“Well, suppose you ask him a few questions, the first chance you have. I presume that won’t come until you get back to town. Find out all he knows about Jerry Delaney, but do it in a way that won’t rouse his suspicions, if you can.”
“I’ll certainly try,” she answered. “I’m not very clever—”
“Who says you’re not? You’re mighty clever—and kind, too. Call me up as soon as you’ve talked with him, and I’ll hurry in town.”
The director was on his feet. “Come on—let’s get this thing finished. Is everybody here? Eddie! Where’s Eddie?”
Mr. Boston emerged from the living-room, his face a mask, telling nothing. Not going to be an easy matter, Bob Eden reflected, to pump Eddie Boston.
An hour later the movies vanished down the road in a cloud of dust, with Paula Wendell’s roadster trailing. Bob Eden sought out Charlie Chan. In the seclusion behind the cookhouse, he again went over Boston’s surprising remarks to Madden. The detective’s little black eyes shone.
“We march again,” he said. “Eddie Boston becomes with sudden flash our one best wager. He must be made to talk. But how?”
“Paula Wendell’s going to have a try at it,” Eden replied.
Chan nodded. “Fine idea, I think. In presence of pretty girl, what man keeps silent? We pin our eager hopes on that.”
