The Chinese Parrot · Chapter 13 (2/2)

Puzzled and wondering, Chan and Will Holley found chairs. “I said this morning I wanted a little light,” Eden continued. “I’ve got it already⁠—how’s that for service? Aimless trip to Barstow, Charlie, proved to be all aim. Miss Wendell and I turned aside for a canter over the desert, and we have met and interviewed that little black-bearded one⁠—our desert rat.”

“Boy⁠—now you’re talking,” cried Holley.

Chan’s eyes lighted.

“Chinese are psychic people, Charlie,” Eden went on. “I’ll tell the world. You were right. Before we arrived at Madden’s ranch someone staged a little murder there. And I know who did it.”

“Thorn,” suggested Holley.

“Thorn nothing! No piker like Thorn. No, gentlemen, it was the big chief⁠—Madden himself⁠—the great P. J. Last Wednesday night at his ranch Madden killed a man. Add favourite pastimes of big millionaires.”

“Nonsense,” objected Holley.

“You think so, eh? Listen.” Eden repeated the story Cherry had told.

Chan and Holley heard him out in amazed silence.

“And what are present whereabouts of old prospector?” inquired Chan when he had finished.

“I know, Charlie,” answered Eden. “That’s the flaw in my armour. I let him go. He’s on his way⁠—over yonder. But I know where he’s going and we can get hold of him when we need him. We’ve got other matters to look after first.”

“We certainly have,” agreed Holley. “Madden! I can hardly believe it.”

Chan considered. “Most peculiar case ever shoved on my attention,” he admitted. “It marches now, but look how it marches backwards. Mostly murder means dead body on the rug, and from clues surrounding I must find who did it. Not so here. I sense something wrong; after long pause light breaks and I hear name of guilty man who killed. But who was killed? The reason, please? There is work to be done⁠—much work.”

“You don’t think,” suggested Eden, “that we ought to call in the sheriff⁠—”

“What then?” frowned Chan. “Captain Bliss arrives on extensive feet, committing blunder with every step. Sheriff faces strange situation, all unprepared. Madden awes them with greatness, and escapes Scotch-free. None of the sheriff, please⁠—unless maybe you lose faith in Detective-Sergeant Chan.”

“Never for a minute, Charlie,” Eden answered. “Wipe out that suggestion. The case is yours.”

Chan bowed. “You’re pretty good, thanks. Such a tipsy-turvy puzzle rouses professional pride. I will get to bottom of it or lose entire face. Be good enough to watch me.”

“I’ll be watching,” Eden answered. “Well, shall we go along?”

In front of the Desert Edge Hotel Bob Eden held out his hand to the girl. “The end of a perfect day,” he said. “Except for one thing.”

“Yes? What thing?”

“Wilbur. I’m beginning to find the thought of him intolerable.”

“Poor Jack. You’re so hard on him. Good night⁠—and⁠—”

“And what?”

“Be careful, won’t you? Out at the ranch I mean.”

“Always careful⁠—on ranches⁠—everywhere. Good night.”

As they sped over the dark road to Madden’s, Chan was thoughtfully silent. He and Eden parted in the yard. When the boy entered the patio he saw Madden sitting alone, wrapped in an overcoat, before a dying fire.

The millionaire leaped to his feet. “Hello,” he said. “Well?”

“Well?” replied Eden. He had completely forgotten his mission to Barstow.

“You saw Draycott?” Madden whispered.

“Oh!” The boy remembered with a start. More deception⁠—would it ever end? “Tomorrow at the door of the bank in Pasadena,” he said softly. “Noon sharp.”

“Good,” answered Madden. “I’ll be off before you’re up. Not turning in already?”

“I think I will,” responded Eden. “I’ve had a busy day.”

“Is that so?” said Madden carelessly, and strode into the living-room. Bob Eden stood staring after the big, broad shoulders, the huge frame of this powerful man. A man who seemed to have the world in his grasp, but who had killed because he was afraid.