The Greatest Works of Earl Derr Biggers (Illustrated Edition). Earl Derr Biggers

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СКАЧАТЬ threatens to come—the son of the woman who owns the pearls. All we need here to wreck the works is that amiable bonehead and his spats."

      "What's new?" asked Holley, as they sat down.

      "Several things," Bob Eden replied. "To start with the big tragedy, I'm out forty-seven dollars." He told of the poker game. "In addition, Mr. Thorn has been observed burying a can that once held arsenic. Furthermore, Charlie has found that missing pistol in Thorn's bureau—with two chambers empty."

      Holley whistled. "Has he really? You know, I believe your friend Chan is going to put Thorn back of the bars before he's through."

      "Perhaps," admitted Eden. "Got a long way to go, though. You can't convict a man of murder without a body to show for it."

      "Oh—Chan will dig that up."

      Eden shrugged. "Well, if he does, he can have all the credit. And do all the digging. Somehow, it's not the sort of thing that appeals to me. I like excitement, but I like it nice and neat. Heard from your interview?"

      "Yes. It's to be released in New York tomorrow." The tired eyes of Will Holley brightened. "I was sitting here getting a thrill out of the idea when you came in." He pointed to a big scrapbook on his desk. "Some of the stories I wrote on the old Sun," he explained. "Not bad, if I do say it myself."

      Bob Eden picked up the book, and turned the pages with interest. "I've been thinking of getting a job on a newspaper myself," he said.

      Holley looked at him quickly. "Think twice," he advised. "You, with a good business waiting for you—what has the newspaper game to offer you? Great while you're young, maybe—great even now when the old order is changing and the picture paper is making a monkey out of a grand profession. But when you're old—" He got up and laid a hand on the boy's shoulder. "When you're old—and you're old at forty—then what? The copy desk, and some day the owner comes in, and sees a streak of gray in your hair, and he says, 'Throw that doddering fool out. I want young men here.' No, my boy—not the newspaper game. You and I must have a long talk."

      They had it. It was five by the little clock on Holley's desk when the editor finally stood up, and closed his scrapbook. "Come on," he said. "I'm taking you to the Oasis for dinner."

      Eden went gladly. At one of the tables opposite the narrow counter, Paula Wendell sat alone.

      "Hello," she greeted them. "Come over here. I felt in an expansive mood tonight—had to have the prestige of a table."

      They sat down opposite her. "Did you find the day as dull as you expected?" inquired the girl of Eden.

      "Very dull by contrast, after you left me," he answered.

      "Try the chicken," she advised. "Born and raised right here at home, and the desert hen is no weak sister. Not so bad, however."

      They accepted her suggestion. When the generously filled platters were placed before them, Bob Eden squared away.

      "Take to the lifeboats," he said. "I'm about to carve, and when I carve, it's a case of women and children first."

      Holley stared down at his dinner. "Looks like the same old chicken," he sighed. "What wouldn't I give for a little home cooking."

      "Ought to get married," smiled the girl. "Am I right, Mr. Eden?"

      Eden shrugged. "I've known several poor fellows who got married hoping to enjoy a bit of home cooking. Now they're back in the restaurants, and the only difference is they've got the little woman along. Double the check and half the pleasure."

      "Why all this cynicism?" asked Holley.

      "Oh, Mr. Eden is very much opposed to marriage," the girl said. "He was telling me today."

      "Just trying to save her," Eden explained. "By the way, do you know this Wilbur who's won her innocent, trusting heart?"

      "Wilbur?" asked Holley blankly.

      "He will persist in calling Jack out of his name," the girl said. "It's his disrespectful way of referring to my fiance."

      Holley glanced at the ring. "No, I don't know him," he announced. "I certainly congratulate him, though."

      "So do I," Eden returned. "On his nerve. However, I oughtn't to knock Wilbur. As I was saying only this noon—"

      "Never mind," put in the girl. "Wake up, Will. What are you thinking about?"

      Holley started. "I was thinking of a dinner I had once at Mouquin's," he replied. "Closed up, now, I hear. Gone—like all the other old landmarks—the happy stations 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."

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