need of that," she smiled. "I'm like you. I can take care of myself."
"Is that so?"
"Want to see me tomorrow?"
"Always want to see you tomorrow. Chan and I are coming over your way. Where can we find you?"
She told him she would be at the picture studio at one o'clock, and with a gay good-bye, disappeared down the brightly-lighted stretch of Colorado Street. Eden went in to a quiet night at the hotel.
After breakfast in the morning he recalled that an old college friend named Spike Bristol was reported in the class histories as living now in Pasadena. The telephone directory furnished Bristol's address, and Eden set out to find him. His friend turned out to be one of the more decorative features of a bond office.
"Bond salesman, eh?" said Eden, when the greetings were over.
"Yes—it was either that or real estate," replied Bristol. "I was undecided for some time. Finally I picked this."
"Of course," laughed Eden. "As any class history proves, gentlemen prefer bonds. How are you getting on?"
"Fine. All my old friends are buying from me."
"Ah, now I know why you were so glad to see me."
"Sure was. We have some very pretty first mortgage sixes—"
"I'll bet you have—and you can keep them. I'm here on business, Spike—private business. Keep what I say under your hat."
"Never wear one," answered Spike brightly. "That's the beauty of this climate—"
"You can't sell me the climate, either. Spike, you know P.J. Madden, don't you?"
"Well—we're not very chummy. He hasn't asked me to dinner. But of course all us big financiers are acquainted. As for Madden, I did him a service only a couple of days ago."
"Elucidate."
"This is just between us. Madden came in here Wednesday morning with a hundred and ten thousand dollars' worth of negotiable bonds—mostly Liberties—and we sold them for him the same day. Paid him in cash, too."
"Precisely what I wanted to know. Spike, I'd like to talk with somebody at Madden's bank about his actions there Wednesday."
"Who are you—Sherlock Holmes?"
"Well—" Eden thought of Chan. "I am connected with the police, temporarily." Spike whistled. "I may go so far as to say—and for heaven's sake keep it to yourself—that Madden is in trouble. At the present moment I'm stopping at his ranch on the desert, and I have every reason to believe he's being blackmailed."
Spike looked at him. "What if he is? That ought to be his business."
"It ought to be, but it isn't. A certain transaction with my father is involved. Do you know anybody at the Garfield Bank?"
"One of my best friends is cashier there. But you know these bankers—hard-boiled eggs. However, we'll have a try."
They went together to the marble precincts of the Garfield Bank. Spike held a long and earnest conversation with his friend. Presently he called Eden over and introduced him.
"How do you do," said the banker. "You realize that what Spike here suggests is quite irregular. But if he vouches for you, I suppose—What is it you want to know?"
"Madden was here on Wednesday. Just what happened?"
"Yes, Mr. Madden came in on Wednesday. We hadn't seen him for two years, and his coming caused quite a stir. He visited the safe deposit vaults and spent some time going through his box."
"Was he alone?"
"No, he wasn't," the banker replied. "His secretary, Thorn, who is well known to us, was with him. Also a little, middle-aged man whom I don't recall very clearly."
"Ah, yes. He examined his safety deposit box. Was that all?"
The banker hesitated. "No. He had wired his office in New York to deposit a rather large sum of money to our credit with the Federal Reserve Bank—but I'd really rather not say any more."
"You paid over to him that large sum of money?"
"I'm not saying we did. I'm afraid I've said too much already."
"You've been very kind," Eden replied. "I promise you won't regret it. Thank you very much."
He and Bristol returned to the street. "Thanks for your help, Spike," Eden remarked. "I'm leaving you here."
"Cast off like an old coat," complained Bristol. "How about lunch?"
"Sorry. Some other time. I must run along now. The station's down here, isn't it? I leave you to your climate."
"Sour grapes," returned Spike. "Don't go home and get lost in the fog. So long."
From the eleven o'clock train a quite different Charlie Chan alighted. He was dressed as Eden had seen him in San Francisco.
"Hello, Dapper Dan," the boy said.
Chan smiled. "Feel respected again," he explained. "Visited Barstow and rescued proper clothes. No cooking today, which makes life very pretty."
"Madden put up a fight when you left?"
"How could he do so? I leave before his awakening, dropping quaintly worded note at door. No doubt now his heart is heavy, thinking I have deserted forever. Happy surprise for him when Ah Kim returns to home nest."
"Well, Charlie, I've been busy," said Eden. He went over his activities of the morning. "When the old boy came back to the ranch the other night, he must have been oozing cash at every pore. I tell you, Holley's right. He's being blackmailed."
"Seems that way," agreed Chan. "Here is another thought. Madden has killed a man, and fears discovery. He gets huge sum together so if necessity arouses he can flee with plenty cash until affair blows overhead. How is that?"
"By George—it's possible," admitted Eden.
"To be considered," replied Chan. "Suggest now we visit caretaker at local home."
A yellow taxi carried them to Orange Grove Avenue. Chan's black eyes sparkled as they drove through the cheerful handsome city. When they turned off under the shade of the pepper trees lining the favorite street of the millionaires, the detective regarded the big houses with awe.
"Impressive sight for one born in thatched hut by side of muddy river," he announced. "Rich men here live like emperors. Does it bring content?"
"Charlie," said Eden, "I'm worried about this caretaker business. Suppose he reports our call to Madden. We're sunk."
"Without bubble showing. But what did I say—we accept long chance and hope for happy luck."
"Is it really necessary to see him?"
"Important to see everybody knowing Madden. This caretaker may turn out useful find."
"What shall we say to him?"
"The thing that appears to be true. Madden in much trouble—blackmail. We are police on trail of crime."
"Fine. And how can you prove that?"
"Quick flash of Honolulu badge, which I have pinned to vest. All police badges much alike, unless person has suspicion to read close."
"Well, you're the doctor, Charlie. I follow on."
The taxi halted before the largest house on the street—or in the world, it seemed. Chan and Eden walked up the broad driveway to find a man engaged in training roses on a pergola. He was a scholarly-looking man even in his overalls, with keen eyes and a pleasant smile.
"Mr. Fogg?" inquired Eden.
"That's my name," the man said. Bob Eden offered Holley's card, and Fogg's smile broadened.
"Glad to meet any friend of Holley's," he remarked. "Come over to the side veranda and sit down. What can I do for you?"