“He’ll see me, Thorn,” said Eden sharply. “You’re Thorn, I take it. Please tell Madden that a messenger from Post Street, San Francisco, is waiting.”
The door swung instantly open, and Martin Thorn was as near to beaming as his meager face permitted.
“Oh, pardon me. Come in at once. We’ve been expecting you. Come in—ah—er—gentlemen.” His face clouded as he saw Holley. “Excuse me just a moment.”
The secretary disappeared through a door at the rear, and left the two callers standing in the great living-room of the ranch house. To step from the desert into a room like this was a revelation. Its walls were of paneled oak; rare etchings hung upon them; there were softly shaded lamps standing by tables on which lay the latest magazines—even a recent edition of a New York Sunday newspaper. At one end, in a huge fireplace, a pile of logs was blazing, and in a distant corner a radio ground out dance music from some far orchestra.
“Say, this is home, sweet home,” Bob Eden remarked. He nodded to the wall at the opposite end of the room from the fireplace. “And speaking of being unarmed—”
“That’s Madden’s collection of guns,” Holley explained. “Wong showed it to me once. They’re loaded. If you have to back away, go in that direction.” He looked dubiously about. “You know, that sleek lad didn’t say he was going for Madden.”
“I know he didn’t,” Eden replied. He studied the room thoughtfully. One great question worried him—where was Charlie Chan?
They stood there, waiting. A tall clock at the rear of the room struck the hour of nine, slowly, deliberately. The fire sputtered; the metallic tinkle of jazz flowed on.
