly all the latter with bobbed hair—did not seem to mind. In fact, some of the girls were leeringly puffing on cigarettes.
“Not very nice places, eh, Bob?” asked the chief as they left one, filling their lungs with the clean air outside—air filled with rain and frost, but clean—just clean!
“They’re rotten!” declared Bob Dexter.
“Well, there aren’t many more,” said Mr. Duncan. “Are you game?”
“Oh, sure! We’ll go through with it. But the sailor doesn’t seem to be on hand.”
“We may locate him yet. These fellows drift from one night haunt to another. We may go back to the first place and pick him up.”
The rain was now falling smartly, but our seekers did not turn back. They kept on with the quest.
“There’s one place down this street I’d like to look into,” murmured Mr. Duncan.
He turned down what was more of an alley than a street. Here and there a dim gas lamp flickered, adding to rather than relieving the blackness. Halfway down there was a blur of brightness, showing where the light streamed from the doors of another pool place.
“We’ll take a look in there,” said the chief.
They made their way down the alley, splashing in puddles, tramping in the mud and getting more and more wet and miserable every moment.
Suddenly, out of the shadow of some ramshackle building, or perhaps from some hole in the ground, there lurched a swaying figure. And the figure was that of a man who raised his cracked voice in what he doubtless intended for a melody and howled, rather than sang:
“Then spend yer money free,
An’ come along o’ me,
An’ I’ll show yer where th’ elephant is hidin’!”
The chief caught Bob by the arm, halting him.
“Maybe that’s Rod!” he whispered.