“You’d better handcuff this newcomer to Delaney, Sheriff,” suggested Madden. “And then I’ll run over a little list of charges against the crowd that I think will hold them for a while.”
“Sure, Mr. Madden,” agreed the sheriff. As he stepped forward Chan halted him.
“Just one minute. You have string of pearls—”
“Oh, yes—that’s right,” replied the sheriff. He held out the Phillimore necklace. Chan took it and placed it in the hand of P. J. Madden.
“Fully aware you wanted it in New York,” he remarked, “but you will perform vast kindness to accept it here. I have carried it to outside limit of present endurance. Receipt at your convenience, thank you.”
Madden smiled. “All right, I’ll take it.” He put the necklace in his pocket. “You’re Mr. Chan, I imagine. Mr. Eden was telling me about you on the way down from the mine. I’m mighty glad you’ve been here.”
“Happy to serve,” bowed Chan.
The sheriff turned. “There you are, sir. The charge, I guess, is attempted theft—”
“And a lot of other things,” Madden added, “including assault with intent to kill.” He indicated his limp arm. “I’ll run over my story as quickly as I can—but I’ll do it sitting down.” He went to his desk. “I’m a little weak—I’ve been having a rough time of it. You know in a general way what has happened, but you don’t know the background, the history, of this affair. I’ll have to go back—back to a gambling-house on Forty-fourth Street, New York. Are you familiar with New York gamblers and their ways, Sheriff?”
“Been to New York just once,” said the sheriff. “Didn’t like it.”
“No, I don’t imagine you would,” replied Madden. He looked about. “Where are my cigars? Ah—here. Thanks, Delaney—you left me a couple, didn’t you? Well, Sheriff, in order that you may understand what’s been going on here, I must tell you about a favourite stunt of shady gamblers and confidence men in New York—a stunt that was flourishing there twelve or fifteen years ago. It was a well-known fact at the time that, in the richly furnished houses where they lay in wait for trusting out-of-town suckers, certain members of the ring were assigned to impersonate widely known millionaires, such as Frank Gould, Cornelius Vanderbilt, Mr. Astor—myself. The greatest care was exercised—photographs of these men were studied; wherever possible they themselves were closely observed in every feature of height, build, carriage, dress. The way they brushed their hair, the kind of glasses they wore, their peculiar mannerisms—no detail was too insignificant to escape attention. The intended dupe must be utterly taken in, so he might feel that he was among the best people, and that the game was honest.”
Madden paused a moment. “Of course, some of these impersonations were rather flimsy, but it was my bad luck that Mr. Delaney here, who had been an actor, was more or less of an artist. Starting with a rather superficial resemblance to me, he built up an impersonation that got better and better as time went on. I began to hear rumours that I was seen nightly at the gambling-house of one Jack McGuire, in Forty-fourth Street. I sent my secretary, Martin Thorn, to investigate. He reported that Delaney was making a good job of it—not, of course, so good that he could deceive anyone really close to me, but good enough to fool people who knew me only from photographs. I put my lawyer on the matter, and he came back and said that Delaney had agreed to desist, on threat of arrest.
“And I imagine he did drop it—in the gambling-houses. What happened afterward I can only conjecture, but I guess I can hit it pretty close. These two Maydorf boys, Shaky Phil and”—he nodded at Gamble—“his brother, who is known to the police as the Professor, were the brains of the particular gang at McGuire’s. They must long ago have conceived the plan of having Delaney impersonate me somewhere, some time. They could do nothing without the aid of my secretary, Thorn, but they evidently found him willing. Finally they hit on the desert as the proper locale for the enterprise. It was an excellent selection. I come here rarely; meet few people when I do come. Once they could get me here alone, without my family, it was a simple matter. All they had to do was to put me out of the way, and then P. J. Madden appears with his secretary, who is better known locally than he is—no one is going to dream of questioning his identity, particularly as he looks just like his pictures.”
Madden puffed thoughtfully on his cigar. “I’ve been expecting some such move for years. I feared no man in the world—except Delaney. The possibilities of the harm he might do me were enormous. Once I saw him in a restaurant, studying me. Well—they had a long wait, but their kind is patient. Two weeks ago I came here with Thorn, and the minute I got here I sensed there was something in the air. A week ago last Wednesday night I was sitting here writing a letter to my daughter Evelyn—it’s probably still between the leaves of this blotter where I put it when I heard Thorn cry out sharply from his bedroom. ‘Come quick, chief,’ he called. He was typing letters for me, and I couldn’t imagine what had happened. I rose and went to his room—and there he was, with an old gun of mine—a gun Bill Hart had given me—in his fist. ‘Put up your hands,’ he said. Someone entered from the patio. It was Delaney.
“ ’Now don’t get excited, chief,’ said Thorn, and I saw the little rat was in on the game. ‘We’re going to take you for a ride to a place where you can
