Earl Derr Biggers: Complete 11 Novels in One Volume (Illustrated Edition) - Earl Derr Biggers

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going to ask a few questions, Mr. Fogg," Eden began. "They may seem odd—you can answer them or not, as you prefer. In the first place, Mr. Madden was in Pasadena last Wednesday?"

      "Why yes—of course he was."

      "You saw him then?"

      "For a few minutes—yes. He drove up to the door in that Requa car he uses out here. That was about six o'clock. I talked with him for a while, but he didn't get out of the car."

      "What did he say?"

      "Just asked me if everything was all right, and added that he might be back shortly for a brief stay here—with his daughter."

      "With his daughter, eh?"

      "Yes."

      "Did you make any inquiries about the daughter?"

      "Why, yes—the usual polite hope that she was well. He said she was quite well, and anxious to get here."

      "Was Madden alone in the car?"

      "No. Thorn was with him—as always. And another man whom I had never seen before."

      "They didn't go into the house?"

      "No. I had the feeling Mr. Madden intended to, but changed his mind."

      Bob Eden looked at Charlie Chan, "Mr. Fogg—did you notice anything about Madden's manner? Was he just as always?"

      Fogg's brow wrinkled. "Well, I got to thinking about it after he left. He did act extremely nervous and sort of—er—harassed."

      "I'm going to tell you something, Mr. Fogg, and I rely entirely on your discretion. You know that if we weren't all right, Will Holley would not have sent us. Mr. Madden is nervous—he is harassed. We have every reason to believe that he is the victim of a gang of blackmailers. Mr. Chan—" Chan opened his coat for a brief second, and the celebrated California sun flashed on a silver badge.

      Peter Fogg nodded. "I'm not surprised," he said seriously. "But I'm sorry to hear it, just the same. I've always liked Madden. Not many people do—but he has certainly been a friend to me. As you may imagine, this work I'm doing here is hardly in my line. I was a lawyer back east. Then my health broke, and I had to come out here. It was a case of taking anything I could get. Yes sir, Madden has been kind to me, and I'll help you any way I can."

      "You say you're not surprised. Have you any reason for that statement?"

      "No particular reason—but a man as famous as Madden—and as rich—well, it seems to me inevitable."

      For the first time Charlie Chan spoke. "One more question, sir. Is it possible you have idea why Mr. Madden should fear a certain man. A man named—Jerry Delaney."

      Fogg looked at him quickly, but did not speak.

      "Jerry Delaney," repeated Bob Eden. "You've heard that name, Mr. Fogg?"

      "I can tell you this," answered Fogg. "The chief is rather friendly at times. Some years ago he had this house gone over and a complete set of burglar-alarms installed. I met him in the hall while the men were busy at the windows. 'I guess that'll give us plenty of notice if anybody tries to break in,' he said. 'I imagine a big man like you has plenty of enemies, Chief,' said I. He looked at me kind of funny. 'There's only one man in the world I'm afraid of, Fogg,' he answered. 'Just one.' I got sort of nervy. 'Who's that, Chief?' I asked. 'His name is Jerry Delaney,' he said. 'Remember that, if anything happens.' I told him I would. He was moving off. 'And why are you afraid of this Delaney, Chief?' I asked him. It was a cheeky thing to say, and he didn't answer at first."

      "But he did answer?" suggested Bob Eden.

      "Yes. He looked at me for a minute, and he said: 'Jerry Delaney follows one of the queer professions, Fogg. And he's too damn good at it.' Then he walked away into the library, and I knew better than to ask him anything more."

      Chapter XVIII. The Barstow Train

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      A few moments later they left Peter Fogg standing on the neatly manicured lawn beside P.J. Madden's empty palace. In silence they rode down the avenue, then turned toward the more lively business district.

      "Well, what did we get out of that?" Bob Eden wanted to know. "Not much, if you ask me."

      Chan shrugged. "Trifles, mostly. But trifles sometimes blossom big. Detective business consist of one unsignificant detail placed beside other of the same. Then with sudden dazzle, light begins to dawn."

      "Bring on your dazzle," said Eden. "We've learned that Madden visited his house here on Wednesday, but did not go inside. When questioned about his daughter, he replied that she was well and would be along soon. What else? A thing we knew before—that Madden was afraid of Delaney."

      "Also that Delaney followed queer profession."

      "What profession? Be more explicit."

      Chan frowned. "If only I could boast expert knowledge of mainland ways. How about you? Please do a little speculating."

      Eden shook his head. "Promised my father I'd never speculate. Just as well, too, for in this case I'd get nowhere. My brain—if you'll pardon the mention of one more insignificant detail—is numb. Too many puzzles make Jack a dull boy."

      The taxi landed them at the station whence hourly buses ran to Hollywood, and they were just in time to connect with the twelve o'clock run. Back up the hill and over the bridge spanning the Arroyo they sped. A cheery world lay about them, tiny stucco bungalows tinted pink or green, or gleaming white, innumerable service stations. In time they came to the outskirts of the film city, where gaily colored mansions perched tipsily on miniature hills. Then down a long street that seemed to stretch off into eternity, into the maelstrom of Hollywood's business district.

      Expensive cars honked deliriously about the corner where they alighted, and on the sidewalk milled a busy throng, most of them living examples of what the well-dressed man or woman will wear if not carefully watched. They crossed the street.

      "Watch your step, Charlie," Eden advised. "You're in the auto salesman's paradise." He gazed curiously about him. "The most picturesque factory town in the world. Everything is here except the smoking chimneys."

      Paula Wendell was waiting for them in the reception-room of the studio with which she was connected. "Come along," she said. "I'll take you to lunch at the cafeteria, and then perhaps you'd like to look around a bit."

      Chan's eyes sparkled as she led them across the lot and down a street lined with the false fronts of imaginary dwellings. "My oldest girl would exchange the favor of the gods to be on this spot with me," he remarked. "I shall have much to relate when I return to Punchbowl Hill."

      They lunched among the film players, grotesque in make-up and odd costumes. "No postman before," said Chan, over his chicken pie, "ever encountered such interesting walk on his holiday. Pardon, please, if I eat with unashamed enjoyment and too much gusto. New experience for me to encounter food I have not perspired over myself in person."

      "They're taking a picture on Stage Twelve," the girl explained when lunch was finished. "It's against the rules, but if you're not too boisterous I can get you in for a look."

      They passed out of the dazzling sunshine into the dim interior of a great building that looked like a warehouse. Another moment, and they reached the set, built to represent a smart foreign restaurant. Rich hangings were in the background, beautiful carpets on the floor. Along the walls were many tables with pink-shaded lights, and a resplendent head-waiter stood haughtily at the entrance.

      The sequence being shot at the moment involved, evidently, the use of many extras, and a huge crowd stood about, waiting patiently. The faces of most of them were vital and alive, unforgettable. Here were people who had known life—and not too much happiness—in many odd corners of the world. Nearly all the men were in uniform—a war picture, no doubt. Bob Eden heard snatches of French, German, Spanish; he

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