Chapter XXII The Brass Box
Nearly every town, or small city has, or had at one time, a large hotel known as the “Mansion House.” In this Cliffside was no exception, and the chief hostelry bore that name. It was a big, rambling, old-fashioned structure and, in its day, had housed many a “gay and festive scene,” to quote the Cliffside Weekly Banner which once ran a series of stories about famous men and places in the community.
However, though the Mansion House may once have had such a distinction as being a place (one of several thousand) where George Washington stayed overnight, now were its glories departed, and it was but an ordinary hotel. Some old residents, who had given up their homes, lived there the year around. It was the stopping place of such traveling men, or drummers, who occasionally came to the place, and the annual “assembly ball” was held there.
Being an old-fashioned hotel it had many connecting and adjoining rooms, with doors between, and transoms of glass over the said doors. It was a “family” hotel, to use the expression Mr. Beel often applied to his place.
Consequently it wasn’t difficult for Bob Dexter to secure a place of observation near the room where Jolly Bill Hickey had elected to stay for a time.
“I don’t know how long I’ll be here,” Bill had said to Mr. Beel, when Bob drove him to the place the morning of the discovery of the crime on Storm Mountain.
“Stay as long as you like—we’ll try and make you welcome!” Mr. Beel had said with the bluff heartiness that characterized him when greeting a new guest.
“And you’re sure no one will object to my wooden leg?” asked Jolly Bill.
“Huh! I’d like to see ’em!” snapped out the proprietor. “You got just as good a right to have a wooden leg as another man has to have two of flesh and blood, I reckon.”
“Thanks. I’ll do my best not to make any trouble.”
So had Jolly Bill taken up his residence, and his reference to having a “few shots left in the locker” to pay his way was amply borne out, for he met his weekly bills with great regularity.
“There’s a little cubbyhole of a room next to his,” Mr. Beel had said when Bob broached his new tactics. “It used to be used to store drummers’ trunks in, when Cliffside did a bigger business than it does now. You can get in there and look over the transom if you like.”
“Well, I’ll try it. Maybe it will be a longer session than I anticipate. But don’t let it be known that I’m there.”
“I won’t, Bob. You can slip in any time you like. I’ll furnish you with a key. And you’ll have a good excuse in being here.”
“Yes—arranging for the annual banquet of the Boys’ Club.”
For there was such a function, and it was always held at the Mansion House, the club house not being large enough. Bob had gone to the trouble of getting himself appointed a member of the Banquet Committee, and though it was still some weeks before that affair would take place, it gave sufficient excuse, in case he was questioned, to account for his presence in the hotel.
Thus it was arranged and Bob, deserting his friends and relatives for the time being, took up his quarters in the little cubbyhole of a room, adjoining that which harbored Jolly Bill and his wooden leg.
Just what Bob hoped to find out or prove he hardly knew in his own mind. Certainly he did not tell Ned or Harry, for he couldn’t. It was all so vague—merely a suspicion.
“What’s got into old Bob lately?” asked Harry of Ned, a few days after the futile chase of the milk train.
“Oh, he’s working on that Storm Mountain mystery, you can depend on that.”
“Has he said anything to you about it?”
“Nothing special. Bob never does when he’s following close on a clew. But he said he might not see us for a few days.”
“Well, I guess we’d just better let him alone.”
“Sure. He won’t thank us for butting in, and if he wants any help he knows we’ll give it to him.”
“Sure.”
Thereupon the two chums had gone off nutting again, leaving Bob Dexter to his own devices.
Taking advantage of the fact that there were few late arrivals in the Mansion House, which, unlike the Railroad hotel, did not keep open all night, Bob made his entry as an unregistered guest in his little room about two o’clock one morning. Mr. Beel was the only one around at the time.
“Good luck to you, Bob,” the proprietor had said, as he watched the lad enter his room quietly. “He’s in there,” and he motioned to the apartment of Jolly Bill and his wooden leg.
Bob’s first activity, after settling himself, was to mount on a chair and examine, as best he could in the feeble light of one electric bulb in his room, the transom over the door between his apartment and that of Jolly Bill.
At one time these two rooms had formed part of a suite, but when there was little call except for single rooms, the transom had been closed and painted black to prevent surreptitious views from one room to the other.
“And the paint’s on my side,” exclaimed Bob. “That makes it easier. I’ll scrape a peep-hole in the morning, after Jolly Bill goes out.”
Bob was concentrating his efforts and suspicions on this wooden-legged sailor now, since all efforts to trace the man with the iron hook, and his companion, had failed.
Bob did not sleep very well the remainder of that night. His mind was too filled with the possibilities that might follow his action. But toward morning he fell asleep, and the early winter sun was quite high when he opened his eyes.
“Gosh,” he exclaimed in a whisper. “I ought to have been up long ago. Wonder if he’s gone out?”
He listened but could hear no sound from the next room.
“I wish I hadn’t gone to sleep,” mused Bob, rather chagrined at himself. “Maybe he’s flown the coop and gone out on the milk train.”
But he was reassured, a little later, by hearing the voice of Jolly Bill himself. The voice followed a knock on his door—evidently a summons to arise—for there were no room telephones in the Mansion House. A chambermaid or bell boy had to come up and knock on the doors of guests to arouse them in case they requested such attention.
“All right I All right!” sounded the voice of the man with the wooden leg. “All right! I’m getting up! Got lots to do to-day!”
This was rather amusing, from the fact that since he had arrived in Cliffside Jolly Bill had done nothing in the line of work—unless digging worms to go fishing could be so called.
“All right! I’m on the job, too!” said Bob, silently to himself. Quickly he mounted to a chair which raised him so that he could look through the transom over his door. He moved silently. He did not want Bill to know, if it could be avoided, that there was a guest in the next room.
With the point of a knife blade, Bob removed a little of the black paint on his side of the transom. It gave him a peep-hole and he applied his eye to it.
Rather a mean and sneaking business, this of spying through peep-holes, the lad thought. The only consolation was that he was going through it in a good cause—his desire to bring criminals to justice and aid Hiram Beegle.
To Bob’s delight he found that he had a good view of the interior of Jolly Bill’s room, and he had sight of that individual himself, sitting on the edge of his bed and vigorously stretching himself as a preliminary to his morning ablutions.
Bill’s wooden leg was unstrapped from the stump, and lay on a chair near him, as did the heavy cane he used to balance himself, for he was a stout man.
“It couldn’t be better—if it works out the way I think it will,” mused the lad. Eagerly and anxiously he watched now for the next move on the part of the old sailor. For it was on this move that much might depend.
Having stretched himself, and rubbed his eyes to remove therefrom as much as possible of the “sleep,” by a process of dry washing, Jolly Bill prepared for his day’s activities by reaching out for his wooden leg.
“Now,” whispered Bob to himself, as he stood gazing through his peep-hole in the painted transom, “am I right or am I wrong? It won’t take long to tell if things work out the way I expect they will. Steady now!” he told himself.
Jolly Bill pulled his wooden leg toward him as he sat on the bed. He must strap it on before he could begin stumping about to begin his day of “work,” whatever that mysterious occupation was.
And then, as Bob watched, the old sailor, with a look toward the window, to make sure the shades were pulled down, plunged his hand into the interior of his wooden leg.
This artificial limb, like many of its kind, was hollow to make it lighter. There was quite a cavity within.
Another look toward the curtained window, but never a glance did Jolly Bill bestow on the painted transom over the door between his room and the cubbyhole. Why should he look there? No one had occupied it since he had been in the Mansion House. And it was unoccupied when Bill went to bed last night. He had made sure of that as he always did. But Bob had come in since.
And then, as the young detective peered through his peep-hole, he saw a sight which thrilled him.
For, from the hollow interior of his wooden leg, Jolly Bill pulled out the brass-bound box that had been so mysteriously stolen from the strong room of Hiram Beegle—the strong room which was locked in such a queer way, with the key inside and the criminal outside.
Jolly Bill held up the brass box, and smiled as he observed it.
“I guess,” he murmured, “I guess it’s about time I had another go at you, to see if I can get at what you mean. For blessed if I’ve been able to make head or tail of you yet! Not head or tail!”
And, sitting on the bed, his wooden leg beside him, Jolly Bill Hickey began fumbling with the brass box.
The eyes of Bob Dexter shone eagerly.