on the five o'clock cocktail route. You know, I wonder sometimes if I'd like New York today—"
He talked on of the old Manhattan he had known. In what seemed to Bob Eden no time at all, the dinner hour had passed. As they were standing at the cashier's desk, the boy noted for the first time a stranger lighting a cigar near by. He was, from his dress, no native—a small, studious-looking man with piercing eyes.
"Good evening, neighbor," Holley said.
"How are you," answered the stranger.
"Come down to look us over?" the editor asked, thinking of his next issue.
"Dropped in for a call on the kangaroo-rat," replied the man. "I understand there's a local variety whose tail measures three millimeters longer than any hitherto recorded."
"Oh," returned Holley. "One of those fellows, eh? We get them all—beetle men and butterfly men, mouse and gopher men. Drop round to the office of the Times some day and we'll have a chat."
"Delighted," said the little naturalist.
"Well, look who's here," cried Holley suddenly. Bob Eden turned, and saw entering the door of the Oasis a thin little Chinese who seemed as old as the desert. His face was the color of a beloved meerschaum pipe, his eyes beady and bright. "Louie Wong," Holley explained. "Back from San Francisco, eh, Louie?"
"Hello, boss," said Louie, in a high shrill voice. "My come back."
"Didn't you like it up there?" Holley persisted.
"San Flancisco no good," answered Louie. "All time lain dlop on nose. My like 'um heah."
"Going back to Madden's, eh?" Holley inquired. Louie nodded. "Well, here's a bit of luck for you, Louie. Mr. Eden is going out to the ranch presently, and you can ride with him."
"Of course," assented Eden.
"Catch 'um hot tea. You wait jus' litta time, boss," said Louie, sitting up to the counter.
"We'll be down in front of the hotel," Holley told him. The three of them went out. The little naturalist followed, and slipped by them, disappearing in the night.
Neither Holley nor Eden spoke. When they reached the hotel they stopped.
"I'm leaving you now," Paula Wendell said. "I have some letters to write."
"Ah, yes," Eden remarked. "Well—don't forget. My love to Wilbur."
"These are business letters," she answered, severely. "Good night."
The girl went inside. "So Louie's back," Eden said. "That makes a pretty situation."
"What's the matter?" Holley said. "Louie may have a lot to tell."
"Perhaps. But when he shows up at his old job—what about Charlie? He'll be kicked out, and I'll be alone on the big scene. Somehow, I don't feel I know my lines."
"I never thought of that," replied the editor. "However, there's plenty of work for two boys out there when Madden's in residence. I imagine he'll keep them both. And what a chance for Charlie to pump old Louie dry. You and I could ask him questions from now until doomsday and never learn a thing. But Charlie—that's another matter."
They waited, and presently Louie Wong came shuffling down the street, a cheap little suitcase in one hand and a full paper bag in the other.
"What you got there, Louie?" Holley asked. He examined the bag. "Bananas, eh?"
"Tony like 'um banana," the old man explained. "Pleasant foah Tony."
Eden and Holley looked at each other. "Louie," said the editor gently, "poor Tony's dead."
Any one who believes the Chinese face is always expressionless should have seen Louie's then. A look of mingled pain and anger contorted it, and he burst at once into a flood of language that needed no translator. It was profane and terrifying.
"Poor old Louie," Holley said. "He's reviling the street, as they say in China."
"Do you suppose he knows?" asked Eden. "That Tony was murdered, I mean."
"Search me," answered Holley. "It certainly looks that way, doesn't it?" Still loudly vocal, Louie Wong climbed on to the back seat of the flivver, and Bob Eden took his place at the wheel. "Watch your step, boy," advised Holley. "See you soon. Good night."
Bob Eden started the car, and with old Louie Wong set out on the strangest ride of his life.
The moon had not yet risen; the stars, wan and far-off and unfriendly, were devoid of light. They climbed between the mountains, and that mammoth doorway led seemingly to a black and threatening inferno that Eden could sense but could not see. Down the rocky road and on to the sandy floor of the desert they crept along; out of the dark beside the way gleamed little yellow eyes, flashing hatefully for a moment, then vanishing forever. Like the ugly ghosts of trees that had died the Joshuas writhed in agony, casting deformed, appealing arms aloft. And constantly as they rode on, muttered the weird voice of the old Chinese on the back seat, mourning the passing of his friend, the death of Tony.
Bob Eden's nerves were steady, but he was glad when the lights of Madden's ranch shone with a friendly glow ahead. He left the car in the road and went to open the gate. A stray twig was caught in the latch, but finally he got it open, and returning to the car, swung it into the yard. With a feeling of deep relief he swept up before the barn. Charlie Chan was waiting in the glow of the headlights.
"Hello, Ah Kim," Eden called. "Got a little playmate for you in the back seat. Louie Wong has come back to his desert." He leaped to the ground. All was silence in the rear of the car. "Come on, Louie," he cried. "Here we are."
He stopped, a sudden thrill of horror in his heart. In the dim light he saw that Louie had slipped to his knees, and that his head hung limply over the door at the left.
"My God!" cried Eden.
"Wait," said Charlie Chan. "I get flashlight."
He went, while Bob Eden stood fixed and frightened in his tracks. Quickly the efficient Charlie returned, and made a hasty examination with the light. Bob Eden saw a gash in the side of Louie's old coat—a gash that was bordered with something wet and dark.
"Stabbed in the side," said Charlie calmly. "Dead—like Tony."
"Dead—when?" gasped Eden. "In the minute I left the car at the gate. Why—it's impossible—"
Out of the shadows came Martin Thorn, his pale face gleaming in the dusk. "What's all this?" he asked. "Why—it's Louie. What's happened to Louie?"
He bent over the door of the car, and the busy flashlight in the hand of Charlie Chan shone for a moment on his back. Across the dark coat was a long tear—a tear such as might have been made in the coat of one climbing hurriedly through a barbed-wire fence.
"This is terrible," Thorn said. "Just a minute—I must get Mr. Madden."
He ran to the house, and Bob Eden stood with Charlie Chan by the body of Louie Wong.
"Charlie," whispered the boy huskily, "you saw that rip in Thorn's coat?"
"Most certainly," answered Chan. "I observed it. What did I quote to you this morning? Old saying of Chinese. 'He who rides a tiger can not dismount.'"
Chapter X. Bliss of the Homicide Squad
In another moment Madden was with them there by the car, and they felt rather than saw a quivering, suppressed fury in every inch of the millionaire's huge frame. With an oath he snatched the flashlight from the hand of Charlie Chan and bent over the silent form in the back of the flivver. The glow from the lamp illuminated faintly his big red face, his searching eyes, and Bob Eden watched him with interest.
There in that dusty car lay the lifeless shape of one who had served Madden faithfully for many years. Yet no sign