The Chinese Parrot

by The Chinese Parrot [lit]

  "Is it? How come?"

  "Oh, the movies move. A few years back the location finder was a rather important person. Today most of this country has been explored and charted, and every studio is equipped with big albums full of pictures. So every time a new efficiency expert comes along -- which is about once a week -- and starts lopping off heads, it's the people in my line who are the first to go. In a little while we'll be as extinct as the dodo."

  "You may be extinct," Eden answered. "But there the similarity between you and the dodo will stop abruptly."

  The girl halted her horse. "Just a minute. I want to take a few pictures here. It looks to me like a bit of desert we haven't used yet. Just the sort of thing to thrill the shopgirls and the bookkeepers back there where the East hangs out." When she had swung again into the saddle, she added: "It isn't strange they love it, those tired people in the cities. Each one thinks -- oh, if only I could go there."

  "Yes, and if they got here once, they'd die of loneliness the first night," Bob Eden said. "Just pass out in agony moaning for the subway and the comics in the evening paper."

  "I know they would," the girl replied. "But fortunately they'll never come."

  They rode on, and the girl began to point out the various unfriendly-looking plants of the desert, naming them one by one. Arrowweed, bitter-brush, mesquite, desert plantain, catclaw, thistle-sage.

  "That's a cholla," she announced. "Another variety of cactus. There are seventeen thousand in all."

  "All right," Eden replied. "I'll take your word for it. You needn't name them." His head was beginning to ache with all this learning.

  Presently sumac and Canterbury bell proclaimed their nearness to the canyon, and they cantered out of the desert heat into the cathedral-like coolness of the hills. In and out over almost hidden trails the horses went. Wild plum glowed on the slopes, and far below under native palms a narrow stream tinkled invitingly.

  Life seemed very simple and pleasant there in Lonely Canyon, and Bob Eden felt suddenly close indeed to this lively girl with the eager eyes. All a lie that there were crowded cities. The world was new, unsullied and unspoiled, and they were alone in it.

  They descended by way of a rather treacherous path and in the shelter of the palms that fringed the tiny stream, dismounted for a lunch which Paula Wendell claimed to have concealed in her knapsack.

  "Wonderfully restful here," Bob Eden said.

  "But you said the other day you weren't tired," the girl reminded him.

  "Well, I'm not. But somehow I like this anyhow. However, I guess it isn't all a matter of geography. It's not so much the place you're in -- it's who you're with. After which highly original remark, I hasten to add that I really can't eat a thing."

  "You were right," she laughed. "The truth isn't in you. I know what you're thinking -- I didn't bring enough for two. But these Oasis sandwiches are meant for ranchers, and one is my limit. There are four of them -- I must have had a premonition. We'll divide the milk equally."

  "But look here, it's your lunch. I should have thought to get something at Seven Palms."

  "There's a roast beef sandwich. Try that, and maybe you won't feel so talkative."

  "Well, I -- am -- gumph --"

  "What did I tell you? Oh, the Oasis aims to fill. Milk?"

  "Ashamed of myself," mumbled Eden. But he was easily persuaded.

  "You haven't eaten a thing," he said finally.

  "Oh, yes I have. More than I usually do. I'm one of those dainty eaters."

  "Good news for Wilbur," replied Eden. "The upkeep won't be high. Though if he has any sense, he'll know that whatever the upkeep on a girl like you, it will be worth it."

  "I sent him your love," said the girl.

  "Is that so? Well, I'm sorry you did, in a way. I'm no hypocrite, and try as I may, I can't discover any lurking fondness for Wilbur. Oddly enough, the boy begins to annoy me."

  "But you said --"

  "I know. But isn't it just possible that I've overrated this freedom stuff? I'm young, and the young are often mistaken. Stop me if you've heard this one, but the more I see of you --"

  "Stop. I've heard it."

  "I'll bet you have. Many times."

  "And my suggestion is that we get back to business. If we don't that horse of yours is going to eat too much Bermuda grass."

  Through the long afternoon, amid the hot yellow dunes, the wind-blown foothills of that sandy waste, they rode back to Seven Palms by a roundabout route. The sun was sinking, the rose and gold wonder of the skies reflected on snow and glistening sand, when finally they headed for the village.

  "If only I could find a novel setting for the final love scene," sighed the girl.

  "Whose final love scene?"

  "The cowpuncher's and the poor little rich girl's. So many times they've just wandered off into the sunset, hand in hand. Really need a little more kick in it than that."

  Eden heard a clank as of a horse's hoofs on steel. His mount stumbled, and he reined it in sharply.

  "What in Sam Hill's that?" he asked.

  "Oh -- that! It's one of the half-buried rails of the old branch road -- a memento of a dream that never came true. Years ago they started to build a town over there under those cottonwoods, and the railroad laid down fifteen miles of track from the main line. A busy metropolis of the desert -- that's what they meant it to be -- and there's just one little old ruined house standing today. But that was the time of Great Expectations. They brought out crowds of people, and sold six hundred lots one hectic afternoon."

  "And the railroad?"

  "Ran just one train -- and stopped. All they had was an engine and two old street-cars brought down from San Francisco. One of the cars has been demolished and the timber carried away, but the wreck of the other is still standing not far from here."

  Presently they mounted a ridge, and Bob Eden cried, "What do you know about that?"

  There before them on the lonely desert, partly buried in the drifting sand, stood the remnant of a trolley-car. It was tilted rakishly to one side, its windows were yellow with dust, but on the front, faintly decipherable still, was the legend "Market Street."

  At that familiar sight, Bob Eden felt a keen pang of nostalgia. He reined in his horse and sat staring at this symbol of the desert's triumph over the proud schemes of man. Man had thought he could conquer, he had come with his engines and his dreams, and now an old battered trolley stood alone as a warning and a threat.

  "There's your setting," he said. "They drive out together and sit there on the steps, your lovers. What a background -- a car that once trundled from Twin Peaks to the Ferry, standing lonely and forlorn amid the cactus plants."

  "Fine," the girl answered. "I'm going to hire you to help me after this."

  They rode close to the car and dismounted. The girl unlimbered her camera and held it steady. "Don't you want me in the picture?" Eden asked. "Just as a sample lover, you know."

  "No samples needed," she laughed. The camera clicked. As it did so the two young people stood rooted to the desert in amazement. An old man had stepped suddenly from the interior of the car -- a bent old man with a coal-black beard.

  Eden's eyes sought those of the girl. "Last Wednesday night at Madden's?" he inquired in a low voice.

  She nodded. "The old prospector," she replied.

  The black-bearded one did not speak, but stood with a startled air on the front platform of that lost trolley under the caption "Market Street."

  CHAPTER XIII

  What Mr. Cherry Saw

  BOB EDEN stepped forward. "Good evening," he said. "I hope we haven't disturbed you."

  Moving with some difficulty, the old man descended from the platform to the sandy floor of the desert. "How do," he said gravely, shaking hands. He also shook hands with Paula Wendell. "How do, miss. No, you didn't disturb me none. Just takin' my forty winks -- I ain't so spry as I used to be."

  "We happened to be passing --" Eden began.

  "Ain't many pass this w
ay," returned the old man. "Cherry's my name -- William I. Cherry. Make yourselves to home. Parlor chairs is kind o' scarce, miss."

  "Of course," said the girl.

  "We'll stop a minute, if we may," suggested Eden.

  "It's comin' on supper time," the old man replied hospitably. "How about grub? There's a can o' beans, an' a mite o' bacon --"

  "Couldn't think of it," Eden told him. "You're mighty kind, but we'll be back in Seven Palms shortly." Paula Wendell sat down on the car steps, and Eden took a seat on the warm sand. The old man went to the rear of the trolley and returned with an empty soap-box. After an unsuccessful attempt to persuade Eden to accept it as a chair, he put it to that use himself.

  "Pretty nice home you've picked out for yourself," Eden remarked.

  "Home?" The old man surveyed the trolley-car critically. "Home, boy? I ain't had no home these thirty years. Temporary quarters, you might say."

  "Been here long?" asked Eden.

  "Three, four days. Rheumatism's been actin' up. But I'm movin' on tomorrey."

  "Moving on? Where?"

  "Why -- over yonder."

  "Just where is that?" Eden smiled.

  "Where it's allus been. Over yonder. Somewhere else."

  "Just looking, eh?"

  "Jest lookin'. You've hit it. Goin' on over yonder an' jest lookin'." His tired old eyes were on the mountaintops.

  "What do you expect to find?" inquired Paula Wendell.

  "Struck a vein o' copper once, miss," Mr. Cherry said. "But they got her away from me. Howsomever, I'm lookin' still."

  "Been on the desert a long time?" Eden asked.

  "Twenty, twenty-five years. One desert or another."

  "And before that?"

  "Prospected in West Australia from Hannans to Hall's Creek -- through the Territory into Queensland. Drove cattle from the gulf country into New South Wales. Then I worked in the stoke hole on ocean liners."

  "Born in Australia, eh?" Eden suggested.

  "Who -- me?" Mr. Cherry shook his head. "Born in South Africa -- English descent. Been all up and down the Congo an' Zambesi -- all through British Central Africa."

  "How in the world did you get to Australia?" Eden wondered.

  "Oh, I don't know, boy. I was filibusterin' down along the South American continent fer a while, an' then I drifted into a Mexican campaign. Seems like there was somethin' I wanted in Australia -- anyhow, I got there. Jest the way I got here. It was over yonder, an' I went."

  Eden shook his head. "Ye gods, I'll bet you've seen a lot!"

  "I guess I have, boy. Doctor over in Redlands was tellin' me t'other day -- you need spectacles, he says. 'Hell, Doc,' I says, 'what fer? I've seen everything,' I says, and I come away."

  Silence fell. Bob Eden wasn't exactly sure how to go about this business; he wished he had Chan at his elbow. But his duty was clear.

  "You -- er -- you've been here for three or four days, you say?"

  "'Bout that, I reckon."

  "Do you happen to recall where you were last Wednesday night?"

  The old man's eyes were keen enough as he glanced sharply at the boy. "What if I do?"

  "I was only going to say that if you don't, I can refresh your memory. You were at Madden's ranch house, over near Eldorado."

  Slowly Mr. Cherry removed his slouch hat. With gnarled bent fingers he extracted a toothpick from the band. He stuck it defiantly in his mouth. "Maybe I was. What then?"

  "Well -- I'd like to have a little talk with you about that night."

  Cherry surveyed him closely. "You're a new one on me," he said. "An' I thought I knew every sheriff an' deputy west o' the Rockies."

  "Then you'll admit something happened at Madden's that might interest a sheriff?" returned Eden quickly.

  "I ain't admittin' nothin'," answered the old prospector.

  "You have information regarding last Wednesday night at Madden's," Eden persisted. "Vital information. I must have it."

  "Nothin' to say," replied Cherry stubbornly.

  Eden took another tack. "Just what was your business at Madden's ranch?"

  Mr. Cherry rolled the aged toothpick in his mouth. "No business at all. I jest dropped in. Been wanderin' the desert a long time, like I said, an' now an' ag'in I drifted in at Madden's. Me an' the old caretaker, Louie Wong, was friends. When I'd come along he'd stake me to a bit o' grub, an' a bed in the barn. Sort o' company fer him, I was. He was lonesome-like at the ranch -- only a Chink, but lonesome-like, same as if he'd been white."

  "A kindly old soul, Louie," suggested Eden.

  "One o' the best, boy, en' that's no lie."

  Eden spoke slowly. "Louie Wong has been murdered," he said.

  "What's that?"

  "Stabbed in the side last Sunday night near the ranch gate. Stabbed -- by some unknown person."

  "Some dirty dog," said Mr. Cherry indignantly.

  "That's just how I feel about it. I'm not a policeman, but I'm doing my best to find the guilty man. The thing you saw that night at the ranch, Mr. Cherry, no doubt has a decided bearing on the killing of Louie. I need your help. Now, will you talk?"

  Mr. Cherry removed the toothpick from his mouth and, holding it before him, regarded it thoughtfully. "Yes," he said, "I will. I was hopin' to keep out o' this. Judges an' courts an' all that truck ain't fer me. I give 'em a wide berth. But I'm a decent man, an' I ain't got nothin' to hide. I'll talk, but I don't hardly know how to begin."

  "I'll help you," Eden answered, delighted. "The other night when you were at Madden's ranch perhaps you heard a man cry, 'Help! Help! Murder! Put down that gun. Help.' Something like that, eh?"

  "I ain't got nothin' to hide. That's jest what I heard."

  Eden's heart leaped. "And after that -- you saw something --"

  The old man nodded. "I saw plenty, boy. Louie Wong wasn't the first to be killed at Madden's ranch. I saw murder done."

  Eden gasped inwardly. He saw Paula Wendell's eyes wide and startled. "Of course you did," he said. "Now go on and tell me all about it."

  Mr. Cherry restored the toothpick to its predestined place in his mouth, but it interfered in no way with his speech.

  "Life's funny," he began. "Full o' queer twists an' turns. I thought this was jest one more secret fer me an' the desert together. Nobody knows about you, I says. Nobody ain't goin' to question you. But I was wrong, I see, an' I might as well speak up. It's nothin' to me, one way or t'other, though I would like to keep out o' courtrooms --"

  "Well, maybe I can help you," Eden suggested. "Go on. You say you saw murder --"

  "Jest hold yer horses, boy," Mr. Cherry advised. "As I was sayin', last Wednesday night after dark I drifts in at Madden's as usual. But the minute I comes into the yard, I see there's something doin' there. The boss has come. Lights in most o' the windows, an' a big car in the barn. Longside Louie's old flivver. Howsomever, I'm tired, an' I figures I'll jest wait round fer Louie, keepin' out o' sight o' the big fellow. A little supper an' a bed, maybe, kin be negotiated without gettin' too conspicuous.

  "So I puts my pack down in the barn, an' steps over to the cookhouse. Louie ain't there. Jest as I'm comin' out o' the place, I hears a cry from the house -- a man's voice, loud an' clear. 'Help.' he says. 'Put down that gun. I know your game. Help. Help.' Jest as you said. Well, I ain't lookin' fer no trouble, an' I stands there a minute, uncertain. An' then the cry comes again, almost the same words -- but not the man this time. It's Tony, the Chinese parrot, on his perch in the patio, an' from him the words is shrill an' piercin' -- more terrible, somehow. An' then I hears a sharp report -- the gun is workin'. The racket seems to come from a lighted room in one ell -- a window is open. I creeps closer, an' there goes the gun ag'in. There's a sort of groan. It's hit, sure enough. I goes up to the window an' looks in."

  He paused. "Then what?" Bob Eden asked breathlessly.

  "Well, it's a bedroom, an' he's standin' there with the smokin' gun in his hand, lookin' fierce but frightened like. An' there's somebody on the flo
or, t'other side o' the bed -- all I kin see is his shoes. He turns toward the window, the gun still in his hand --"

  "Who?" cried Bob Eden. "Who was it with the gun in his hand? You're talking about Martin Thorn?"

  "Thorn? You mean that little sneakin' secretary? No -- I ain't speakin' o' Thorn. I'm speakin' o' him --"

  "Who?"

  "The big boss. Madden. P.J. Madden himself."