that wasn’t the American way. It wasn’t Bob Eden’s way.
The boy looked at his watch. Ten minutes since Charlie had left him; in ten minutes more he would go to Madden’s room and get those pearls off his hands forever. He rose and walked about. From his window opposite the patio he looked out across the dim gray desert to the black bulk of distant hills. Ye gods, what a country. Not for him, he thought. Rather street lamps shining on the pavements, the clamor of cable-cars, crowds, crowds of people. Confusion and—noise. Something terrible about this silence. This lonely silence—
A horrible cry shattered the night. Bob Eden stood, frozen. Again the cry, and then a queer, choked voice: “Help! Help! Murder!” The cry. “Help! Put down that gun! Help! Help!”
Bob Eden ran out into the patio. As he did so, he saw Thorn and Charlie Chan coming from the other side. Madden—where was Madden? But again his suspicion proved incorrect—Madden emerged from the living-room and joined them.
Again came the cry. And now Bob Eden saw, on a perch ten feet away, the source of the weird outburst. A little gray Australian parrot was hanging there uncertainly, screeching its head off.
“That damn bird,” cried Madden angrily. “I’m sorry, Mr. Eden—I forgot to tell you about him. It’s only Tony, and he’s had a wild past, as you may imagine.”
The parrot stopped screaming and blinked solemnly at the little group before him. “One at a time, gentlemen, please,” he squawked.
Madden laughed. “That goes back to his barroom days,”
