The Chinese Parrot

by Earl Derr Biggers

  “Aces,” he cried. “Three of them. What have you got, Eden?”

  “Apoplexy,” remarked Eden, tossing aside his hand. “Right here and now I offer to sell my chances in this game for a cancelled postage stamp, or what have you?”

  “Good experience for you,” Madden replied. “Martin—it’s your deal.”

  A knock sounded suddenly on the door, loud and clear. Bob Eden felt a strange sinking of the heart. Out of the desert dark, out of the vast, uninhabited wastes of the world, some one spoke and demanded to come in.

  “Who can that be?” Madden frowned.

  “Police,” suggested Eden hopefully. “The joint is pinched.” No such luck, he reflected.

  Thorn was dealing, and Madden himself went to the door and swung it open. From where he sat Eden had a clear view of the dark desert—and of the man who stood in the light. A thin man in an overcoat, a man he had seen first in a San Francisco pier-shed, and later in front of the Desert Edge Hotel. Shaky Phil Maydorf himself, but now without the dark glasses hiding his eyes.

  “Good evening,” said Maydorf, and his voice too was thin and cold. “This is Mr Madden’s ranch, I believe?”

  “I’m Madden. What can I do for you?”

  “I’m looking for an old friend of mine—your secretary, Martin Thorn.”

  Thorn rose and came round the table. “Oh, hello,” he said, with slight enthusiasm.

  “You remember me, don’t you?” said the thin man. “McCallum—Henry McCallum. I met you at a dinner in New York a year ago.”

  “Yes, of course,” answered Thorn. “Come in, won’t you? This is Mr Madden.”

  “A great honour,” said Shaky Phil.

  “And Mr Eden, of San Francisco.”

  Eden rose, and faced Shaky Phil Maydorf. The man’s eyes without the glasses were barbed and cruel, like the desert foliage. For a long moment he stared insolently at the boy. Did he realize, Eden wondered, that his movements on the dock at San Francisco had not gone unnoticed? If he did his nerve was excellent.

  “Glad to know you, Mr Eden,” he said.

  “Mr McCallum,” returned the boy gravely.

  Maydorf turned again to Madden. “I hope I’m not intruding,” he remarked with a wan smile. “Fact is, I’m stopping down the road at Doctor Whitcomb’s—bronchitis, that’s my trouble. It’s lonesome as the devil round here, and when I heard Mr Thorn was in the neighbourhood I couldn’t resist the temptation to drop in.”

  “Glad you did,” Madden said, but his tone belied the words.

  “Don’t let me interrupt your game,” Maydorf went on. “Poker, eh? Is this a private scrap, or can anybody get into it?”

  “Take off your coat,” Madden responded sourly, “and sit up. Martin, give the gentleman a stack of chips.”

  “This is living again,” said the newcomer, accepting briskly. “Well, and how have you been, Thorn, old man?”

  Thorn, with his usual lack of warmth, admitted that he had been pretty good, and the game was resumed. If Bob Eden had feared for his immediate future before, he now gave up all hope. Sitting in a poker game with Shaky Phil—well, he was certainly travelling and seeing the world.

  “Gimme four cards,” said Mr Maydorf, through his teeth.

  If it had been a bitter, brutal struggle before, it now became a battle to the death. New talent had come in—more than talent, positive genius. Maydorf held the cards close against his chest; his face was carved in stone. As though he realized what he was up against, Madden grew wary, but determined. These two fought it out, while Thorn and the boy trailed along, like non-combatants involved in a battle of the giants.

  Presently Ah Kim entered with logs for the fire, and if the amazing picture on which his keen eyes lighted startled him he gave no sign. Madden ordered him to bring highballs, and as he set the glasses on the table Bob Eden noted with a secret thrill that the stomach of the detective was less than twelve inches from the long, capable hands of Shaky Phil. If the redoubtable Mr Maydorf only knew—

  But Maydorf’s thoughts were elsewhere than on the Phillimore pearls. “Dealer—one card,” he demanded.

  The telephone rang out sharply in the room. Bob Eden’s heart missed a beat. He had forgotten that—and now—After the long wait he was finally to speak with his father— while Shaky Phil Maydorf sat only a few feet away! He saw Madden staring at him, and he rose.

  “For me, I guess,” he said carelessly. He tossed his cards on the table. “I’m out of it, anyhow.” Crossing the room to the telephone, he took down the receiver. “Hello. Hello, Dad. Is that you?”

  “Aces and trays,” said Maydorf. “All mine?” Madden laid down a hand without looking at his opponent’s, and Shaky Phil gathered in another pot.

  “Yes, Dad—this is Bob,” Eden was saying. “I arrived all right—stopping with Mr Madden for a few days. Just wanted you to know where I was. Yes—that’s all. Everything. I may call you in the morning. Have a good game? Too bad. Good-bye!”

  Madden was on his feet, his face purple. “Wait a minute,” he cried.

  “Just wanted Dad to know where I am,” Eden said brightly. He dropped back into his chair. “Whose deal is it, anyhow?”

  Madden strangled a sentence in his throat, and once more the game was on. Eden was chuckling inwardly. More delay—and not his fault this time. The joke was on P. J. Madden.

  His third stack was melting rapidly away, and he reflected with apprehension that the night was young, and time of no importance on the desert, anyhow. “One more hand and I drop out,” he said firmly.

  “One more hand and we all drop out,” barked Madden. Something seemed to have annoyed him.

  “Let’s make it a good one, then,” said Maydorf. “The limit’s off, gentlemen.”

  It was a good one, unexpectedly a contest between Maydorf and Bob Eden. Drawing with the faint hope of completing two pairs, the boy was thrilled to encounter four nines in his hand. Perhaps he should have noted that Mardorf was dealing, but he didn’t—he bet heavily, and was finally called. Laying down his hand, he saw an evil smile on Shaky Phil’s face.

  “Four queens,” remarked Maydorf, spreading them out with an expert gesture. “Always was lucky with the ladies. I think you gentlemen pay me.”

  They did. Bob Eden contributed forty-seven dollars reluctantly. All on the expense account, however, he reflected.

  Mr Maydorf was in a not unaccountable good humour. “A very pleasant evening,” he remarked, as he put on his overcoat. “Ill drop in again, if I may.”

  “Good night,” snapped Madden.

  Thorn took a flashlight from the desk. “I’ll see you to the gate,” he announced. Bob Eden smiled. A flashlight—with a bright moon overhead.

  “Mighty good of you,” the outsider said. “Good night, gentlemen, and thank you very much.” He was smiling grimly as he followed the secretary out.

  Madden snatched up a cigar, and savagely bit the end from it. “Well?” he cried.

  “Well,” said Eden calmly.

  “You made a lot of progress with your father, didn’t you?”

  The boy smiled. “What did you expect me to do? Spill the whole thing in front of that bird?”

  “No—but you needn’t have rung off so quick. I was going to get him out of the room. Now you can go over there and call your father again.”

  “Nothing of the sort,” answered Eden. “He’s gone to bed, and I won’t disturb him till morning.”

  Madden’s face purpled. “I insist. And my orders are usually obeyed.”

  “Is that so?” remarked Eden. “Well, this is one that won’t be.”

  Madden glared at him. “You young— you— er— young—”

  “I know,” Eden said. “But this was all your fault. If you will insist on cluttering up the ranch with strangers you must take the consequences.”

  “Who cluttered up the ranch?” Madden demanded. “I didn’t invite that poor fool here. Where the devil did Thorn pick him up, anyhow? You know, the secretary of a ma
n like me is always besieged by a lot of four-flushers— tip-hunters and the like. And Thorn’s an idiot sometimes.” The secretary entered and laid the flashlight on the desk. His employer regarded him with keen distaste. “Well, your little playmate certainly queered things,” he said.

  Thorn shrugged. “I know. I’m sorry, chief. But I couldn’t help it. You saw how he horned in.”

  “Your fault for knowing him. Who is he, anyhow?”

  “Oh, he’s a broker, or something like that. I give you my word, chief, I never encouraged him. You know how those fellows are.”

  “Well, you go out to-morrow and tie a can to him. Tell him I’m busy here and don’t want any visitors. Tell him for me that if he calls here again I’ll throw him out.”

  “All right. I’ll go down to the doctor’s in the morning and let him know—in a diplomatic way.”

  “Diplomatic nothing,” snorted Madden. “Don’t waste diplomacy on a man like that. I won’t, if I see him again.”

  “Well, gentlemen, I think I’ll turn in,” Eden remarked.

  “Good night,” said Madden, and the boy went out.

  In his bedroom he found Ah Kim engaged in lighting the fire. He closed the door carefully behind him.

  “Well, Charlie, I’ve just been in a poker game.”

  “A fact already noted by me,” smiled Chan.

  “Shaky Phil has made a start on us, anyhow. He got forty-seven precious iron men this quiet evening.”

  “Humbly suggest you be careful,” advised Chan.

  “Humbly believe you’re right,” laughed Eden. “I was hoping you were in the offing when Thorn and our friend went to the gate.”

  “Indeed I was,” remarked Chan. “But moonlight so fierce, near approach was not possible.”

  “Well, I’m pretty sure of one thing after to-night,” Eden told him. “P. J. Madden never saw Shaky Phil before. Either that, or he’s the finest actor since Edwin Booth.”

  “Thorn, however—”

  “Oh, Thorn knew him all right. But he wasn’t the least bit glad to see him. You know, Thorn’s whole manner suggested to me that Shaky Phil has something on him.”

  “That might be possible,” agreed Chan. “Especially come to think of my latest discovery.”

  “You’ve found something new, Charlie? What?”

  “This evening, when Thorn haste to town in little car and I hear noisome snores of Madden, who sleep on bed, I make explicit search in secretary’s room.”

  “Yes—go on—quick. We might be interrupted.”

  “Under mountain of white shirts in Thorn’s bureau reposes—what? Missing forty-five we call Bill Hart’s gun.”

  “Good work! Thorn—the little rat—”

  “Undubitably. Two chambers of that gun are quite unoccupied. Reflect on that.”

  “I’m reflecting. Two empty chambers.”

  “Humbly suggest you sleep now, gathering strength for what may be most excited to-morrow.” The little detective paused at the door. “Two bullets gone, who knows where?” he said in a low voice. “Answer is, we know where one went. Went crazy, landing in wall at spot now covered by desert picture.”

  “And the other?” said Bob Eden thoughtfully.

  “Other hit mark, I think. What mark? We watch and wait, and maybe we discover. Good night, with plenty happy dreams.”

  Chapter IX

  A ride in the dark

  On Sunday morning Bob Eden rose at what was, for him, an amazingly early hour. Various factors conspired to induce this strange phenomenon—the desert sun, an extremely capable planet, filling his room with light, the roosters of P. J. Madden, loudly vocal in the dawn. At eight o’clock he was standing in the ranch-house yard, ready for whatever the day might bring forth.

  Whatever it brought, the day was superb. Now the desert was at its best, the chill of night still lingering in the magic air. He looked out over an opal sea, at changing colours of sand and cloud and mountain-top that shamed by their brilliance those glittering showcases in the jewellery-shop of Meek and Eden. Though it was the fashion of his age to pretend otherwise, he was not oblivious to beauty, and he set out for a stroll about the ranch with a feeling of awe in his heart.

  Turning a rear corner of the barn, he came unexpectedly upon a jarring picture. Martin Thorn was busy beside a basket, digging a deep hole in the sand. In his dark clothes, with his pale face glistening from his unaccustomed exertion, be looked not unlike some prosperous sexton.

  “Hello,” said Eden. “Who are you burying this fine morning?”

  Thorn stopped. Beads of perspiration gleamed on his high white forehead.

  “Somebody has to do it,” he complained. “That new boy’s too lazy. And if you let this refuse accumulate the place begins to look like a deserted picnic grounds.”

  He nodded toward the basket, filled with old tin cans.

  “Wanted, private secretary to bury rubbish back of barn,” smiled Eden. “A new sidelight on your profession, Thorn. Good idea to get them out of the way, at that,” he added, leaning over and taking up a can. “Especially this one, which I perceive lately held arsenic.”

  “Arsenic?” repeated Thorn. He passed a dark coat sleeve across his brow. “Oh, yes—we use a lot of that. Rats, you know.”

  “Rats,” remarked Eden, with an odd inflection, restoring the can to its place.

  Thorn emptied the contents of the basket into the hole, and began to fill it in. Eden, playing well his rôle of innocent bystander, watched him idly.

  “There—that’s better,” said the secretary, smoothing the sand over the recent excavation. “You know—I’ve always had a passion for neatness.” He picked up the basket. “By the way,” he added, “if you don’t mind, I’d like to give you a little advice.”

  “Glad to have it,” Eden replied, walking along beside him.

  “I don’t know how anxious you people are to sell that necklace. But I’ve been with the chief fifteen years, and I can tell you he’s not the sort of man you can keep waiting with impunity. The first thing you know, young man, that deal for the pearls will be off.”

  “I’m doing my best,” Eden told him. “Besides, Madden’s getting a big bargain, and he must know it—if he stops to think—”

  “Once P. J. Madden loses his temper,” said Thorn, “he doesn’t stop to think. I’m warning you, that’s all.”

  “Mighty kind of you,” answered Eden carelessly. Thorn dropped his spade and basket by the cookhouse, from which came the pleasant odour of bacon frying. Walking slowly, the secretary moved on toward the patio. Ah Kim emerged from his work-room, his cheeks flushed from close juxtaposition to a cooking-stove.

  “Hello, boss,” he said. “You takee look-see at sunlise thisee mawnin’?”

  “Up pretty early, but not as early as that,” the boy replied. He saw the secretary vanish into the house. “Just been watching our dear friend Thorn bury some rubbish back of the barn,” he added. “Among other items, a can that lately contained arsenic.”

  Chan dropped the rôle of Ah Kim. “Mr Thorn plenty busy man,” he said. “Maybe he get more busy as time goes by. One wrong deed leads on to other wrong deeds, like unending chain. Chinese have saying that applies: ‘He who rides on tiger cannot dismount.’”

  Madden appeared in the patio, full of pep and power. “Hey, Eden,” he called. “Your father’s on the wire.”

  “Dad’s up early,” remarked Eden, hurrying to join him.

  “I called him,” said Madden. “I’ve had enough delay.”

  Reaching the telephone, Bob Eden took up the receiver. “Hello, Dad. I can talk freely this morning. I want to tell you everything’s all right down here. Mr Madden? Yes—he’s fine—standing right beside me now. And he’s in a tearing hurry for that necklace.”

  “Very well—we’ll get it to him at once,” the elder Eden said. Bob Eden sighed with relief. His telegram had arrived.

  “Ask him to get it off to-day,” Madden commanded.

  “Mr Madden wants to
know if it can start to-day,” the boy said.

  “Impossible,” replied the jeweller. “I haven’t got it.”

  “Not to-day,” Bob Eden said to Madden. “He hasn’t got—”

  “I heard him,” roared Madden. “Here—give me that ’phone. Look here, Eden—what do you mean, you haven’t got it?”

  Bob Eden could hear his father’s replies. “Ah—Mr Madden—how are you? The pearls were in a quite disreputable condition—I couldn’t possibly let them go as they were. So I’m having them cleaned—they’re with another firm—”

  “Just a minute, Eden,” bellowed the millionaire. “I want to ask you something—can you understand the English language, or can’t you? Keep still—I’ll talk. I told you I wanted the pearls now—at once—pronto—what the devil language do you speak? I don’t give a hang about having them cleaned. Good Lord, I thought you understood.”

  “So sorry,” responded Bob Eden’s gentle father. “I’ll get them in the morning, and they’ll start to-morrow night.”

  “Yeah—that means Tuesday evening at the ranch. Eden, you make me sick. I’ve a good mind to call the whole thing off—” Madden paused, and Bob Eden held his breath. “However, if you promise the pearls will start to-morrow sure—”

  “I give you my word,” said the jeweller. “They will start to-morrow, at the very latest.”

  “All right. I’ll have to wait, I suppose. But this is the last time I deal with you, my friend. I’ll be on the look-out for your man on Tuesday. Good-bye.”

  In a towering rage, Madden hung up. His ill-humour continued through breakfast, and Eden’s gay attempts at conversation fell on barren ground. After the meal was finished Thorn took the little car and disappeared down the road. Bob Eden loafed expectantly about the front yard.

  Much sooner than he had dared to hope his vigil was ended. Paula Wendell, fresh and lovely as the California morning, drove up in her smart roadster and waited outside the barbed-wire fence.

  “Hello,” she said. “Jump in. You act as though you were glad to see me.”