to hear me when I'm going good."
"You were going good enough for me. With a voice like yours, you ought to be in grand opera."
"I know—that's what all my friends say. And it ain't that I haven't had the chance. But I love the theater. Been on the stage since I was a teeny-weeny girl."
"Only yesterday, that must have been."
"Say, boy—you're good," she told him. "You don't happen to be scouting for the Metropolitan, do you?"
"No—I wish I were." Eden paused. "Miss Fitzgerald, I'm an old pal of a friend of yours."
"Which friend? I've got so many."
"I bet you have. I'm speaking of Jerry Delaney. You know Jerry?"
"Do I? I've known him for years." She frowned suddenly. "Have you any news of Jerry?"
"No, I haven't," Eden answered. "That's why I've come to you. I'm terribly anxious to locate him, and I thought maybe you could help."
She was suddenly cautious. "Old pal of his, you say?"
"Sure. Used to work with him at Jack McGuire's place on Forty-fourth Street."
"Did you really?" The caution vanished. "Well, you know just as much about Jerry's whereabouts as I do. Two weeks ago he wrote me from Chicago—I got it in Seattle. He was kind of mysterious. Said he hoped to see me out this way before long."
"He didn't tell you about the deal he had on?"
"What deal?"
"Well, if you don't know—Jerry was about to pick up a nice little bit of change."
"Is that so? I'm glad to hear it. Things ain't been any too jake with Jerry since those old days at McGuire's."
"That's true enough, I guess. By the way, did Jerry ever talk to you about the men he met at McGuire's? The swells. You know, we used to get some pretty big trade there."
"No, he never talked about it much. Why?"
"I was wondering whether he ever mentioned to you the name of P.J. Madden."
She turned upon the boy a baby stare, wide-eyed and innocent. "Who's P.J. Madden?" she inquired.
"Why, he's one of the biggest financiers in the country. If you ever read the papers—"
"But I don't. My work takes so much time. You've no idea the long hours I put in—"
"I can imagine it. But look here—the question is, where's Jerry now? I may say I'm worried about him."
"Worried? Why?"
"Oh—there's risk in Jerry's business, you know."
"I don't know anything of the sort. Why should there be?"
"We won't go into that. The fact remains that Jerry Delaney arrived at Barstow a week ago last Wednesday morning, and shortly afterward he disappeared off the face of the earth."
A startled look came into the woman's eyes. "You don't think he's had an—an accident?"
"I'm very much afraid he has. You know the sort Jerry was. Reckless—"
The woman was silent for a moment. "I know," she nodded. "Such a temper. These red-headed Irishmen—"
"Precisely," said Eden, a little too soon.
The green eyes of Miss Norma Fitzgerald narrowed.
"Knew Jerry at McGuire's, you say."
She stood up. "And since when has he had red hair?" Her friendly manner was gone. "I was thinking only last night—I saw a cop at the corner of Sixth and Hill—such a handsome boy. You certainly got fine-looking fellows on your force out here."
"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?"
"Pretty close to right," admitted Chan.
"I tell you, Charlie, we can't go on. Our position is hopeless. We'll have to go to the sheriff—"
"With what? Pardon that I interrupt. But realize, please, that all our evidence is hazy, like flowers seen in a pool. Madden is big man, his word law to many." The train paused at a station. "We go to sheriff with queer talk—a dead parrot, tale of a desert rat, half-blind and maybe crazy, suitcase in attic filled with old clothes. Can we prove famous man guilty of murder on such foolish grounds? Where is body? Few policemen alive who would not laugh at us—"
Chan broke off suddenly, and Eden followed his gaze. In the aisle of the car stood Captain Bliss of the Homicide Squad, staring at them.
Eden's heart sank. The captain's little eyes slowly took in every detail of Chan's attire, then were turned for a moment on the boy. Without a sign, he turned about and went down the aisle and into the car behind.
"Good night!" said Eden.
Chan shrugged. "Fret no longer," he remarked. "We need not go to sheriff—sheriff will come to us. Our time is brief at Madden's ranch. Poor old Ah Kim may yet be arrested for the murder of Louie Wong."
Chapter XIX. The Voice on the Air
They
