This is fast, zippy, full of wisecracking reporters and cops, in the midst of whom Charlie Chan is a model of thoughtful decorum. The same can't be said for Number One Son who peeks through keyholes and rushes about frantically. It's the kind of movie in which New Yorkers get into tuxedos and evening dress and go to night spots with names like The Hottentot Club to watch a flamboyantly overdressed women with the dancing skills of a dog trained to stand on its hind legs prance around the floor to an avalanche of applause. Get a load of her, Boss! Say, she's a swell dish! I just made up those two remarks because the screenwriters were absent-minded enough to leave them out.
A brassy woman knows too much about Mister Big but returns to New York and winds up dead, along with one or two others formerly living human beings. The plot has something to do with smuggling, too, and mixed-up hotel rooms. Oh, and theft -- if swiping a towel from a hotel is a crime, in which case you are all under arrest. I guess I am too because it occurs to me I have a towel from the Benjamin Franklin Hotel in Philadelphia hidden away with the rest of my loot.
I haven't gotten to the climax yet so I don't know if Charlie Chan and Enumerated Son get to Broadway to see a show or not. It's half an hour before a serious infraction takes place but it's very busy before then anyway. It's hard to imagine that it gets much busier afterward.
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