The Chinese Parrot

by Earl Derr Biggers

  When he had gone out Holley and Eden were silent for a moment. “Well,” said the editor at last, “I was wrong—all wrong. There’s something doing out at Madden’s ranch.”

  Eden nodded. “Sure there is. But what?”

  “All day,” continued Holley, “I’ve been wondering about that interview Madden gave me. For no apparent reason he broke one of the strictest rules of his life. Why?”

  “If you’re asking me, save your breath,” advised Eden.

  “I’m not asking you—I’ve got my own solution. Quoting Charlie, I think deep about matter—how is this? Madden knows that at any moment something may break and this thing that has happened at his ranch be spread all over the newspapers. Looking ahead, he sees he may need friends among the reporters. So he’s come down from his high horse at last. Am I right?”

  “Oh, it sounds logical,” agreed Eden. “I’m glad something does. You know, I told Dad before I left San Francisco that I was keen to get mixed up in a murder mystery. But this—this is more than I bargained for. No dead body, no weapon, no motive, no murder. Nothing. Why, we can’t even prove anybody has been killed.” He stood up. “Well, I’d better be moving back to the ranch. The ranch and— what? Whither am I drifting?”

  “You stick to your Chinese pal,” advised Holley. “The boy’s good. Something tells me he’ll see you through.”

  “I hope so,” Eden replied.

  “Keep your eyes open,” added Holley. “And take no chances. If you need help out there don’t forget Will Holley.”

  “You bet I won’t,” Bob Eden answered. “So long. Maybe I’ll see you to-morrow.”

  He went out and stood on the kerb before the Desert Edge Hotel. It was Saturday evening, and Eldorado was crowded with ranchers, lean, bronzed, work-stained men in khaki riding-breeches and gaudy lumber-jack blouses—simple men to whom this was the city. Through the window of the combined barber-shop and pool-room he saw a group of them shaking dice. Others leaned against the trunks of the cotton-woods, talking of the roads, of crops, of politics, Bob Eden felt like a visitor from Mars.

  Presently Chan passed, swung round in the street, and halted the little touring car opposite the boy. As Eden climbed in he saw the detective’s keen eyes fixed on the hotel doorway. Seating himself, he followed Chan’s gaze.

  A man had emerged from the Desert Edge Hotel—a man who looked strangely out of place among the roughly clad ranchers. He wore an overcoat buttoned tightly about his throat, and a felt hat was low over his eyes, which were hidden by dark spectacles.

  “See who’s here,” said Eden.

  “Yes, indeed,” answered Chan, as they moved down the street. “I think the Killarney Hotel has lost one very important guest. Their loss our gain—maybe.”

  They left the all-too-brief pavement of Main Street, and a look of satisfaction spread slowly over Charlie Chan’s face.

  “Much work to do,” he said. “Deep mysteries to solve. How sweet, though far from home, to feel myself in company of old friend.”

  Surprised, Bob Eden looked at him. “An old friend?” he repeated.

  Chan smiled. “In garage on Punch Bowl Hill lonesome car like this awaits my return. With flivver shuddering beneath me I can think myself on familiar Honolulu streets again.”

  They climbed between the mountains, and before them lay the soft glory of the desert sunset. Ignoring the rough road, Chan threw the throttle wide

  “Wow, Charlie,” cried Eden, as his head nearly pierced the top. “What’s the idea?”

  “Pardon, please,” said Chan, slowing a bit. “No good, I guess. For a minute I think maybe this little car can bounce the homesick feeling from my heart.”

  Chapter VIII

  A friendly little game

  For a time the little brother of the car on Punch Bowl Hill ploughed valiantly on, and neither the detective nor Bob Eden spoke. The yellow glare of the sun was cooling on the grey livery of the desert; the shadows cast by the occasional trees grew steadily longer. The far-off mountains purpled and the wind bestirred itself.

  “Charlie,” said Bob Eden. “What do you think of this country?”

  “This desert land?” asked Charlie.

  Eden nodded.

  “Happy to have seen it. All my time I yearn to encounter change. Certainly have encountered that here.”

  “Yes, I guess you have. Not much like Hawaii, is it?”

  “I will say so. Hawaii lie like handful of Phillimore pearls on heaving breast of ocean. Oahu little island with very wet neighbourhood all about. Moisture hangs in air all time, rain called liquid sunshine, breath of ocean pretty damp. Here I climb round to other side of picture. Air is dry like last year’s newspaper.”

  “They tell me you can love this country if you try.”

  Chan shrugged. “For my part, I reserve my efforts in that line for other locality. Very much impressed by desert, thank you, but will move on at earliest opportunity.”

  “Here, too,” Eden laughed. “Comes the night, and I long for lights about me that are bright. A little restaurant on O’Farrell Street, a few good fellows, a bottle of mineral water on the table. Human companionship, if it’s not asking too much.”

  “Natural you feel that way,” Chan agreed. “Youth is in your heart like a song. Because of you I am hoping we can soon leave Madden’s ranch.”

  “Well, what do you think? What are we going to do now?”

  “Watch and wait. Youth, I am thinking, does not like that business. But it must be. Speaking personally for myself, I am not having one happy fine time either. Act of cooking food not precisely my idea of merry vacation.”

  “Well, Charlie, I can stick it if you can,” Eden said.

  “Plenty fine sport you are,” Chan replied. “Problems that we face are not without interest, for that matter. Most peculiar situation. At home I am called to look at crime, clear-cut like heathen idol’s face. Somebody killed, maybe. Clues are plenty, I push little car down one path, I sway about, seeking another. Not so here. Starting forth to solve big mystery, I must first ask myself, just what are this big mystery I am starting forth to solve?”

  “You’ve said it,” Eden laughed.

  “Yet one big fact gleams clear like snow on distant mountain. On recent night, at Madden’s ranch, unknown person was murdered. Who unknown was, why he was killed, and who officiated at the homicide—these are simple little matters remaining to be cleared.”

  “And what have we to go on?” Eden asked helplessly.

  “A parrot’s cry at night. The rude removal of that unhappy bird. A bullet-hole hiding back of picture recently changed about. An aged pistol gone from dusty wall. All the more honour for us if we unravel from such puny clues.”

  “One thing I can’t figure out—among others,” said Eden. “What about Madden? Does he know? Or is that sly little Thorn pulling something off alone?”

  “Important questions,” Chan agreed. “In time we learn the answers, maybe. Meanwhile best to make no friend of Madden. You have told him nothing about San Francisco, I hope. Shaky Phil Maydorf and his queer behaviour.”

  “No, oddly enough, I haven’t. I was wondering whether I hadn’t better, now that Maydorf has shown up in Eldorado.”

  “Why? Pearls are in no danger. Did I hear you say in newspaper office you would greatly honour by following me?”

  “You certainly did.”

  “Then, for Madden, more of the hoo malimali. Nothing to be gained by other course, much maybe lost. You tell him of Maydorf, and he might answer, deal is off here, bring pearls to New York. What then? You go away, he goes away, I go way. Mystery of recent event at ranch-house never solved.”

  “I guess you’re right,” said Eden. They sped on through the gathering dusk, past the little office of the Date City optimist, deserted now. “By the way,” added the boy, “this thing you think has happened at the ranch—it may have occurred last Wednesday night?”

  “You have fondly feeling for Wednesday night?” asked Chan. “Wh
y?”

  Briefly Bob Eden related Paula Wendell’s story of that night—Thorn’s obvious excitement when he met her at the door, his insistence that Madden could not speak to her, and, most important of all, the little prospector with the black beard whom the girl saw in the yard. Chan listened with interest.

  “Now you talk,” he commented. “Here is one fine new clue for us. He may be most important, that black-bearded one. A desert rat, I think. The young woman goes much about this country? Am I correct?”

  “Yes, she does.”

  “She can retain secrets, maybe?”

  “You bet—this girl can.”

  “Don’t trust her. We talk all over place we may get sorry after while. However, venture so far as to ask please that she keep her pretty eyes open for that black-bearded rat. Who knows? Maybe he is vital link in our chain. “They were approaching the little oasis Madden had set on the desert’s dusty face. “Go in now,” Chan continued, “and act innocent like very new baby. When you talk with Father over telephone, you will find he is prepared. I have sent him telegraph.”

  “You have?” said Eden. “So did I. I sent him a couple of them.”

  “Then he is all prepared. Among other matters, I presumed to remind him voice coming over wire is often grasped by others in room as well as him who reclines at telephone.”

  “Say—that’s a good idea. I guess you think of everything, Charlie.”

  The gate was open, and Chan turned the car into the yard. “Guess I do,” he sighed. “Now, with depressing reluctance, I must think of dinner. Recall, we watch and wait. And when we meet alone, the greatest care. No one must pierce my identity. Only this noon I could well have applied to myself resounding kick. That word unevitable too luxurious for poor old Ah Kim. In future I must pick over words like lettuce for salad. Good-bye, and splendid luck.”

  In the living-room a fire was already blazing in the huge fireplace. Madden sat at a broad, flat-topped desk, signing letters. He looked up as Bob Eden entered.

  “Hello,” he said. “Have a pleasant afternoon?”

  “Quite,” the boy replied. “I trust you had the same.”

  “I did not,” Madden answered. “Even here I can’t get away from business. Been catching up with a three day’s accumulation of mail. There you are, Martin,” he added, as the secretary entered. “I believe you’ll have time to take them in to the post-office before dinner. And here are the telegrams—get them off too. Take the little car—it’ll make better speed over these roads.”

  Thorn gathered up the letters, and with expert hands began folding them and placing them in envelopes. Madden rose, stretched, and came over to the fire. “Ah Kim brought you back?” he inquired.

  “He did,” Bob Eden answered.

  “Knows how to drive a car all right?” persisted Madden.

  “Perfectly.”

  “An unusual boy, Ah Kim.”

  “Oh, not very,” Eden said carelessly. “He told me he used to drive a vegetable truck in Los Angeles. I got that much out of him, but that’s about all.”

  “Silent, eh?”

  Eden nodded. “Silent as a lawyer from Northampton, Massachusetts,” he remarked.

  Madden laughed. “By the way,” he said, as Thorn went out, “your father didn’t call.”

  “No? Well, he isn’t likely to get home until evening. I’ll try the house to-night, if you want me to.”

  “I wish you would,” Madden said. “I don’t want to seem inhospitable, my boy, but I’m very anxious to get away from here. Certain matters in the mail to-day—you understand—”

  “Of course,” Bob Eden answered. “I’ll do all I can to help.”

  “That’s mighty good of you,” Madden told him, and the boy felt a bit guilty. “I think I’ll take a nap before dinner. I find, nowadays, it’s a great aid to digestion.” The famous millionaire was more human than Bob Eden had yet seen him. He stood looking down at the boy wistfully. “A matter you can’t grasp, just yet,” he added. “You’re so damned young—I envy you.”

  He went out, leaving Bob Eden to a Los Angeles paper he had picked up in Eldorado. From time to time, as the boy read, the quaint little figure of Ah Kim passed noiselessly. He was setting the table for dinner.

  An hour later, there on the lonely desert, they again sat down to Ah Kim’s cooking. Very different from the restaurant of which Bob Eden thought with longing, but if the company was far from lively the food was excellent, for the Chinese had negotiated well. When the servant came in with coffee Madden said:

  “Light the fire in the patio, Ah Kim. We’ll sit out there awhile.”

  The Chinese went to comply with this order, and Eden saw Madden regarding him expectantly. He smiled and rose.

  “Well, Dad ought to be struggling in from his hard day on the links any minute now,” he said. “I’ll put in that call.”

  Madden leapt up. “Let me do it,” he suggested. “Just tell me the number.”

  The boy told him, and Madden spoke over the telephone in a voice to command respect.

  “By the way,” he said, when he had finished, “last night you intimated that certain things happened in San Francisco—things that made your father cautious. What—if you don’t mind telling me?”

  Bob Eden thought rapidly. “Oh, it may all have been a detective’s pipe-dream. I’m inclined to think now that it was. You see—”

  “Detective? What detective?”

  “Well, naturally Dad has a tie-up with various private detective agencies. An operative of one of them reported that a famous crook had arrived in town and was showing an undue interest in our store. Of course, it may have meant nothing—”

  “A famous crook, eh? Who?”

  Never a good liar, Bob Eden hesitated. “I—I don’t know that I remember the name. English, I believe—the Liverpool Kid, or something like that,” he invented lamely.

  Madden shrugged. “Well, if anything’s leaked out about those pearls, it came from your side of the deal,” he said. “My daughter, Thorn, and I have certainly been discretion itself. However, I’m inclined to think it’s all a pipe-dream, as you say.”

  “Probably is,” agreed Eden.

  “Come outside,” the millionaire invited. He led the way through the glass doors to the patio. There, a huge fire roared in the outdoor fireplace, glowing red on the stone floor and on wicker chairs. “Sit down,” suggested Madden. “A cigar—no, you prefer your cigarette, eh?” He lighted up, and, leaning back in his chair, stared up at the dark roof above—the far-off roof of the sky. “I like it out here best,” he went on. “A bit chilly, maybe, but you get close to the desert. Ever notice how white the stars are in this country?”

  Eden looked at him with surprise. “Sure—I’ve noticed,” he said. “But I never dreamed you had, old boy,” he added to himself.

  Inside Thorn was busy at the wireless receiver. A horrible medley of bedtime stories, violin solos, and lectures on health and beauty drifted out to them. And then the shrill voice of a woman, urging sinners to repent.

  “Get Denver,” Madden called loudly.

  “I’m trying, chief,” answered Thorn.

  “If I must listen to the confounded thing,” Madden added to the boy, “I want what I hear to come from far away. Over the mountains and the plains—there’s romance in that.” The crackling of the loud-speaker swept suddenly into a brisk band tune. “That’s it,” nodded Madden. “The orchestra at the Brown Palace in Denver—perhaps my girl is dancing to that very music at this moment. Poor kid—she’ll wonder what’s become of me. I promised to be there two days ago. Thorn!”

  The secretary appeared at the door. “Yes, chief?”

  “Remind me to send Evelyn a wire in the morning.”

  “I’ll do that, chief,” said Thorn, and vanished.

  “And the band played on,” remarked Madden. “All the way from Denver, mile high amid the Rockies. I tell you, man’s getting too clever. He’s riding for a fall. Probably a sign of age, Mr Eden, but I fi
nd myself longing for the older, simpler days. When I was a boy on the farm, winter mornings, the little schoolhouse in the valley. That sledge I wanted—hard times, yes, but times that made men. Oh, well, I mustn’t get started on that.”

  They listened in silence, but presently a bedtime story brought a bellow of rage from the millionaire, and Thorn, getting his cue, shut off the machine.

  Madden stirred restlessly in his chair. “We haven’t enough for bridge,” he remarked. “How about a little poker to pass the time, my boy?”

  “Why—that would be fine,” Eden replied. “I’m afraid you’re pretty speedy company for me, however.”

  “Oh, that’s all right—we’ll put a limit on it.”

  Madden was on his feet, eager for action. “Come along.”

  They went into the living-room and closed the doors. A few moments later the three of them sat about a big round table under a brilliant light.

  “Jacks or better,” Madden said. “Quarter limit, eh?”

  “Well—” replied Eden dubiously.

  He had good reason to be dubious, for he was instantly plunged into the poker game of his life. He had played at college, and was even able to take care of himself in newspaper circles in San Francisco, but all that was child’s play by comparison. Madden was no longer the man who noticed how white the stars were. He noticed how red, white, and blue the chips were, and he caressed them with loving hands. He was Madden, the plunger, the gambler with railroads and steel mills and the fortunes of little nations abroad, the Madden who, after he had played all day in Wall Street, was wont to seek the roulette-wheels on Forty-fourth Street at night.