I have affiliations. I asked him to investigate and, if possible, find that man in the overcoat Bob saw at the dock. An hour ago he reported that he had located our man with no great difficulty. He has discovered him—”
“At the Killarney Hotel, perhaps, on Grant Avenue,” suggested Chan, dissembling a deep triumph.
“Good lord,” gasped Eden. “You found him, too. Why—that’s amazing—”
“Amazing luck,” said Chan. “Please pardon rude interruption. Will not occur again.”
“Well, Draycott located this fellow, and reports that he is Shaky Phil Maydorf, one of the Maydorf brothers, as slick a pair of crooks as ever left New York for their health. The fellow suffers from malaria, I believe, but otherwise he is in good form and, it seems, very much interested in our little affairs. But Mr. Chan—your own story—how in the world did you find him too?”
Chan shrugged. “Successful detective,” he said, “is plenty often man on whom luck turns smiling face. This evening I bask in most heart-warming grin.” He told of his visit to Chan Kee Lim, of the telephone call to the desert from Wong’s bowl shop, and of his seeing the man in the overcoat leaving the shop. “After that, simple matter to hound him to hotel,” he finished.
“Well, I’m more disturbed than ever,” Eden said. “They have called the caretaker away from Madden’s ranch. Why? I tell you I don’t like this business—”
“Nonsense, father,” Bob Eden protested. “It’s rather interesting.”
“Not to me. I don’t welcome the attention of these Maydorfs—and where, by the way, is the other one? They
