“What are you talking about?” demanded Eden.
“Go peddle your papers,” advised Miss Fitzgerald. “If Jerry Delaney’s in trouble, I don’t hold with it, but I’m not tipping anything off. A friend’s a friend.”
“You’ve got me all wrong,” protested Eden.
“Oh, no, I haven’t. I’ve got you all right—and you can find Jerry without any help from me. As a matter of fact, I haven’t any idea where he is, and that’s the truth. Now run along.”
Eden stood up. “Anyhow, I did enjoy your singing,” he smiled.
“Yeah. Such nice cops—and so gallant. Well, listen in any time—the radio’s open to all.”
Bob Eden went glumly back to Pershing Square. He dropped down on the bench beside Chan.
“Luck was poor,” remarked the detective. “I see it in your face.”
“You don’t know the half of it,” returned the boy. He related what had happened. “I certainly made a bloomer of it,” he finished. “She called me a cop, but she flattered me. The kindergarten class of rookies would disown me.”
“Stop the worry,” advised Chan. “Woman a little too smart, that is all.”
“That’s enough,” Eden answered. “After this, you officiate. As a detective, I’m a great little jeweler.”
They dined at a hotel, and took the five-thirty train to Barstow. As they sped on through the gathering dusk, Bob Eden looked at his companion.
“Well, it’s over, Charlie,” he said. “The day from which we hoped for so much. And what have we gained? Nothing. Am I right?”
