The Chinese Parrot · Chapter 16 (2/2)

The script was a story of old California, and presently they were grinding away at a big scene in the patio.

“No, no, no,” wailed the director. “What ails you this morning, Rannie? You’re saying goodbye to the girl⁠—you love her⁠—love her⁠—love her. You’ll probably never see her again.”

“The hell I won’t,” replied the actor. “Then the thing’s a flop right now.”

“You know what I mean⁠—you think you’ll never see her again. Her father has just kicked you out of the house forever. A bit of a critic, the father. But come on⁠—this is the big farewell. Your heart is broken. Broken, my boy⁠—what are you grinning about?”

“Come on, Diane,” said the actor. “I’m never going to see you again, and I’m supposed to be sorry about it. Ye gods, the things these scriptwriters imagine. However, here goes. My art’s equal to anything.”

Eden strolled over to where the white-haired patriarch and Eddie Boston were sitting together on a pile of lumber beside the barn. Near at hand Ah Kim hovered, all eyes for these queer antics of the white men.

Boston leaned back and lighted a pipe. “Speaking of Madden,” he remarked, “makes me think of Jerry Delaney. Ever know Jerry, Pop?”

Startled, Eden moved nearer. The old man put his hand behind his ear.

“Who’s that?” he inquired.

“Delaney,” shouted Boston. Chan also edged closer. “Jerry Delaney. There was one smooth worker in his line, Pop. I hope I get a chance⁠—I’m going to ask Madden if he remembers⁠—”

A loud outcry for Mr. Boston arose in the patio, and he laid down his pipe and fled. Chan and Bob Eden looked at each other.

The company worked steadily until the lunch hour arrived. Then, scattered about the yard and the patio, they busied themselves with the generous sandwiches of the Oasis and with coffee served from thermos bottles. Suddenly Madden appeared in the doorway of the living-room. He was in a genial mood.

“Just a word of welcome,” he said. “Make yourselves at home.” He shook hands with the director and, moving about, spoke a few moments with each member of the company in turn. The girl named Diane held his attention for some time.

Presently he came to Eddie Boston. Casually Eden managed it so that he was nearby during that interview.

“Boston’s the name,” said the actor. His hard face lighted. “I was hoping to meet you, Mr. Madden. I wanted to ask if you remember an old friend of mine⁠—Jerry Delaney, of New York?”

Madden’s eyes narrowed, but the poker face triumphed.

“Delaney?” he repeated vacantly.

“Yes⁠—Jerry Delaney, who used to hang out at Jack McGuire’s place on Forty-fourth Street,” Boston persisted. “You know, he⁠—”

“I don’t recall him,” said Madden. He was moving away. “I meet so many people.”

“Maybe you don’t want to recall him,” said Boston, and there was an odd note in his voice. “I can’t say I blame you either, sir. No, I guess you wouldn’t care much for Delaney. It was a crime what he did to you⁠—”

Madden looked anxiously about. “What do you know about Delaney?” he asked in a low tone.

“I know a lot about him,” Boston replied. He came close, and Bob Eden could barely distinguish the words. “I know all about Delaney, Mr. Madden.”

For a moment they stood staring at each other.

“Come inside, Mr. Boston,” Madden suggested, and Eden watched them disappear through the door into the living-room.

Ah Kim came into the patio with a tray on which were cigars and cigarettes, the offering of the host. As he paused before the director, that gentleman looked at him keenly. “By gad, here’s a type,” he cried. “Say, John⁠—how’d you like to act in the pictures?”

“You clazy, boss,” grinned Ah Kim.

“No, I’m not. We could use you in Hollywood.”

“Him lookee like you make ’um big joke.”

“Nothing of the kind. You think it over. Here.” He wrote on a card. “You change your mind, you come and see me. Savvy?”

“Maybe nuddah day, boss. Plenty happly heah now.” He moved along with his tray.

Bob Eden sat down beside Paula Wendell. He was, for all his outward calm, in a very perturbed state of mind.

“Look here,” he began, “something has happened, and you can help us again.” He explained about Jerry Delaney, and repeated the conversation he had just overheard between Madden and Eddie Boston. The girl’s eyes were wide. “It wouldn’t do for Chan or me to make any inquiries,” he added. “What sort of fellow is this Boston?”

“Rather unpleasant person,” she said. “I’ve never liked him.”

“Well, suppose you ask him a few questions, the first chance you have. I presume that won’t come until you get back to town. Find out all he knows about Jerry Delaney, but do it in a way that won’t rouse his suspicions, if you can.”

“I’ll certainly try,” she answered. “I’m not very clever⁠—”

“Who says you’re not? You’re mighty clever⁠—and kind too. Call me up as soon as you’ve talked with him, and I’ll hurry in town.”

The director was on his feet. “Come on⁠—let’s get this thing finished. Is everybody here? Eddie! Where’s Eddie?”

Mr. Boston emerged from the living-room, his face a mask, telling nothing. Not going to be an easy matter, Bob Eden reflected, to pump Eddie Boston.

An hour later the movies vanished down the road in a cloud of dust, with Paula Wendell’s roadster trailing. Bob Eden sought out Charlie Chan. In the seclusion behind the cookhouse, he again went over Boston’s surprising remarks to Madden. The detective’s little black eyes shone.

“We march again,” he said. “Eddie Boston becomes with sudden flash our one best wager. He must be made to talk. But how?”

“Paula Wendell’s going to have a try at it,” Eden replied.

Chan nodded. “Fine idea, I think. In presence of pretty girl what man keeps silent? We pin our eager hopes on that.”