“This afternoon,” she replied. “I’m working on another script—one that calls for a ghost city this time.”
“A ghost city?”
“Yes—you know. A deserted mining town. So it’s me for the Petticoat Mine again.”
“Where’s that?”
“Up in the hills about seventeen miles from Eldorado. Petticoat Mine had three thousand citizens ten years ago, but there’s not a living soul there today. Just ruins, like Pompeii. I’ll have to show it to you—it’s mighty interesting.”
“That’s a promise,” Eden returned. “We’ll see you back on your dear old desert.”
“Warmest thanks for permitting close inspection of picture factory,” Chan remarked. “Always a glowing item on the scroll of memory.”
“It was fun for me,” answered the girl. “Sorry you must go.”
On the car bound for Los Angeles Eden turned to the Chinese. “Don’t you ever get discouraged, Charlie?” he inquired.
“Not while work remains to do,” the detective replied. “This Miss Fitzgerald. Songbird, perhaps, but she will not have flown.”
“You’d better talk with her—” Eden began.
But Chan shook his head.
“No, I will not accompany on that errand. Easy to see my presence brings embarrassed pause. I am hard to explain, like black eye.”
“Well, I shouldn’t have called you that,” smiled the boy.
“Go alone to see this woman. Inquire all she knows about the dead man—Delaney.”
Eden sighed. “I’ll do my best. But my once proud faith in myself is ebbing fast.”
At the stage-door of the deserted theatre Eden slipped a dollar into the hand of the doorman, and was permitted to step inside and examine the call-board. As he expected, the local addresses of the troupe were posted up, and he located Miss Fitzgerald at the Wynnwood Hotel.
“You have aspect of experienced person,” ventured Chan.
Eden laughed. “Oh, I’ve known a few chorus-girls in my time. Regular man of the world, I am.”
Chan took up his post on a bench in Pershing Square, while the boy went on alone to the Wynnwood Hotel. He sent up his name, and after a long wait in the cheap lobby the actress joined him. She was at least thirty, probably more, but her eyes were young and sparkling. At sight of Bob Eden she adopted a rather coquettish manner.
“You Mr. Eden?” she said. “I’m glad to see you, though why I see you’s a mystery to me.”
“Well, just so long as it’s a pleasant mystery—” Eden smiled.
“I’ll say it is—so far. You in the profession?”
“Not precisely. First of all, I want to say that I heard you sing over the radio the other night, and I was enchanted. You’ve a wonderful voice.”
She beamed. “Say, I like to hear you talk like that. But I had a cold—I’ve had one ever since I struck this town. You ought to hear me when I’m going good.”
“You were going good enough for me. With a voice like yours you ought to be in grand opera.”
“I know—that’s what all my friends say. And it ain’t that I haven’t had the chance. But I love the theatre. Been on the stage since I was a teeny-weeny girl.”
“Only yesterday that must have been.”
“Say, boy—you’re good,” she told him. “You don’t happen to be scouting for the Metropolitan, do you?”
“No—I wish I were.” Eden paused. “Miss Fitzgerald, I’m an old pal of a friend of yours.”
“Which friend? I’ve got so many.”
“I’ll bet you have. I’m speaking of Jerry Delaney. You know Jerry?”
“Do I? I’ve known him for years.” She frowned suddenly. “Have you any news of Jerry?”
“No, I haven’t,” Eden answered. “That’s why I’ve come to you. I’m terribly anxious to locate him, and I thought maybe you could help.”
She was suddenly cautious. “Old pal of his, you say?”
“Sure. Used to work with him at Jack McGuire’s place on Forty-fourth Street.”
“Did you really?” The caution vanished. “Well, you know just as much about Jerry’s whereabouts as I do. Two weeks ago he wrote me from Chicago—I got it in Seattle. He was kind of mysterious. Said he hoped to see me out this way before long.”
“He didn’t tell you about the deal he had on?”
“What deal?”
“Well, if you don’t know—Jerry was about to pick up a nice little bit of change.”
“Is that so? I’m glad to hear it. Things ain’t been any too jake with Jerry since those old days at McGuire’s.”
“That’s true enough, I guess. By the way, did Jerry ever talk to you about the men he met at McGuire’s? The swells. You know, we used to get some pretty big trade there.”
“No, he never talked about it much. Why?”
“I was wondering whether he ever mentioned to you the name of P. J. Madden.”
She turned upon the boy a baby stare, wide-eyed and innocent. “Who’s P. J. Madden?” she inquired.
“Why, he’s one of the biggest financiers in the country. If you ever read the papers—”
“But I don’t. My work takes so much time. You’ve no idea the long hours I put in—”
“I can imagine it. But look here—the question is, where’s Jerry now? I may say I’m worried about him.”
“Worried? Why?”
“Oh—there’s risk in Jerry’s business, you know.”
“I don’t know anything of the sort. Why should there be?”
“We won’t go into that. The fact remains that Jerry Delaney arrived at Barstow a week ago last Wednesday morning, and shortly afterwards he disappeared off the face of the earth.”
A startled look came into the woman’s eyes. “You don’t think he’s had an—an accident?”
“I’m very much afraid he has. You know the sort Jerry was. Reckless—”
The woman was silent for a moment. “I know,” she nodded. “Such a temper. These redheaded Irishmen—”
“Precisely,” said Eden, a little too soon.
The green eyes of Miss Norma Fitzgerald narrowed. “Knew Jerry at McGuire’s, you say?”
“Of course.”
She stood up. “And since when has he had red hair?” Her friendly manner was gone. “I was thinking only last night—I saw a cop at the corner of Sixth and Hill—such a handsome boy. You certainly got fine-looking fellows on your force out here.”
“What are you talking about?” demanded Eden.
“Go peddle your papers,” advised Miss Fitzgerald. “If Jerry Delaney’s in trouble I don’t hold with
