“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 labour,” 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 seven six.”
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 pavement 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 nearby 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
