“No got ’um town, boss. Jus’ outdoahs no place, laying sticks—”
“You mean you were laying ties for the railroad on the desert?”
“Yes, boss. You light now.”
Madden leaned back and put his thumbs in the armholes of his waistcoat. “Ah Kim—you’re a damned liar,” he said.
“Wha’s matter, boss?”
“I’ll show you what’s the matter. I don’t know what your game here has been, but it’s all over now.” Madden rose and stepped to the door. “Come in, sir,” he called, and Victor Jordan strode into the room. Chan’s eyes narrowed.
“Charlie, what is all this nonsense?” demanded Victor. “What are you doing in that melodramatic outfit?”
Chan did not answer. Madden laughed. “All over, as I told you, Charlie—if that’s your name. This is Mr. Jordan, one of the owners of those pearls you’re carrying in your money-belt.”
Chan shrugged. “Mr. Jordan juggles truth,” he replied, dropping his dialect with a sigh of relief. “He has no claim on pearls. They are property of his mother, to whom I give promise I would guard them with life.”
“See here, Charlie,” cried Victor angrily, “don’t tell me I lie. I’m sick and tired of this delay down here, and I’ve come with my mother’s authority to put an end to it. If you don’t believe me, read that.”
He handed over a brief note in Madame Jordan’s old-fashioned script. Chan read it. “One only answer,” he remarked. “I must release the pearls.” He glanced toward the clock, ticking busily by the patio window. “Though I am much preferring to wait Mr. Eden’s come back—”
“Never mind Eden,” said Victor. “Produce that necklace.”
Chan bowed and, turning, fumbled for a moment at his waist. The Phillimore necklace was in his hand.
Madden took it eagerly. “At last,” he said.
Gamble was staring over his shoulder. “Beautiful,” murmured the professor.
“One minute,” said Chan. “A receipt, if you will be so kind.”
Madden nodded, and sat at his desk. “I got one ready this afternoon. Just have to sign it.” He laid the pearls on the blotter, and took a typewritten sheet from the top drawer. Slowly he wrote his name. “Mr. Jordan,” he was saying, “I’m deeply grateful to you for coming down here and ending this. Now that it’s settled I’m leaving at once—” He offered the receipt to Chan.
A strange look had come into the usually impassive eyes of Charlie Chan. He reached out toward the sheet of paper offered him, then with the speed of a tiger he snatched for the pearls. Madden snatched too, but he was a little late. The necklace disappeared into Chan’s voluminous sleeve.
“What’s this?” bellowed Madden, on his feet. “Why, you crazy—”
“Hush,” said Chan. “I will retain the pearls.”
“You will, will you?” Madden whipped out a pistol. “We’ll see about that—”
There was a loud report and a flash of fire—but they did not come from Madden’s gun. They came from the silken sleeve of Charlie Chan. Madden’s weapon clattered to the floor, and there was blood on his hand.
“Do not stoop!” warned Chan, and his voice was suddenly high and shrill. “Postman has been on such long walk, but now at last he has reached journey’s end. Do not stoop, or I put bullet in somewhat valuable head!”
“Charlie—are you mad?” cried Victor.
“Not very,” smiled Chan. “Kindly favour me by backing away, Mr. Madden.” He picked up the pistol from the floor—Bill Hart’s present, it seemed to be. “Very nice gun, I use it now.” Swinging Madden round, he searched him, then placed a chair in the centre of the room. “Be seated here, if you will so far condescend—” he said.
“The hell I will,” cried Madden.
“Recline!” said Chan.
The great Madden looked at him a second, then dropped sullenly down upon the chair. “Mr. Gamble,” called Chan. He ran over the slim person of the professor. “You have left pretty little weapon in room. That is good. This will be your chair. And not to forget Mr. Thorn, also unarmed. Comfortable chair for you too.” He backed away, facing them. “Victor, I make humble suggestion that you add yourself to group. You are plenty foolish boy, always. I remember—in Honolulu—” His tone hardened. “Sit quickly, or I puncture you and lift big load from mother’s mind!”
He drew up a chair between them and the exhibition of guns on the wall. “I also will venture to recline,” he announced. He glanced at the clock. “Our wait may be a long one. Mr. Thorn, another suggestion occurs. Take handkerchief and bind up wounded hand of chief.”
Thorn produced a handkerchief and Madden held out his hand. “What the devil are we waiting for?” snarled the millionaire.
“We await come back of Mr. Bob Eden,” replied Chan. “I am having much to impart when he arrives.”
Thorn completed his act of mercy, and slunk back to his chair. The tall clock by the patio windows ticked on. With the patience characteristic of his race Chan sat staring at his odd assortment of captives. Fifteen minutes passed, a half-hour, the minute hand began its slow advance toward the hour of nine.
Victor Jordan shifted uneasily in his chair. Such disrespect to a man worth millions! “You’re clear out of your mind, Charlie,” he protested.
“Maybe,” admitted Chan. “We wait and see.”
Presently a car rattled into the yard. Chan nodded. “Long wait nearly over,” he announced. “Now Mr. Eden comes.”
His expression altered as a knock sounded on the door. It was pushed open, and a man strode brusquely in. A stocky, red-faced, determined man—Captain Bliss of the Homicide Squad. After him came another, a lean, wiry individual in a two-quart hat. They stood amazed at the scene before them.
Madden leaped to his feet. “Captain Bliss. By gad, I’m delighted to see you. You’re just in time.”
“What’s all this?” inquired the lean man.
“Mr. Madden,” said Bliss, “I’ve brought along Harley Cox, sheriff of the county. I guess you need us here.”
“We sure do,” replied Madden. “This Chinaman has gone crazy. Take that gun away from him and put him under arrest.”
The sheriff stepped up to Charlie
