Chapter XVIII The Man with the Hook
Many of Bob Dexter’s friends came to his party—in fact nearly all of them were present. Whether it was the admonition to “bring peanuts,” or whether Ned Fuller had spread the news that there would be “something doing” at the affair, is not clear. At any rate there was a goodly attendance in the club, where Bob had arranged to entertain his guests.
At first even Ned had been somewhat skeptical about Bob’s expressed intention of having “the dago,” as they jokingly called the Italian, at the party, with his organ and monkey. And many another lad, to whom Ned imparted the news, smiled knowingly and said:
“Aw, quit your kidding!”
“No, it’s a fact—honest!” Ned declared.
And so it proved.
For when the lads and lassies (for the girls were invited) filed into the hall, there, in a place of honor on a platform, was the Italian organist and his pet simian.
“Oh, but we can’t dance to that doleful music!” objected Nina Farnsworth as she saw what some of the girls called the “orchestra.”
“Don’t worry!” laughed Blanche Richmond, “Bob has the jazz band from Cardiff over—talk about music—my feet are aching to begin!”
Bob had his own special object in hiring Pietro to come to the party with Jacko, and making dance music wasn’t it. In due time it shall be made known to you.
And, knowing that his young friends liked to dance as much as he did himself, Bob had provided the wherewithal, so to speak. Cardiff—the city where the “elephant man” had engaged the attention of the chief and the young detective that rainy night—Cardiff had an orchestra of young men, noted for their jazz ability—that is if you grant it takes any ability to play jazz music. And this Bob had engaged.
It was the custom for members of the Boys’ Athletic Club to take turns giving little affairs, such as dances and parties, so it was not unusual that Bob should do so.
He had been a little diffident about approaching Pietro on the matter, but he had put it in such a way that the Italian had consented after a little thought, and a quick, shrewd look into Bob’s face.
“You no maka bad tricks with Jacko?” he asked.
“Of course not!” cried Bob. “You and the monkey will be treated perfectly fair. It’s just that I want a little something different at my party—something to make the boys and girls laugh. The monkey will do that.”
“Oh, sure! Jacko—he do many tricks. I show you!”
Bob had called on the queer Italian at the latter’s room in the Railroad House. It was a poor enough place to live, but it suited Pietro and others of his kind.
“Sure, the dago’s up in his room,” Mike Brennan, proprietor of the hotel had said in response to Bob’s inquiry. “Go on up—we don’t keep elevators or bell boys here!”
So Bob had found the man in his dirty, dingy room, with a heap of rags in the corner for the monkey to sleep on.
“He do many fine tricks,” said the Italian, once he understood the object of Bob’s call. And he put Jacko through his stunts.
The compensation was agreed upon, Bob giving the man a few dollars more than he had asked, and now it was the night of the party, and Pietro, his organ and Jacko were on hand.
“Oh, isn’t he a dear!”
“So cute!”
“Will he bite?”
“I’d love to hold him! May I?”
Thus the girls in raptures over the monkey which sat perched on his master’s organ, his wizened face looking pathetically at the gay throng about him.
“Jacko no bite!” murmured Pietro, and he seemed proud of the attention his simian was attracting. “You take him!”
He held the little creature out to Nina, but she drew back with a scream of real or pretended fright.
“I’d love to hold him!” exclaimed Mary Wilson. “Do let me! Come on, you queer little imp!” she murmured.
The monkey whimpered but went to her and put his little hairy paw about the girl’s neck.
“Oh, I wouldn’t do it for the world!” cried Nina.
“He’s a dear!” murmured Mary. “His hands are as soft as a baby’s.”
The monkey readily made friends, and he had a feast of peanuts, for all the boys had done as Bob requested, and there were enough of the goobers to last Jacko a year, it seemed.
“Go on—play something!” cried Bob to his organ orchestra, and the wheezy instrument was set in operation. The boys and girls laughed, particularly when Jacko did some of his tricks, which he performed better to the strains of the organ, it seemed.
Then the jazz took its turn and the party was on.
This isn’t a story of Bob Dexter’s party, and I don’t propose to tell you of the jolly times that went on there—for it was a jolly affair—no doubting that. The jazz was of the jazziest, the monkey and organ made a great hit, and the refreshments were all that could be desired.
But there was something more than this.
It would not have been exactly correct to say that Bob Dexter gave this party solely for the purpose of advancing him toward a solution of the Storm Mountain mystery—to help him discover the secret of the log cabin. For he had been planning to give a party for six months back—before he ever even dreamed that Hiram Beegle would be robbed of the treasure map.
However, the party now fitted well into Bob’s plans, and he took advantage of it to carry out a scheme he wanted to try.
The party was at its merriest, and the boys and girls were gathered in a ring about the organ grinder and his monkey, when Bob touched Ned Fuller on the arm.
Ned, who had been tossing nuts to the monkey, turned about and, in answer to Bob’s nod of the head, followed his chum to a quiet corner.
“What’s up?” asked Ned. “Want me to help you dish out the ice cream, Bob?”
“No, the steward will do that.”
“But something’s up—you look serious. Those fellows haven’t got old Hiram for good this time; have they?”
“Not that I know of. But I want you to take charge of things here for a little while.”
“Take charge of things?”
“Yes. Take my place—act as a sort of deputy host”
“What’s the idea?”
“I’m going away for a while.”
“You aren’t sick, are you?”
“Far from it. But I want to do something. I may as well tell you what it is, and then, if anything happens, you’ll know where I am.”
“Say, this seems like it was getting serious!” murmured Ned, looking closely at his chum. “You haven’t caught that Rod chap, have you?”
“Well, no, not exactly, but I may get on his track, if I have luck. Listen, Ned. I had that Italian come here to-night for a special purpose.”
“And a good purpose it was, I’ll say if you ask me. He’s the hit of the evening, outside of myself!” And Ned puffed out his chest.
“Stow that talk!” chuckled Bob. “But I mean I got the Italian here so he would be out of his room at the Railroad House.”
“Ah, noble youth! Providing entertainment—to say nothing of food—for the poor and downtrodden! Atta boy, Bob!”
“Cut it out! I don’t mean that way! I asked the dago here so he wouldn’t be in his room.”
“Naturally if he’s here he can’t be in his room,” bantered Ned. “Two objects can’t occupy the same place at the same time. Neither can even an Italian organ grinder be in two places at once. Q.E.D. you know, Bob!”
“Oh, will you be serious!”
“Is this serious?” asked Ned.
“It may be—yes. Listen! I’m going out—I’m going to take a run down to the Railroad House and make a search through the room of this fellow. That’s why I got him here—so as to give me a clear coast. I can run down in my flivver and be back inside of half an hour. Can you keep things moving that long—until I come back?”
“I’ll try, even if I have to stand on my head to amuse ’em!”
“Good boy! But don’t do anything rash. Don’t raise a rumpus, and if any one asks for me cover my absence. Above all don’t let the dago know I’ve gone to his dump.”
“Trust your old college chum for that, Bob. I’m Little Old On The Job for yours truly. Shoot! When you going?”
“Right away. It will soon be time to serve the ice cream and cake, and they can think I’m looking after that. Mum’s the word now!”
“Mum is right!” echoed Ned with a wink.
They had conversed rapidly and in low voices in one corner of the room, while nearly all the guests were gathered about the monkey and the Italian.
Seeing that they were likely to be thus amused for some time, Bob slipped out. Ned was on the alert to forestall possible embarrassing questions.
“I’m going up to the Italian’s room a minute,” said Bob to the Railroad House proprietor, a little later.
“Help yourself,” indifferently replied Mike Brennan. “He’s out, though.”
“Yes, I know. He’s entertaining over at the Boys’ Club.”
“Oh, sure! Now I remember ye!” cried Mike. “You’re th’ lad that come and hired him. I s’pose he forgot his music!” and he chuckled. “So ye had t’ come for it, did ye? Sure these dagos aren’t any good, though Pietro is as decent as any. Go on up wid ye!”
Bob made his way along the dimly-lighted hall until he came to the door of the room where the Italian slept. Bob had been in the Railroad House before, once when it was raided by the police. He knew that the locks on the doors were old-fashioned and that a buttonhook would open most of them. An ordinary slender key, with one ward on it, would more than do the trick, and Bob had several keys of the skeleton variety.
He was not surprised to find the door unlocked, when he tried it before using any of the keys he had brought. But if he wasn’t surprised at the ease with which he entered, he was surprised at the sight he saw when he pushed back the portal.
For the room was lighted by a dim gas jet, partly turned down. And in the sickly gleam Bob saw a man in the room—a man stooping over a chest in one corner.
At first Bob believed that Pietro had gotten there ahead of him. But the manifest impossibility of this soon made itself known to him.
The man bending over the Italian’s chest straightened up suddenly at the noise of the opening door.
He was a man of rough appearance, and his left hand was missing. In place of it was an iron hook—for all the world like Captain Cuttle.
With a sharp intaking of his breath, the man with the hook faced the young detective. Bob, on his part, could not repress a gasp of surprise.
“Well!” snarled the man at last. “What do you want?”
“Who are you?” demanded the lad.
The two glared at each other in the dim light of the turned-down gas jet.