Chapter XIX The Last Chord
Bob Dexter had to do some quick thinking. He had not counted on finding any one in the Italian’s room, when he left the party to make a quick survey of the sordid apartment. That is all Bob wanted to do—to look about and either confirm or do away with certain suspicions that had entered his mind.
For he had begun to get suspicious of Pietro, in spite of the ingenuous ways of the smiling Italian, and the suspicions began when the man hired the bramble patch from Judge Weston, with the avowed purpose of planting food for the monkey.
Now that he had come, and found a stranger in the room, and a sinister stranger, with his ugly iron hook in place of a hand and arm—Bob hardly knew what to do or say. He could not make the inspection he wished with this suspicious man present.
And the man with the hook was not only suspicious in himself, but he regarded Bob with suspicion. The lad knew that at once—it was evident not only in his manner but in his look.
Quickly Bob’s eyes roved about the room, seeking that on which he could either build further suspicions, or begin to manufacture new ones. However, what he wanted could not be found by a casual inspection.
What Bob was after was something to connect this man with the sea. Since the time he had seen him idly plaiting sailors’ knots in the monkey’s cord, the lad had had an idea, in the back of his brain, that the fellow at one time had been a hand before the mast. But that one little slip, if such it was—the idle tying of the odd knots—was the only evidence, so far, that Bob had. He wanted more.
Hence, when he had decided to give his party, and had thought of hiring Pietro, the idea had occurred to him that he could easily slip away for a half hour or so and look through the man’s room. Some of the many objects, associated with sailors from time immemorial, would turn the trick and prove that Pietro was not exactly what he pretended to be—a traveling maker of music.
Whence had come this man with the iron hook strapped fast to his arm? He might have stepped directly from the pages of “Dombey and Son.” Who was he?
That is what Bob wanted to know.
For perhaps half a minute—and that is a long time when under such stress as were the two—for perhaps half a minute they remained staring at each other—Bob tense and ready for anything that might happen—the man with the hook ugly and suspicious.
Then, at last, the man seemed to give way to the lad. At least he did to this extent that the angry look faded from his face, and he laughed—albeit uneasily.
“Guess you got in the wrong room, didn’t you, lad?” asked the man. “You don’t belong here!”
Bob resolved to chance all on a bold throw. He felt pretty certain that Pietro had not taken in a partner. The man did not seem to be an Italian—far from it. And neither Pietro nor the landlord had said anything about a visitor.
Yet here was this man with the hook making himself very much at home in Pietro’s place. So Bob resolved on a bit of bluff.
“Aren’t you in the wrong room?” came the demand again.
“No more than you are!” countered Bob shortly. “Who are you, and what are you doing in Margolis’ place?”
The shot went home.
“Oh, you know him, do you?” asked the man.
“Of course I do!” and Bob followed up the advantage he thought he had gained. “I hired him to play at a party for me to-night.”
Bob would have been stuck there but for something that came into his mind. How could he explain his presence there in the absence of the room’s rightful inmate, when he had admitted that Pietro was at the party?
The lad, somehow, remembered that hand organs are operated by a round piece of brass, called a “barrel,” and that on this barrel are points of steel, like tiny pins. As the barrel revolves, to the turning of the crank, which operates a worm gear, these points open valves, allowing air to pass over the brass reed-tongues, thus producing “music.” Each barrel has on it a certain number of steel points, set in such a way that they play a set number of tunes, no more. To enable a hand organ, or a street piano, to play other melodies it is necessary to insert another barrel, with different pins on.
Why would not his party guests become tired of a repetition of a set number of tunes? Wouldn’t they demand others? And to get them it would be necessary to insert a new barrel in the organ, even as a new roll is put in a player piano.
“I have it!” mused Bob to himself. “I came here to get another barrel so Pietro could play other tunes. That will do the trick!”
So he spoke up and said:
“Have you seen anything of the other barrel?” He was careful not to say that he had come for it, for that was not his original object.
“What barrel?” asked the man.
“To go in the organ—to play different tunes,” the lad explained.
“Huh! I don’t know anything about tunes!” growled the man with the hook. “If Pietro sent you for it—all right. Take it if you can find it. But I didn’t come here for that. What time’s he coming back from this party of yours?”
“Oh, not for a long while yet. It’s only just started.”
“Urn! Well, I’d like to see him. I got particular business with him. He doesn’t know I’m here, but I am!”
The man flung himself into a chair which creaked under his weight.
“Look for the barrel—or whatever it is if you like,” he growled.
But now Bob had lost all desire to explore the dirty room and its almost as dirty contents. Suddenly another idea had come into his mind.
This man—the stranger with the hook—had claimed to be a friend to the Italian. Otherwise he would not have been allowed to enter his room in the absence of Pietro—as was evident he had done. Though for that matter Mike Brennan did not operate his Railroad House with any real regard for his guests. Those with valuable possessions did not put up at his hotel.
But this man’s air was anything but friendly. Somehow Bob got the impression that the visit was distinctly unfriendly. The man with the hook seemed angry. It was evident in his words and manner.
“No, I won’t disturb things,” said Bob, as he prepared to leave. “I’ll send Pietro for it himself. He’ll know just where it is. I’ll go back and send him.”
“And tell him to hustle back here!” growled the other. “I’ve waited long enough—I’m getting tired. Tell him Jake Dauber is waiting for him.”
“Jake Dauber!” repeated Bob.
“That’s the name—yes—want me to write it out for you?” there was anger and impatience in the voice.
“Oh, I think I can remember,” said Bob, vainly trying to piece together broken bits of the puzzle that was in his mind. “I’ll tell him.”
He did not linger longer. There was no use. He could not have done what he came for. But perhaps now there would be no need. The man with the hook presented a new complication in the Storm Mountain mystery.
“I’ll tell him—good-night—Mr. Dauber,” murmured Bob as he stepped out into the dim hall.
“Um!” was all the answer he received. Though the man with the hook shouted after him: “Tell him to git a move on.”
At first Bob had, it in mind to disobey the injunction he had received. He wasn’t going to deliver the message to the Italian. His chief objection to this was that to do so he would have to admit having been in the room of Pietro.
“But he’ll know it anyhow,” decided Bob. “Ill tell him, after all. Or, rather I’ll give him the message. Then later, if Pietro wants to know why I went to his room I can tell him I thought maybe he had another barrel to his organ. And I really wish he had—his tunes are getting monotonous.”
This was a way out—a fair and square way.
“I’ll tell him about the man with the hook!” decided Bob.
And when he gave the message, such a look of terror and despair came over the face of the Italian that Bob felt sorry for him. The jazz orchestra was playing its best or its worst, however you look at it, and the Italian had nothing to do. The guests were dancing and had partaken of some of the refreshments. No one seemed to have noticed the short absence of the young detective.
“You—say—man—with hook arm?” faltered the Italian.
“Yes—at your hotel—in your room. He wants you.”
“Wants me?”
“Yes—in a hurry.”
“Oh—I—I go—but I promise you, Senor Dexter—I say I come to make monkey do tricks at your party—I play——”
“You’ve played enough—you’ve earned your money,” said Bob with a smile. “Better go back. That man with the hook—he’s anxious to see you. Who is he? He says his name is Dauber.”
“He is—one devil!” hissed the Italian, as, shouldering his instrument, and calling to his monkey, he hurried out.
“There’s going to be trouble there, if I’m any good at guessing,” declared Bob to himself. “And after this party I’m going back to the Railroad House and see what has happened.”
It was early morning when the last guest had gone, and Bob jumped into his flivver, making his way to the Railroad House. Mike Brennan boasted that he never closed, that he had “lost the key,” and couldn’t. Consequently the place was lighted even at the hour of two in the morning.
“What, you back again?” growled Mike, who acted as his own night clerk.
“Yes. Is that Italian here?”
“Who, Pietro and his monkey?”
“Yes.”
“No.”
“You mean!” exclaimed Bob. “You mean he——”
“He’s gone—yes! Paid what he owed and skipped out—he and that feller with the iron hook that came earlier in the evening. And say, there was something queer between them two.”
“Something queer?” questioned Bob.
“Sure! That dago was in a sweat of fear of the man with the hook. Why, even the monkey seemed to be scairt! I never see anything like it. Honest I didn’t.”
“Maybe they had some sort of a quarrel,” suggested Bob.
“Maybe. Though I didn’t hear anything of that. I did hear something, though, that made me think there was a phoney game in it.”
“What did you hear?” asked Bob.
“Why all along this dago has been calling himself Pietro—Pietro Margolis, you know.”
“Yes,” agreed the lad.
“Well, when he was going out—after paying what he owed me—and I must say he was fair and square—when he was going out he gave one last squeak to his organ—queer sort of a squeak, too.”
“Yes,” said Bob. “A sort of last chord, perhaps.”
“Maybe; but then I don’t know nothing about music. But what I started to say was this fellow’s name isn’t Pietro at all!”
“It isn’t?”
“No. This man with the hook called him Rodney!”
You could almost have knocked Bob Dexter over with a feather then.