“I’ve been a little worried about Jerry,” the woman went on, “and it was great to know that he’s alive and well. I’m looking forward to seeing him soon. Now I must go on with my programme, because I’m due at the theatre in half an hour. I hope you good people will all come and see us, for we’ve certainly got a dandy little show, and—”
“Oh, shut the confounded thing off,” said Madden. “Advertising, nine-tenths of these radio programmes. Makes me sick.”
Norma Fitzgerald had burst into song, and Bob Eden shut the confounded thing off. A long look passed between him and Ah Kim. A voice had come to the desert, come over the bare brown hills and the dreary miles of sagebrush and sand—a voice that said Jerry Delaney was alive and well. Alive and well—and all their fine theories came crashing down.
The man Madden killed was not Jerry Delaney! Then whose was the voice calling for help that tragic night at the ranch? Who uttered the cry that was heard and echoed by Tony, the Chinese Parrot?
XX
Petticoat Mine
Ah Kim, carrying a heavy tray of dishes, left the room. Madden leaned back at ease in his chair, his eyes closed, and blew thick rings of smoke toward the ceiling. The professor and Thorn resumed their placid reading, one on each side of the lamp. A touching scene of domestic peace!
But Bob Eden did not share that peace. His heart was beating fast—his mind was dazed. He rose and slipped quietly outdoors. In the cookhouse Ah Kim was at the sink, busily washing dishes. To look at the impassive face of the Chinese no one would have guessed that this was not his regular employment.
“Charlie,” said Eden softly.
Chan hastily dried his hands and came to the door. “Humbly begging pardon, do not come in here.” He led the way to the shadows beside the barn. “What are trouble now?” he asked gently.
“Trouble!” said Eden. “You heard, didn’t you? We’ve been on the wrong track entirely. Jerry Delaney is alive and well.”
“Most interesting, to be sure,” admitted Chan.
“Interesting! Say—what are you made of, anyhow?” Chan’s calm was a bit disturbing. “Our theory blows up completely, and you—”
“Old habit of theories,” said Chan. “Not the first to shatter in my countenance. Pardon me if I fail to experience thrill like you.”
“But what shall we do now?”
“What should we do? We hand over pearls. You have made foolish promise, which I heartily rebuked. Nothing to do but carry out.”
“And go away without learning what happened here! I don’t see how I can—”
“What is to be, will be. The words of the infinitely wise Kong Fu Tse—”
“But listen, Charlie—have you thought of this? Perhaps nothing happened. Maybe we’ve been on a false trail from the start—”
A little car came tearing down the road, and they heard it stop with a wild shriek of the brakes before the ranch. They hurried round the house. The moon was low and the scene in semidarkness. A familiar figure alighted and, without pausing to open the gate, leaped over it. Eden ran forward.
“Hello, Holley,” he said.
Holley turned suddenly.
“Good Lord—you scared me. But you’re the man I’m looking for.” He was panting, obviously excited.
“What’s wrong?” Eden asked.
“I don’t know. But I’m worried. Paula Wendell—”
Eden’s heart sank. “What about Paula Wendell?”
“You haven’t heard from her—or seen her?”
“No, of course not.”
“Well, she never came back from the Petticoat Mine. It’s only a short run up there, and she left just after breakfast. She should have been back long ago. She promised to have dinner with me, and we were going to see the picture at the theatre tonight. It’s one she’s particularly interested in.”
Eden was moving toward the road. “Come along—in heaven’s name—hurry—”
Chan stepped forward. Something gleamed in his hand.
“My automatic,” he explained. “I rescued it from suitcase this morning. Take it with you—”
“I won’t need that,” said Eden. “Keep it. You may have use for it—”
“I humbly beg of you—”
“Thanks, Charlie. I don’t want it. All right, Holley—”
“The pearls,” suggested Chan.
“Oh, I’ll be back by eight. This is more important—”
As he climbed into the car by Holley’s side Eden saw the front door of the ranch-house open, and the huge figure of Madden framed in the doorway.
“Hey!” cried the millionaire.
“Hey yourself!” muttered Eden. The editor was backing his car, and with amazing speed he swung it round. They were off down the road, the throttle wide open.
“What could have happened?” Eden asked.
“I don’t know. It’s a dangerous place, that old mine. Shafts sunk all over—the mouths of some of them hidden by underbrush. Shafts several hundred feet deep—”
“Faster!” pleaded Eden.
“Going the limit now,” Holley replied. “Madden seemed interested in your departure, didn’t he? I take it you haven’t given him the pearls.”
“No. Something new broke tonight.” Eden told of the voice over the wireless. “Ever strike you that we may have been cuckoo from the start? No one even slightly damaged at the ranch, after all?”
“Quite possible,” the editor admitted.
“Well, that can wait. It’s Paula Wendell now.”
Another car was coming toward them with reckless speed. Holley swung out, and the two cars grazed in passing.
“Who was that?” wondered Eden.
“A taxi from the station,” Holley returned. “I think I recognized the driver. There was someone in the back seat.”
“I know,” said Eden. “Someone headed for Madden’s ranch perhaps.”
“Perhaps,” agreed Holley. He turned off the main road into the perilous, half-obliterated highway that led to the long-abandoned mine. “Have to go slower, I’m afraid,” he said.
“Oh, hit it up,” urged Eden. “You can’t hurt old Horace Greeley.” Holley again opened the throttle wide, and, the front wheel on the left coming at that moment in violent contact with a rock, their heads nearly pierced the top of the car.
“It’s all wrong, Holley,” remarked Eden with feeling.
“What’s all wrong?”
“A pretty, charming girl like Paula Wendell running about alone in this desert country. Why in heaven’s name
