“Exit the Delaney quartette,” he remarked. “I guess my stalling days at the ranch are ended. I’m taking the ten-thirty train to Barstow, and—”
“Better call up for a taxi,” she suggested.
“Not while you and the roadster are on the job. If you’ll wait while I pack—I want a word with you, anyhow. About Wilbur.”
“One happy thought runs through my mind,” Will Holley was saying. “I’m the author of a famous interview with you, Mr. Madden. One you never gave.”
“Really?” replied Madden. “Well, don’t worry. I’ll stand behind you.”
“Thanks,” answered the editor. “I wonder why they gave out that story,” he mused.
“Simple to guess,” said Chan. “They are wiring New York office money be sent, please. How better to establish fact Madden is at desert ranch than to blaze same forth in newspapers? Printed word has ring of convincing truth.”
“I imagine you’re right,” nodded Holley. “By the way, Charlie, we thought we’d have a big surprise for you when we got back from the mine. But you beat us to it, after all.”
“By a hair’s width,” replied Chan. “Now that I have leisure I bow my head and do considerable blushing. Must admit I was plenty slow to grasp apparent fact. Only tonight light shone. To please this Victor, I hand over pearls. Madden is signing receipt—he writes slow and painful. Suddenly I think—he does all things slow and painful with that right hand. Why? I recall Delaney’s vest, built for left-handed man. Inwardly, out of sight, I gasp. To make a test, I snatch at pearls. Madden, to call him that, snatches too. But guard is down—he snatches with left hand. He rips out pistol—left hand again. The fact is proved. I know.”
“Well, that was quick thinking,” Holley said.
Chan sadly shook his head. “Why not? Poor old brain must have been plenty rested. Not at work for many days. When I arrange these dishonest ones in chairs to wait for you, I have much time for bitter self-incriminations. Why have I experienced this stupid sinking spell? All time it was clear as desert morning. A man writes important letter, hides in blotter, goes away. Returning, he never touches same. Why? He did not return. Other easy clues—Madden, calling him so again, receives Doctor Whitcomb in dusk of patio. Why? She has seen him before. He talks with caretaker in Pasadena—when? Six o’clock, when dark has fallen. Also he fears to alight from car. Oh, as I sit here I give myself many resounding mental kicks. Why have I been so thick? I blame this climate of South California. Plenty quick I hurry back to Honolulu, where I belong.”
“You’re too hard on yourself,” said P. J. Madden. “If it hadn’t been for you, Mr. Eden tells me, the necklace would have been delivered long ago, and this crowd off to the Orient or somewhere else far away. I owe you a lot, and if mere thanks—”
“Stop thanking me,” urged Chan. “Thank Tony. If Tony didn’t speak that opening night, where would necklace be now? Poor Tony, buried at this moment in rear of barn.” He turned to Victor Jordan, who had been lurking modestly in the background. “Victor, before returning North, it is fitting that you place wreath of blossoms on grave of Tony, the Chinese parrot. Tony died, but he lived to splendid purpose. Before he passed he saved the Phillimore pearls.”
Victor nodded. “Anything you say, Charlie. I’ll leave a standing order with my florist. I wonder if someone will give me a lift back to town?”
“I’ll take you,” Holley said. “I want to get this thing on the wire. Charlie—shall I see you again—”
“Leaving on next train,” replied Chan. “I am calling at your office to collect more fitting clothes. Do not wait, however. Miss Wendell has kindly offered use of her car.”
“I’m waiting for Paula too,” Eden said. “I’ll see you at the station.” Holley and Victor said their goodbyes to Madden and his daughter, and departed. Bob Eden consulted his watch. “Well, the old home-week crowd is thinning out. Just one thing more, Charlie. When Mr. Madden here came in tonight you weren’t a bit surprised. Yet, recognizing Delaney, your first thought must have been that Madden had been killed.”
Chan laughed noiselessly. “I observe you have ignorance concerning detective customs. Surprised detective might as well put on iron collar and leap from dock. He is finished. Mr. Madden’s appearance staggering blow for me, but I am not letting rival policemen know it, thank you. It is apparent we keep Miss Wendell waiting. I have some property in cookhouse—just one moment.”
“The cookhouse,” cried P. J. Madden. “By the Lord Harry, I’m hungry. I haven’t had anything but canned food for days.”
An apprehensive look flitted over Chan’s face. “Such a pity,” he said. “Present cook on ranch has resumed former profession. Miss Wendell, I am with you in five seconds.” He went hastily out.
Evelyn Madden put her arm about her father. “Cheer up, Dad,” she advised. “I’ll drive you in town and we’ll stop at the hotel tonight. You must have a doctor look at your shoulder at once.” She turned to Bob Eden. “Of course, there’s a restaurant in Eldorado?”
“Of course,” smiled Eden. “It’s called the Oasis, but it isn’t. However, I can heartily recommend the steaks.”
P. J. Madden was on his feet, himself again. “All right, Evelyn. Call up the hotel and reserve a suite—five rooms—no, make it a floor. Tell the proprietor I want supper served in my sitting-room—two porterhouse steaks, and everything else they’ve got. Tell him to have the best doctor in town there when I arrive. Help me find the telegraph blanks. Put in five long-distance calls—no, that had better wait until we reach the hotel. Find out if there’s anybody in Eldorado who can take dictation. Call up the leading real-estate man and put this place on the market. I never want to see it again. And oh, yes—don’t let
