Kitabı oku: «Bob Dexter and the Storm Mountain Mystery or, The Secret of the Log Cabin», sayfa 10
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.
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.
CHAPTER XXI
NEW TACTICS
With a grinding and squeaking of the brakes, which was a reminder to Bob that he must get some new lining, the little car came to a stop near the silent and deserted railroad station in Cliffside. Deserted it was save for the presence of the lone agent in the ticket office, as evidenced by a gleam of light shining out into the cold and clammy mists of the night.
The milk train had just left, Bob knew. If he had hoped to intercept either the man with the hook or the man with the monkey he was disappointed, but Bob did not show any signs of this.
“Hello, Mr. Dawson,” he greeted the agent, who peered wonderingly out at him through the brass bars of his window.
“Well, bless my ticket stamp – if it isn’t Bob Dexter!” exclaimed the agent. “What in the world are you doing here at this hour? The milk train’s gone, Bob!”
“I know it. Heard her pulling up Storm Mountain.”
“And there isn’t another until the accommodation at 5:15.”
“Which I’m not going to take, thank goodness.”
“Well, then – ” there was mild questioning in the agent’s voice.
“It’s just a private matter I’m working on, Mr. Dawson,” said Bob, making sure no early morning travelers were sitting on the deserted benches in the dimly-lighted waiting room of the station.
“Oh, up to your old tricks, eh, Bob?” The agent knew the reputation the lad was earning for himself.
“Something like that – yes.”
“Another Jennie Thorp case, Bob?”
“Not exactly. But tell me, Mr. Dawson, did a couple of men get on the milk train just now?”
“Yes – two men – one with an iron hook in place of a hand.”
“Those are the ones. The other was a fellow with a big bunch of whiskers and hair enough to stuff a sofa pillow, and a hand organ and a monkey.”
“No, Bob, not exactly.”
“Not exactly – what do you mean, Mr. Dawson?”
“I mean there wasn’t any man with a hand organ and a monkey.”
“Oh, well, he could have left that behind, though what the poor monk will do I don’t know. Anyhow he had a lot of hair and whiskers, didn’t he?”
“No, Bob,” answered the agent, “he didn’t. You got that one man right – he had a hook all right. But the other was smooth-shaved and his hair wasn’t any longer than mine.”
Bob was staggered for a minute. Then a light broke in on him.
“Of course!” he cried. “He could have taken off the false beard and wig, or have stopped long enough, somewhere, to get a hair cut and a shave.”
“He had a shave, Bob, I’ll testify to that. I was close to him when he bought the tickets.”
“Bought tickets, did he? Where to, Mr. Dawson?”
“Perry Junction.”
“Um, down where they can catch the fast trains. But there aren’t so many trains at this time of the morning. Maybe I can nab them yet.”
“What are you going to do, Bob?” asked Mr. Dawson, as the lad started from the station.
“I’m going to take the short cut to Perry Junction. I can beat the milk, for it’s got half a dozen stops between here and there to pick up cans. I want to see these fellows.”
“Better not take any chances with them, Bob,” advised Mr. Dawson. “They didn’t look like very nice customers, especially that man with the iron hook. If he made a dig at you with that – zowie, boy!” The agent drew in his breath sharply.
“Don’t worry – I’m not going to take any chances, Mr. Dawson. I’m going to stop and pick up an officer at headquarters.”
“I think that’s wise. I didn’t like the looks of these chaps from the time they came in. I was suspicious of them, and I thought I might be in for a hold-up, until I remembered that I didn’t have enough money on hand to make it worth while. But they were civil enough.”
“And you say the man with the smooth face bought the tickets?”
“Yes – two, for Ferry Junction.”
“Did he talk like an Italian?”
“No, Bob, I can’t say he did. Talked like as American, as far as I could judge.”
“Then he must have dropped his pretended Italian jargon along with his hair and whiskers,” thought the young detective. “Well, things are beginning to work out – though what the end will be I can’t tell.” Aloud, to the agent, he said:
“Well, I guess I’ll be getting along if I’m going to beat the milk, though that won’t be so hard. She’s got a bad grade ahead of her up Storm Mountain. Much obliged for your information, Mr. Dawson.”
“Don’t mention it, Bob. Hope you make out all right with your case.”
“Thanks, I hope I do.”
“I reckon, before long, you’ll be on the police force of some big city, Bob.”
“No such luck as that, Mr. Dawson. But that’s what I’m working for. Good-night.”
“Good-morning, you mean!” chuckled Mr. Dawson as he smiled at the lad. “It’ll soon be daylight.”
So it will. Well, I’ve got to get a hustle on.
The young detective found Constable Tarton on night duty at police headquarters. Mr. Tarton had considerable respect for Bob, for he knew of the outcome of the case of the Golden Eagle. In fact Caleb would rather work with Bob than with Chief Miles Duncan.
So it was with eagerness that Mr. Tarton agreed to accompany the lad in the flivver to Perry Junction, there, if need arose, to make an arrest on suspicion.
“I’ll just wake up Sim Nettlebury, and let him take charge of matters,” the constable said with a chuckle. “Not that anything is likely to happen in Cliffside at this hour of the morning, but I got to follow regulations. Sim won’t like it, though, being woke up.”
Sim didn’t, as was evident from his grumbles and growls as the night constable aroused him in the room over the main office of police headquarters. A certain proportion of the limited police force of Cliffside slept on the premises, taking turns the different nights.
“Now I’m ready to go with you, Bob,” announced Mr. Tarton, as the half-awake Sim, rubbing his eyes, tried to find a comfortable place behind the desk with its green-shaded lamp.
Bob Dexter had thought out his plan carefully, and yet he was not at all sure of the outcome. The identity of Rod Marbury, the man suspected of assaulting Hiram and stealing the brass-bound box, with Pietro Margolis was a surprise to the young detective. How the man with the iron hook fitted into the mystery Bob could not yet fathom.
But that something had occurred between the two to make Rod leave off his disguise, and hurry out of town was evident.
“He fooled Hiram and he fooled Jolly Bill,” thought Bob. “The question is now can he fool me. I was taken in by his monkey nuts, but from now on I’ll be on my guard. And yet I don’t believe he took the brass box. But he may know who did. The man with the iron hook couldn’t have – I’m sure. Hiram never mentioned such a character, and he would have done so, I’m sure, if there had been any such character to mention. You don’t meet a man with an iron hook every day. Well, it may be working out – this Storm Mountain mystery – but it’s doing so in a queer way.”
“All set, Bob,” said the constable, as he got in the flivver.
“Let’s go!” was the grim rejoinder.
The roads were clear of traffic, save for an occasional farmer bringing to town, for the early market, a load of produce. And, as Bob had said, he could take a short cut, intercepting the milk train, almost before it reached Perry Junction. The train, as the lad had stated, would have to make a number of stops to pick up cans of milk which the dairymen had left at the different stations along the route.
“Those fellows must have been in a desperate hurry, Bob, to take the milk train,” said the constable, as they jolted along side by side in the flivver.
“Hurry – on the milk?” laughed Bob.
“Well, I mean in a hurry to get out of town. Of course the train is a slow-poke, but they could get out of Cliffside on her, and that’s what they wanted, maybe.”
“That’s so,” agreed Bob. “I didn’t think of that”
“Think of what?” asked Caleb Tarton.
“Oh – nothing much. Hold fast now, here’s a bit of rough road.”
It was rough – so much so that at the speed which Bob drove all the constable could do was to hold on. And he didn’t dare open his mouth to ask questions for fear of biting off his tongue.
Which, perhaps, was Bob’s object. I’m not saying it was, but it would have been a good way to insure silence.
Then they got onto a smooth, concrete highway, leading directly to Perry Junction. A faint light was showing, now, in the east.
“Soon be sun-up, Bob,” remarked Mr. Tarton.
“Yep. It’s been a long night, I’ll say. I haven’t been to bed yet”
“You haven’t?”
“No. I ran off a party. Then I ran onto this clew and I’ve been busy on it ever since.”
“Well, we’ll soon know what’s what, Bob. There’s the station right ahead of us.”
“Yes, and here comes the milk,” added Bob, as a shrill whistle cut the keen, morning air.
“We’re just about in time,” remarked the constable.
Perry Junction was not a station of any importance save that certain fast trains stopped there to pick up passengers from other points along the line. And it was evidently the object of the two men to take advantage of this. Bob had made his plans well, and they would have worked out admirably save for one thing.
The two men he was after weren’t on the train. A simple thing, but it loomed big.
Bob and the constable leaped from their flivver as the milk train drew to a screeching stop, and the two hid themselves behind a corner of the station. It was now light enough so that they could see who got off the milk train. But the man with the iron hook and the man who had been masquerading as an organ grinder, were not among the passengers that alighted.
“Looks like they give us the slip, Bob,” observed Mr. Tarton.
“Yes, it does. But they may be on there yet. This isn’t the end of the milk run. I’ll ask the conductor.”
The latter was walking up and down the platform waiting for the completion of loading on more rattling cans of milk. He knew Bob, and greeted him.
“Man with an iron hook?” questioned the ticket puncher. “Yes, he got on at Cliffside.”
“Was there another man with him – a smooth-shaved man?”
“Yes, Bob, there was. I didn’t have many passengers – we seldom do this time of year, with the excursion business over. But I remember those two.”
“They had tickets for Perry Junction, didn’t they?”
“Yes, now I recall it, they did.”
“But they aren’t here.”
“No, Bob, they got off somewhere between Tottenville and Andover. I noticed them at Tottenville, but I didn’t see them at Andover.”
“But there isn’t a station between those two places.”
“No station, Bob, but we stop at three white posts to pick up milk. Farm-stations we call them – not regular stops for any except my train. These fellows could have gotten off anywhere along there, and they probably did.”
“Shucks!” ejaculated Bob. “That’s it! I might have known they wouldn’t give themselves away by coming to the place for which they have tickets. They got off at some place where they wouldn’t be noticed. Well, I guess we might as well go back,” he told the constable.
“How about searching the train?” asked the latter eagerly. “They might be concealed somewhere on board, Bob.”
“No, I don’t think so,” said the conductor. “They just dropped off at one of the white post stops between Tottenville and Andover. Why, was there anything wrong about them?”
“Suspicions, mostly, that’s all,” said Bob.
The last can rattled aboard, the conductor gave the signal, the engineer gave two toots to the whistle and the milk train pulled away from Perry Junction.
