"And that's all?" Eden inquired.
"That's my story, and I'll stick to it," replied Mr. DeLisle.
"I'm very much obliged," Eden said. "Of course, this is all between ourselves. And I may add that if I ever do decide to buy a lot on the desert --"
"You'll consider my stuff, won't you?"
"I certainly will. Just at present, the desert doesn't look very good to me."
Mr. DeLisle leaned close. "Whisper it not in Eldorado," he said. "I sometimes wish I was back in good old Chi myself. If I ever hit the Loop again, I'm going to nail myself down there."
"If you'll wait outside a few minutes, DeLisle --" Holley began.
"I get you. I'll just mosey down to the development and see if the fountain's working. You can pick me up there."
The young man went out. Chan came quickly from behind a near-by door.
"Get all that Charlie?" Eden inquired.
"Yes, indeed. Most interesting."
"We move right on," said Holley. "Jerry Delaney came out to the ranch about seven o'clock Wednesday night, and he didn't come alone. For the first time a fourth man enters the picture. Who? Sounded to me very much like Professor Gamble."
"No doubt about that," replied Eden. "He's an old friend of the prophet Isaiah's -- he admitted it here Monday after lunch."
"Fine," commented Holley. "We begin to place Mr. Gamble. Here's another thing -- some one drove up to the doctor's Sunday night and carried Shaky Phil away. Couldn't that have been Gamble, too? What do you say, Charlie?"
Chan nodded. "Possible. That person knew of Louie's return. If we could only discover --"
"By George," Eden, cried. "Gamble was at the desk of the Oasis when Louie came in. You remember, Holley?"
The editor smiled. "All fits in very neatly. Gamble sped out here like some sinister version of Paul Revere with the news of Louie's arrival. He and Shaky Phil were at the gate when you drove up."
"But Thorn. That tear in Thorn's coat?"
"We must have been on the wrong trail there. This new theory sounds too good. What else have we learned from DeLisle? After the misadventure with Delaney, Madden and Thorn were out all night. Where?"
Chan sighed. "Not such good news, that. Body of Delaney was carried far from this spot."
"I'm afraid it was," admitted Holley. "We'll never find it without help from somebody who knows. There are a hundred lonely canyons round here where poor Delaney could have been tossed aside and nobody any the wiser. We'll have to go ahead and perfect our case without the vital bit of evidence -- the body of Delaney. But there are a lot of people in on this, and before we get through, somebody is going to squeal."
Chan was sitting at Madden's desk, idly toying with the big blotting pad that lay on top. Suddenly his eyes lighted, and he began to separate the sheets of blotting paper.
"What is this?" he said.
They looked, and saw in the detective's pudgy hand a large sheet of paper, partly filled with writing. Chan perused the missive carefully, and handed it to Eden. The letter was written in a man's strong hand. "It's dated last Wednesday night," Eden remarked to Holley. He read:
"DEAR EVELYN:
"I want you to know of certain developments here at the ranch. As I've told you before, Martin Thorn and I have been on very bad terms for the past year. This afternoon the big blow-off finally arrived, and I dismissed him from my service. Tomorrow morning I'm going with him to Pasadena, and when we get there, we part for all time. Of course he knows a lot of things I wish he didn't -- otherwise I'd have scrapped him a year ago. He may make trouble, and I am warning you in case he shows up in Denver. I'm going to take this letter in town myself and mail it tonight, as I don't want Thorn to know anything about it --"
The letter stopped abruptly at that point.
"Better and better," said Holley. "Another sidelight on what happened here last Wednesday night. We can picture the scene for ourselves. Madden is sitting at his desk, writing that letter to his daughter. The door opens -- some one comes in. Say it's Delaney -- Delaney, the man P.J.'s feared for years. Madden hastily slips the letter between the leaves of the blotter. He gets to his feet, knowing that he's in for it now. A quarrel ensues, and by the time it's over, they've got into Thorn's room somehow and Delaney is dead on the floor. Then -- the problem of what to do with the body, not solved until morning. Madden comes back to the ranch tired and worn, realizing that he can't dismiss Thorn now. He must make his peace with the secretary. Thorn knows too much. How about it, Charlie?"
"It has plenty logic," Chan admitted.
"I said this morning I had some ideas on this affair out here," the editor continued, "and everything that has happened today has tended to confirm them. I'm ready to spring my theory now -- that is, if you care to listen."
"Shoot," said Eden.
"To me, it's all as clear as a desert sunrise," Holley went on. "Just let me go over it for you. Reconstruct it, as the French do. To begin with, Madden is afraid of Delaney. Why? Why is a rich man afraid of anybody? Blackmail, of course. Delaney has something on him -- maybe something that dates back to that gambling house in New York. Thorn can't be depended on -- they've been rowing and he hates his employer. Perhaps he has even gone so far as to link up with Delaney and his friends. Madden buys the pearls, and the gang hears of it and decides to spring. What better place than way out here on the desert? Shaky Phil goes to San Francisco; Delaney and the professor come south. Louie, the faithful old retainer, is lured away by Shaky Phil. The stage is set. Delaney arrives with his threat. He demands the pearls, money, both. An argument follows, and in the end Delaney, the blackmailer, is killed by Madden. Am I right so far?"
"Sounds plausible," Eden admitted.
"Well, imagine what followed. When Madden killed Delaney, he probably thought Jerry had come alone. Now he discovers there are others in the gang. They have not only the information with which Delaney was threatening him, but they have something else on him too. Murder! The pack is on him -- he must buy them off. They clamor for money -- and the pearls. They force Madden to call up and order the Phillimore necklace sent down here at once. When did he do that, Eden?"
"Last Thursday morning," Eden replied.
"See -- what did I tell you? Last Thursday morning, when he got back from his grisly midnight trip. They were on him then -- they were blackmailing him to the limit. That's the answer to our puzzle. They're blackmailing him now. At first Madden was just as eager as they were for the necklace -- he wanted to settle the thing and get away. It isn't pleasant to linger round the spot where you've done murder. The past few days his courage has begun to return, he's temporizing, seeking a way out. I'm a little sorry for him, I really am." Holley paused. "Well, that's my idea. What do you think, Charlie? Am I right?"
Chan sat turning Madden's unfinished letter slowly in his hand.
"Sounds good," admitted the detective. "However, here and there objections arise."
"For example?" Holley demanded.
"Madden is big man. Delaney and these others, nobody much. He could announce he killed blackmailer in self-defense."
"So he could -- if Thorn were friendly and would back him up. But the secretary is hostile and might threaten to tell a different story. Besides, remember it isn't only the killing of Delaney they have against him. There's the information Delaney has been holding over his head."
Chan nodded. "So very true. One other fact, and then I cease my brutal faultfinding. Louie, long in confidence of Chinese parrot, is killed. Yet Louie depart for San Francisco on Wednesday morning, twelve hours before tragic night. Is not his murder then a useless gesturing?"
Holley considered. "Well, that is a point. But he was Madden's friend, which was a pretty good reason for not wanting him here. They preferred their victim alone and helpless. A rather weak explanation, perhaps. Otherwise I'm strong for my theory. You're not so keen on it."
Chan shook his head. "For one reason only. Long experience has taught fatal consequence may follow if I ge
t too addicted to a theory. Then I try and see, can I make everything fit. I can, and first thing I know theory explodes in my countenance with loud bang. Much better I have found to keep mind free and open."
"Then you haven't any idea on all this to set up against mine?" Holley asked.
"No solitary one. Frankly speaking, I am completely in the dark." He glanced at the letter in his hand. "Or nearly so," he added. "We watch and wait, and maybe I clutch something soon."
"That's all right," said Eden, "but I have a feeling we don't watch and wait much longer at Madden's ranch. Remember, I promised that Draycott would meet him today in Pasadena. He'll be back soon, asking how come?"
"Unfortunate incident," shrugged Chan. "Draycott and he have failed to connect. Many times that has happened when two strangers make appointment. It can happen again."
Eden sighed. "I suppose so. But I hope P.J. Madden's feeling good-natured when he comes home from Pasadena tonight. There's a chance that he's toting Bill Hart's gun again, and I don't like the idea of lying behind a bed with nothing showing but my shoes. I haven't had a shine for a week."
CHAPTER XVI
"The Movies Are In Town"
THE SUN set behind far peaks of snow; the desert purpled under a sprinkling of stars. In the thermometer that hung on a patio wall the mercury began its quick relentless fall, a sharp wind swept over the desolate waste, and loneliness settled on the world.
"Warm food needed now," remarked Chan. "With your permission I will open numerous cans."
"Anything but the arsenic," Eden told him. He departed for the cookhouse.
Holley had long since gone, and Bob Eden sat alone by the window, looking out at a vast silence. Lots of room left in America yet, he reflected. Did they think that, those throngs of people packed into subways at this hour, seeking tables in noisy restaurants, waiting at jammed corners for the traffic signal, climbing weary and worn at last to the pigeon-holes they called home? Elbow room on the desert; room to expand the chest. But a feeling of disquiet, too, a haunting realization of one man's ridiculous unimportance in the scheme of things.
Chan entered with a tray on which the dishes were piled high. He set down on the table two steaming plates of soup.
"Deign to join me," he suggested. "First course is now served with the kind assistance of the can-opener."
"Aged in the tin, eh, Charlie?" smiled Eden, drawing up. "Well, I'll bet it's good, at that. You're a bit of a magician in the kitchen." They began to eat. "Charlie, I've been thinking," the boy continued. "I know now why I have this sense of unrest on the desert. It's because I feel so blamed small. Look at me, and then look out the window, and tell me where I get off to strut like a somebody through the world."
"Not bad feeling for the white man to experience," Chan assured him. "Chinese has it all time. Chinese knows he is one minute grain of sand on seashore of eternity. With what result? He is calm and quiet and humble. No nerves, like hopping, skipping Caucasian. Life for him not so much ordeal."
"Yes, and he's happier, too," said Eden.
"Sure," replied Chan. He produced a platter of canned salmon. "All time in San Francisco I behold white men hot and excited. Life like a fever, always getting worse. What for? Where does it end? Same place as Chinese life, I think."
When they had finished Eden attempted to help with the dishes, but was politely restrained. He sat down and turned on the radio. The strong voice of a leather-lunged announcer rang out in the quiet room.
"Now, folks, we got a real treat for you this balmy, typical California evening. Miss Norma Fitzgerald, of the One Night in June company now playing at the Mason, is going to sing -- er -- what are you going to sing, Norma? Norma says wait and find out."
At mention of the girl's name, Bob Eden called to the detective, who entered and stood expectantly. "Hello, folks," came Miss Fitzgerald's greeting. "I certainly am glad to be back in good old L.A."
"Hello, Norma," Eden said, "never mind the songs. Two gentlemen out on the desert would like a word with you. Tell us about Jerry Delaney."
She couldn't have heard him, for she began to sing in a clear, beautiful soprano voice. Chan and the boy listened in silence.
"More of the white man's mysteries," Charlie remarked when she had finished. "So near to her, and yet so far away. Seems to me that we must visit this lady soon."
"Ah yes -- but how?" inquired Eden.
"It will be arranged," Chan said, and vanished.
Eden tried a book. An hour later he was interrupted by the peal of the telephone bell, and a cheery voice answered his hello.
"Still pining for the bright lights?"
"I sure am," he replied.
"Well, the movies are in town," said Paula Wendell. "Come on in."
He hurried to his room. Chan had built a fire in the patio, and was sitting before it, the warm light flickering on his chubby impassive face. When Eden returned with his hat, he paused beside the detective.
"Getting some new ideas?" he asked.
"About our puzzle?" Chan shook his head. "No. At this moment I am far from Madden's ranch. I am in Honolulu where nights are soft and sweet, not like chilly desert dark. Must admit my heart is weighed a little with homesick qualms. I picture my humble house on Punchbowl Hill, where lanterns glow and my ten children are gathered round."
"Ten!" cried Eden. "Great Scott -- you are a father."
"Very proud one," assented Chan. "You are going from here?"
"I'm running in town for a while. Miss Wendell called up -- it seems the picture people have arrived. By the way, I just remembered -- tomorrow is the day Madden promised they could come out here. I bet the old man's clean forgot it."
"Most likely. Better not to tell him, he might refuse permission. I have unlimited yearning to see movies in throes of being born. Should I go home and report that experience to my eldest daughter, who is all time sunk in movie magazines, ancestor worship breaks out plenty strong at my house."
Eden laughed. "Well then, let's hope you get the chance. I'll be back early."
A few minutes later he was again in the flivver, under the platinum stars. He thought fleetingly of Louie Wong, buried now in the bleak little graveyard back of Eldorado, but his mind turned quickly to happier things. With a lively feeling of anticipation he climbed between the twin hills at the gateway, and the yellow lights of the desert town were winking at him.
The moment he crossed the threshold of the Desert Edge Hotel, he knew this was no ordinary night in Eldorado. From the parlor at the left came the strains of giddy, inharmonious music, laughter, and a medley of voices. Paula Wendell met him and led him in.
The stuffy little room, dated by heavy mission furniture and bits of broken plaster hanging crazily from the ceiling, was renewing its youth in pleasant company. Bob Eden met the movies in their hours of ease, childlike, happy people, seemingly without a care in the world. A very pretty girl gave him a hand which recalled his father's jewelry shop, and then restored it to the ukulele she was playing. A tall young man designated as Rannie, whose clothes were perfection and whose collar and shirt shamed the blue of California's sky, desisted briefly from his torture of a saxophone.
"Hello, old-timer," he remarked. "I hope you brought your harp." And instantly ran amuck on the saxophone again.
A middle-aged actor with a bronzed, rather hard face was officiating at the piano. In a far corner a grand dame and an old man with snow-white hair sat apart from the crowd, and Eden dropped down beside them.
"What was the name?" asked the old man, his hand behind his ear. "Ah, yes, I'm glad to meet any friend of Paula's. We're a little clamorous here tonight, Mr. Eden. It's like the early days when I was trouping -- how we used to skylark on station platforms! We were happy then -- no movies. Eh, my dear?" he added to the woman.
She bent a bit. "Yes -- but I never trouped much. Thank heaven I was usually able to steer clear of those terrible towns where Main Street is upstairs. Mr. Belasco rarely asked me to leave New York." She turned
to Eden. "I was in Belasco companies fifteen years," she explained.
"Wonderful experience, no doubt," the boy replied.
"Greatest school in the world," she said. "Mr. Belasco thought very highly of my work. I remember once at a dress rehearsal he told me he could never have put on the piece without me, and he gave me a big red apple. You know that was Mr. Belasco's way of --"
The Chinese Parrot Page 20
