Chapter XX New Suspicions
Realizing that it would not be wise to show too much emotion and surprise in front of Mike Brennan, the young detective controlled his astonishment as much as possible, though it was difficult.
“Oh, well,” he murmured, as if it was the most natural thing in the world, “maybe Rodney was Pietro’s middle name.”
“Maybe, but I don’t believe so,” asserted the proprietor of the Railroad House. “Rodney isn’t a dago’s name at all, and, what’s more, I don’t believe this chap is an Italian at all.”
“You don’t?” asked Bob, and then he elaborately yawned and stretched, as though wearied with his night of pleasure, and as though what he was hearing didn’t at all matter to him. But it did—very much.
“No, I don’t!” declared Mike Brennan.
“Well, that isn’t going to make me lose any more sleep,” declared Bob, again yawning. “I just came to tell him something, but if he’s gone some other time will do.” He gave the impression of elaborate indifference, so much so as even to deceive Mr. Brennan.
“There won’t be any other time,” declared the proprietor. “This fellow—Rodney or Pietro or whatever his name is has gone for good.”
“Good riddance, I say,” exclaimed Bob, though he didn’t really mean it. “He wasn’t any credit to the town, playing that wheezy music and digging holes in a bramble patch to plant monkey nuts—crazy stuff I call it. But what makes you think he wasn’t an Italian, Mr. Brennan? He looked like one and talked like one, and nobody but a dago would go around with a hand organ and a monkey.”
“I don’t know about that, but when this man with the iron hook called the other ‘Rodney,’ your hand organ man turned around and in as good United States’ talk as I ever heard he said: ‘Shut up, you big chump. Do you want to spill the beans?’ And that’s no kind of talk for an Italian who pretends he can’t use English.”
“No, maybe not,” laughed Bob, though within he was far from laughing. He saw big events just ahead of him—he saw a glimmering of daylight where there had been darkness, in the queer mystery of Storm Mountain. “Well, was that all?”
“Yes, except that they went off together in a sort of huff, mainly, I think, because this man with the hook called this Pietro by a name he hasn’t been using.”
“Oh, that man with the hook was a quarrelsome sort of chap,” observed Bob, easily, “he had a perpetual grouch on, I’d say. It isn’t going to worry me. I’m glad my party’s over, or those two might have called and tried to break it up,” he finished with a laugh.
“His remark could not have been better calculated to draw a reply from Mike Brennan—a reply that gave Bob just the information he wanted but for which he hesitated to ask. For the hotel man said:
“Naw, they weren’t goin’ to any party! They wanted to catch the milk train to get out of town. There was something in the wind, I’m sure of that. And I’m just as glad they got out of my hotel. I keep a respectable place, I do!” growled the big, burly Irishman.
He did—when he thought it served his purpose to do so. The police, more than once, had combed Mike Brennan’s place in a search for criminals, and Bob knew this.
“So they took the milk train, did they?” he asked.
“Yep! Got out of town as soon as they could—hand organ, monkey and all.”
“Well, then I can’t give him another job,” remarked the young detective, as if this was the object which had brought him at that early morning hour to the Railroad House. “We’ll have to get a man with a harp next time we want special music,” and he laughed.
“A harp is good!” chuckled Mike Brennan. “Sure, I might have a go at that meself! Good-night t’ you!”
“Good-night!” echoed Bob, as he jumped into his flivver. “I guess he hasn’t tumbled,” he said to himself as he steered in the direction of the railroad station. “I may have this all to myself yet.”
Bob’s idea is clear to you, I suppose. The name Rodney had opened up big possibilities to him. Rodney—Rod—Rod Marbury—the suspect. And yet Mike Brennan either had not heard this name used in connection with the robbery at Storm Mountain, or he did not connect Rodney with Rod. For Rod was the name most often used by the police and in the stories circulated about the queer case.
“Rodney doesn’t mean anything to him, except that his Italian guest was masquerading under a false name,” thought Bob to himself. “And that’s so common he isn’t likely to talk about it. If I work fast I may pull this thing off myself without the police coming in on it. But I’ve had a lot of surprises to-night, and I don’t quite see all the ends of this thing. Who was that man with the iron hook? His name was no more Dauber than mine is, though he must have used it more than once or Pietro wouldn’t have recognized it—no, not Pietro—Rodney Marbury—the man who has the brass box!”
This thought excited Bob and he stepped on the gas, sending his flivver along at a fast clip. He had had a foot gas pedal attached to his car, enabling him to drive it more easily.
“And so he isn’t an Italian at all,” was his further musing.
“Queer I never suspected that. Though of course this Rod may be of Italian birth—enough so as to enable him to disguise himself as a dago organ grinder and talk broken English. He did it to perfection, though. But hold on—wait a minute——”
Bob was doing some quick thinking and this had its effect on his speed, for he cut along at a lively clip. However, at this hour of the early morning the roads were practically deserted.
“If this fellow was Rodney Marbury, the shipmate of Jolly Bill and Hiram Beegle—why didn’t either of them recognize him? They ought to, for they saw him often enough. They had sailed with him—they went on the treasure hunt together. And yet this supposed Italian comes to town, and passes close to Hiram and Jolly Bill, and neither of them says a word. Hiram ought to, if anybody would—for he was assaulted by this chap. And yet this Pietro didn’t hang back any. He associated right with Bill and Hiram. I can’t understand it unless——”
Bob ceased his musing for a moment and made a turn around a bad place in the highway. He was on a straight stretch now to the station.
“Disguised!” he exclaimed aloud, the word floating out into the cool, night air. “That’s it—he was disguised as a dago, with false hair and a false beard, I’m sure! Queer I never thought of that. He had an awful thick mop of hair and enough beard for a sofa cushion. But I never tumbled. Must have been pretty well made and stuck on. Or he may have let his own hair and beard grow—that would be the best disguise ever! Say, I’ve missed a lot of tricks in this—I’ve got to get busy and redeem myself. But I’m on some sort of a track now, and that’s better than chasing off through the bushes as I’ve been doing.
“Speaking of bushes—I wonder if this Rod—or Pietro—really was planting monkey nuts in that bramble patch or—or—jimminity crickets!” fairly shouted Bob in his excitement—“I have it now! He was digging after the treasure! Of course! That’s it. He had the map from the brass box and he was searching over Hank’s land for the treasure. Why didn’t I think of that before? Digging holes to plant monkey nuts! I might have known nothing of that sort could have been done. He was on the search for the treasure, of course. Oh, if I can only catch him!”
But as Bob neared the station another thought came to him.
“If he had the map, which told exactly where the treasure was buried, why did he have to dig all over the bramble patch on a chance of finding it? A man who buries treasure, and makes a map of it, gives the exact location so he can find it again, or so he can direct those whom he wants to find it.
“Now Hank buried the treasure and he made a map of it so Hiram, coming after him, could find it. Hiram isn’t any too well educated so the map would have to be fairly simple. Any one could read it.
“Then this Rodney could follow the directions, and if he had the map he could have gone at once to the right spot and dug up the treasure. Instead he digs holes all over the bramble patch. What’s the answer?
“He didn’t have the map—of course. Or, if he did, he didn’t know how to read it. The answer is that he didn’t have it and was making a blind hunt.
“Then, if he didn’t have the map who has it? Who is the other party most interested?”
There was but one answer to this. New suspicions were fast forming in the mind of Bob Dexter—new suspicions which might mean the solving of the Storm Mountain mystery.