LITMIR.BIZ

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laughed. "That's all right. You can cut in with Mr. Eden's message, and then go back."

      Frowning, Eden considered the wording of his rather difficult telegram. How to let his father know the situation without revealing it to the world? Finally he wrote:

      BUYER HERE, BUT CERTAIN CONDITIONS MAKE IT ADVISABLE WE TREAT HIM TO A LITTLE HOO MALIMALI. MRS. JORDAN WILL TRANSLATE. WHEN I TALK WITH YOU OVER TELEPHONE PROMISE TO SEND VALUABLE PACKAGE AT ONCE THEN FORGET IT. ANY CONFIDENTIAL MESSAGE FOR ME CARE WILL HOLLEY, ELDORADO TIMES. THEY HAVE NICE DESERT DOWN HERE BUT TOO FULL OF MYSTERY FOR FRANK AND OPEN YOUNG BUSINESS MAN LIKE YOUR LOVING SON. BOB.

      He turned the yellow slip over to the worried telegrapher, with instructions to send it to his father's office, and in duplicate to his house. "How much?" he asked.

      After some fumbling with a book, the agent named a sum, which Eden paid. He added a tip, upsetting the boy still further.

      "Say, this is some day here," announced the telegrapher. "Always wanted a little excitement in my life, but now it's come I guess I ain't ready for it. Yes, sir—I'll send it twice—I know—I get you—"

      Holley gave the boy a few directions about the Madden interview, and returned with Bob Eden to Main Street.

      "Let's drop over to the office," the editor said. "Nobody there now, and I'm keen to know what's doing out at Madden's."

      In the bare little home of the Eldorado Times, Eden took a chair that was already partly filled with exchanges, close to the editor's desk. Holley removed his hat and replaced it with an eye-shade. He dropped down beside his typewriter.

      "My friend in New York grabbed at that story," he said. "It was good of Madden to let me have it. I understand they're going to allow me to sign it, too—the name of Will Holley back in the big papers again. But look here—I was surprised by what you hinted out at the ranch this morning. It seemed to me last night that everything was O.K. You didn't say whether you had that necklace with you or not, but I gathered you had—"

      "I haven't," cut in Eden.

      "Oh—it's still in San Francisco?"

      "No. My confederate has it."

      "Your what?"

      "Holley, I know that if Harry Fladgate says you're all right, you are. So I'm going the whole way in the matter of trusting you."

      "That's flattering—but suit yourself."

      "Something tells me we'll need your help," Eden remarked. With a glance round the deserted office, he explained the real identity of the servant, Ah Kim.

      Holley grinned. "Well, that's amusing, isn't it? But go on. I get the impression that although you arrived at the ranch last night to find Madden there and everything, on the surface, serene, such was not the case. What happened?"

      "First of all, Charlie thought something was wrong. He sensed it. You know the Chinese are a very psychic race."

      Holley laughed. "Is that so? Surely you didn't fall for that guff. Oh, pardon me—I presume you had some better reason for delay?"

      "I'll admit it sounded like guff to me—at the start. I laughed at Chan and prepared to hand over the pearls at once. Suddenly out of the night came the weirdest cry for help I ever expect to hear."

      "What! Really? From whom?"

      "From your friend, the Chinese parrot. From Tony."

      "Oh—of course," said Holley. "I'd forgotten him. Well, that probably meant nothing."

      "But a parrot doesn't invent," Eden reminded him. "It merely repeats. I may have acted like a fool, but I hesitated to produce those pearls." He went on to tell how, in the morning, he had agreed to wait until two o'clock while Chan had further talk with Tony, and ended with the death of the bird just after lunch. "And there the matter rests," he finished.

      "Are you asking my advice?" said Holley. "I hope you are, because I've simply got to give it to you."

      "Shoot," Eden replied.

      Holley smiled at him in a fatherly way. "Don't think for a moment I wouldn't like to believe there's some big melodrama afoot at Madden's ranch. Heaven knows little enough happens round here, and a thing like that would be manna from above. But as I look at it, my boy, you've let a jumpy Chinese lead you astray into a bad case of nerves."

      "Charlie's absolutely sincere," protested Eden.

      "No doubt of that," agreed Holley. "But he's an Oriental, and a detective, and he's simply got to detect. There's nothing wrong at Madden's ranch. True, Tony lets out weird cries in the night—but he always has."

      "You've heard him, then?"

      "Well, I never heard him say anything about help and murder, but when he first came I was living out at Doctor Whitcomb's, and I used to hang round the Madden ranch a good deal. Tony had some strange words in his small head. He'd spent his days amid violence and crime. It's nothing to wonder at that he screamed as he did last night. The setting on the desert, the dark, Charlie's psychic talk—all that combined to make a mountain out of a molehill, in your eyes."

      "And Tony's sudden death this noon?"

      "Just as Madden said. Tony was as old as the hills—even a parrot doesn't live forever. A coincidence, yes—but I'm afraid your father won't be pleased with you, my boy. First thing you know P.J. Madden, who is hot and impetuous, will kick you out and call the transaction off. And I can see you back home explaining that you didn't close the deal because a parrot on the place dropped dead. My boy, my boy—I trust your father is a gentle soul. Otherwise he's liable to annihilate you."

      Eden considered. "How about that missing gun?"

      Holley shrugged. "You can find something queer almost anywhere, if you look for it. The gun was gone—yes. What of it? Madden may have sold it, given it away, taken it to his room."

      Bob Eden leaned back in his chair. "I guess you're right, at that. Yes, the more I think about it, here in the bright light of afternoon, the more foolish I feel." Through a side window he saw a flivver swing up before the grocery store next door, and Charlie Chan alight. He went out on to the porch.

      "Ah Kim," he called.

      The plump little Chinese detective approached and, without a word, entered the office.

      "Charlie," said Bob Eden, "this is a friend of mine, Mr. Will Holley. Holley, meet Detective-Sergeant Chan, of the Honolulu Police."

      At mention of his name, Chan's eyes narrowed. "How do you do," he said coldly.

      "It's all right," Eden assured him. "Mr. Holley can be trusted—absolutely. I've told him everything."

      "I am far away in strange land," returned Chan. "Maybe I would choose to trust no one—but that, no doubt, are my heathen churlishness. Mr. Holley will pardon, I am sure."

      "Don't worry," said Holley. "I give you my word. I'll tell no one."

      Chan made no reply, in his mind, perhaps, the memory of other white men who had given their word.

      "It doesn't matter, anyhow," Eden remarked. "Charlie, I've come to the decision that we're chasing ghosts. I've talked things over with Mr. Holley, and from what he says, I see that there's really nothing wrong out at the ranch. When we go back this evening we'll hand over those pearls and head for home." Chan's face fell. "Cheer up," added the boy. "You, yourself, must admit that we've been acting like a couple of old women."

      An expression of deeply offended dignity appeared on the little round face. "Just one moment. Permit this old woman more nonsense. Some hours ago parrot drops from perch into vast eternity. Dead, like Caesar."

      "What of it?" said Eden wearily. "He died of old age. Don't let's argue about it, Charlie—"

      "Who argues?" asked Chan. "I myself enjoy keen distaste for that pastime. Old woman though I am, I now deal with facts—undubitable facts." He spread a white sheet of paper on Holley's desk, and removing an envelope from his pocket,

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