are not the modern type of crook—the moron brand that relies entirely on a gun. They are men of brains—old-fashioned outlaws who are regarded with respect by the police whom they have fought for many years. I called Sally Jordan and tried to abandon the whole proceeding—but that son of hers. He’s itching to get the money, and he’s urging her to go ahead. So what can I do? If it was any one else I’d certainly drop out of the deal—but Sally Jordan—well, she’s an old friend. And as you said this afternoon, Mr. Chan, there is such a thing as loyalty in the world. But I tell you I’m sending you two down there with the deepest reluctance.”
“Don’t you worry, dad. It’s going to be great fun, I’m sure. All my life I’ve wanted to be mixed up in a good exciting murder. As a spectator, of course.”
“What are you talking about?” the father demanded.
“Why, Mr. Chan here is a detective, isn’t he? A detective on a vacation. If you’ve ever read a mystery story you know that a detective never works so hard as when he’s on a vacation. He’s like the postman who goes for a long walk on his day off. Here we are, all set. We’ve got our bright and shining mark, our millionaire—P.J. Madden, one of the most famous financiers in America. I tell you, poor P.J. is doomed. Ten to one Mr. Chan and I will walk into that ranch house and find him dead on the first rug we come to.”
“This is no joking matter,” Eden rebuked severely. “Mr. Chan—you seem to be a man of considerable ability. Have you anything to suggest?”
Charlie smiled in the dark car. “Flattery sounds sweet to any ear,” he remarked. “I have, it is true, inclination for making humble suggestion.”
