The Chinese Parrot

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The Chinese Parrot Page 24

by Earl Derr Biggers


  “Charlie,” said Eden softly.

  Chan hastily dried his hands and came to the door. “Humbly begging pardon, do not come in here.” He led the way to the shadows beside the barn. “What are trouble now?” he asked gently.

  “Trouble!” said Eden. “You heard, didn’t you? We’ve been on the wrong track entirely. Jerry Delaney is alive and well.”

  “Most interesting, to be sure,” admitted Chan.

  “Interesting! Say—what are you made of, anyhow?” Chan’s calm was a bit disturbing. “Our theory blows up completely, and you—”

  “Old habit of theories.” said Chan. “Not the first to shatter in my countenance. Pardon me if I fail to experience thrill like you.”

  “But what shall we do now?”

  “What should we do? We hand over pearls. You have made foolish promise, which I heartily rebuked. Nothing to do but carry out.”

  “And go away without learning what happened here! I don’t see how I can—”

  “What is to be, will be. The words of the infinitely wise Kong I u Tse—”

  “But listen, Charlie—have you thought of this? Perhaps nothing happened. Maybe we’ve been on a false trail from the start—”

  A little car came tearing down the road, and they heard it stop with a wild shriek of the brakes before the ranch. They hurried round the house. The moon was low and the scene in semi-darkness. A familiar figure alighted and, without pausing to open the gate, leaped over it. Eden ran forward.

  “Hello, Holley,” he said.

  Holley turned suddenly.

  “Good Lord—you scared me. But you’re the man I’m looking for.” He was panting, obviously excited.

  “What’s wrong?” Eden asked.

  “I don’t know. But I’m worried. Paula Wendell—”

  Eden’s heart sank. “What about Paula Wendell?”

  “You haven’t heard from her—or seen her?”

  “No, of course not.”

  “Well, she never came back from the Petticoat Mine. It’s only a short run up there, and she left just after breakfast. She should have been back long ago. She promised to have dinner with me, and we were going to see the picture at the theatre to-night. It’s one she’s particularly interested in.”

  Eden was moving toward the road. “Come along—in heaven’s name—hurry—”

  Chan stepped forward. Something gleamed in his hand. “My automatic,” he explained. “I rescued it from suit-case this morning. Take it with you—”

  “I won’t need that,” said Eden. “Keep it. You may have use for it—”

  “I humbly beg of you—”

  “Thanks, Charlie. I don’t want it. All right, Holley—”

  “The pearls,” suggested Chan.

  “Oh, I’ll be back by eight. This is more important—”

  As he climbed into the car by Holley’s side Eden saw the front door of the ranch-house open, and the huge figure of Madden framed in the doorway.

  “Hey!” cried the millionaire.

  “Hey yourself!” muttered Eden. The editor was backing his car, and with amazing speed he swung it round. They were off down the road, the throttle wide open.

  “What could have happened?” Eden asked.

  “I don’t know. It’s a dangerous place, that old mine. Shafts sunk all over—the mouths of some of them hidden by underbrush. Shafts several hundred feet deep—”

  “Faster!” pleaded Eden.

  “Going the limit now,” Holley replied. “Madden seemed interested in your departure, didn’t he? I take it you haven’t given him the pearls.”

  “No. Something new broke to-night.” Eden told of the voice over the wireless. “Ever strike you that we may have been cuckoo from the start? No one even slightly damaged at the ranch, after all?”

  “Quite possible,” the editor admitted.

  “Well, that can wait. It’s Paula Wendell now.”

  Another car was coming toward them with reckless speed. Holley swung out, and the two cars grazed in passing.

  “Who was that?” wondered Eden.

  “A taxi from the station,” Holley returned. “I think I recognized the driver. There was some one in the back seat.”

  “I know,” said Eden. “Some one headed for Madden’s ranch perhaps.”

  “Perhaps,” agreed Holley. He turned off the main road into the perilous, half-obliterated highway that led to the long-abandoned mine. “Have to go slower, I’m afraid,” he said.

  “Oh, hit it up,” urged Eden. “You can’t hurt old Horace Greeley.” Holley again opened the throttle wide, and, the front wheel on the left coming at that moment in violent contact with a rock, their heads nearly pierced the top of the car.

  “It’s all wrong, Holley,” remarked Eden with feeling.

  “What’s all wrong?”

  “A pretty, charming girl like Paula Wendell running about alone in this desert country. Why in heaven’s name doesn’t somebody marry her and take her away from it?”

  “Not a chance,” replied Holley. “She hasn’t any use for marriage. ‘The last resort of feeble minds’ is what she calls it.”

  “Is that so?”

  “Never coop her up in a kitchenette, she told me, after the life of freedom she’s enjoyed.”

  “Then why did she go and get engaged to this guy?”

  “What guy?”

  “Wilbur—or whatever his name is. The lad who gave her the ring.”

  Holley laughed—then was silent for a minute. “I don’t suppose she’ll like it,” he said at last, “but I’m going to tell you, anyhow. It would be a pity if you didn’t find out. That emerald is an old one that belonged to her mother. She’s had it put in a more modern setting, and she wears it as a sort of protection.”

  “Protection?”

  “Yes. So every mush-head she meets won’t pester her to marry him.”

  “Oh,” said Eden. A long silence. “Is that the way she characterizes me?” asked the boy finally.

  “How?”

  “As a mush-head.”

  “Oh, no. She said you had the same ideas on marriage that she had. Refreshing to meet a sensible man like you, is the way she put it.” Another long silence. “What’s on your mind?” asked the editor.

  “Plenty,” said Eden grimly. “I suppose, at my age, it’s still possible to make over a wasted life?”

  “It ought to be,” Holley assured him.

  “I’ve been acting like a fool. Going to give good old Dad the surprise of his life when I get home. Take over the business, like he’s wanted me to, and work hard. So far I haven’t known what I wanted. Been as weak and vacillating as a—a woman.”

  “Some simile,” replied Holley. “I don’t know that I ever heard a worse one. Show me the woman who doesn’t know what she wants—and, knowing, fails to go after it.”

  “Oh, well—you get what I mean. How much farther is it?”

  “We’re getting there. Five miles more.”

  “Gad—I hope nothing’s happened to her.”

  They rattled on, closer and closer to the low hills, brick red under the rays of the slowly rising moon. The road entered a narrow canon; it almost disappeared, but like a homing thing Horace Greeley followed it intuitively.

  “Got a flashlight?” Eden inquired.

  “Yes. Why?”

  “Stop a minute, and let me have it. I’ve an idea.”

  He descended with the light, and carefully examined the road ahead. “She’s been along here,” he announced. “That’s the tread of her tyres—I’d know it anywhere—I changed one of them for her. She’s—she’s up there somewhere too. The car has been this way but once.”

  He leaped back beside Holley, and the car sped on, round hairpin turns, and along the edge of a precipice. Presently it turned a final corner, and before them, nestled in the hills, was the ghost city of Petticoat Mine.

  Bob Eden caught his breath. Under the friendly moon lay the remnants of a town, here a chimney and there a wall, street afte
r street of houses crumbled now to dust. Once the mine had boomed and the crowd had come, they had built their homes here where the shafts sank deep; silver had fallen in price, and the crowd had gone, leaving Petticoat Mine to the most deadly bombardment of all, the patient, silent bombardment of the empty years.

  They rode down Main Street, weaving in and out among black, gaping holes that might have been made by bursting shells. Between the cracks of the pavements, thronged once on a Saturday night, grew patches of pale green basket-grass. Of the ‘business blocks’ but two remained, and one of these was listing with the wind.

  “Cheery sight,” remarked Eden.

  “The building that’s on the verge of toppling is the old Silver Star Saloon,” said Holley. “The other one—it never will topple. They built it of stone—built it to stand—and they needed it too, I guess. That’s the old jail.”

  “The jail,” Eden repeated.

  Holley’s voice grew cautious. “Is that a light in the Silver Star?”

  “Seems to be,” Eden answered. “Look here—we’re at rather a disadvantage—unarmed, you know. I’ll just stow away in the tonneau, and appear when needed. The element of surprise may make up for our lack of a weapon.”

  “Good idea,” agreed Holley, and Eden climbed into the rear of the car and hid himself. They stopped before the Silver Star. A tall man appeared suddenly in the doorway, and walked briskly up to the car.

  “Well, what do you want?” he asked, and Bob Eden thrilled to hear again the thin, high voice of Shaky Phil Maydorf.

  “Hello, stranger,” said Holley. “This is a surprise. I thought old Petticoat was deserted.”

  “Company’s thinking of opening up the mine soon,” returned Maydorf. “I’m here to do a little assaying.”

  “Find anything?” inquired Holley casually.

  “The silver’s pretty well worked out. But there’s copper in those hills to the left. You’re a long way off the main road.”

  “I know that. I’m looking for a young woman who came up here this morning. Maybe you saw her.”

  “There hasn’t been anyone here for a week, except me.”

  “Really? Well, you may be mistaken. If you don’t mind, I’ll have a look round—”

  “And if I do mind?” snarled Shaky Phil.

  “Why should you—”

  “I do. I’m alone here, and I’m not taking any chances. You swing that car of yours around—”

  “Now, wait a minute,” said Holley. “Put away that gun. I come as a friend—”

  “Yeah. Well, as a friend you turn and beat it. Understand.” He was close to the car. “I tell you there’s nobody here—”

  He stopped as a figure rose suddenly from the tonneau and fell upon him. The gun exploded, but harmlessly into the road, for Bob Eden was bearing down upon it hard.

  For a brief moment, there on that deserted street before the Seven Star, the two struggled desperately. Shaky Phil was no longer young, but he offered a spirited resistance. However, it was not prolonged, and by the time Holley had alighted Bob Eden was on top and held Maydorf’s weapon in his hand.

  “Get up,” the boy directed. “And lead the way. Give me your keys. There’s a brand-new lock on that jail door, and we have a yearning to see what’s inside.” Shaky Phil rose to his feet and looked helplessly about. “Hurry!” cried Eden. “I’ve been longing to meet you again, and I don’t feel any too gentle. There’s that forty-seven dollars—to say nothing of all the trouble you put me to the night the President Pierce docked in San Francisco.”

  “There’s nothing in the jail,” said Maydorf. “I haven’t got the key—”

  “Go through him, Holley,” suggested the boy.

  A quick search produced a bunch of keys, and Eden, taking them, handed Holley the gun. “I give old Shaky Phil into your keeping. If he tries to run shoot him down like a rabbit.”

  He took the flashlight from the car, and, going over, unlocked the outer door of the jail. Stepping inside, he found himself in what had once been a sort of office. The moonlight, pouring in from the street, fell upon a dusty desk and chair, an old safe, and a shelf with a few tattered books. On the desk lay a newspaper. He flashed his light on the date— only a week old.

  At the rear were two heavy doors, both with new locks. Searching among his keys, he unlocked the one at the left. In a small, cell-like room with high, barred windows his flash-light revealed the tall figure of a girl. With no great surprise he recognized Evelyn Madden. She came toward him swiftly. “Bob Eden!” she cried, and then, her old haughtiness gone, she burst into tears.

  “There—there,” said Eden. “You’re all right now.” Another girl appeared suddenly in the doorway—Paula Wendell, bright and smiling.

  “Hello,” she remarked calmly. “I rather thought you’d come along.”

  “Thanks for the ad,” replied Eden. “Say, you might get hurt running about like this. What happened, anyhow?”

  “Nothing much. I came up to look round, and he”—she nodded to Shaky Phil in the moonlit street—“told me I couldn’t. I argued it with him, and ended up in here. He said I’d have to stay overnight. He was polite, but firm.”

  “Lucky for him he was polite,” remarked Eden grimly. He took the arm of Evelyn Madden. “Come along,” he said gently. “I guess we’re through here—”

  He stopped. Some one was hammering on the inside of the second door. Amazed, the boy looked toward Paula Wendell.

  She nodded. “Unlock it,” she told him.

  He unfastened the door and, swinging it open, peered inside. In the semi-darkness he saw the dim figure of a man.

  Eden gasped, and fell back against the desk for support.

  “Ghost city!” he cried. “Well, that’s what it is all right.”

  Chapter XXI

  End of the Postman’s Journey

  If Bob Eden had known the identity of the passenger in the taxi that he and Holley passed on their way to the mine, it is possible that, despite his concern for Paula Wendell, he would have turned back to Madden’s ranch. But he drove on unknowing; nor did the passenger, though he stared with interest at the passing car, recognize Eden. The car from the Eldorado station went on its appointed way, and finally drew up before the ranch-house.

  The driver alighted and was fumbling with the gate, when his fare leaped to the ground.

  “Never mind that,” he said. “I’ll leave you here. How much do I owe you?” He was a plump little man, about thirty-five years old, attired in the height of fashion and with a pompous manner. The driver named a sum, and, paying him off, the passenger entered the yard. Walking importantly up to the front door of the house, he knocked loudly.

  Madden, talking with Thorn and Gamble by the fire, looked up in annoyance. “Now who the devil—” he began. Thorn went over and opened the door. The plump little man at once pushed his way inside.

  “I’m looking for Mr P. J. Madden,” he announced.

  The millionaire rose. “All right—I’m Madden. What do you want?”

  The stranger shook hands. “Glad to meet you, Mr Madden. My name is Victor Jordan, and I’m one of the owners of those pearls you bought in San Francisco.”

  A delighted smile spread over Madden’s face. “Oh—I’m glad to see you,” he said. “Mr Eden told me you were coming—”

  “How could he?” demanded Victor. “He didn’t know it himself.”

  “Well, he didn’t mention you. But he informed me the pearls would be here at eight o’clock—”

  Victor stared. “Be here at eight o’clock?” he repeated. “Say, just what has Bob Eden been up to down here, anyhow? The pearls left San Francisco a week ago, when Eden did.”

  “What!” Purple again in Madden’s face. “He had them all the time! Why, the young scoundrel! I’ll break him in two for this. I’ll wring his neck—” He stopped. “But he’s gone. I just saw him driving away.”

  “Really?” returned Victor. “Well, that may not be so serious as it looks. When I say the p
earls left San Francisco with Eden, I don’t mean he was carrying them. Charlie had them.”

  “Charlie who?”

  “Why, Charlie Chan, of the Honolulu police. The man who brought them from Hawaii.”

  Madden was thoughtful. “Chan—a Chinaman?”

  “Of course. He’s here too, isn’t he? I understood he was.’

  A wicked light came into Madden’s eyes. “Yes, he’s here. You think he still has the pearls?”

  “I’m sure he has. In a money-belt about his waist. Get him here and I’ll order him to hand them over at once.”

  “Fine—fine!” chuckled Madden. “If you’ll step into this room for a moment, Mr Jordan, I’ll call you presently.”

  “Yes, sir—of course,” agreed Victor, who was always polite to the rich. Madden led him by the inside passage to his bedroom. When the millionaire returned, his spirits were high.

  “Bit of luck, this is,” he remarked. “And to think that blooming cook”” He went to the door leading on to the patio, and called loudly, “Ah Kim!”

  The Chinese shuffled in. He looked at Madden blankly. “Wha’s matta, boss?” he inquired.

  “I want to have a little talk with you.” Madden’s manner was genial, even kindly. “Where did you work before you came here?”

  “Get ’um woik all place, boss. Maybe lay sticks on gloun’ foah lailload—”

  “What town—what town did you work in last?”

  “No got ’um town, boss. Jus’ outdoahs no place, laying sticks—”

  “You mean you were laying ties for the railroad on the desert?”

  “Yes, boss. You light now.”

  Madden leaned back and put his thumbs in the arm-holes of his waistcoat. “Ah Kim—you’re a damned liar,” he said.

  “Wha’s matter, boss?”

  “I’ll show you what’s the matter. I don’t know what your game here has been, but it’s all over now.” Madden rose and stepped to the door. “Come in, sir,” he called, and Victor Jordan strode into the room. Chan’s eyes narrowed.

  “Charlie, what is all this nonsense?” demanded Victor. “What are you doing in that melodramatic outfit?”

  Chan did not answer. Madden laughed. “All over, as I told you, Charlie—if that’s your name. This is Mr Jordan, one of the owners of those pearls you’re carrying in your money-belt.”

 

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