“Not bad feeling for the white man to experience,” Chan assured him. “Chinese has it all time. Chinese knows he is one minute grain of sand on seashore of eternity. With what result? He is calm and quiet and humble. No nerves, like hopping, skipping Caucasian. Life for him not so much ordeal.”
“Yes, and he’s happier too,” said Eden.
“Sure,” replied Chan. He produced a platter of canned salmon. “All time in San Francisco I behold white men hot and excited. Life like a fever, always getting worse. What for? Where does it end? Same place as Chinese life, I think.”
When they had finished Eden attempted to help with the dishes, but was politely restrained. He sat down and turned on the wireless set. The strong voice of a leather-lunged announcer rang out in the quiet room.
“Now, folks, we got a real treat for you this balmy, typical California evening. Miss Norma Fitzgerald, of the One Night in June company, now playing at the Mason, is going to sing—er—what are you going to sing, Norma? Norma says wait and find out.”
At mention of the girl’s name Bob Eden called to the detective, who entered and stood expectantly. “Hello, folks,” came Miss Fitzgerald’s greeting. “I certainly am glad to be back in good old L.A.”
“Hello, Norma,” Eden said, “never mind the songs. Two gentlemen out on the desert would like a word with you. Tell us about Jerry Delaney.”
She couldn’t have heard him, for she began to sing in a clear, beautiful soprano voice. Chan and the boy listened in silence.
“More of the white man’s mysteries,” Charlie remarked when she had finished. “So near to her, and yet so far away. Seems to me that we must visit this lady soon.”
“Ah, yes—but how?” inquired Eden.
“It will be arranged,” Chan said, and vanished.
Eden tried a book. An hour later he was interrupted by the peal of the telephone-bell, and a cheery voice answered his hello.
“Still pining for the bright lights?”
“I sure am,” he replied.
“Well, the movies are in town,” said Paula Wendell. “Come on in.”
He hurried to his room. Chan had built a fire in the patio, and was sitting before it, the warm light flickering on his chubby, impassive face. When Eden returned with his hat he paused beside the detective.
“Getting some new ideas?” he asked.
“About our puzzle?” Chan shook his head. “No. At this moment I am far from Madden’s ranch. I am in Honolulu, where nights are soft and sweet, not like chilly desert dark. Must admit my heart is weighed a little with homesick qualms. I picture my humble house on Punch Bowl Hill, where lanterns glow and my ten children are gathered round.”
“Ten!” cried Eden. “Great Scott—you are a father.”
“Very proud one,” assented Chan. “You are going from here?”
“I’m running in town for a while. Miss Wendell called up—it seems the picture people have arrived. By the way, I just remembered—tomorrow is the day Madden promised they could come out here. I bet the old man’s clean forgot it.”
“Most likely. Better not to tell him, he might refuse permission. I have unlimited yearning to see movies in throes of being born. Should I go home and report that experience to my eldest daughter, who is all time sunk in movie magazines, ancestor-worship breaks out plenty strong at my house.”
Eden laughed. “Well, then, let’s hope you get the chance. I’ll be back early.”
A few minutes later he was again in the small runabout, under the platinum stars. He thought fleetingly of Louie Wong, buried now in the bleak little graveyard beyond Eldorado, but his mind turned quickly to happier things. With a lively feeling of anticipation he climbed between the twin hills at the gateway, and the yellow lights of the desert town were winking at him.
The moment he crossed the threshold of the Desert Edge Hotel, he knew this was no ordinary night in Eldorado. From the parlour at the left came the strains of giddy, inharmonious music, laughter, and a medley of voices. Paula Wendell met him and led him in.
The stuffy little room, dated by heavy mission furniture and bits of broken plaster hanging crazily from the ceiling, was renewing its youth in pleasant company. Bob Eden met the movies in their hours of ease, childlike, happy people, seemingly without a care in the world. A very pretty girl gave him a hand which recalled his father’s jewellery shop, and then restored it to the ukelele she was playing. A tall young man designated as Rannie, whose clothes were perfection and whose collar and shirt shamed the blue of California’s sky, desisted briefly from his torture of a saxophone.
“Hello, old-timer,” he remarked. “I hope you brought your harp.” And instantly ran amuck on the saxophone again.
A middle-aged actor with a bronzed, rather hard face was officiating at the piano. In a far corner a grand dame and an old man with snow-white hair sat apart from the crowd, and Eden dropped down beside them.
“What was the name?” asked the old man, his hand behind his ear. “Ah, yes, I’m glad to meet any friend of Paula’s. We’re a little clamorous here tonight, Mr. Eden. It’s like the early days when I was trouping—how we used to skylark on station platforms! We were happy then—no movies. Eh, my dear?” he added to the woman.
She bent a little. “Yes—but I never trouped much. Thank heaven I was usually able to steer clear of those terrible towns where Main Street is upstairs. Mr. Belasco rarely asked me to leave New York.” She turned to Eden. “I was in Belasco companies fifteen years,” she explained.
“Wonderful experience, no doubt,”
