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Title: The Chinese Parrot (1926)
Author: Earl Derr Biggers
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Language:  English
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Title:      The Chinese Parrot (1926)
Author:     Earl Derr Biggers





CHAPTER I



The Phillimore Pearls


Alexander Eden stepped from the misty street into the great,
marble-pillared room where the firm of Meek and Eden offered its wares.
Immediately, behind showcases gorgeous with precious stones or bright
with silver, platinum and gold, forty resplendent clerks stood at
attention. Their morning coats were impeccable, lacking the slightest
suspicion of a wrinkle, and in the left lapel of each was a pink
carnation, as fresh and perfect as though it had grown there.

Eden nodded affably to right and left and went on his way, his heels
clicking cheerily on the spotless tile floor. He was a small man,
gray-haired and immaculate, with a quick keen eye and the imperious
manner that so well became his position. For the clan of Meek, having
duly inherited the earth, had relinquished that inheritance and passed to
the great beyond, leaving Alexander Eden the sole owner of the best-known
jewelry store west of the Rockies.

Arriving at the rear of the shop, he ascended a brief stairway to the
luxurious suite of offices on the mezzanine floor where he spent his
days. In the anteroom of the suite he encountered his secretary.

"Ah, good morning, Miss Chase," he said.

The girl answered with a smile. Eden's eye for beauty, developed by long
experience in the jewel trade, had not failed him when he picked Miss
Chase. She was an ash blonde with violet eyes; her manners were
exquisite; so was her gown. Bob Eden, reluctant heir to the business, had
been heard to remark that entering his father's office was like arriving
for tea in a very exclusive drawing-room.

Alexander Eden glanced at his watch. "In about ten minutes," he
announced, "I expect a caller--an old friend of mine--Madame Jordan, of
Honolulu. When she arrives, show her in at once."

"Yes, Mr. Eden," replied the girl.

He passed on into his own room, where he hung up his hat, coat and stick.
On his broad, gleaming desk lay the morning mail; he glanced at it idly,
but his mind was elsewhere. In a moment he strolled to one of the windows
and stood there gazing at the facade of the building across the way.

The day was not far advanced, and the fog that had blanketed San
Francisco the night before still lingered in the streets. Staring into
that dull gray mist, Eden saw a picture, a picture that was incongruously
all color and light and life. His thoughts had traveled back down the
long corridor of the years, and in that imagined scene outside the
window, he himself moved, a slim dark boy of seventeen.

Forty years ago--a night in Honolulu, the gay happy Honolulu of the
monarchy. Behind a bank of ferns in one corner of the great Phillimore
living-room Berger's band was playing, and over the polished floor young
Alec Eden and Sally Phillimore danced together. The boy stumbled now and
then, for the dance was a new-fangled one called the two-step, lately
introduced into Hawaii by a young ensign from the Nipsic. But perhaps it
was not entirely his unfamiliarity with the two-step that muddled him,
for he knew that in his arms he held the darling of the islands.

Some few are favored by fortune out of all reason, and Sally Phillimore
was one of these. Above and beyond her beauty, which would have been
sufficient in itself, she seemed, in that simple Honolulu society, the
heiress of all the ages. The Phillimore fortunes were at their peak,
Phillimore ships sailed the seven seas, on thousands of Phillimore acres
the sugar-cane ripened toward a sweet, golden harvest. Looking down, Alec
Eden saw hanging about the girl's white throat, a symbol of her place and
wealth, the famous pearl necklace Marc Phillimore had brought home from
London, and for which he had paid a price that made all Honolulu gasp.

Eden, of Meek and Eden, continued to stare into the fog. It was pleasant
to relive that night in Hawaii, a night filled with magic and the scent
of exotic blossoms, to hear again the giddy laughter, the distant murmur
of the surf, the soft croon of island music. Dimly he recalled Sally's
blue eyes shining up at him. More vividly--for he was nearly sixty now,
and a business man--he saw again the big lustrous pearls that lay on her
breast, reflecting the light with a warm glow--

Oh, well--he shrugged his shoulders. All that was forty years ago, and
much had happened since. Sally's marriage to Fred Jordan, for example,
and then, a few years later, the birth of her only child, of Victor. Eden
smiled grimly. How ill-advised she had been when she named that foolish,
wayward boy.

He went over to his desk and sat down. No doubt it was some escapade of
Victor's, he reflected, that was responsible for the scene shortly to be
enacted here in this office on Post Street. Yes, of course, that was it.
Victor, lurking in the wings, was about to ring down the final curtain on
the drama of the Phillimore pearls.

He was deep in his mail when, a few moments later, his secretary opened
the door and announced: "Madame Jordan is calling."

Eden rose. Sally Jordan was coming toward him over the Chinese rug. Gay
and sprightly as ever--how valiantly she had battled with the years!
"Alec--my dear old friend--"

He took both her fragile hands in his. "Sally! I'm mighty glad to see
you. Here." He drew a big leather chair close to his desk. "The post of
honor for you. Always."

Smiling, she sat down. Eden went to his accustomed place behind his desk.
He took up a paper-knife and balanced it; for a man of his poise he
appeared rather ill at ease. "Ah--er--how long have you been in town?"

"Two weeks--I think--yes, two weeks last Monday."

"You're not living up to your promise, Sally. You didn't let me know."

"But I've had such a gay round," she protested. "Victor is always so good
to me."

"Ah, yes--Victor--he's well, I hope." Eden looked away, out the window.
"Fog's lifting, isn't it? A fine day, after all--"

"Dear old Alec." She shook her head. "No good beating round the bush.
Never did believe in it. Get down to business--that's my motto. It's as I
told you the other day over the telephone. I've made up my mind to sell
the Phillimore pearls."

He nodded. "And why not? What good are they, anyhow?"

"No, no," she objected. "It's perfectly true--they're no good to me. I'm
a great believer in what's fitting--and those gorgeous pearls were meant
for youth. However, that's not the reason I'm selling. I'd hang on to
them if I could. But I can't. I--I'm broke, Alec."

He looked out the window again.

"Sounds absurd, doesn't it?" she went on. "All the Phillimore ships--the
Phillimore acres--vanished into thin air. The big house on the
beach--mortgaged to the hilt. You see--Victor--he's made some unfortunate
investments--"

"I see," said Eden softly.

"Oh, I know what you're thinking, Alec. Victor's a bad, bad boy. Foolish
and careless and--and worse, perhaps. But he's all I've got, since Fred
went. And I'm sticking by him."

"Like the good sport you are," he smiled. "No, I wasn't thinking unkindly
of Victor, Sally. I--I have a son myself."

"Forgive me," she said. "I should have asked before. How's Bob?"

"Why, he's all right, I guess. He may come in before you leave--if he
happens to have had an early breakfast."

"Is he with you in the business?"

Eden shrugged. "Not precisely. Bob's been out of college three years now.
One of those years was spent in the South Seas, another in Europe, and
the third--from what I can gather--in the card-room of his club. However,
his career does seem to be worrying him a bit. The last I heard he was
thinking of the newspaper game. He has friends on the papers." The
jeweler waved his hand about the office. "This sort of thing, Sally--this
thing I've given my life to--it's a great bore to Bob."

"Poor Alec," said Sally Jordan softly. "The new generation is so hard to
understand. But--it's my own troubles I came to talk about. Broke, as I
told you. Those pearls are all I have in the world."

"Well--they're a good deal," Eden told her.

"Enough to help Victor out of the hole he's in. Enough for the few years
left me, perhaps. Father paid ninety thousand for them. It was a fortune
at that time--but today--"

"Today," Eden repeated. "You don't seem to realize, Sally. Like
everything else, pearls have greatly appreciated since the 'eighties.
Today that string is worth three hundred thousand if it's worth a cent."

She gasped. "Why, it can't be. Are you sure? You've never seen the
necklace--"

"Ah--I was wondering if you'd remember," he chided. "I see you don't.
Just before you came in I was thinking back--back to a night forty years
ago, when I was visiting my uncle in the islands. Seventeen--that's all I
was--but I came to your dance, and you taught me the two-step. The pearls
were about your throat. One of the memorable nights of my life."

"And of mine," she nodded. "I remember now. Father had just brought the
necklace from London, and it was the first time I'd worn it. Forty years
ago--ah, Alec, let's hurry back to the present. Memories--sometimes they
hurt." She was silent for a moment. "Three hundred thousand, you say."

"I don't guarantee I can get that much," he told her. "I said the
necklace was worth it. But it isn't always easy to find a buyer who will
meet your terms. The man I have in mind--"

"Oh--you've found some one--"

"Well--yes--I have. But he refuses to go above two hundred and twenty
thousand. Of course, if you're in a hurry to sell--"

"I am," she answered. "Who is this Midas?"

"Madden," he said. "P.J. Madden."

"Not the big Wall Street man? The Plunger?"

"Yes. You know him?"

"Only through the newspapers. He's famous, of course, but I've never seen
him."

Eden frowned. "That's curious," he said. "He appeared to know you. I had
heard he was in town, and when you telephoned me the other day, I went at
once to his hotel. He admitted he was on the lookout for a string as a
present for his daughter, but he was pretty cold at first. However, when
I mentioned the Phillimore pearls, he laughed. 'Sally Phillimore's
pearls,' he said. 'I'll take them.' 'Three hundred thousand,' I said.
'Two hundred and twenty and not a penny more,' he answered. And looked at
me with those eyes of his--as well try to bargain with this fellow here."
He indicated a small bronze Buddha on his desk.

Sally Jordan seemed puzzled. "But Alec--he couldn't know me. I don't
understand. However, he's offering a fortune, and I want it, badly.
Please hurry and close with him before he leaves town."

Again the door opened at the secretary's touch. "Mr. Madden, of New
York," said the girl.

"Yes," said Eden. "We'll see him at once." He turned to his old friend.
"I asked him to come here this morning and meet you. Now take my advice
and don't be too eager. We may be able to boost him a bit, though I doubt
it. He's a hard man, Sally, a hard man. The newspaper stories about him
are only too true."

He broke off suddenly, for the hard man he spoke of stood upon his rug.
P.J. himself, the great Madden, the hero of a thousand Wall Street
battles, six feet and over and looming like a tower of granite in the
gray clothes he always affected. His cold blue eyes swept the room like
an Arctic blast.

"Ah, Mr. Madden, come in," said Eden, rising. Madden advanced farther
into the room, and after him came a tall languid girl in expensive furs
and a lean, precise-looking man in a dark blue suit.

"Madame Jordan, this is Mr. Madden, of whom we have just been speaking,"
Eden said.

"Madame Jordan," repeated Madden, bowing slightly. He had dealt so much
in steel it had got somehow into his voice. "I've brought along my
daughter Evelyn, and my secretary, Martin Thorn."

"Charmed, I'm sure," Eden answered. He stood for a moment gazing at this
interesting group that had invaded his quiet office--the famous
financier, cool, competent, conscious of his power, the slender haughty
girl upon whom, it was reported, Madden lavished all the affection of his
later years, the thin intense secretary, subserviently in the background
but for some reason not so negligible as he might have been. "Won't you
all sit down, please," the jeweler continued. He arranged chairs. Madden
drew his close to the desk; the air seemed charged with his presence; he
dwarfed them all.

"No need of any preamble," said the millionaire. "We've come to see those
pearls."

Eden started. "My dear sir--I'm afraid I gave you the wrong impression.
The pearls are not in San Francisco at present."

Madden stared at him. "But when you told me to come here and meet the
owner--"

"I'm so sorry--I meant just that."

Sally Jordan helped him out. "You see, Mr. Madden, I had no intention of
selling the necklace when I came here from Honolulu. I was moved to that
decision by events after I reached here. But I have sent for it--"

The girl spoke. She had thrown back the fur about her neck, and she was
beautiful in her way, but cold and hard like her father--and just now,
evidently, unutterably bored. "I thought of course the pearls were here,"
she said, "or I should not have come."

"Well, it isn't going to hurt you," her father snapped. "Mrs. Jordan, you
say you've sent for the necklace?"

"Yes. It will leave Honolulu tonight, if all goes well. It should be here
in six days."

"No good," said Madden. "My daughter's starting tonight for Denver. I go
south in the morning, and in a week I expect to join her in Colorado and
we'll travel east together. No good, you see."

"I will agree to deliver the necklace anywhere you say," suggested Eden.

"Yes--I guess you will." Madden considered. He turned to Madame Jordan.
"This is the identical string of pearls you were wearing at the old
Palace Hotel in 1889?" he asked.

She looked it him in surprise. "The same string," she answered.

"And even more beautiful than it was then, I'll wager," Eden smiled. "You
know, Mr. Madden, there is an old superstition in the jewelry trade that
pearls assume the personality of their wearer and become somber or
bright, according to the mood of the one they adorn. If that is true,
this string has grown more lively through the years."

"Bunk," said Madden rudely. "Oh, excuse me--I don't mean that the lady
isn't charming. But I have no sympathy with the silly superstitions of
your trade--or of any other trade. Well, I'm a busy man. I'll take the
string--at the price I named."

Eden shook his head. "It's worth at least three hundred thousand, as I
told you."

"Not to me. Two hundred and twenty--twenty now to bind it and the balance
within thirty days after the delivery of the string. Take it or leave
it."

He rose and stared down at the jeweler. Eden was an adept at bargaining,
but somehow all his cunning left him as he faced this Gibraltar of a man.
He looked helplessly toward his old friend.

"It's all right, Alec," Madame Jordan said. "I accept."

"Very good," Eden sighed. "But you are getting a great bargain, Mr.
Madden."

"I always get a great bargain," replied Madden. "Or I don't buy." He took
out his check-book. "Twenty thousand now, as I agreed."

For the first time the secretary spoke; his voice was thin and cold and
disturbingly polite. "You say the pearls will arrive in six days?"

"Six days or thereabouts," Madame Jordan answered.

"Ah, yes." An ingratiating note crept in. "They are coming by--"

"By a private messenger," said Eden sharply. He was taking a belated
survey of Martin Thorn. A pale high forehead, pale green eyes that now
and then popped disconcertingly, long, pale, grasping hands. Not the
jolliest sort of playmate to have around, he reflected. "A private
messenger," he repeated firmly.

"Of course," said Thorn. Madden had written the check and laid it on the
jeweler's desk. "I was thinking, Chief--just a suggestion," Thorn went
on. "If Miss Evelyn is to return and spend the balance of the winter in
Pasadena, she will want to wear the necklace there. We'll still be in
that neighborhood six days from now, and it seems to me--"

"Who's buying this necklace?" cut in Madden. "I'm not going to have the
thing carried back and forth across the country. It's too risky in these
days when every other man is a crook."

"But father," said the girl. "it's quite true that I'd like to wear it
this winter--"

She stopped. P.J. Madden's crimson face had gone purple, and he was
tossing his great head. It was a quaint habit he had when opposed, the
newspapers said. "The necklace will be delivered to me in New York," he
remarked to Eden, ignoring his daughter and Thorn. "I'll be in the south
for some time--got a place in Pasadena and a ranch on the desert, four
miles from Eldorado. Haven't been down there for quite a while, and
unless you look in on these caretakers occasionally, they get slack. As
soon as I'm back in New York I'll wire you, and you can deliver the
necklace at my office. You'll have my check for the balance within thirty
days."

"That's perfectly agreeable to me," Eden said. "If you'll wait just a
moment I'll have a bill of sale drawn, outlining the terms. Business is
business--as you of all men understand."

"Of course," nodded Madden. The jeweler went out.

Evelyn Madden rose. "I'll meet you downstairs, father. I want to look
over their stock of jade." She turned to Madame Jordan. "You know, one
finds better jade in San Francisco than anywhere else."

"Yes, indeed," smiled the older woman. She rose and took the girl's
hands. "Such a lovely throat, my dear--I was saying just before you
came--the Phillimore pearls need youth. Well, they're to have it at last.
I hope you will wear them through many happy years."

"Why--why, thank you," said the girl, and went.

Madden glanced at his secretary. "Wait for me in the car," he ordered.
Alone with Madame Jordan, he looked at her grimly. "You never saw me
before, did you?" he inquired.

"I'm so sorry. Have I?"

"No--I suppose not. But I saw you. Oh, we're well along in years now, and
it does no harm to speak of these things. I want you to know it will be a
great satisfaction to me to own that necklace. A deep wound and an old
one is healed this morning."

She stared at him. "I don't understand."

"No, of course you don't. But in the 'eighties you used to come from the
islands with your family and stop at the Palace Hotel. And I--I was a
bell-hop at that same hotel. I often saw you there--I saw you once when
you were wearing that famous necklace. I thought you were the most
beautiful girl in the world--oh, why not--we're both--er--"

"We're both old now," she said softly.

"Yes--that's what I mean. I worshipped you, but I--I was a bell-hop--you
looked through me--you never saw me. A bit of furniture, that's all I was
to you. Oh, I tell you, it hurt my pride--a deep wound, as I said. I
swore I'd get on--I knew it, even then. I'd marry you. We can both smile
at that now. It didn't work out--even some of my schemes never worked
out. But today I own your pearls--they'll hang about my daughter's neck.
It's the next best thing. I've bought you out. A deep wound in my pride,
but healed at last."

She looked at him, and shook her head. Once she might have resented this,
but not now. "You're a strange man," she said.

"I am what I am," he answered. "I had to tell you. Otherwise the triumph
would not have been complete."

Eden came in. "Here you are, Mr. Madden. If you'll sign this--thank you."

"You'll get a wire," said Madden. "In New York, remember, and nowhere
else. Good day." He turned to Madame Jordan and held out his hand.

She took it, smiling. "Good-bye. I'm not looking through you now. I see
you at last."

"And what do you see?"

"A terribly vain man. But a likable one."

"Thank you. I'll remember that. Good-bye."

He left them. Eden sank wearily into a chair. "Well, that's that. He
rather wears one out. I wanted to stick for a higher figure, but it
looked hopeless. Somehow, I knew he always wins."

"Yes," said Madame Jordan, "he always wins."

"By the way, Sally, I didn't want you to tell that secretary who was
bringing the pearls. But you'd better tell me."

"Why, of course. Charlie's bringing them."

"Charlie?"

"Detective-Sergeant Chan, of the Honolulu police. Long ago, in the big
house on the beach, he was our number-one boy."

"Chan. A Chinese?"

"Yes. Charlie left us to join the police force, and he's made a fine
record there. He's always wanted to come to the mainland, so I've had it
all arranged--his leave of absence, his status as a citizen, everything.
And he's coming with the pearls. Where could I have found a better
messenger? Why--I'd trust Charlie with my life--no, that isn't very
precious any more. I'd trust him with the life of the one I loved dearest
in the world."

"He's leaving tonight, you said."

"Yes--on the President Pierce. It's due late next Thursday afternoon."

The door opened, and a good-looking young man stood on the threshold. His
face was lean and tanned, his manner poised and confident, and his smile
had just left Miss Chase day-dreaming in the outer office. "Oh, I'm
sorry, dad--if you're busy. Why--look who's here!"

"Bob," cried Madame Jordan. "You rascal--I was hoping to see you. How are
you?"

"Just waking into glorious life," he told her. "How are you, and all the
other young folks out your way?"

"Fine, thanks. By the way, you dawdled too long over breakfast. Just
missed meeting a very pretty girl."

"No, I didn't. Not if you mean Evelyn Madden. Saw her downstairs as I
came in--she was talking to one of those exiled grand dukes we employ to
wait on the customers. I didn't linger--she's an old story now. Been
seeing her everywhere I went for the past week."

"I thought her very charming," Madame Jordan said.

"But an iceberg," objected the boy. "B-r-r--how the wintry winds do blow
in her vicinity. However, I guess she comes by it honestly. I passed the
great P.J. himself on the stairs."

"Nonsense. Have you ever tried that smile of yours on her?"

"In a way. Nothing special--just the old trade smile. But look here--I'm
on to you. You want to interest me in the obsolete institution of
marriage."

"It's what you need. It's what all young men need."

"What for?"

"As an incentive. Something to spur you on to get the most out of life."

Bob Eden laughed. "Listen, my dear. When the fog begins to drift in
through the Gate, and the lights begin to twinkle on O'Farrell
Street--well, I don't want to be hampered by no incentive, lady. Besides,
the girls aren't what they were when you were breaking hearts."

"Rot," she answered. "They're very much nicer. The young men are growing
silly. Alec, I'll go along."

"I'll get in touch with you next Thursday," the elder Eden said. "By the
way--I'm sorry it wasn't more, for your sake."

"It was an amazing lot," she replied. "I'm very happy." Her eyes filled.
"Dear dad--he's taking care of me still," she added, and went quickly
out.

Eden turned to his son. "I judge you haven't taken a newspaper job yet?"

"Not yet." The boy lighted a cigarette. "Of course, the editors are all
after me. But I've been fighting them off."

"Well, fight them off a little longer. I want you to be free for the next
two or three weeks. I've a little job for you myself."

"Why of course, dad." He tossed a match into a priceless Kang-Hsi vase.
"What sort of job? What do I do?"

"First of all, you meet the President Pierce late next Thursday
afternoon."

"Sounds promising. I presume a young woman, heavily veiled, comes
ashore--

"No. A Chinese comes ashore."

"A what?"

"A Chinese detective from Honolulu, carrying in his pocket a pearl
necklace worth over a quarter of a million dollars."

Bob Eden nodded. "Yes. And after that--"

"After that," said Alexander Eden thoughtfully, "who can say? That may be
only the beginning."




CHAPTER II



The Detective From Hawaii


At six o'clock on the following Thursday evening, Alexander Eden drove to
the Stewart Hotel. All day a February rain had spattered over the town,
bringing an early dusk. For a moment Eden stood in the doorway of the
hotel, staring at the parade of bobbing umbrellas and at the lights along
Geary Street, glowing a dim yellow in the dripping mist. In San Francisco
age does not matter much, and he felt like a boy again as he rode up in
the elevator to Sally Jordan's suite.

She was waiting for him in the doorway of her sitting-room, lovely as a
girl in a soft clinging dinner gown of gray. Caste tells, particularly
when one has reached the sixties, Eden thought as he took her hand.

"Ah, Alec," she smiled. "Come in. You remember Victor."

Victor stepped forward eagerly, and Eden looked at him with interest. He
had not seen Sally Jordan's son for some years and he noted that, at
thirty-five, Victor began to show the strain of his giddy career as man
about town. His brown eyes were tired, as though they had looked at the
bright lights too long, his face a bit puffy, his waistline far too
generous. But his attire was perfection; evidently his tailor had yet to
hear of the failing Phillimore fortunes.

"Come in, come in," said Victor gaily. His heart was light, for he saw
important money in the offing. "As I understand it, tonight's the night."

"And I'm glad it is," Sally Jordan added. "I shall be happy to get that
necklace off my mind. Too great a burden at my age."

Eden sat down. "Bob's gone to the dock to meet the President Pierce," he
remarked. "I told him to come here at once with your Chinese friend."

"Ah, yes," said Sally Jordan.

"Have a cocktail," suggested Victor.

"No, thanks," Eden replied. Abruptly he rose and strode about the room.

Mrs. Jordan regarded him with concern. "Has anything happened?" she
inquired.

The jeweler returned to his chair. "Well, yes--something has happened,"
he admitted. "Something--well, something rather odd."

"About the necklace, you mean?" asked Victor with interest.

"Yes," said Eden. He turned to Sally Jordan. "You remember what Madden
told us, Sally? Almost his last words. 'New York, and nowhere else.'"

"Why, yes--I remember," she replied.

"Well, he's changed his mind," frowned the jeweler. "Somehow, it doesn't
seem like Madden. He called me up this morning from his ranch down on the
desert, and he wants the necklace delivered there."

"On the desert?" she repeated, amazed.

"Precisely. Naturally, I was surprised. But his instructions were
emphatic, and you know the sort of man he is. One doesn't argue with him.
I listened to what he had to say, and agreed. But after he had rung off,
I got to thinking. What he had said that morning at my office, you know.
I asked myself--was it really Madden talking? The voice had an authentic
ring--but even so--well, I determined to take no chances."

"Quite right, too," nodded Sally Jordan.

"So I called him back. I had a devil of a time finding his number, but I
finally got it from a business associate of his here in town. Eldorado
76. I asked for P.J. Madden and I got him. Oh, it was Madden right
enough."

"And what did he say?"

"He commended me for my caution, but his orders were even more emphatic
than before. He said he had heard certain things that made him think it
risky to take the necklace to New York at this time. He didn't explain
what he meant by that. But he added that he'd come to the conclusion that
the desert was an ideal place for a transaction of this sort. The last
place in the world any one would come looking for a chance to steal a
quarter of a million dollar necklace. Of course he didn't say all that
over the wire, but that was what I gathered."

"He's absolutely right, too," said Victor.

"Well, yes--in a way, he is. I've spent a lot of time on the desert
myself. In spite of the story writers, it's the most law-abiding place in
America today. Nobody ever locks a door, or so much as thinks of thieves.
Ask the average rancher about police protection, and he'll look surprised
and murmur something about a sheriff several hundred miles away. But for
all that--"

Eden got up again and walked anxiously about the room. "For all that--or
rather, for those very reasons, I don't like the idea at all. Suppose
somebody did want to play a crooked game--what a setting for it! Away out
there on that ocean of sand, with only the Joshua trees for neighbors.
Suppose I send Bob down there with your necklace, and he walks into a
trap. Madden may not be at that lonely ranch. He may have gone east. He
may even, by the time Bob gets there, have gone west--as they said in the
war. Lying out on the desert, with a bullet in him--"

Victor laughed derisively. "Look here, your imagination is running away
with you," he cried.

Eden smiled. "Maybe it is," he admitted. "Begins to look as though I were
growing old, eh, Sally?" He took out his watch. "But where's Bob? Ought
to be here by now. If you don't mind, I'll use your telephone."

He called the dock, and came away from the phone with a still more
worried look. "The President Pierce got in a full forty-five minutes
ago," he announced. "Half an hour should bring them here."

"Traffic's rather thick at this hour," Victor reminded him.

"Yes--that's right, too," Eden agreed. "Well, Sally, I've told you the
situation. What do you think?"

"What should she think?" Victor cut in. "Madden's bought the necklace and
wants it delivered on the desert. It isn't up to us to question his
orders. If we do, he may get annoyed and call the whole deal off. No, our
job is to deliver the pearls, get his receipt, and wait for his check."
His puffy white hands twitched eagerly.

Eden turned to his old friend. "Is that your opinion, Sally?"

"Why, yes, Alec," she said. "I fancy Victor is right." She looked at her
son proudly. Eden also looked at him, but with a vastly different
expression.

"Very good," he answered. "Then there is no time to be lost. Madden is in
a great hurry, as he wants to start for New York very soon. I shall send
Bob with the necklace at eleven o'clock tonight--but I absolutely refuse
to send him alone."

"I'll go along," Victor offered.

Eden shook his head. "No," he objected, "I prefer a policeman, even
though he does belong to a force as far away as Honolulu. This Charlie
Chan--do you think, Sally, that you could persuade him to go with Bob?"

She nodded. "I'm sure of it. Charlie would do anything for me."

"All right--that's settled. But where the devil are they? I tell you, I'm
worried--"

The telephone interrupted him, and Madame Jordan went to answer it.
"Oh--hello, Charlie," she said. "Come right up. We're on the fourth
floor--number 492. Yes. Are you alone?" She hung up the receiver and
turned back into the room. "He says he is alone," she announced.

"Alone," repeated Eden. "Why--I don't understand that--" He sank weakly
into a chair.

A moment later he looked up with interest at the chubby little man his
hostess and her son were greeting warmly at the door. The detective from
Honolulu stepped farther into the room, an undistinguished figure in his
Western clothes. He had round fat cheeks, an ivory skin, but the thing
about him that caught Eden's attention was the expression in his eyes, a
look of keen brightness that made the pupils gleam like black buttons in
the yellow light.

"Alec," said Sally Jordan, "this is my old friend, Charlie Chan.
Charlie--Mr. Eden."

Chan bowed low. "Honors crowd close on this mainland," he said. "First I
am Miss Sally's old friend, and now I meet Mr. Eden."

Eden rose. "How do you do," he said.

"Have a good crossing, Charlie?" Victor asked.

Chan shrugged. "All time big Pacific Ocean suffer sharp pain down below,
and toss about to prove it. Maybe from sympathy, I am in same fix."

Eden came forward. "Pardon me if I'm a little abrupt--but my son--he was
to meet your ship--"

"So sorry," Chan said, regarding him gravely. "The fault must indubitably
be mine. Kindly overlook my stupidity, but there was no meeting at dock."

"I can't understand it," Eden complained again.

"For some few minutes I linger round gang-board," Chan continued. "No one
ventures to approach out of rainy night. Therefore I engage taxi and
hurry to this spot."

"You've got the necklace?" Victor demanded.

"Beyond any question," Chan replied. "Already I have procured room in
this hotel, partly disrobing to remove same from money-belt about waist."
He tossed an innocent-looking string of beads down upon the table.
"Regard the Phillimore pearls at journey's end," he grinned. "And now a
great burden drops from my shoulders with a most delectable thud."

Eden, the jeweler, stepped forward and lifted the string in his hands.
"Beautiful," he murmured, "beautiful. Sally, we should never have let
Madden have them at the price. They're perfectly matched--I don't know
that I ever saw--" He stared for a moment into the rosy glow of the
pearls, then laid them again on the table. "But Bob--where is Bob?"

"Oh, he'll be along," remarked Victor, taking up the necklace. "Just a
case of missing each other."

"I am the faulty one," insisted Chan. "Shamed by my blunder--"

"Maybe," said Eden. "But--now that you have the pearls, Sally, I'll tell
you something else. I didn't want to worry you before. This afternoon at
four o'clock some one called me--Madden again, he said. But something in
his voice--anyhow, I was wary. Pearls were coming on the President
Pierce, were they? Yes. And the name of the messenger? Why should I tell
him that, I inquired. Well, he had just got hold of some inside facts
that made him feel the string was in danger, and he didn't want anything
to happen. He was in a position to help in the matter. He insisted, so I
finally said: 'Very good, Mr. Madden. Hang up your receiver and I'll call
you back in ten minutes with the information you want.' There was a
pause, then I heard him hang up. But I didn't phone the desert. Instead I
had that call traced, and I found it came from a pay-station in a cigar
store at the corner of Sutter and Kearny Streets."

Eden paused. He saw Charlie Chan regarding him with deep interest.

"Can you wonder I'm worried about Bob?" the jeweler continued. "There's
some funny business going on, and I tell you I don't like it--"

A knock sounded on the door, and Eden himself opened it. His son stepped
into the room, debonair and smiling. At sight of him, as so often happens
in such a situation, the anxious father's worry gave way to a deep rage.

"You're a hell of a business man," he cried.

"Now, father--no compliments," laughed Bob Eden. "And me wandering all
over San Francisco in your service."

"I suppose so. That's about what you would be doing, when it was your job
to meet Mr. Chan at the dock."

"Just a moment, dad." Bob Eden removed a glistening rain coat. "Hello,
Victor. Madame Jordan. And this, I imagine, is Mr. Chan."

"So sorry to miss meeting at dock," murmured Chan. "All my fault, I am
sure--"

"Nonsense," cried the jeweler. "His fault, as usual. When, in heaven's
name, are you going to show a sense of responsibility?"

"Now, dad. And a sense of responsibility is just what I've only this
minute stopped showing nothing else but."

"Good lord--what language is that? You didn't meet Mr. Chan, did you?"

"Well, in a way, I didn't--"

"In a way? In a way!"

"Precisely. It's a long story, and I'll tell it if you'll stop
interrupting with these unwarranted attacks on my character. I'll sit
down, if I may. I've been about a bit, and I'm tired."

He lighted a cigarette. "When I came out of the club about five to go to
the dock, there was nothing in sight but a battered old taxi that had
seen better days. I jumped in. When I got down on the Embarcadero I
noticed that the driver was a pretty disreputable lad with a scar on one
cheek and a cauliflower ear. He said he'd wait for me, and he said it
with a lot of enthusiasm. I went into the pier-shed. There was the
President Pierce out in the harbor, fumbling round trying to dock. In a
few minutes I noticed a man standing near me--a thin chilly-looking lad
with an overcoat, the collar up about his ears, and a pair of black
spectacles. I guess I'm psychic--he didn't look good to me. I couldn't
tell, but somehow he seemed to be looking at me from back of those smoked
windows. I moved to the other side of the shed. So did he. I went to the
street. He followed. Well, I drifted back to the gang-plank, and old
Chilly Bill came along."

Bob Eden paused, smiling genially about him. "Right then and there I came
to a quick decision. I'm remarkable that way. I didn't have the pearls,
but Mr. Chan did. Why tip off the world to Mr. Chan? So I just stood
there staring hopefully at the crowd landing from the old P.P. Presently
I saw the man I took to be Mr. Chan come down the plank, but I never
stirred. I watched him while he looked about, then I saw him go out to
the street. Still the mysterious gent behind the windows stuck closer
than a bill collector. After everybody was ashore, I went back to my taxi
and paid off the driver. 'Was you expecting somebody on the ship?' he
asked. 'Yes,' I told him. 'I came down to meet the Dowager Empress of
China, but they tell me she's dead.' He gave me a dirty look. As I
hurried away the man with the black glasses came up. 'Taxi, Mister,' said
Cauliflower Ear. And old Glasses got in. I had to meander through the
rain all the way to the S.P. station before I could find another cab.
Just as I drove away from the station along came Cauliflower Ear in his
splendid equipage. He followed along behind, down Third, up Market to
Powell, and finally to the St. Francis. I went in the front door of the
hotel and out the side, on to Post. And there was Cauliflower Ear and his
fare, drifting by our store. As I went in the front door of the club, my
dear old friends drew up across the street. I escaped by way of the
kitchen, and slipped over here. I fancy they're still in front of the
club--they loved me like a brother." He paused. "And that, dad, is the
long but thrilling story of why I did not meet Mr. Chan."

Eden smiled. "By jove, you've got more brains than I thought. You were
perfectly right. But look here, Sally--I like this less than ever. That
necklace of yours isn't a well-known string. It's been in Honolulu for
years. Easy as the devil to dispose of it, once it's stolen. If you'll
take my advice, you'll certainly not send it off to the desert--"

"Why not?" broke in Victor. "The desert's the very place to send it.
Certainly this town doesn't look any too good."

"Alec," said Sally Jordan, "we need the money. If Mr. Madden is down at
Eldorado, and asks for the necklace there, then let's send it to him
immediately and get his receipt. After that--well, it's his lookout. His
worry. Certainly I want it off my hands as soon as may be."

Eden sighed. "All right. It's for you to decide. Bob will take it at
eleven, as we planned. Provided--well, provided you make the arrangement
you promised--provided he doesn't go alone." He looked toward Charlie
Chan who was standing at the window watching, fascinated, the noisy life
of Geary Street far below.

"Charlie," said Sally Jordan.

"Yes, Miss Sally." He turned, smiling, to face her.

"What was that you said about the burden dropping from your shoulders?
The delectable thud?"

"Now vacation begins," he said. "All my life I have unlimited yearning to
face the wonders of this mainland. Moment are now at hand. Care-free and
happy, not like crossing on ship. There all time pearls rest heavy on
stomach, most undigestible, like sour rice. Not so now."

Madame Jordan shook her head. "I'm sorry, Charlie," she said. "I'm going
to ask you to eat one more bowl of sour rice. For me--for auld lang
syne."

"I do not quite grasp meaning," he told her.

She outlined the plan to send him with Bob Eden to the desert. His
expression did not change.

"I will go," he promised gravely.

"Thank you, Charlie," said Sally Jordan softly.

"In my youth," he continued, "I am house-boy in the Phillimore mansion.
Still in my heart like old-time garden bloom memories of kindness never
to be repaid." He saw Sally Jordan's eyes bright and shining with tears.
"Life would be dreary waste," he finished, "if there was no thing called
loyalty."

Very flowery, thought Alexander Eden. He sought to introduce a more
practical note. "All your expenses will be paid, of course. And that
vacation is just postponed for a few days. You'd better carry the
pearls--you have the belt, and besides, no one knows your connection with
the affair. Thank heaven for that."

"I will carry them," Chan agreed. He took up the string from the table.
"Miss Sally, toss all worry out of mind. When this young man and I
encounter proper person, pearls will be delivered. Until then, I guard
them well."

"I'm sure you will," smiled Madame Jordan.

"Well, that's settled," said Eden. "Mr. Chan, you and my son will take
the eleven o'clock ferry to Richmond, which connects with the train to
Barstow. There you'll have to change to another train for Eldorado, but
you should reach Madden's ranch tomorrow evening. If he is there and
everything seems in order--"

"Why should everything be in order?" broke in Victor. "If he's
there--that's enough."

"Well, of course, we don't want to take any undue risk," Eden went on.
"But you two will know what to do when you reach there. If Madden's at
the ranch, give him the string and get his receipt. That lets us out. Mr.
Chan, we will pick you up here at ten-thirty. Until then, you are free to
follow your own inclination."

"Present inclination," smiled Chan, "means tub filled with water,
steaming hot. At ten-thirty in entrance hall of hotel I will be waiting,
undigestible pearls on stomach, as before. Good-bye. Good-bye." He bobbed
to each in turn and went out.

"I've been in the business thirty-five years," said Eden, "but I never
employed a messenger quite like him before."

"Dear Charlie," said Sally Jordan. "He'll protect those pearls with his
life."

Bob Eden laughed. "I hope it doesn't go as far as that," he remarked.
"I've got a life, too, and I'd like to hang on to it."

"Won't you both stay to dinner?" suggested Sally Jordan.

"Some other time, thanks," Alexander Eden answered. "I don't think it
wise we should keep together tonight. Bob and I will go home--he has a
bag to pack, I imagine. I don't intend to let him out of my sight until
train time."

"One last word," said Victor. "Don't be too squeamish when you get down
on that ranch. If Madden's in danger, that's no affair of ours. Put those
pearls in his hand and get his receipt. That's all."

Eden shook his head. "I don't like the look of this, Sally. I don't like
this thing at all."

"Don't worry," she smiled. "I have every confidence in Charlie--and in
Bob."

"Such popularity must be deserved," said Bob Eden. "I promise I'll do my
best. Only I hope that lad in the overcoat doesn't decide to come down to
the desert and warm up. Somehow, I'm not so sure I'd be a match for
him--once he warmed up."




CHAPTER III



At Chan Kee Lim's


An hour later Charlie Chan rode down in the elevator to the bright lobby
of his hotel. A feeling of heavy responsibility again weighed upon him,
for he had restored to the money-belt about his bulging waist the pearls
that alone remained of all the Phillimore fortune. After a quick glance
about the lobby, he went out into Geary Street.

The rain no longer fell and for a moment he stood on the curb, a little,
wistful, wide-eyed stranger, gazing at a world as new and strange to him
as though he had wakened to find himself on Mars. The sidewalk was
crowded with theater-goers; taxis honked in the narrow street; at
intervals sounded the flippant warning of cable-car bells, which is a
tune heard only in San Francisco, a city with a voice and a gesture all
its own.

Unexplored country to Charlie Chan, this mainland, and he was thrilled by
the electric gaiety of the scene before him. Old-timers would have told
him that what he saw was only a dim imitation of the night life of other
days, but he had no memories of the past, and hence nothing to mourn.
Seated on a stool at a lunch-counter he ate his evening meal--a stool and
a lunch-counter, but it was adventure enough for one who had never known
Billy Bogan's Louvre Cafe, on the site of which now stands the Bank of
Italy--adventure enough for one who had no happy recollections of
Delmonico's on O'Farrell Street or of the Odeon or the Pup or the Black
Cat, bright spots blotted out forever now. He partook heartily of the
white man's cooking, and drank three cups of steaming tea.

A young man, from his appearance perhaps a clerk, was eating a modest
dinner at Chan's side. After a few words concerned with the sugar bowl,
Chan ventured to address him further.

"Please pardon the abrupt advance of a newcomer," he said. "For three
hours I am free to wander the damp but interesting streets of your city.
Kindly mention what I ought to see."

"Why--I don't know," said the young man, surprised. "Not much doing any
more. San Francisco's not what it used to be."

"The Barbary Coast, maybe," suggested Chan.

The young man snorted. "Gone forever. The Thalia, the Elko, the
Midway--say, they're just memories now. Spider Kelley is over in Arizona,
dealing in land. Yes, sir--all those old dance-halls are just garages
today--or maybe ten cent flop-houses. But look here--this is New Year's
Eve in Chinatown. However--" He laughed. "I guess I don't need to tell
you that."

Chan nodded. "Ah yes--the twelfth of February. New Year's Eve."

Presently he was back on the sidewalk, his keen eyes sparkling with
excitement. He thought of the somnolent thoroughfares of Honolulu by
night--Honolulu, where every one goes home at six, and stays there. How
different here in this mainland city. The driver of a sightseeing bus
approached him and also spoke of Chinatown. "Show you the old opium dens
and the fan-tan joints," he promised, but after a closer look moved off
and said no more of his spurious wares.

At a little after eight, the detective from the islands left the friendly
glow of Union Square and, drifting down into the darker stretches of Post
Street, came presently to Grant Avenue. A loiterer on the corner directed
him to the left, and he strolled on. In a few moments he came to a row of
shops displaying cheap Oriental goods for the tourist eye. His pace
quickened; he passed the church on the crest of the hill and moved on
down into the real Chinatown.

Here a spirit of carnival filled the air. The facade of every Tong House,
outlined by hundreds of glowing incandescent lamps, shone in yellow
splendor through the misty night. Throngs milled on the narrow
sidewalks--white sightseers, dapper young Chinese lads in college-cut
clothes escorting slant-eyed flappers attired in their best, older
Chinese shuffling along on felt-clad feet, each secure in the knowledge
that his debts were paid, his house scoured and scrubbed, the new year
auspiciously begun.

At Washington Street Chan turned up the hill. Across the way loomed an
impressive building--four gaudy stories of light and cheer. Gilt letters
in the transom over the door proclaimed it the home of the Chan Family
Society. For a moment the detective stood, family pride uppermost in his
thoughts.

A moment later he was walking down the dim, almost deserted pavement of
Waverly Place. A bright-eyed boy of his own race offered him a copy of
the Chinese Daily Times. He bought it and moved on, his gaze intent on
dim house numbers above darkened doorways.

Presently he found the number he sought, and climbed a shadowy stair. At
a landing where crimson and gold-lettered strips of paper served as a
warning to evil spirits, he paused and knocked loudly at a door. It was
opened, and against the light from within stood the figure of a Chinese,
tall, with a gray meager beard and a loose-fitting, embroidered blouse of
black satin.

For a moment neither spoke. Then Chan smiled. "Good evening, illustrious
Chan Kee Lim," he said in pure Cantonese. "Is it that you do not know
your unworthy cousin from the islands?"

A light shone in the narrow eyes of Kee Lim. "For a moment, no," he
replied. "Since you come in the garb of a foreign devil, and knock on my
door with the knuckles, as rude foreign devils do. A thousand welcomes.
Deign to enter my contemptible house."

Still smiling, the little detective went inside. The room was anything
but contemptible, as he saw at once. It was rich with tapestries of
Hang-chiu silk, the furniture was of teakwood, elaborately carved. Fresh
flowers bloomed before the ancestral shrine, and everywhere were Chinese
lilies, the pale, pungent sui-sin-fah, a symbol of the dawning year. On
the mantel, beside a tiny Buddha of Ningpo wood, an American alarm clock
ticked noisily.

"Please sit in this wretched chair," Kee Lim said. "You arrive
unexpectedly as August rain. But I am happy to see you." He clapped his
hands and a woman entered. "My wife, Chan So," the host explained. "Bring
rice cakes, and my Dew of Roses wine," he ordered.

He sat down opposite Charlie Chan, and regarded him across a teakwood
table on which were sprays of fresh almond blossoms. "There was no news
of your coming," he remarked.

Chan shrugged. "No. It was better so. I come on a mission. On business,"
he added, in his best Rotary Club manner.

Kee Lim's eyes narrowed. "Yes--I have heard of your business," he said.

The detective was slightly uncomfortable. "You do not approve?" he
ventured.

"It is too much to say that I do not approve," Kee Lim returned. "But I
do not quite understand. The foreign devil police--what has a Chinese in
common with them?"

Charlie smiled. "There are times, honorable cousin," he admitted, "when I
do not quite understand myself."

The reed curtains at the rear parted, and a girl came into the room. Her
eyes were dark and bright; her face pretty as a doll's. Tonight, in
deference to the holiday, she wore the silken trousers and embroidered
jacket of her people, but her hair was bobbed and her walk, her gestures,
her whole manner all too obviously copied from her American sisters. She
carried a tray piled high with New Year delicacies.

"My daughter, Rose," Kee Lim announced. "Behold, our famous cousin from
Hawaii." He turned to Charlie than. "She, too, would be an American,
insolent as the daughters of the foolish white men."

The girl laughed. "Why not? I was born here. I went to American grammar
schools. And now I work American fashion."

"Work?" repeated Charlie, with interest.

"The Classics of Girlhood are forgotten," explained Kee Lim. "All day she
sits in the Chinatown telephone exchange, shamelessly talking to a wall
of teakwood that flashes red and yellow eyes."

"Is that so terrible?" asked the girl, with a laughing glance at her
cousin.

"A most interesting labor," surmised Charlie.

"I'll tell the world it is," answered the girl in English, and went out.
A moment later she returned with a battered old wine jug. Into Swatow
bowls she poured two hot libations--then, taking a seat on the far side
of the room, she gazed curiously at this notable relative from across the
seas. Once she had read of his exploits in the San Francisco papers.

For an hour or more Chan sat, talking with his cousin of the distant days
when they were children in China. Finally he glanced toward the mantel.
"Does that clock speak the truth?" he asked.

Kee Lim shrugged. "It is a foreign devil clock," he said. "And therefore
a great liar."

Chan consulted his watch. "With the keenest regret," he announced, "I
find I must walk my way. Tonight my business carries me far from here--to
the desert that lies in the south. I have had the presumption, honest and
industrious cousin, to direct my wife to send to your house any letters
of importance addressed to me. Should a message arrive in my absence, you
will be good enough to hold it here awaiting my return. In a few days, at
most, I will walk this way again. Meanwhile I go beyond the reach of
messengers."

The girl rose and came forward. "Even on the desert," she said, "there
are telephones."

Charlie looked at her with sudden interest. "On the desert," he repeated.

"Most assuredly. Only two days ago I had a long distance call for a ranch
near Eldorado. A ranch named--but I do not remember."

"Perhaps--the ranch of Madden," said Chan hopefully.

She nodded. "Yes--that was the name. It was a most unusual call."

"And it came from Chinatown?"

"Of course. From the bowl shop of Wong Ching, in Jackson Street. He
desired to speak to his relative, Louie Wong, caretaker on Madden's
Ranch. The number. Eldorado 76."

Chan dissembled his eagerness, but his heart was beating faster. He was
of the foreign devil police now. "Perhaps you heard what was said?"

"Louie Wong must come to San Francisco at once. Much money and a fine
position awaited him here--"

"Haie!" cut in Kee Lim. "It is not fitting that you reveal thus the
secrets of your white devil profession. Even to one of the family of
Chan."

"You are right, ever wise cousin," Charlie agreed. He turned to the girl.
"You and I, little blossom, will meet again. Even though the desert has
telephones, I am beyond reach there. Now, to my great regret, I must go."

Kee Lim followed him to the door. He stood there on the reed mat,
stroking his thin beard and blinking. "Farewell, notable cousin. On that
long journey of yours upon which you now set out--walk slowly."

"Farewell," Charlie answered. "All my good wishes for happiness in the
new year." Suddenly he found himself speaking English. "See you later,"
he called, and hurried down the stairs.

Once in the street, however, he obeyed his cousin's parting injunction,
and walked slowly indeed. A startling bit of news, this, from Rose, the
telephone operator. Louie Wong was wanted in San Francisco--wanted by his
relative Wong Ching, the bowl merchant. Why?

An old Chinese on a corner directed him to Jackson Street, and he climbed
its steep sidewalk until he reached the shop of Wong Ching. The brightly
lighted window was filled with Swatow cups and bowls, a rather beautiful
display, but evidently during this holiday season the place was not open
for business, for the curtains on the door were drawn. Chan rattled the
latch for a full minute, but no one came.

He crossed the street, and took up a post in a dark doorway opposite.
Sooner or later his summons would be answered. On a near-by balcony a
Chinese orchestra was playing, the whanging flute, the shrill plink of
the moon-kwan, the rasping cymbals and the drums filled the night with a
blissful dissonance. Presently the musicians ceased, the din died away,
and Chan heard only the click of American heels and the stealthy swish of
felt slippers passing his hiding place.

In about ten minutes the door of Wong Ching's shop opened and a man came
out. He stood looking cautiously up and down the dim street. A thin man
in an overcoat which was buttoned close about him--a chilly-seeming man.
His hat was low over his eyes, and as a further means of deceit he wore
dark spectacles. Charlie Chan permitted a faint flash of interest to
cross his chubby face.

The chilly man walked briskly down the hill, and stepping quickly from
the doorway, Chan followed at a distance. They emerged into Grant Avenue;
the dark-spectacled one turned to the right. Still Chan followed; this
was child's play for him. One block, two, three. They came to a cheap
hotel, the Killarney, on one of Grant Avenue's corners, and the man in
the overcoat went inside.

Glancing at his watch, Chan decided to let his quarry escape, and turned
in the direction of Union Square. His mind was troubled. "This much even
a fool could grasp," he thought. "We move toward a trap. But with eyes
open--with eyes keenly open."

Back in his tiny hotel room, he restored to his inexpensive suitcase the
few articles he had previously removed. Returning to the desk, he found
that his trunk had reached the hotel but had not yet been taken upstairs.
He arranged for its storage until his return, paid his bill and sitting
down in a great leather chair in the lobby, with his suitcase at his
feet, he waited patiently.

At precisely ten-thirty Bob Eden stepped inside the door of the hotel and
beckoned. Following the young man to the street, Chan saw a big limousine
drawn up to the curb.

"Jump in, Mr. Chan," said the boy, taking his bag. As the detective
entered the darkened interior, Alexander Eden greeted him from the gloom.
"Tell Michael to drive slowly--I want to talk," called the older man to
his son. Bob Eden spoke to the chauffeur, then leaped into the car and it
moved off down Geary Street.

"Mr. Chan," said the jeweler in a low voice, "I am very much disturbed."

"More events have taken place," suggested Chan.

"Decidedly," Eden replied. "You were not in the room this afternoon when
I spoke of a telephone call I had received from a pay-station at Sutter
and Kearny Streets." He repeated the details. "This evening I called into
consultation Al Draycott, head of the Gale Detective Agency, with which I
have affiliations. I asked him to investigate and, if possible, find that
man in the overcoat Bob saw at the dock. An hour ago he reported that he
had located our man with no great difficulty. He has discovered him--"

"At the Killarney Hotel, perhaps, on Grant Avenue," suggested Chan,
dissembling a deep triumph.

"Good lord," gasped Eden. "You found him, too. Why--that's amazing--"

"Amazing luck," said Chan. "Please pardon rude interruption. Will not
occur again."

"Well, Draycott located this fellow, and reports that he is Shaky Phil
Maydorf, one of the Maydorf brothers, as slick a pair of crooks as ever
left New York for their health. The fellow suffers from malaria, I
believe, but otherwise he is in good form and, it seems, very much
interested in our little affairs. But Mr. Chan--your own story--how in
the world did you find him too?"

Chan shrugged. "Successful detective," he said, "is plenty often man on
whom luck turns smiling face. This evening I bask in most heart-warming
grin." He told of his visit to Chan Kee Lim, of the telephone call to the
desert from Wong's bowl shop, and of his seeing the man in the overcoat
leaving the shop. "After that, simple matter to hound him to hotel," he
finished.

"Well, I'm more disturbed than ever," Eden said. "They have called the
caretaker away from Madden's ranch. Why? I tell you I don't like this
business--"

"Nonsense, father," Bob Eden protested. "It's rather interesting."

"Not to me. I don't welcome the attention of these Maydorfs--and where,
by the way, is the other one? They are not the modern type of crook--the
moron brand that relies entirely on a gun. They are men of
brains--old-fashioned outlaws who are regarded with respect by the police
whom they have fought for many years. I called Sally Jordan and tried to
abandon the whole proceeding--but that son of hers. He's itching to get
the money, and he's urging her to go ahead. So what can I do? If it was
any one else I'd certainly drop out of the deal--but Sally Jordan--well,
she's an old friend. And as you said this afternoon, Mr. Chan, there is
such a thing as loyalty in the world. But I tell you I'm sending you two
down there with the deepest reluctance."

"Don't you worry, dad. It's going to be great fun, I'm sure. All my life
I've wanted to be mixed up in a good exciting murder. As a spectator, of
course."

"What are you talking about?" the father demanded.

"Why, Mr. Chan here is a detective, isn't he? A detective on a vacation.
If you've ever read a mystery story you know that a detective never works
so hard as when he's on a vacation. He's like the postman who goes for a
long walk on his day off. Here we are, all set. We've got our bright and
shining mark, our millionaire--P.J. Madden, one of the most famous
financiers in America. I tell you, poor P.J. is doomed. Ten to one Mr.
Chan and I will walk into that ranch house and find him dead on the first
rug we come to."

"This is no joking matter," Eden rebuked severely. "Mr. Chan--you seem to
be a man of considerable ability. Have you anything to suggest?"

Charlie smiled in the dark car. "Flattery sounds sweet to any ear," he
remarked. "I have, it is true, inclination for making humble suggestion."

"Then, for heaven's sake, make it," Eden said.

"Pray give the future a thought. Young Mr. Eden and I walk hand in hand,
like brothers, on to desert ranch. What will spectator say? Aha, they
bring pearls. If not, why come together for strength?"

"Absolutely true," Eden agreed.

"Then why travel side by side?" Charlie continued. "It is my humble hint
that Mr. Bob Eden arrive alone at ranch. Answering all inquiries he says
no, he does not carry pearls. So many dark clouds shade the scene, he is
sent by honorable father to learn if all is well. When he is sure of
that, he will telegraph necklace be sent at once, please."

"A good idea," Eden said. "Meanwhile--"

"At somewhat same hour," Chan went on, "there stumble on to ranch weary
old Chinese, seeking employment. One whose clothes are of a notable
shabbiness, a wanderer over sand, a what you call--a desert rat. Who
would dream that on the stomach of such a one repose those valuable
Phillimore pearls?"

"Say--that's immense," cried Bob Eden enthusiastically.

"Might be," admitted Chan. "Both you and old Chinese look carefully
about. If all is well, together you approach this Madden and hand over
necklace. Even then, others need not know."

"Fine," said the boy. "We'll separate when we board the train. If you're
in doubt at any time, just keep your eye on me, and tag along. We're due
in Barstow tomorrow at one-fifteen, and there's a train to Eldorado at
three-twenty, which arrives about six. I'm taking it, and you'd better do
the same. One of my newspaper friends here has given me a letter to a
fellow named Will Holley, who's editor of a little paper at Eldorado. I'm
going to invite him to have dinner with me, then I'll drive out to
Madden's. You, of course, will get out some other way. As somebody may be
watching us, we won't speak on our journey. Friends once, but strangers
now. That's the idea, isn't it?"

"Precisely the notion," agreed Chan.

The car had stopped before the ferry building. "I have your tickets
here," Alexander Eden said, handing over a couple of envelopes. "You have
lower berths, in the same car, but at different ends. You'll find a
little money there for expenses, Mr. Chan. I may say that I think your
plan is excellent--but for heaven's sake, be careful, both of you. Bob,
my boy--you're all I've got. I may have spoken harshly to you, but
I--I--take care of yourself."

"Don't you worry, dad," Bob Eden said. "Though you'll never believe it,
I'm grown up. And I've got a good man with me."

"Mr. Chan," Eden said. "Good luck. And thank you a thousand times."

"Don't talk about it," smiled Charlie. "Happiest walk of postman's life
is on his holiday. I will serve you well. Good-bye."

He followed Bob Eden through the gates and on to the ferryboat. A moment
later they had slipped out upon the black waters of the harbor. The rain
was gone, the sky spattered with stars, but a chill wind blew through the
Gate. Charlie stood alone by the rail; the dream of his life had come
true; he knew the great mainland at last. The flaming ball atop the Ferry
Building receded; the yellow lamps of the city marched up the hills and
down again. He thought of the tiny island that was his home, of the house
on Punchbowl Hill where his wife and children patiently awaited his
return. Suddenly he was appalled at the distance he had come.

Bob Eden joined him there in the dark, and waved his hand toward the glow
in the sky above Grant Avenue. "A big night in Chinatown," he said.

"Very large night," agreed Chan. "And why not? Tomorrow is the first day
of the new year. Of the year 4869."

"Great Scott," smiled Eden. "How time flies. A Happy New Year to you."

"Similar one to you," said Chan.

The boat plowed on. From the prison island of Alcatraz a cruel,
relentless searchlight swept at intervals the inky waters. The wind was
bitter now.

"I'm going inside," shivered Bob Eden. "This is goodbye, I guess."

"Better so," admitted Charlie. "When you are finally at Madden's ranch,
look about for that desert rat."

Alone, he continued to stare at the lamps of the city, cold and distant
now, like the stars.

"A desert rat," he repeated softly, "with no fondly feeling for a trap."




CHAPTER IV



The Oasis Special


Dusk was falling in the desert town of Eldorado when, on Friday evening,
Bob Eden alighted from the train at a station that looked like a little
red schoolhouse gone wrong. His journey down from San Francisco to
Barstow had been quite without incident. At that town, however, a rather
disquieting thing had happened. He had lost all trace of Charlie Chan.

It was in the Barstow lunch-room that he had last seen the detective from
the islands, busy with a cup of steaming tea. The hour of three-twenty
and the Eldorado train being some distance off, he had gone for a stroll
through the town. Returning about three, he had looked in vain for the
little Chinese policeman. Alone he had boarded the train and now, as he
stared up and down the dreary railroad tracks, he perceived that he had
been the only passenger to alight at this unpromising spot.

Thinking of the fortune in "undigestible" pearls on the detective's
person, he was vaguely alarmed. Had Chan met with some unfortunate
accident? Or perhaps who could say? What did they really know about this
Charlie Chan? Every man is said to have his price, and this was an
overwhelming temptation to put in the way of an underpaid detective from
Honolulu. But no--Bob Eden recalled the look in Chan's eyes when he had
promised Sally Jordan to guard those pearls well. The Jordans no doubt
had good reason for their faith in an old friend. But suppose Shaky Phil
Maydorf was no longer in San Francisco--

Resolutely Bob Eden put these thoughts aside and, rounding the station,
entered a narrow strip of ground which was, rather pathetically, intended
for a park. February had done its worst, and up above the chill evening
wind from the desert blew through the stark branches of Carolina poplars
and cottonwoods. Crossing a gravel path almost hidden by a mass of yellow
leaves, he stood on the curb of the only pavement in Eldorado.

Against the background of bare brown hills, he saw practically the entire
town at a glance. Across the way a row of scraggly buildings proclaimed
yet another Main Street--a bank, a picture theater, the Spot Cash Store,
the News Bureau, the post-office, and towering above the rest, a
two-story building that announced itself as the Desert Edge Hotel. Eden
crossed the street, and threading his way between dusty automobiles
parked head-on at the curb, approached the door of the latter. On the
double seat of a shoe-shining stand two ranchers lolled at ease, and
stared at him with mild interest as he went inside.

An electric lamp of modest candle-power burned above the desk of the
Desert Edge, and a kindly old man read a Los Angeles paper in its dim
company.

"Good evening," said Bob Eden.

"Evenin'," answered the old man.

"I wonder if I might leave this suitcase in your check-room for a while?"
the boy inquired.

"Check-room, hell," replied the old man. "Just throw her down anywhere.
Ain't lookin' fer a room, I suppose. Make you a special rate."

"No," said Eden. "I'm sorry."

"'Sall right," answered the proprietor. "Not many are."

"I'd like to find the office of the Eldorado Times," Eden informed him.

"Round corner on First," murmured the old man, deep in his pink newspaper
again.

Bob Eden went to the corner, and turned off. His feet at once left
Eldorado's solitary sidewalk for soft crunching sand. He passed a few
buildings even meaner than those on Main Street, a plumber's shop, a
grocer's, and came to a little yellow shack which bore on its window the
fading legend: "The Eldorado Times. Job Printing Neatly Done." There was
no light inside, and crossing a narrow, dilapidated porch, he saw a
placard on the door. Straining his eyes in the dusk, he read:


"Back in an hour--God knows why.

Will Holley."


Smiling, Eden returned to the Desert Edge. "How about dinner?" he
inquired.

"Wonderin' about it myself," admitted the old man. "We don't serve meals
here. Lose a little less that way."

"But there must be a restaurant--"

"Sure there is. This is an up-to-date town." He nodded over his shoulder.
"Down beyond the bank--the Oasis Cafe."

Thanking him, Bob Eden departed. Behind unwashed windows he found the
Oasis dispensing its dubious cheer. A long high counter and a soiled
mirror running the length of it suggested that in other days this had
been an oasis indeed.

The boy climbed on to one of the perilously high stools. At his right,
too close for comfort, sat a man in overalls and jumper, with a week's
growth of beard on his lean hard face. At his left, equally close but
somehow not so much in the way, was a trim girl in khaki riding breeches
and blouse.

A youth made up to resemble a motion-picture sheik demanded his order,
and from a soiled menu he chose the Oasis Special--"steak and onions,
French fries, bread and butter and coffee. Eighty cents." The sheik
departed languidly.

Awaiting the special, Bob Eden glanced into the smoky mirror at the face
of the girl beside him. Not so bad, even in that dim reflection. Corn
yellow hair curling from under the brim of a felt hat; a complexion that
no beauty parlor had originated. He held his left elbow close so that she
might have more room for the business that engrossed her.

His dinner arrived, a plenteous platter of food--but no plate. He glanced
at his neighbors. Evidently plates were an affectation frowned upon in
the Oasis. Taking up a tarnished knife and fork, he pushed aside the
underbrush of onions and came face to face with his steak.

First impressions are important, and Bob Eden knew at once that this was
no meek, complacent opponent that confronted him. The steak looked back
at him with an air of defiance that was amply justified by what followed.
After a few moments of unsuccessful balding, he summoned the sheik. "How
about a steel knife?" he inquired.

"Only got three and they're all in use," the waiter replied.

Bob Eden resumed the battle, his elbows held close, his muscles swelling.
With set teeth and grim face he bore down and cut deep. There was a
terrific screech as his knife skidded along the platter, and to his
horror he saw the steak rise from its bed of gravy and onions and fly
from him. It traveled the grimy counter for a second, then dropped on to
the knees of the girl and thence to the floor.

Eden turned to meet her blue eyes filled with laughter. "Oh, I'm so
sorry," he said. "I thought it was a steak, and it seems to be a lap
dog."

"And I hadn't any lap," she cried. She looked down at her riding
breeches. "Can you ever forgive me? I might have caught it for you. It
only goes to show--women should be womanly."

"I wouldn't have you any different," Bob Eden responded gallantly. He
turned to the sheik. "Bring me something a little less ferocious," he
ordered.

"How about the pot roast?" asked the youth.

"Well, how about it?" Eden repeated. "Fetch it along and I'll fight
another round. I claim a foul on that one. And say--bring this young
woman a napkin."

"A what? A napkin. We ain't got any. I'll bring her a towel."

"Oh, no--please don't," cried the girl. "I'm all right, really."

The sheik departed.

"Somehow," she added to Eden. "I think it wiser not to introduce an Oasis
towel into this affair."

"You're probably right," he nodded. "I'll pay for the damage, of course."

She was still smiling. "Nonsense. I ought to pay for the steak. It wasn't
your fault. One needs long practice to eat in the crowded arena of the
Oasis."

He looked at her, his interest growing every minute. "You've had long
practice?" he inquired.

"Oh, yes. My work often brings me this way."

"Your--er--your work?"

"Yes. Since your steak seems to have introduced us, I may tell you I'm
with the moving pictures."

Of course, thought Eden. The desert was filled with movie people these
days. "Ah--have I ever seen you in the films?" he ventured.

She shrugged. "You have not--and you never will. I'm not an actress. My
job's much more interesting. I'm a location finder."

Bob Eden's pot roast arrived, mercifully cut into small pieces by some
blunt instrument behind the scenes. "A location finder. I ought to know
what that is."

"You certainly ought to. It's just what it sounds like. I travel about
hunting backgrounds. By the Vandeventer Trail to Pinon Flat, down to the
Salton Sea or up to the Morongos--all the time trying to find something
new, something the dear old public will mistake for Algeria, Araby, the
South Seas."

"Sounds mighty interesting."

"It is, indeed. Particularly when one loves this country as I do."

"You were born here, perhaps?"

"Oh, no. I came out with dad to Doctor Whitcomb's--it's five miles from
here, just beyond the Madden ranch--some years ago. When--when dad left
me I had to get a job, and--but look here, I'm telling you the story of
my life."

"Why not?" asked Eden. "Women and children always confide in me. I've got
such a fatherly face. By the way, this coffee is terrible."

"Yes, isn't it?" she agreed. "What will you have for dessert? There are
two kinds of pie--Apple, and the other's out. Make your selection."

"I've made it," he replied. "I'm taking the one that's out." He demanded
his check. "Now, if you'll let me pay for your dinner--"

"Nothing of the sort," she protested.

"But after the way my steak attacked you."

"Forget it. I've an expense account, you know. If you say any more, I'll
pay your check."

Ignoring the jar of toothpicks hospitably offered by a friendly cashier,
Bob Eden followed her to the street. Night had fallen; the sidewalk was
deserted. On the false front of a long low building with sides of
corrugated tin, a sad little string of electric lights proclaimed that
gaiety was afoot.

"Whither away?" Bob Eden said. "The movies?"

"Heavens, no. I remember that one. It took ten years off my young life.
Tell me, what are you doing here? People confide in me, too. Stranger,
you don't belong."

"No, I'm afraid I don't," Eden admitted. "It's a complicated story but
I'll inflict it on you anyhow, some day. Just at present I'm looking for
the editor of the Eldorado Times. I've got a letter to him in my pocket."

"Will Holley?"

"Yes. You know him?"

"Everybody knows him. Come with me. He ought to be in his office now."

They turned down First Street. Bob Eden was pleasantly conscious of the
slim lithe figure walking at his side. He had never before met a girl so
modestly confident, so aware of life and unafraid of it. These desert
towns were delightful.

A light was burning in the newspaper office, and under it a frail figure
sat hunched over a typewriter. As they entered Will Holley rose, removing
a green shade from his eyes. He was a thin tall man of thirty-five or so,
with prematurely gray hair and wistful eyes.

"Hello, Paula," he said.

"Hello, Will. See what I found at the Oasis Cafe."

Holley smiled. "You would find him," he said. "You're the only one I know
who can discover anything worth while in Eldorado. My boy, I don't know
who you are, but run away before this desert gets you."

"I've a letter to you, Mr. Holley," Eden said. He took it from his
pocket. "It's from an old friend of yours--Harry Fladgate."

"Harry Fladgate," repeated Holley softly. He read the letter through. "A
voice from the past," he said. "The past when we were boys together on
the old Sun, in New York. Say--that was a newspaper!" He was silent for a
moment, staring out at the desert night. "Harry says you're here on
business of some sort," he added.

"Why, yes," Eden replied. "I'll tell you about it later. Just at present
I want to hire a car to take me out to the Madden ranch."

"You want to see P.J. himself?"

"Yes, just as soon as possible. He's out there, isn't he?"

Holley nodded. "Yes--he's supposed to be. However, I haven't seen him.
It's rumored he came by motor the other day from Barstow. This young
woman can tell you more about him than I can. By the way, have you two
met each other, or are you just taking a stroll together in the
moonlight?"

"Well, the fact is--" smiled Eden. "Miss--er--she just let a steak of
mine get away from her in the Oasis. I had to credit her with an error in
the infield, but she made a splendid try. However, as to names--and all
that--"

"So I perceive," said Holley. "Miss Paula Wendell, may I present Mr. Bob
Eden. Let us not forget our book of etiquette, even here in the devil's
garden."

"Thanks, old man," remarked Eden. "No one has ever done me a greater
kindness. Now that we've been introduced, Miss Wendell, and I can speak
to you at last, tell me--do you know Mr. Madden?"

"Not exactly," she replied. "It isn't given such humble folk to know the
great Madden. But several years ago my company took some pictures at his
ranch--he has rather a handsome house there, with a darling patio. The
other day we got hold of a script that fairly screamed for the Madden
patio. I wrote him, asking permission to use his place, and he
answered--from San Francisco--that he was coming down and would be glad
to grant our request. His letter was really most kind."

The girl sat down on the edge of Holley's typewriter table. "I got to
Eldorado two nights ago, and drove out to Madden's at once. And--well, it
was rather queer--what happened. Do you want to hear all this?"

"I certainly do," Bob Eden assured her.

"The gate was open, and I drove into the yard. The lights of my car
flashed suddenly on the barn door, and I saw a bent old man with a black
beard and a pack on his back--evidently old-time prospector such as one
meets occasionally, even today, in this desert country. It was his
expression that startled me. He stood like a frightened rabbit in the
spotlight, then darted away. I knocked at the ranch house door. There was
a long delay, then finally a man came, a pale, excited-looking
man--Madden's secretary, Thorn, he said he was. I give you my
word--Will's heard this before--he was trembling all over. I told him my
business with Madden, and he was very rude. He informed me that I
positively could not see the great P.J. 'Come back in a week,' he said,
over and over. I argued and pleaded--and he shut the door in my face."

"You couldn't see Madden," repeated Bob Eden slowly. "Anything else?"

"Not much. I drove back to town. A short distance down the road my lights
picked up the little old prospector again. But when I got to where I
thought he was, he'd disappeared utterly. I didn't investigate--I just
stepped on the gas. My love for the desert isn't so keen after dark."

Bob Eden took out a cigarette. "I'm awfully obliged," he said. "Mr.
Holley, I must get out to Madden's at once. If you'll direct me to a
garage--"

"I'll do nothing of the sort," Holley replied. "An old flivver that
answers to the name of Horace Greeley happens to be among my possessions
at the moment, and I'm going to drive you out."

"I couldn't think of taking you away from your work."

"Oh, don't joke like that. You're breaking my heart. My work! Here I am,
trying to string one good day's work along over all eternity, and you
drift in and start to kid me--"

"I'm sorry," said Eden. "Come to think of it, I did see your placard on
the door."

Holley shrugged. "I suppose that was just cheap cynicism. I try to steer
clear of it. But sometimes--sometimes--"

They went together out of the office, and Holley locked the door. The
deserted, sad little street stretched off to nowhere in each direction.
The editor waved his hand at the somnolent picture.

"You'll find us all about out here," he said, "the exiles of the world.
Of course, the desert is grand, and we love it--but once let a doctor say
'you can go' and you couldn't see us for the dust. I don't mind the
daytime so much--the hot friendly day--but the nights--the cold lonely
nights."

"Oh, it isn't so bad, Will," said the girl gently.

"Oh no, it isn't so bad," he admitted. "Not since the radio--and the
pictures. Night after night I sit over there in that movie theater, and
sometimes, in a newsreel or perhaps in a feature, I see Fifth Avenue
again, Fifth Avenue at Forty-second, with the motors, and the lions in
front of the library, and the women in furs. But I never see Park Row."
The three of them walked along in silence through the sand. "If you love
me, Paula," added Will Holley softly, "there's a location you'll find. A
story about Park Row, with the crowds under the El, and the wagons backed
up to the rear door of the post-office, and Perry's Drug Store and the
gold dome of the World. Give me a film of that, and I'll sit in the
Strand watching it over and over until these old eyes go blind."

"I'd like to," said the girl. "But those crowds under the Elevated
wouldn't care for it. What they want is the desert--the broad open spaces
away from the roar of the town."

Holley nodded. "I know. It's a feeling that's spread over America these
past few years like some dread epidemic. I must write an editorial about
it. The French have a proverb that describes it--'Wherever one is not,
that is where the heart is.'"

The girl held out her hand. "Mr. Eden, I'm leaving you here--leaving you
for a happy night at the Desert Edge Hotel."

"But I'll see you again," Bob Eden said quickly. "I must."

"You surely will. I'm coming out to Madden's ranch tomorrow. I have that
letter of his, and this time I'll see him--you bet I'll see him--if he's
there."

"If he's there," repeated Bob Eden thoughtfully. "Good night. But before
you go--how do you like your steaks?"

"Rare," she laughed.

"Yes--I guess one was enough. However, I'm very grateful to that one."

"It was a lovely steak," she said. "Good night."

Will Holley led the way to an aged car parked before the hotel. "Jump
in," he said. "It's only a short run."

"Just a moment--I must get my bag," Eden replied. He entered the hotel
and returned in a moment with his suitcase, which he tossed into the
tonneau. "Horace Greeley's ready," Holley said. "Come west, young man."

Eden climbed in and the little car clattered down Main Street. "This is
mighty kind of you," the boy said.

"It's a lot of fun," Holley answered. "You know, I've been thinking. Old
P.J. never gives an interview, but you can't tell--I might be able to
persuade him. These famous men sometimes let down a little when they get
out here. It would be a big feather in my cap. They'd hear of me on Park
Row again."

"I'll do all I can to help," Bob Eden promised.

"That's good of you," Holley answered. The faint yellow lights of
Eldorado grew even fainter behind them. They ascended a rough road
between two small hills--barren, unlovely piles of badly assorted rocks.
"Well, I'm going to try it," the editor added. "But I hope I have more
luck than the last time."

"Oh--then you've seen Madden before?" Eden asked with interest.

"Just once," Holley replied. "Twelve years ago, when I was a reporter in
New York. I'd managed to get into a gambling house on Forty-fourth
Street, a few doors east of Delmonico's. It didn't have a very good
reputation, that joint, but there was the great P.J. Madden himself, all
dolled up in evening clothes, betting his head off. They said that after
he'd gambled all day in Wall Street, he couldn't let it alone--hung round
the roulette wheels in that house every night."

"And you tried to interview him?"

"I did. I was a fool kid, with lots of nerve. He had a big railroad
merger in the air at the time, and I decided to ask him about it. So I
went up to him during a lull in the betting. I told him I was on a
newspaper--and that was as far as I got. 'Get the hell out of here,' he
roared. 'You know I never give interviews.'" Holley laughed. "That was my
first and only meeting with P.J. Madden. It wasn't a very propitious
beginning, but what I started that night on Forty-fourth Street I'm going
to try to finish out here tonight."

They reached the top of the grade, the rocky hills dropped behind them,
and they were in a mammoth doorway leading to a strange new world. Up
amid the platinum stars a thin slice of moon rode high, and far below in
that meager light lay the great gray desert, lonely and mysterious.




CHAPTER V



Madden's Ranch


Carefully Will Holley guided his car down the steep, rock-strewn grade.
"Go easy, Horace," he murmured. Presently they were on the floor of the
desert, the road but a pair of faint wheel tracks amid the creosote brush
and mesquite. Once their headlights caught a jack-rabbit, sitting firmly
on the right of way; the next instant he was gone forever.

Bob Eden saw a brief stretch of palm trees back of a barbed-wire fence,
and down the lane between the trees the glow of a lonely window.

"Alfalfa ranch," Will Holley explained.

"Why, in heaven's name, do people live out here?" Eden asked.

"Some of them because they can't live anywhere else," the editor
answered. "And at that--well, you know it isn't a bad place to ranch it.
Apples, lemons, pears--"

"But how about water?"

"It's only a desert because not many people have taken the trouble to
bore for water. Just go down a ways, and you strike it. Some go down a
couple of hundred feet--Madden only had to go thirty odd. But that was
Madden luck. He's near the bed of an underground river."

They came to another fence; above it were painted signs and flags
fluttering yellow in the moonlight.

"Don't tell me that's a subdivision," Eden said.

Holley laughed. "Date City," he announced. "Here in California the
subdivider, like the poor, is always with us. Date City where, if you
believe all you're told, every dime is a baby dollar. No one lives there
yet--but who knows? We're a growing community--see my editorial in last
week's issue."

The car plowed on. It staggered a bit now, but Holley's hands were firm
on the wheel. Here and there a Joshua tree stretched out hungry black
arms as though to seize these travelers by night, and over that gray
waste a dismal wind moaned constantly, chill and keen and biting. Bob
Eden turned up the collar of his top coat.

"I can't help thinking of that old song," he said. "You know--about the
lad who guaranteed to love somebody 'until the sands of the desert grow
cold.'"

"It wasn't much of a promise," agreed Holley. "Either he was a great
kidder, or he'd never been on the desert at night. But look here--is this
your first experience with this country? What kind of a Californian are
you?"

"Golden Gate brand," smiled Eden. "Yes, it's true, I've never been down
here before. Something tells me I've missed a lot."

"You sure have. I hope you won't rush off in a hurry. By the way, how
long do you expect to be here?"

"I don't know," replied Eden. He was silent for a moment; his friend at
home had told him that Holley could be trusted, but he really did not
need that assurance. One look into the editor's friendly gray eyes was
sufficient. "Holley, I may as well tell you why I've come," he continued.
"But I rely on your discretion. This isn't an interview."

"Suit yourself," Holley answered. "I can keep a secret if I have to. But
tell me or not, just as you prefer."

"I prefer to tell you," Eden said. He recounted Madden's purchase of the
Phillimore pearls, his request for their delivery in New York, and then
his sudden unexpected switch to the desert. "That, in itself, was rather
disturbing," he added.

"Odd, yes," agreed Holley.

"But that wasn't all," Bob Eden went on. Omitting only Charlie Chan's
connection with the affair, he told the whole story--the telephone call
from the cigar store in San Francisco, the loving solicitude at the dock
and after of the man with the dark glasses, the subsequent discovery that
this was Shaky Phil Maydorf, a guest at the Killarney Hotel, and last of
all, the fact that Louie Wong had been summoned from the Madden ranch by
his relative in Chinatown. As he related all this out there on that
lonesome desert, it began to take on a new and ominous aspect, the future
loomed dark and thrilling. Had that great opening between the hills been,
in reality, the gateway to adventure? Certainly it looked the part. "What
do you think?" he finished.

"Me?" said Holley. "I think I'm not going to get that interview."

"You don't believe Madden is at the ranch?"

"I certainly don't. Look at Paula's experience the other night. Why
couldn't she see him? Why didn't he hear her at the door and come to find
out what the row was about? Because he wasn't there. My lad, I'm glad you
didn't venture out here alone. Particularly if you've brought the pearls
as I presume you have."

"Well, in a way, I've got them. About this Louie Wong? You know him, I
suppose?"

"Yes. And I saw him at the station the other morning. Look at tomorrow's
Eldorado Times and you'll find the big story, under the personals. 'Our
respected fellow townsman, Mr. Louie Wong, went to San Francisco on
business last Wednesday.'"

"Wednesday, eh? What sort of lad is Louie?"

"Why--he's just a Chinaman. Been in these parts a long time. For the past
five years he's stayed at Madden's ranch the year round, as caretaker. I
don't know a great deal about him. He's never talked much to any one
round here--except the parrot."

"The parrot? What parrot?"

"His only companion on the ranch. A little gray Australian bird that some
sea captain gave Madden several years ago. Madden brought the bird--its
name is Tony--here to be company for the old caretaker. A rough party,
Tony--used to hang out in a barroom on an Australian boat. Some of his
language when he first came was far from pretty. But they're clever,
those Australian parrots. You know, from associating with Louie, this one
has learned to speak Chinese."

"Amazing," said Bob Eden.

"Oh, not so amazing as it sounds. A bird of that sort will repeat
anything it hears. So Tony rattles along in two languages. A regular
linguist. The ranchers round here call him the Chinese parrot." They had
reached a little group of cottonwoods and pepper trees sheltering a
handsome adobe ranch house--an oasis on the bare plain. "Here we are at
Madden's," Holley said. "By the way--have you got a gun?"

"Why, no," Bob Eden replied. "I didn't bring any. I thought that
Charlie--"

"What's that?"

"No matter. I'm unarmed."

"So am I. Walk softly, son. By the way, you might open that gate, if you
will."

Bob Eden got out and, unlatching the gate, swung it open. When Holley had
steered Horace Greeley inside the yard, Eden shut the gate behind him.
The editor brought his car to a stop twenty feet away, and alighted.

The ranch house was a one-story structure, eloquent of the old Spanish
days in California before Iowa came. Across the front ran a long low
veranda, the roof of which sheltered four windows that were glowing
warmly in the chill night. Holley and the boy crossed the tile floor of
the porch, and came to a big front door, strong and forbidding.

Eden knocked loudly. There was a long wait. Finally the door opened a
scant foot, and a pale face looked out. "What is it? What do you want?"
inquired a querulous voice. From inside the room came the gay lilt of a
fox-trot.

"I want to see Mr. Madden," Bob Eden said. "Mr. P.J. Madden."

"Who are you?"

"Never mind. I'll tell Madden who I am. Is he here?"

The door went shut a few inches. "He's here, but he isn't seeing any
one."

"He'll see me, Thorn," said Eden sharply. "You're Thorn, I take it.
Please tell Madden that a messenger from Post Street, San Francisco, is
waiting."

The door swung instantly open, and Martin Thorn was as near to beaming as
his meager face permitted.

"Oh, pardon me. Come in at once. We've been expecting you. Come
in--ah--er--gentlemen." His face clouded as he saw Holley. "Excuse me
just a moment."

The secretary disappeared through a door at the rear, and left the two
callers standing in the great living-room of the ranch house. To step
from the desert into a room like this was a revelation. Its walls were of
paneled oak; rare etchings hung upon them; there were softly shaded lamps
standing by tables on which lay the latest magazines--even a recent
edition of a New York Sunday newspaper. At one end, in a huge fireplace,
a pile of logs was blazing, and in a distant corner a radio ground out
dance music from some far orchestra.

"Say, this is home, sweet home," Bob Eden remarked. He nodded to the wall
at the opposite end of the room from the fireplace. "And speaking of
being unarmed--"

"That's Madden's collection of guns," Holley explained. "Wong showed it
to me once. They're loaded. If you have to back away, go in that
direction." He looked dubiously about. "You know, that sleek lad didn't
say he was going for Madden."

"I know he didn't," Eden replied. He studied the room thoughtfully. One
great question worried him--where was Charlie Chan?

They stood there, waiting. A tall clock at the rear of the room struck
the hour of nine, slowly, deliberately. The fire sputtered; the metallic
tinkle of jazz flowed on.

Suddenly the door through which Thorn had gone opened suddenly behind
them, and they swung quickly about. In the doorway, standing like a tower
of granite in the gray clothes he always affected, was the man Bob Eden
had last seen on the stairs descending from his father's office, Madden,
the great financier--P.J. himself.

Bob Eden's first reaction was one of intense relief, as of a burden
dropping from his shoulders with a "most delectable thud." But almost
immediately after came a feeling of disappointment. He was young, and he
craved excitement. Here was the big desert mystery crashing about his
ears, Madden alive and well, and all their fears and premonitions proving
groundless. Just a tame handing over of the pearls--when Charlie
came--and then back to the old rut again. He saw Will Holley smiling.

"Good evening, gentlemen," Madden was saying. "I'm very glad to see you.
Martin," he added to his secretary, who had followed him in, "turn off
that confounded racket. An orchestra, gentlemen--an orchestra in the
ballroom of a hotel in Denver. Who says the day of miracles is past?"
Thorn silenced the jazz; it died with a gurgle of protest. "Now,"
inquired Madden, "which of you comes from Post Street?"

The boy stepped forward. "I am Bob Eden, Mr. Madden. Alexander Eden is my
father. This is my friend, a neighbor of yours, Mr. Will Holley of the
Eldorado Times. He very kindly drove me out here."

"Ah, yes." Madden's manner was genial. He shook hands. "Draw up to the
fire, both of you. Thorn--cigars, please." With his own celebrated hands
he placed chairs before the fireplace.

"I'll sit down just a moment," Holley said. "I'm not stopping. I realize
that Mr. Eden has some business with you, and I'll not intrude. But
before I go, Mr. Madden--"

"Yes," said Madden sharply, biting the end from a cigar.

"I--I don't suppose you remember me," Holley continued.

Madden's big hand poised with the lighted match. "I never forget a face.
I've seen yours before. Was it in Eldorado?"

Holley shook his head. "No--it was twelve years ago--on Forty-fourth
Street, New York. At"--Madden was watching him closely--"at a gambling
house just east of Delmonico's. One winter's night--"

"Wait a minute," cut in the millionaire. "Some people say I'm getting
old--but listen to this. You came to me as a newspaper reporter, asking
an interview. And I told you to get the hell out of there."

"Splendid," laughed Holley.

"Oh, the old memory isn't so bad, eh? I remember perfectly. I used to
spend many evenings in that place--until I discovered the game was fixed.
Yes, I dropped a lot of spare change there. Why didn't you tell me it was
a crooked joint?"

Holley shrugged. "Well, your manner didn't encourage confidences. But
what I'm getting at, Mr. Madden--I'm still in the newspaper game, and an
interview from you--"

"I never give 'em," snapped the millionaire.

"I'm sorry," said Holley. "An old friend of mine runs a news bureau in
New York, and it would be a big triumph for me if I could wire him
something from you. On the financial outlook, for example. The first
interview from P.J. Madden."

"Impossible," answered Madden.

"I'm sorry to hear you say that, Mr. Madden," Bob Eden remarked. "Holley
here has been very kind to me, and I was hoping with all my heart you
would overlook your rule this once."

Madden leaned back, and blew a ring of smoke toward the paneled ceiling.
"Well," he said, and his voice was somehow gentler, "you've taken a lot
of trouble for me, Mr. Eden, and I'd like to oblige you." He fumed to
Holley. "Look here--nothing much, you know. Just a few words about
business prospects for the coming year."

"That would be extremely kind of you, Mr. Madden."

"Oh, it's all right. I'm away out here, and I feel a bit differently
about the newspapers than I do at home. I'll dictate something to
Thorn--suppose you run out here tomorrow about noon."

"I certainly will," said Holley, rising. "You don't know what this means
to me, sir. I must hurry back to town." He shook hands with the
millionaire, then with Bob Eden. His eyes as he looked at the latter
said; "Well, everything's all right, after all. I'm glad." He paused at
the door. "Good-bye--until tomorrow," he added. Thorn let him out.

The door had barely closed behind the editor when Madden leaned forward
eagerly. His manner had changed; suddenly, like an electric shock, the
boy felt the force of this famous personality. "Now, Mr. Eden," he began
briskly, "you've got the pearls, of course?"

Eden felt extremely silly. All their fears seemed so futile here in this
bright, home-like room. "Well, as a matter of fact--" he stammered.

A glass door at the rear of the room opened, and someone entered. Eden
did not look round; he waited. Presently the newcomer stepped between him
and the fire. He saw a plump little Chinese servant, with worn trousers
and velvet slippers, and a loose jacket of Canton crepe. In his arms he
carried a couple of logs. "Maybe you wantee catch 'um moah fiah, hey,
boss?" he said in a dull voice. His face was quite expressionless. He
threw the logs into the fireplace and as he fumed, gave Bob Eden a quick
look. His eyes were momentarily sharp and bright--like black buttons in
the yellow light. The eyes of Charlie Chan.

The little servant went noiselessly out. "The pearls," insisted Madden
quickly. "What about the pearls?" Martin Thorn came closer.

"I haven't got them," said Bob Eden slowly.

"What! You didn't bring them?"

"I did not."

The huge red face of Madden purpled suddenly, and he tossed his great
head--the old gesture of annoyance of which the newspapers often spoke.
"In heaven's name, what's the matter with you fellows, anyhow?" he cried.
"Those pearls are mine--I've bought them, haven't I? I've asked for them
here--I want them."

"Call your servant." The words were on the tip of Bob Eden's tongue. But
something in that look Charlie Chan had given him moved him to hesitate.
No, he must first have a word with the little detective.

"Your final instructions to my father were that the pearls must be
delivered in New York," he reminded Madden.

"Well, what if they were? I can change my mind, can't I?"

"Nevertheless, my father felt that the whole affair called for caution.
One or two things happened--"

"What things?"

Eden paused. Why go over all that? It would sound silly, perhaps--in any
case, was it wise to make a confidant of this cold, hard man who was
glaring at him with such evident disgust? "It is enough to say, Mr.
Madden, that my father refused to send that necklace down here into what
might be a well-laid trap."

"Your father's a fool," cried Madden.

Bob Eden rose, his face flushed. "Very well--if you want to call the deal
off--"

"No, no. I'm sorry. I spoke too quickly. I apologize. Sit down." The boy
resumed his chair. "But I'm very much annoyed. So your father sent you
here to reconnoiter?"

"He did. He felt something might have happened to you."

"Nothing ever happens to me unless I want it to," returned Madden, and
the remark had the ring of truth. "Well you're here now. You see
everything's all right. What do you propose to do?"

"I shall call my father on the telephone in the morning, and tell him to
send the string at once. If I may, I'd like to stay here until it comes."

Again Madden tossed his head. "Delay--delay--I don't like it. I must
hurry back east. I'd planned to leave here for Pasadena early in the
morning, put the pearls in a vault there, and then take a train to New
York."

"Ah," said Eden. "Then you never intended to give that interview to
Holley?"

Madden's eyes narrowed. "What if I didn't? He's of no importance, is he?"
Bruskly he stood up. "Well, if you haven't got the pearls, you haven't
got them. You can stay here, of course. But you're going to call your
father in the morning--early--I warn you I won't stand for any more
delay."

"I agree to that," replied Eden. "And now, if you don't mind--I've had a
hard day--"

Madden went to the door, and called. Charlie Chan came in.

"Ah Kim," said Madden, "this gentleman has the bedroom at the end of the
left wing. Over here." He pointed. "Take his suitcase."

"Allight, boss," replied the newly christened Ah Kim. He picked up Eden's
bag.

"Good night," said Madden. "If you want anything, this boy will look
after you. He's new here, but I guess he knows the ropes. You can reach
your room from the patio. I trust you'll sleep well."

"I know I shall," said Eden. "Thank you so much. Good night."

He crossed the patio behind the shuffling figure of the Chinese. Above,
white and cool, hung the desert stars. The wind blew keener than ever. As
he entered the room assigned him he was glad to see that a fire had been
laid. He stooped to light it.

"Humbly begging pardon," said Chan. "That are my work."

Eden glanced toward the closed door. "What became of you? I lost you at
Barstow."

"Thinking deep about the matter," said Chan softly, "I decide not to
await train. On auto truck belonging to one of my countrymen, among many
other vegetables, I ride out of Barstow. Much better I arrive on ranch in
warm daylight. Not so shady look to it. I am Ah Kim, the cook. How
fortunate I mastered that art in far-away youth."

"You're darned good," laughed Eden.

Chan shrugged. "All my life," he complained, "I study to speak fine
English words. Now I must strangle all such in my throat, lest suspicion
rouse up. Not a happy situation for me."

"Well, it won't last long," replied Eden. "Everything's all right,
evidently."

Again Chan shrugged, and did not answer.

"It is all right, isn't it?" Eden asked with sudden interest.

"Humbly offering my own poor opinion," said Chan, "it are not so right as
I would be pleased to have it."

Eden stared at him. "Why--what have you found out?"

"I have found nothing whatever."

"Well, then--"

"Pardon me," Chan broke in. "Maybe you know--Chinese are very psychic
people. Can not say in ringing words what is wrong here. But deep down in
heart--"

"Oh, forget that," cut in Eden. "We can't go by instinct now. We came to
deliver a string of pearls to Madden, if he proved to be here, and get
his receipt. He's here, and our course is simple. For my part, I'm not
taking any chances. I'm going to give him those pearls now."

Chan looked distressed. "No, no, please! Speaking humbly for myself--"

"Now, see here, Charlie--if I may call you that?"

"Greatly honored, to be sure."

"Let's not be foolish, just because we're far from home on a desert.
Chinese may be psychic people, as you say. But I see myself trying to
explain that to Victor Jordan--and to dad. All we were to find out was
whether Madden was here or not. He is. Please go to Madden at once and
tell him I want to see him in his bedroom in twenty minutes. When I go in
you wait outside his door, and when I call you--come. We'll hand over our
burden then and there."

"An appalling mistake," objected Chan.

"Why? Can you give me one definite reason?"

"Not in words, which are difficult. But--"

"Then I'm very sorry, but I'll have to use my own judgment. I'll take the
full responsibility. Now, really, I think you'd better go--"

Reluctantly, Charlie went. Bob Eden lighted a cigarette and sat down
before the fire. Silence had closed down like a curtain of fog over the
house, over the desert, over the world. An uncanny silence that nothing,
seemingly, would ever break.

Eden thought deeply. What had Charlie Chan been talking about, anyhow?
Rot and nonsense. They loved to dramatize things, these Chinese. Loved to
dramatize themselves. Here was Chan playing a novel role, and his
complaint against it was not sincere. He wanted to go on playing it, to
spy around and imagine vain things. Well, that wasn't the American way.
It wasn't Bob Eden's way.

The boy looked at his watch. Ten minutes since Charlie had left him; in
ten minutes more he would go to Madden's room and get those pearls off
his hands forever. He rose and walked about. From his window opposite the
patio he looked out across the dim gray desert to the black bulk of
distant hills. Ye gods, what a country. Not for him, he thought. Rather
street lamps shining on the pavements, the clamor of cable-cars, crowds,
crowds of people. Confusion and--noise. Something terrible about this
silence. This lonely silence--

A horrible cry shattered the night. Bob Eden stood, frozen. Again the
cry, and then a queer, choked voice: "Help! Help! Murder!" The cry.
"Help! Put down that gun! Help! Help!"

Bob Eden ran out into the patio. As he did so, he saw Thorn and Charlie
Chan coming from the other side. Madden--where was Madden? But again his
suspicion proved incorrect--Madden emerged from the living-room and
joined them.

Again came the cry. And now Bob Eden saw, on a perch ten feet away, the
source of the weird outburst. A little gray Australian parrot was hanging
there uncertainly, screeching its head off.

"That damn bird," cried Madden angrily. "I'm sorry, Mr. Eden--I forgot to
tell you about him. It's only Tony, and he's had a wild past, as you may
imagine."

The parrot stopped screaming and blinked solemnly at the little group
before him. "One at a time, gentlemen, please," he squawked.

Madden laughed. "That goes back to his barroom days," he said. "Picked it
up from some bartender, I suppose."

"One at a time, gentlemen, please."

"It's all right, Tony," Madden continued. "We're not lined up for drinks.
And you keep quiet. I hope you weren't unduly alarmed, Mr. Eden. There
seems to have been a killing or two in those barrooms where Tony used to
hang out. Martin,"--he turned to his secretary--"take him to the barn and
lock him up."

Thorn came forward. Bob Eden thought that the secretary's face was even
paler than usual in the moonlight. He held out his hands to the parrot.
Did Eden imagine it, or were the hands really trembling? "Here, Tony,"
said Thorn. "Nice Tony. You come with me." Gingerly he unfastened the
chain from Tony's leg.

"You wanted to see me, didn't you?" Madden said. He led the way to his
bedroom, and closed the door behind them. "What is it? Have you got those
pearls, after all?"

The door opened, and the Chinese shuffled into the room.

"What the devil do you want?" cried Madden.

"You allight, boss?"

"Of course, I'm all right. Get out of here."

"Tomallah," said Charlie Chan in his role of Ah Kim, and a glance that
was full of meaning passed between him and Bob Eden. "Tomallah nice day,
you bet. See you tomallah, gentlemen."

He departed, leaving the door open. Eden saw him moving across the patio
on silent feet. He was not waiting outside Madden's door.

"What was it you wanted?" Madden persisted.

Bob Eden thought quickly. "I wanted to see you alone for just a moment.
This Thorn--you can trust him, can't you?"

Madden snorted. "You give me a pain," he said. "Any one would think you
were bringing me the Bank of England. Of course, Thorn's all right. He's
been with me for fifteen years."

"I just wanted to be sure," Eden answered. "I'll get hold of dad early in
the morning. Good night."

He returned to the patio. The secretary was hurrying in from his
unwelcome errand. "Good night, Mr. Thorn," Eden said.

"Oh--er--good night, Mr. Eden," answered the man. He passed furtively
from sight.

Back in his room, Eden began to undress. He was both puzzled and
disturbed. Was this adventure to be as tame as it looked? Still in his
ears rang the unearthly scream of the parrot. After all, had it been in a
barroom that Tony picked up that hideous cry for help?




CHAPTER VI



Tony's Happy New Year


Forgetting the promise he had made to rise and telephone his father early
in the morning, Bob Eden lingered on in the pleasant company of his
couch. The magnificent desert sunrise, famous wherever books are sold,
came and went without the seal of his approval, and a haze of heat spread
over the barren world. It was nine o'clock when he awoke from a most
satisfactory sleep and sat up in bed.

Staring about the room, he gradually located himself on the map of
California. One by one the events of the night before came back to him.
First of all the scene at the Oasis--that agile steak eluding him with
diabolic cunning--the girl whose charming presence made the dreary cafe
an oasis indeed. The ride over the desert with Will Holley, the bright
and cheery living-room of the ranch house, the fox-trot from a Denver
orchestra. Madden, leaning close and breathing hard, demanding the
Phillimore pearls. Chan in his velvet slippers, whispering of psychic
fears and dark premonitions. And then the shrill cry of the parrot out of
the desert night.

Now, however, the tense troubled feeling with which he had gone to bed
was melting away in the yellow sunshine of the morning. The boy began to
suspect that he had made rather a fool of himself in listening to the
little detective from the islands. Chan was an Oriental, also a
policeman. Such a combination was bound to look at almost any situation
with a jaundiced eye. After all he, Bob Eden, was here as the
representative of Meek and Eden, and he must act as he saw fit. Was Chan
in charge of this expedition, or was he?

The door opened, and on the threshold stood Ah Kim, in the person of
Charlie Chan.

"You come 'long, boss," said his confederate loudly. "You ac' lazy bimeby
you no catch 'um bleckfast."

Having said which, Charlie gently closed the door and came in, grimacing
as one who felt a keen distaste.

"Silly talk like that hard business for me," he complained. "Chinese
without accustomed dignity is like man without clothes, naked, and
ashamed. You enjoy long, restful sleep, I think."

Eden yawned. "Compared to me last night, Rip Van Winkle had insomnia."

"That's good. Humbly suggest you tear yourself out of that bed now. The
great Madden indulges in nervous fit on living-room rug."

Eden laughed. "Suffering, is he? Well, we'll have to stop that." He
tossed aside the covers.

Chan was busy at the curtains. "Favor me by taking a look from windows,"
he remarked. "On every side desert stretches off like floor of eternity.
Plenty acres of unlimitable sand."

Bob Eden glanced out. "Yes, it's the desert, and there's plenty of it,
that's a fact. But look here--we ought to talk fast while we have the
chance. Last night you made a sudden change in our plans."

"Presuming greatly--yes."

"Why?"

Chan stared at him. "Why not? You yourself hear parrot scream out of the
dark. 'Murder. Help. Help. Put down gun.'"

Eden nodded. "I know. But that probably meant nothing."

Charlie Chan shrugged. "You understand parrot does not invent talk.
Merely repeats what others have remarked."

"Of course," Eden agreed. "And Tony was no doubt repeating something he
heard in Australia, or on a boat. I happen to know that all Madden said
of the bird's past was the truth. And I may as well tell you, Charlie,
that looking at things in the bright light of the morning, I feel we
acted rather foolishly last night. I'm going to give those pearls to
Madden before breakfast."

Chan was silent for a moment. "If I might presume again, I would speak a
few hearty words in praise of patience. Youth, pardon me, is too hot
around the head. Take my advice, please, and wait."

"Wait. Wait for what?"

"Wait until I have snatched more conversation out of Tony. Tony very
smart bird--he speaks Chinese. I am not so smart--but so do I."

"And what do you think Tony would tell you?"

"Tony might reveal just what is wrong on this ranch," suggested Chan.

"I don't believe anything's wrong," objected Eden.

Chan shook his head. "Not very happy position for me," he said, "that I
must argue with bright boy like you are."

"But listen, Charlie," Eden protested. "I promised to call my father this
morning. And Madden isn't an easy man to handle."

"Hoo malimali," responded Chan.

"No doubt you're right," Eden said. "But I don't understand Chinese."

"You have made natural error," Chan answered. "Pardon me while I correct
you. That are not Chinese. It are Hawaiian talk. Well known in
islands--hoo malimali--make Madden feel good by a little harmless
deception. As my cousin Willie Chan, captain of All-Chinese baseball
team, translate with his vulgarity, kid him along."

"Easier said than done," replied Eden.

"But you are clever boy. You could perfect it. Just a few hours, while I
have talk with the smart Tony."

Eden considered. Paula Wendell was coming out this morning. Too bad to
rush off without seeing her again. "Tell you what I'll do," he said.
"I'll wait until two o'clock. But when the clock strikes two, if nothing
has happened in the interval, we hand over those pearls. Is that
understood?"

"Maybe," nodded Chan.

"You mean maybe it's understood?"

"Not precisely. I mean maybe we hand over pearls." Eden looked into the
stubborn eyes of the Chinese, and felt rather helpless. "However," Chan
added, "accept my glowing thanks. You are pretty good. Now proceed toward
the miserable breakfast I have prepared."

"Tell Madden I'll be there very soon."

Chan grimaced. "With your kind permission, I will alter that message
slightly, losing the word very. In memory of old times, there remains
little I would not do for Miss Sally. My life, perhaps--but by the bones
of my honorable ancestors, I will not say 'velly.'" He went out.

On his perch in the patio, opposite Eden's window, Tony was busy with his
own breakfast. The boy saw Chan approach the bird, and pause. "Hoo la
ma," cried the detective.

Tony looked up, and cocked his head on one side. "Hoo la ma," he replied,
in a shrill, harsh voice.

Chan went nearer, and began to talk rapidly in Chinese. Now and then he
paused, and the bird replied amazingly with some phrase out of Chan's
speech. It was, Bob Eden reflected, as good as a show.

Suddenly from a door on the other side of the patio the man Thorn
emerged. His pale face was clouded with anger.

"Here," he cried loudly. "What the devil are you doing?"

"Solly, boss," said the Chinese. "Tony nice litta fellah. Maybe I take
'um to cook house."

"You keep away from him," Thorn ordered. "Get me--keep away from that
bird."

Chan shuffled off. For a long moment Thorn stood staring after him, anger
and apprehension mingled in his look. As Bob Eden turned away, he was
deep in thought. Was there something in Chan's attitude, after all?

He hurried into the bath, which lay between his room and the vacant
bedroom beyond. When he finally joined Madden, he thought he perceived
the afterglow of that nervous fit still on the millionaire's face.

"I'm sorry to be late," he apologized. "But this desert air--"

"I know," said Madden. "It's all right--we haven't lost any time. I've
already put in that call for your father."

"Good idea," replied the boy, without any enthusiasm. "Called his office,
I suppose?"

"Naturally."

Suddenly Eden remembered. This was Saturday morning, and unless it was
raining in San Francisco, Alexander Eden was by now well on his way to
the golf links at Burlingame. There he would remain until late tonight at
least--perhaps over Sunday. Oh, for a bright day in the north!

Thorn came in, sedate and solemn in his blue serge suit, and looked with
hungry eyes toward the table standing before the fire. They sat down to
the breakfast prepared by the new servant, Ah Kim. A good breakfast it
was, for Charlie Chan had not forgotten his early training in the
Phillimore household. As it progressed, Madden mellowed a bit.

"I hope you weren't alarmed last night by Tony's screeching," he said
presently.

"Well--for a minute," admitted Eden. "Of course, as soon as I found out
the source of the racket, I felt better."

Madden nodded. "Tony's a colorless little beast, but he's had a scarlet
past," he remarked.

"Like some of the rest of us," Eden suggested.

Madden looked at him keenly. "The bird was given me by a sea captain in
the Australian trade. I brought him here to be company for my caretaker,
Louie Wong."

"I thought your boy's name was Ah Kim," said Eden, innocently.

"Oh--this one. This isn't Wong. Louie was called suddenly to San
Francisco the other day. This Ah Kim just happened to drift in most
opportunely yesterday. He's merely a stop-gap until Louie comes back."

"You're lucky," Eden remarked. "Such good cooks as Ah Kim are rare."

"Oh, he'll do," Madden admitted. "When I come west to stay, I bring a
staff with me. This is a rather unexpected visit."

"Your real headquarters out here are in Pasadena, I believe?" Eden
inquired.

"Yes--I've got a house there, on Orange Grove Avenue. I just keep this
place for an occasional week end--when my asthma threatens. And it's good
to get away from the mob, now and then." The millionaire pushed back from
the table, and looked at his watch. "Ought to hear from San Francisco any
minute now," he added hopefully.

Eden glanced toward the telephone in a far corner. "Did you put the call
in for my father, or just for the office?" he asked.

"Just for the office," Madden replied. "I figured that if he was out, we
could leave a message."

Thorn came forward. "Chief, how about that interview for Holley?" he
inquired.

"Oh, the devil!" Madden said. "Why did I let myself in for that?"

"I could bring the typewriter in here," began the secretary.

"No--we'll go to your room. Mr. Eden, if the telephone rings, please
answer it."

The two went out. Ah Kim arrived on noiseless feet to clear away the
breakfast. Eden lighted a cigarette, and dropped into a chair before the
fire, which the blazing sun outside made rather superfluous.

Twenty minutes later, the telephone rang. Eden leaped to it, but before
he reached the table where it stood, Madden was at his side. He had hoped
to be alone for this ordeal, and sighed wearily. At the other end of the
wire he was relieved to hear the cool, melodious voice of his father's
well-chosen secretary.

"Hello," he said. "This is Bob Eden, at Madden's ranch down on the
desert. And how are you this bright and shining morning?"

"What makes you think it's a bright and shining morning up here?" asked
the girl.

Eden's heart sank. "Don't tell me it isn't. I'd be broken-hearted."

"Why?"

"Why! Because, while you're beautiful at any time, I like to think of you
with the sunlight on your hair--"

Madden laid a heavy hand on his shoulder. "What the blazes do you think
you're doing--making a date with a chorus girl? Get down to business."

"Excuse it, please," said Eden. "Miss Chase, is my father there?"

"No. This is Saturday, you know. Golf."

"Oh yes--of course. Then it is a nice day. Well, tell him to call me here
if he comes in. Eldorado 76."

"Where is he?" demanded Madden eagerly.

"Out playing golf," the boy answered.

"Where? What links?"

Bob sighed. "I suppose he's at Burlingame," he said over the wire.

Then--oh, excellent young woman, thought the boy--the secretary answered:
"Not today. He went with some friends to another links. He didn't say
which."

"Thank you so much," Eden said. "Just leave the message on his desk,
please." He hung up.

"Too bad," he remarked cheerfully. "Gone off to play golf somewhere, and
nobody knows where."

Madden swore. "The old simpleton. Why doesn't he attend to his
business--"

"Look here, Mr. Madden," Eden began.

"Golf, golf, golf," stormed Madden. "It's ruined more good men than
whisky. I tell you, if I'd fooled round on golf links, I wouldn't be
where I am today. If your father had any sense--"

"I've heard about enough," said Eden, rising.

Madden's manner changed suddenly. "I'm sorry," he said. "But this is
annoying, you must admit. I wanted that necklace to start today."

"The day's young," Eden reminded him. "It may get off yet."

"I hope so," Madden frowned. "I'm not accustomed to this sort of
dilly-dallying, I can tell you that."

His great head was tossing angrily as he went out. Bob Eden looked after
him, thoughtfully. Madden, master of many millions, was putting what
seemed an undue emphasis on a little pearl necklace. The boy wondered.
His father was getting on in years--he was far from the New York markets.
Had he made some glaring mistake in setting a value on that necklace? Was
it, perhaps, worth a great deal more than he had asked, and was Madden
fuming to get hold of it before the jeweler learned his error and perhaps
called off the deal? Of course, Alexander Eden had given his word, but
even so, Madden might fear a slip-up.

The boy strolled idly out into the patio. The chill night wind had
vanished and he saw the desert of song and story, baking under a
relentless sun. In the sandy little yard of the ranch house, life was
humming along. Plump chickens and haughty turkeys strutted back of wire
enclosures. He paused for a moment to stare with interest at a bed of
strawberries, red and tempting. Up above, on the bare branches of the
cottonwoods, he saw unmistakable buds, mute promise of a grateful shade
not far away.

Odd how things lived and grew, here in this desolate country. He took a
turn about the grounds. In one corner was a great reservoir half filled
with water--a pleasant sight that must be on an August afternoon. Coming
back to the patio, he stopped to speak to Tony, who was sitting rather
dejectedly on his perch.

"Hoo la ma," he said.

Tony perked up. "Sung kai yet bo," he remarked.

"Yes, and a great pity, too," replied Eden facetiously.

"Gee fung low hop," added Tony, somewhat feebly.

"Perhaps, but I heard different," said Eden, and moved on. He wondered
what Chan was doing. Evidently the detective thought it best to obey
Thorn's command that he keep away from the bird. This was not surprising,
for the windows of the secretary's room looked out on Tony's perch.

Back in the living-room, Eden took up a book. At a few minutes before
twelve he heard the asthmatic cough of Horace Greeley in the yard and
rising, he admitted Will Holley. The editor was smiling and alert.

"Hello," Eden said. "Madden's in there with Thorn, getting out the
interview. Sit down." He came close. "And please remember that I haven't
brought those pearls. My business with Madden is still unfinished."

Holley looked at him with sudden interest. "I get you. But I thought last
night that everything was lovely. Do you mean--"

"Tell you later," interrupted Eden. "I may be in town this afternoon." He
spoke in a louder tone. "I'm glad you came along. I was finding the
desert a bit flat when you flivvered in."

Holley smiled. "Cheer up. I've got something for you. A veritable
storehouse of wit and wisdom." He handed over a paper. "This week's issue
of the Eldorado Times, damp from the presses. Read about Louie Wong's big
trip to San Francisco. All the news to fit the print."

Eden took the proffered paper--eight small pages of mingled news and
advertisements. He sank into a chair. "Well," he said, "it seems that the
Ladies' Aid Supper last Tuesday night was notably successful. Not only
that, but the ladies responsible for the affair labored assiduously and
deserve much credit."

"Yes, but the real excitement's inside," remarked Holley. "On page three.
There you'll learn that coyotes are getting pretty bad in the valley. A
number of people are putting out traps."

"Under those circumstances," Eden said, "how fortunate that Henry Gratton
is caring for Mr. Dickey's chickens during the latter's absence in Los
Angeles."

Holley rose, and stared for a moment down at his tiny newspaper. "And
once I worked with Mitchell on the New York Sun," he misquoted sadly.
"Don't let Harry Fladgate see that, will you? When Harry knew me I was a
newspaper man." He moved off across the room. "By the way, has Madden
shown you his collection of firearms?"

Bob Eden rose, and followed. "Why no--he hasn't."

"It's rather interesting. But dusty--say, I guess Louie was afraid to
touch them. Nearly every one of these guns has a history. See--there's a
typewritten card above each one. 'Presented to P.J. Madden by Til
Taylor'--Taylor was one of the best sheriffs Oregon ever had. And
here--look at this one--it's a beauty. Given to Madden by Bill Tilghman.
That gun, my boy, saw action on Front Street in the old Dodge City days."

"What's the one with all the notches?" Eden asked.

"Used to belong to Billy the Kid," said Holley. "Ask them about Billy
over in New Mexico. And here's one Bat Masterson used to tote. But the
star of the collection"--Holley's eyes ran over the wall--"the beauty of
the lot--" He turned to Eden. "It isn't there," he said.

"There's a gun missing?" inquired Eden slowly.

"Seems to be. One of the first Colts made--a forty-five--it was presented
to Madden by Bill Hart, who's staged a lot of pictures round here." He
pointed to an open space on the wall. "There's where it used to be," he
added, and was moving away.

Eden caught his coat sleeve. "Wait a minute," he said in a low, tense
voice. "Let me get this. A gun missing. And the card's gone, too. You can
see where the tacks held it in place."

"Well, what's all the excitement--" began Holley surprised.

Eden ran his finger over the wall. "There's no dust where that card
should be. What does that mean? That Bill Hart's gun has been removed
within the last few days."

"My boy," said Holley. "What are you talking about--"

"Hush," warned Eden. The door opened and Madden, followed by Thorn,
entered the room. For a moment the mill