Chapter XVI The Worm Digger
Somehow Bob Dexter thought that the game wasn’t going to fall into their hands as easily as all that It would be too good to be true. Of course they had trailed after the suspect through a long, dreary evening, and at much personal discomfort But here, in front of them, it being only necessary for the chief to step forward and arrest him, was the man answering the description of the free spender.
He had betrayed himself, and yet—Bob could not credit their good luck.
“Never say die, boys! Set ’em up in th’ other alley! I got money to spend an’ I’m spendin’ it! Whoop-la!”
It was a characteristic attitude of one in his condition.
“We won’t have any trouble with him, Bob,” whispered the chief. “He’ll come along with us for the asking.”
“Unless some of his friends, or would-be friends object,” remarked Bob. For, as he spoke, the doors of several dark hovel-like buildings opened, letting out dim shafts of light. And in this illumination stood half-revealed, sinister figures—men and women, too, who were on the lookout for just such a gay and reckless spender as this foolish fellow proclaimed himself to be.
“Oh, I’ll handle them all right,” said the chief.
“You’ve got to be quick then,” remarked the young detective. “There goes some one after him now.”
A moment later there darted from one of the evil buildings, a slouching figure of a man. The shaft of light from the open door put him in dark relief. He ran to the swaying, staggering figure of the singer, who was now mumbling to himself, clapped it jovially on the back and cried:
“Come on, Jack! We’ve been looking for you! Everything is all ready! Right in here, Jack! Everything’s lovely!”
He swung the victim around, and the latter, taken by surprise, followed for a few steps. Then, as Bob and the chief watched, the singer unexpectedly stiffened and braced himself back.
“Whoa!” he exclaimed. “Hold on! Where you goin’?”
“For a good time, Jack! To see the elephants you know!”
“Yep—I know! I seen elephants before—big ones, too—in India! I’m elephant hunter, I am—but my name ain’t Jack.”
“Oh, well, Jill then—Jack or Jill, it’s all the same to me. I’m a friend of yours.”
But a spirit of opposition had been awakened in the victim. It was a small matter—that of a name, but small matters turn the tide in cases like these.
“If you’re friend of mine, you oughter know my name,” went on the celebrator, swaying and reeling as the other held him up, “You tell me my name an’ I’ll go with you.”
The other laughed and then tried a bluff.
“Sure, I know your name!” he declared. “It’s Bill—good old Bill! Now come on!”
He had made a shot in the dark—in the dark in more ways than one. The chances were in his favor. Bill is a fairly common name, and many a “sport” answers to it even though he may be Tom, Dick or Harry. But again the spirit of perverseness took control of the victim.
“No ’tain’t!” he cried. “I ain’t Bill—never was—never will be. You guessed wrong—you’re no friend of mine. Now lemme be! I’m goin’ to find elephant. Tom’s my name—Tom Black, an’ I’m proud of it. Now lemme go!”
He shook off the hold of the other, and the man who had slipped out of the den of thieves stood irresolute for a moment. He was taken aback, but did not want to use too much force in getting his victim within his clutches. He must try another game, and still be gentle about it.
But at the mention of the name Tom Black the chief nudged Bob.
“Guess we’re on the wrong lay,” he said.
“Do you think he’d give his right name?” asked the lad.
“They generally do—in his condition. Of course he may be going under two names, but I don’t believe this is Rod Marbury.”
Bob had begun to think so from the moment he had seen how easy it was—that is comparatively easy—to pick up the trail of the suspect.
“If we could get a look at him,” the young detective suggested.
“That’s what we’ve got to do, Bob. Come on. It’s getting lighter now. We’ll catch him in front of one of these doorways.”
It was getting lighter, but not because the blackness of the night was passing, nor because the blessed sun was rising, nor because the rain was ceasing—for none of these things were happening. It was still night and the rain was coming down harder than ever.
But down the lane of the sordid street more doors were opening, and from each one streaked a shaft of light. In some mysterious way, like the smoke signal of the Indians, it was being telegraphed through the district of crime that “pickings” were on the way. The aforesaid “pickings” being an intoxicated man with money in his pockets. This was the sort of victim much sought after by the dwellers of the “Barbary Coast,” as the district was called by the police.
The man who had accosted the singer, if such he might be called, had slipped away in the darkness, either to get help, to concoct some new scheme, or to await a more propitious occasion.
But, meanwhile, other would-be despoilers were on the scene. And Chief Duncan proposed to take advantage of the light they were letting into the darkness.
“Come on, Bob,” he whispered. “He’s in a good position now to get a look at.”
The man was again singing, or, rather, groaning about his desire to see where the elephant was hiding. And just as he came in focus of one of the better lighted doorways, the young detective and the officer walked alongside of him. As they did so another man darted from the lighted doorway as if to swoop down like some foul bird of prey.
But, seeing the other two figures—and a glance told him they were not of his ilk—he drew back.
It needed but a glance on the part of Bob and the chief to let them see that this man bore no resemblance whatever to the description they had of Rod Marbury. Neither in build, stature nor appearance did he bear any likeness to the suspected sailor.
“No go, Bob,” spoke the chief, turning to flash a look full in the face of the staggering man.
“No,” was the answer.
“Who says I shan’t go?” angrily demanded the man, mistaking the words spoken. “I’m my own boss. I’ll go see elephant if I like!”
“I’m not going to stop you,” declared the chief. “You’re your own boss, though I wouldn’t give much for your pocketbook when you come off the Barbary Coast. Go ahead, I don’t want you.”
“Don’t you think it would be a good plan,” suggested Bob, “to get him away from this neighborhood? He’s sure to be robbed and maybe injured if he stays here.”
“You never said a truer thing in all your life, Bob Dexter,” spoke the chief. “But trying to get him to come with us wouldn’t do a bit of good. We couldn’t keep him with us all night, or until he is in better senses. He’d only be an elephant on our hands. And if we took him away from here he’d wander back again in a few hours. The night is young yet.”
“Then what can we do? I hate to see him get plucked.”
“So do I, and I have a plan. I don’t want the Cardiff police to know I’m in town. But I can telephone to headquarters, in the guise of a citizen who has seen a man with money in this dangerous neighborhood, and they’ll send the wagon and a couple of men in uniform. Brass buttons are the only thing that will impress this fellow.
“Of course they can’t arrest him, for he hasn’t done anything more than get himself into a foolish and miserable state. But they can detain him until morning, when he’ll be sober. That’s often done, and that will save his money for him. Come on, we’ll slip out of here and find a telephone.”
“Yes, but while we’re gone some one of these sharks will pull him into their holes.”
“He’ll be easy to find, Bob. Every resident here wants a chance at picking his bones, and for the one who gets him there’ll be a dozen envious ones ready to squeal. A stool-pigeon will tip the police off as to what den this fellow was hauled into, and they can take him out. There’s time enough—he won’t give up his roll easily. It takes a little time to work the game and before it’s played out I’ll have the officers here.”
Content with this Bob followed the chief out of the vile and evil district. The telephone tip was gladly received, for the police of Cardiff were not anxious to have it broadcasted that irresponsible and foolish strangers were robbed, even along the Barbary Coast. Word was given to the chief, who, of course, did not reveal his identity, that the matter would be looked after.
Having done their duty, Bob and the chief returned to the district long enough to see the clanging wagon rumble in and take away the “elephant hunter.” He had been enticed into one of the dens, but, as Mr. Duncan had said, some one “squealed,” and the police easily located the place.
“Well, I guess this ends it, Bob,” remarked the head of the Cliffside police. “It was a wild goose chase.”
“I wish it had been a wild duck,” murmured Bob.
“Why?”
“Well, a duck’s back would have shed water better than mine. I’m soaked.”
“So ’m I. But it couldn’t be helped. You’ll have to get used to worse than this, Bob, if you’re going to be a detective. And not only one night but many nights in succession.”
“Oh, I know that. I’m not kicking. Only I wish we had picked up Rod.”
“So do I. But it wasn’t to be. It was a good tip, as far as it went. But I guess Rod is safe enough, for a time. But we’ll have another shot at finding him.”
“Of course,” agreed Bob, as they chugged back to Cliffside in the rain and darkness.
It cannot be said that the young detective was very much discouraged or disappointed at the result of this excursion. It had been but a slim chance, at best, but slim chances must be taken when trying to solve mysteries or catch criminals.
As a matter of fact Bob Dexter would have been rather sorry, in a way, had the foolish man turned out to be Rod Marbury. For the credit of the capture would have gone to Chief Duncan. And Bob wanted to solve the mystery himself.
“And I want to find out the secret of the log cabin,” he told himself as he got into bed late that night, or, rather, early the next morning. “I want to find out how the key got back in the room.”
For about a week there were no more moves in the case—that is, moves which appeared on the surface. What was going on beneath no one could tell.
Pietro Margolis continued to dig holes and plant his “monkey nuts,” as Bob called them. Jolly Bill Hickey continued to reside at the Mansion House, now and then going to Storm Mountain to visit Hiram Beegle. The old sailor was now quite himself again, but he could throw no additional light on the strange robbery.
“I don’t know where the treasure is, nor whether Rod is digging it up or not,” he said. “I’m fogbound—that’s about it—fogbound.”
But Bob Dexter was anything except discouraged. He had youth and health, and these are the two best tonics in the world. Of course he would have been glad to come at a quick solution of the mystery.
“Though if I did there wouldn’t be much credit in solving it,” he told himself more than once. “If it was as easy as all that, Ned or Harry could do as well as I, and I wouldn’t like to think that. A regular detective wouldn’t give up now, and I’m not going to!”
Bob squared his shoulders, clenched his hands and walked about with such a defiant air that his chums, more than once, asked him after that why he was carrying a “chip on his shoulder.”
It was one day, about two weeks after Bob’s night trip to Cardiff that, as he passed the log cabin he saw, in what was the garden during the summer, a figure using a spade.
“I wonder if that dago is planting monkey nuts on Hiram’s place?” thought Bob, for the figure, that of a man, had his back turned. “It isn’t Hiram. I wonder——”
The man with the spade straightened up. It was Jolly Bill. He saw Bob and waved a hand.
“I’m digging worms!” he called. “Not having much luck though.”
“Digging worms?” repeated the young detective in questioning tones. “I wonder what his game is?” he said to himself as he alighted from his flivver.