Paula Wendell was waiting for them in the reception-room of the studio with which she was connected. "Come along," she said. "I'll take you to lunch at the cafeteria, and then perhaps you'd like to look around a bit."
Chan's eyes sparkled as she led them across the lot and down a street lined with the false fronts of imaginary dwellings. "My oldest girl would exchange the favor of the gods to be on this spot with me," he remarked. "I shall have much to relate when I return to Punchbowl Hill."
They lunched among the film players, grotesque in make-up and odd costumes. "No postman before," said Chan, over his chicken pie, "ever encountered such interesting walk on his holiday. Pardon, please, if I eat with unashamed enjoyment and too much gusto. New experience for me to encounter food I have not perspired over myself in person."
"They're taking a picture on Stage Twelve," the girl explained when lunch was finished. "It's against the rules, but if you're not too boisterous I can get you in for a look."
They passed out of the dazzling sunshine into the dim interior of a great building that looked like a warehouse. Another moment, and they reached the set, built to represent a smart foreign restaurant. Rich hangings were in the background, beautiful carpets on the floor. Along the walls were many tables with pink-shaded lights, and a resplendent head-waiter stood haughtily at the entrance.
The sequence being shot at the moment involved, evidently, the use of many extras, and a huge crowd stood about, waiting patiently. The faces of most of them were vital and alive, unforgettable. Here were people who had known life—and not too much happiness—in many odd corners of the world. Nearly all the men were in uniform—a war picture, no doubt. Bob Eden heard snatches of French, German, Spanish; he saw in the eyes about him a hundred stories more real and tragic than any these people would ever act on the silver screen.
"Leading men and women are standardized, more or less," said Paula Wendell, "but the extras—they're different. If you talked with some of them, you'd be amazed. Brains and refinement—remarkable pasts—and on the bargain counter now at five dollars a day."
A call sounded, and the extras filed on to the set and took their allotted stations at the various tables. Chan watched fascinated; evidently he could stay here forever. But Bob Eden, sadly lacking in that lovely virtue, patience, became restless.
"This is all very well," he said. "But we have work to do. How about Eddie Boston?"
"I have his address for you," the girl replied. "I doubt whether you'll find him in at this hour, but you can try."
An old man appeared in the shadowy space behind the cameras. Eden recognized the veteran player who had been yesterday at Madden's ranch—the actor known as "Pop."
"Hello," cried Paula Wendell. "Maybe Pop can help you." She hailed him. "Know where we can find Eddie Boston?" she inquired.
As Pop joined them, Charlie Chan stepped back into a dark corner.
"Why—how are you, Mr. Eden?" the old man said. "You want to see Eddie Boston, you say?"
"I'd like to—yes."
"That's too bad. You won't find him in Hollywood."
"Why not? Where is he?"
"On his way to San Francisco by this time," Pop answered. "At least, that was where he was going when I saw him late last night."
"San Francisco? What's he going there for?" asked Eden, amazed.
"One grand outbreak, to hear him tell it. You know, it looks to me like Eddie's come into a bit of money."
"He has, has he?" Eden's eyes narrowed.
"I met him on the street last night when we got in from the desert. He'd come by train, and I asked him why. 'Had some rush business to attend to, Pop,' he says. 'I'm off to Frisco in the morning. Things are looking up. Now the picture's finished I aim to take a little jaunt for my health.' Said he hadn't been in Frisco since the 'nineties and was hungry to see it again."
Eden nodded. "Well, thank you very much." With Paula Wendell he moved toward the door, and Chan, his hat low over his eyes, followed.
At the foot of the runway in the bright world outside, Eden paused. "That's that," he said. "One more disappointment. Will we ever get to the end of this? Well, Charlie—Boston's beat it. Our bird has flown."
"Why not?" said Chan. "Madden pays him to go, of course. Did Boston not say he knew all about Delaney?"
"Which must mean he knows Delaney's dead. But how could he? Was he on the desert that Wednesday night? Ye gods!" The boy put his hand to his forehead. "You haven't any smelling salts, have you?" he added to Paula Wendell.
She laughed. "Never use 'em."
They moved out to the street.
"Well, we must push on," said Eden. "The night is dark and we are far from home." He turned to the girl. "When do you go back to Eldorado?"
"This afternoon," she replied. "I'm working on another script—one that calls for a ghost city this time."
"A ghost city?"
"Yes—you know. A deserted mining town. So it's me for the Petticoat Mine again."
"Where's that?"
"Up in the hills about seventeen miles from Eldorado. Petticoat Mine had three thousand citizens ten years ago, but there's not a living soul there today. Just ruins, like Pompeii. I'll have to show it to you—it's mighty interesting."
"That's a promise," Eden returned. "We'll see you back on your dear old desert."
"Warmest thanks for permitting close inspection of picture factory," Chan remarked. "Always a glowing item on the scroll of memory."
"It was fun for me," answered the girl. "Sorry you must go."
On the trolley bound for Los Angeles, Eden turned to the Chinese. "Don't you ever get discouraged, Charlie?" he inquired.
"Not while work remains to do," the detective replied. "This Miss Fitzgerald. Songbird, perhaps, but she will not have flown."
"You'd better talk with her—" Eden began.
But Chan shook his head
"No, I will not accompany on that errand. Easy to see my presence brings embarrassed pause. I am hard to explain, like black eye."
"Well, I shouldn't have called you that," smiled the boy.
"Go alone to see this woman. Inquire all she knows about the dead man, Delaney."
Eden sighed. "I'll do my best. But my once proud faith in myself is ebbing fast."
At the stage door of the deserted theater Eden slipped a dollar into the hand of the doorman, and was permitted to step inside and examine the call-board. As he expected, the local addresses of the troupe were posted up, and he located Miss Fitzgerald at the Wynnwood Hotel.
"You have aspect of experienced person," ventured Chan.
Eden laughed. "Oh, I've known a few chorus-girls in my time. Regular man of the world, I am."
Chan took up his post on a bench in Pershing Square, while the boy went on alone to the Wynnwood Hotel. He sent up his name, and after a long wait in the cheap lobby, the actress joined him. She was at least thirty, probably more, but her eyes were young and sparkling. At sight of Bob Eden she adopted a rather coquettish manner.
"You Mr. Eden?" she said. "I'm glad to see you, though why I see you's a mystery to me."
"Well, just so long as it's a pleasant mystery—" Eden smiled.
"I'll say it is—so far. You in the profession?"
"Not precisely. First of all, I want to say that I heard you sing over the radio the other night, and I was enchanted. You've a wonderful voice."
She beamed. "Say, I like to hear you talk like that. But I had a cold—I've had one ever since I struck this town. You ought