The old man got painfully to his feet. “Shake,” he said. “You’re a white man, an’ no mistake. I ain’t tryin’ to save Madden—I’ll go on the stand if I have to. But with what I’ve told you, maybe you can land him without me figurin’ in it.”
“We’ll have to go along,” Eden told him. He laughed. “I don’t care what the book of etiquette says—Mr. Cherry, I’m very pleased to have met you.”
“Same here,” returned Cherry. “Like a talk now an’ then with a good listener. An’ the chance to look at a pretty gal—well, say, I don’t need no specs to enjoy that.”
They said goodbye, and left the lonely old man standing by the tramcar there on the barren desert. For a long moment they rode in silence.
“Well,” said Eden finally, “you’ve heard something, lady.”
“I certainly have. Something I find it difficult to believe.”
“Perhaps you won’t find it so difficult if I go back and tell you a few things. You’ve been drawn into the big mystery at Madden’s at last, and there’s no reason why you shouldn’t know as much as I do about it. So I’m going to talk.”
“I’m keen to hear,” she admitted.
“Naturally, after today. Well, I came down here to transact a bit of business with P. J.—I needn’t go into that, it has no particular bearing. The first night I was on the ranch—” He proceeded to detail one by one the mysterious sequence of events that began with the scream of the parrot from the dark. “Now you know. Someone had been killed, that was evident. Someone before Louie. But who? We don’t know yet. And by whom? Today gave us that answer, anyhow.”
“It seems incredible.”
“You don’t believe Cherry’s story?” he suggested.
“Well—these old boys who wander the desert get queer sometimes. And there was that about his eyes—the doctor at Redlands, you know—”
“I know. But, all the same, I think Cherry told the truth. After a few days with Madden I consider him capable of anything. He’s a hard man, and if anyone stood in his way—good night. Some poor devil stood there—but not for long. Who? We’ll find out. We must.”
“We?”
“Yes, you’re in on this thing too. Have to be, after this, whether you like it or not.”
“I think I’m going to like it,” Paula Wendell said.
They returned their tired horses to the stable at Seven Palms, and after a sketchy dinner at the local hotel caught the Eldorado train. When they alighted Charlie and Will Holley were waiting.
“Hello,” said the editor. “Why, hello, Paula—where you been? Eden, here’s Ah Kim. Madden sent him in for you.”
“Hello, gentlemen,” cried Eden gaily. “Before Ah Kim and I head for the ranch we’re all going over to the office of that grand old sheet the Eldorado Times. I have something to impart.”
When they reached the newspaper office—which Ah Kim entered with obvious reluctance—Eden closed the door and faced them. “Well, folks,” he announced, “the clouds are breaking. I’ve finally got hold of something definite. But before I go any further—Miss Wendell, may I present Ah Kim? So we sometimes call him, after our quaint fashion. In reality, you are now enjoying the priceless opportunity of meeting Detective-Sergeant Charlie Chan of the Honolulu police.”
Chan bowed. “I’m so glad to know you, sergeant,” said the girl, and took up her favourite perch on Holley’s typewriter table.
“Don’t look at me like that, Charlie,” laughed Eden. “You’re breaking my heart. We can rely on Miss Wendell absolutely. And you can’t freeze her out any longer, because she now knows more about your case than you do. As they say on the stage—won’t you—sit down?”
Puzzled and wondering, Chan and Will Holley found chairs. “I said this morning I wanted a little light,” Eden continued. “I’ve got it already—how’s that for service? Aimless trip to Barstow, Charlie, proved to be all aim. Miss Wendell and I turned aside for a canter over the desert, and we have met and interviewed that little black-bearded one—our desert rat.”
“Boy—now you’re talking,” cried Holley.
Chan’s eyes lighted.
“Chinese are psychic people, Charlie,” Eden went on. “I’ll tell the world. You were right. Before we arrived at Madden’s ranch someone staged a little murder there. And I know who did it.”
“Thorn,” suggested Holley.
“Thorn nothing! No piker like Thorn. No, gentlemen, it was the big chief—Madden himself—the great P. J. Last Wednesday night at his ranch Madden killed a man. Add favourite pastimes of big millionaires.”
“Nonsense,” objected Holley.
“You think so, eh? Listen.” Eden repeated the story Cherry had told.
Chan and Holley heard him out in amazed silence.
“And what are present whereabouts of old prospector?” inquired Chan when he had finished.
“I know, Charlie,” answered Eden. “That’s the flaw in my armour. I let him go. He’s on his way—over yonder. But I know where he’s going and we can get hold of him when we need him. We’ve got other matters to look after first.”
“We certainly have,” agreed Holley. “Madden! I can hardly believe it.”
Chan considered. “Most peculiar case ever shoved on my attention,” he admitted. “It marches now, but look how it marches backwards. Mostly murder means dead body on the rug, and from clues surrounding I must find who did it. Not so here. I sense something wrong; after long pause light breaks and I hear name of guilty man who killed. But who was killed? The reason, please? There is work to be done—much work.”
“You don’t think,” suggested Eden, “that we ought to call in the sheriff—”
“What then?” frowned Chan. “Captain Bliss arrives on extensive feet, committing blunder with every step. Sheriff faces strange situation, all unprepared. Madden awes them with greatness, and escapes Scotch-free. None of the sheriff, please—unless maybe you lose faith in Detective-Sergeant Chan.”
“Never for a minute, Charlie,” Eden answered. “Wipe out that suggestion. The case is yours.”
Chan bowed. “You’re pretty good, thanks. Such a tipsy-turvy puzzle rouses professional pride. I will get to bottom of it
