The Chinese Parrot

by Earl Derr Biggers

  Eden paused. He saw Charlie Chan regarding him with deep interest.

  “Can you wonder I’m worried about Bob?” the jeweller continued. “There’s some funny business going on, and I tell you I don’t like it—”

  A knock sounded on the door, and Eden himself opened it. His son stepped into the room, debonair and smiling. At sight of him, as so often happens in such a situation, the anxious father’s worry gave way to a deep rage.

  “You’re a hell of a business man,” he cried.

  “Now, Father—no compliments,” laughed Bob Eden. “And me wandering all over San Francisco in your service.”

  “I suppose so. That’s about what you would be doing, when it was your job to meet Mr Chan at the dock.”

  “Just a moment, Dad.” Bob Eden removed a glistening raincoat. “Hello, Victor. Madame Jordan. And this, I imagine, is Mr Chan.”

  “So sorry to miss meeting at dock,” murmured Chan. “All my fault, I am sure—”

  “Nonsense,” cried the jeweller. “His fault, as usual. When, in heaven’s name, are you going to show a sense of responsibility?”

  “Now, Dad. And a sense of responsibility just what I’ve only this minute stopped showing nothing else but.”

  “Good Lord—what language is that? You didn’t meet Mr Chan, did you?”

  “Well, in a way I didn’t—”

  “In a way? In a way!”

  “Precisely. It’s a long story, and I’ll tell it if you’ll stop interrupting with these unwarranted attacks on my character. I’ll sit down, if I may. I’ve been about a bit, and I’m tired.”

  He lighted a cigarette. “When I came out of the club about five to go to the dock there was nothing in sight but a battered old taxi that had seen better days. I jumped in. When I got down on the Embarcadero I noticed that the driver was a pretty disreputable lad with a scar on one cheek and a cauliflower ear. He said he’d wait for me, and he said it with a lot of enthusiasm. I went into the pier-shed. There was the President Pierce out in the harbour, fumbling round trying to dock. In a few minutes I noticed a man standing near me—a thin, chilly-looking lad with an overcoat, the collar up about his ears, and a pair of black spectacles. I guess I’m psychic—he didn’t look good to me. I couldn’t tell, but somehow he seemed to be looking at me behind those smoked windows. I moved to the other side of the shed. So did he. I went to the street. He followed. Well, I drifted back to the gang-plank, and old Chilly Bill came along.”

  Bob Eden paused, smiling genially about him. “Right then and there I came to a quick decision. I’m remarkable that way. I didn’t have the pearls, but Mr Chan did. Why tip off the world to Mr Chan? So I just stood there staring hopefully at the crowd landing from the old P. P. Presently I saw the man I took to be Mr Chan come down the plank, but I never stirred. I watched him while he looked about, then I saw him go out to the street. Still the mysterious gent behind the windows stuck closer than a bill-collector. After everybody was ashore, I went back to my taxi and paid off the driver. ‘Was you expecting somebody on the ship?’ he asked. ‘Yes,’ I told him. ‘I came down to meet the Dowager Empress of China, but they tell me she’s dead.’ He gave me a dirty look. As I hurried away the man with the dark glasses came up. ‘Taxi, mister?’ said Cauliflower Ear. And old Glasses got in. I had to meander through the rain all the way to the S. P. station before I could find another cab. Just as I drove away from the station along came Cauliflower Ear in his splendid equipage. He followed along behind, down Third, up Market to Powell, and finally to the Saint Francis. I went in the front door of the hotel and out the side, on to Post. And there was Cauliflower Ear and his fare, drifting by our store. As I went in the front door of the club my dear old friends drew up across the street. I escaped by way of the kitchen, and slipped over here. I fancy they’re still in front of the club—they loved me like a brother.” He paused. “And that, Dad, is the long but thrilling story of why I did not meet Mr Chan.”

  Eden smiled. “By Jove, you’ve got more brains than I thought. You were perfectly right. But look here, Sally— I like this less than ever. That necklace of yours isn’t a well-known string. It’s been in Honolulu for years. Easy as the devil to dispose of it, once it’s stolen. If you’ll take my advice you’ll certainly not send it off to the desert—”

  “Why not?” broke in Victor. “The desert’s the very place to send it. Certainly this town doesn’t look any too good.”

  “Alec,” said Sally Jordan, “we need the money. If Mr Madden is down at Eldorado, and asks for the necklace there, then let’s send it to him immediately and get his receipt. After that—well, it’s his look-out. His worry. Certainly I want it off my hands as soon as may be.”

  Eden sighed. “All right. It’s for you to decide. Bob will take it at eleven, as we planned. Provided—well, provided you make the arrangement you promised—provided he doesn’t go alone.” He looked toward Charlie Chan, who was standing at the window watching, fascinated, the noisy life of Geary Street far below.

  “Charlie,” said Sally Jordan.

  “Yes, Miss Sally.” He turned, smiling, to face her.

  “What was that you said about the burden dropping from your shoulders? The delectable thud?”

  “Now vacation begins,” he said. “All my life I have unlimited yearning to face the wonders of this mainland. Moment are now at hand. Care-free and happy, not like crossing on ship. There all time pearls rest heavy on stomach, most undigestible, like sour rice. Not so now.”

  Madame Jordan shook her head. “I’m sorry, Charlie,” she said. “I’m going to ask you to eat one more bowl of sour rice. For me—for auld lang syne.”

  “I do not quite grasp meaning,” he told her.

  She outlined the plan to send him with Bob Eden to the desert. His expression did not change.

  “I will go,” he promised gravely.

  “Thank you, Charlie,” said Sally Jordan softly.

  “In my youth,” he continued, “I am house-boy in the Phillimore mansion. Still in my heart like old-time garden bloom memories of kindness never to be repaid.” He saw Sally Jordan’s eyes bright and shining with tears. “Life would be dreary waste,” he finished, “if there was no thing called loyalty.”

  Very flowery, thought Alexander Eden. He sought to introduce a more practical note. “All your expenses will be paid, of course. And that vacation is just postponed for a few days. You’d better carry the pearls—you have the belt, and, besides, no one knows your connexion with the affair. Thank heaven for that.”

  “I will carry them,” Chan agreed. He took up the string from the table. “Miss Sally, toss all worry out of mind. When this young man and I encounter proper person pearls will be delivered. Until then I guard them well.”

  “I’m sure you will,” smiled Madame Jordan.

  “Well, that’s settled,” said Eden. “Mr Chan, you and my son will take the eleven o’clock ferry to Richmond, which connects with the train to Barstow. There you’ll have to change to another train for Eldorado, but you should reach Madden’s ranch to-morrow evening. If he is there and everything seems in order—”

  “Why should everything be in order?” broke in Victor. “If he’s there—that’s enough.”

  “Well, of course, we don’t want to take any undue risk,” Eden went on. “But you two will know what to do when you reach there. If Madden’s at the ranch give him the siring and get his receipt. That lets us out. Mr Chan, we will pick you up here at ten-thirty. Until then you are free to follow your own inclination.”

  “Present inclination,” smiled Chan, “means tub filled with water, steaming hot. At ten-thirty in entrance-hall of hotel I will be waiting, undigestible pearls on stomach, as before. Good-bye. Good-bye.” He bobbed to each in turn and went out.

  “I’ve been in business thirty-five years,” said Eden, “but I never employed a messenger quite like him before.”

  “Dear Charlie,” said Sally Jordan. “He’ll protect those pearls with his life.”


  Bob Eden laughed. “I hope it doesn’t go as far as that,” he remarked. “I’ve got a life too, and I’d like to hang on to it.”

  “Won’t you both stay to dinner?” suggested Sally Jordan.

  “Some other time, thanks,” Alexander Eden answered. “I don’t think it wise we should keep together to-night. Bob and I will go home—he has a bag to pack, I imagine, I don’t intend to let him out of my sight until train-time.”

  “One last word,” said Victor. “Don’t be too squeamish when you get down on that ranch. If Madden’s in danger that’s no affair of ours. Put those pearls in his hand and get his receipt. That’s all.”

  Eden shook his head. “I don’t like the look of this, Sally. I don’t like this thing at all.”

  “Don’t worry,” she smiled. “I have every confidence in Charlie—and in Bob.”

  “Such popularity must be deserved,” said Bob Eden. “I promise I’ll do my best. Only I hope that lad in the overcoat doesn’t decide to come down to the desert and warm up. Somehow I’m not so sure I’d be a match for him—once he warmed up.”

  Chapter III

  At Chan Kee Lim’s

  An hour later Charlie Chan rode down in the elevator to the bright lobby of his hotel. A feeling of heavy responsibility again weighed upon him, for he had restored to the money-belt about his bulging waist the pearls that alone remained of all the Phillimore fortune. After a quick glance about the lobby he went out into Geary Street.

  The rain no longer fell and for a moment he stood on the kerb, a little, wistful, wide-eyed stranger, gazing at a world as new and strange to him as though he had wakened to find himself on Mars. The pavement was crowded with theatre-goers; taxis honked in the narrow street; at intervals sounded the flippant warning of cable-car bells, which is a tune heard only in San Francisco, a city with a voice and a gesture all its own.

  Unexplored country to Charlie Chan, this mainland, and he was thrilled by the electric gaiety of the scene before him. Old-timers would have told him that what he saw was only a dim imitation of the night life of other days, but he had no memories of the past, and hence nothing to mourn. Seated on a stool at a lunch-counter, he ate his evening meal— a stool and a lunch-counter, but it was adventure enough for one who had never known Billy Bogan’s Louvre Café, on the site of which now stands the Bank of Italy—adventure enough for one who had no happy recollections of Delmonico’s on O’Farrell Street or of the Odeon or the Pup or the Black Cat, bright spots blotted out for ever now. He partook heartily of the white man’s cooking, and drank three cups of steaming tea.

  A young man, from his appearance perhaps a clerk, was eating a modest dinner at Chan’s side. After a few words concerned with the sugar-bowl, Chan ventured to address him further.

  “Please pardon the abrupt advance of a newcomer,” he said. “For three hours I am free to wander the damp but interesting streets of your city. Kindly mention what I ought to see.”

  “Why— I don’t know,” said the young man, surprised. “Not much doing any more. San Francisco’s not what it used to be.”

  “The Barbary Coast, maybe,” suggested Chan.

  The young man snorted. “Gone for ever. The Thalia, the Elko, the Midway—say, they’re just memories now. Spider Kelley is over in Arizona, dealing in land. Yes, sir—all those old dance-halls are just garages to-day—or maybe ten-cent flop-houses. But look here—this is New Year’s Eve in Chinatown. However—” He laughed. “I guess I don’t need to tell you that.”

  Chan nodded. “Ah, yes—the twelfth of February. New Year’s Eve.”

  Presently he was back on the pavement, his keen eyes sparkling with excitement. He thought of the somnolent thoroughfares of Honolulu by night—Honolulu, where every one goes home at six, and stays there. How different here in this mainland city! The driver of a sight-seeing bus approached him and also spoke of Chinatown. “Show you the old opium dens and the fan-tan joints,” he promised, but after a closer look moved off and said no more of his spurious wares.

  At a little after eight the detective from the Islands left the friendly glow of Union Square and, drifting down into the darker stretches of Post Street, came presently to Grant Avenue. A loiterer on the corner directed him to the left, and he strolled on. In a few moments he came to a row of shops displaying cheap Oriental goods for the tourist eye. His pace quickened; he passed the church on the crest of the hill and moved on down into the real Chinatown.

  Here a spirit of carnival filled the air. The façade of every tong house, outlined by hundreds of glowing incandescent lamps, shone in yellow splendour through the misty night. Throngs crowded on the narrow pavements—white sightseers, dapper young Chinese lads in college-cut clothes escorting slant-eyed flappers attired in their best, older Chinese shuffling along on felt-clad feet, each secure in the knowledge that his debts were paid, his house scoured and scrubbed, the new year auspiciously begun.

  At Washington Street Chan turned up the hill. Across the way loomed an impressive building—four gaudy stories of light and cheer. Gilt letters in the transom over the door proclaimed it the home of the Chan Family Society. For a moment the detective stood, family pride uppermost in his thoughts.

  A moment later he was walking down the dim, almost deserted pavement of Waverly Place. A bright-eyed boy of his own race offered him a copy of the Chinese Daily Times. He bought it and moved on, his gaze intent on dim house-numbers above darkened doorways.

  Presently he found the number he sought, and climbed a shadowy stair. At a landing where crimson and gold-lettered strips of paper served as a warning to evil spirits he paused, and knocked loudly at the door. It was opened, and against the light from within stood the figure of a Chinese, tall, with a grey, meagre beard and a loose-fitting, embroidered blouse of black satin.

  For a moment neither spoke. Then Chan smiled. “Good evening, illustrious Chan Kee Lim,” he said in pure Cantonese. “Is it that you do not know your unworthy cousin from the Islands?”

  A light shone in the narrow eyes of Kee Lim. “For a moment, no,” he replied, “since you come in the garb of a foreign devil, and knock on my door with the knuckles, as rude foreign devils do. A thousand welcomes. Deign to enter my contemptible house.”

  Still smiling, the little detective went inside. The room was anything but contemptible, as he saw at once. It was rich with tapestries of Hang-chiu silk, the furniture was of teakwood, elaborately carved. Fresh flowers bloomed before the ancestral shrine, and everywhere were Chinese lilies, the pale, pungent sui-sin-fah, symbol of the dawning year. On the mantel, beside a tiny Buddha of Ningpo-wood, an American alarm clock ticked noisily.

  “Please sit in this wretched chair,” Kee Lim said. “You arrive unexpectedly as August rain. But I am happy to see you.” He clapped his hands and a woman entered. “My wife, Chan So,” the host explained. “Bring rice-cakes, and my Dew of Roses wine,” he ordered.

  He sat down opposite Charlie Chan, and regarded him across a teakwood table on which were sprays of fresh almond-blossoms. “There was no news of your coming,” he remarked.

  Chan shrugged. “No. It was better so. I come on a mission. On business,” he added, in his best Rotary Club manner.

  Kee Lim’s eyes narrowed. “Yes—I have heard of your business,” he said.

  The detective was slightly uncomfortable. “You do not approve?” he ventured.

  “It is too much to say that I do not approve,” Kee Lim returned. “But I do not quite understand. The foreign-devil police—what has a Chinese in common with them?”

  Charlie smiled. “There are times, honourable cousin,” he admitted, “when I do not quite understand myself.”

  The reed curtains at the rear parted, and a girl came into the room. Her eyes were dark and bright; her face pretty as a doll’s. To-night, in deference to the holiday, she wore the silken trousers and embroidered jacket of her people, but her hair was bobbed and her walk, her gestures, her whole manner, all too obviously copied from her American sisters. She
carried a tray piled high with New Year delicacies.

  “My daughter Rose,” Kee Lim announced. “Behold, our famous cousin from Hawaii.” He turned to Charlie Chan. “She too would be an American, insolent as the daughters of the foolish white men.”

  The girl laughed. “Why not? I was born here. I went to American grammar schools. And now I work American fashion.”

  “Work?” repeated Charlie, with interest.

  “The Classics of Girlhood are forgotten,” explained Kee Lim. “All day she sits in the Chinatown telephone exchange, shamelessly talking to a wall of teakwood that flashes red and yellow eyes.”

  “Is that so terrible?” asked the girl, with a laughing glance at her cousin.

  “A most interesting labour,” surmised Charlie.

  “I’ll tell the world it is,” answered the girl in English, and went out. A moment later she returned with a battered old wine-jug. Into Swatow bowls she poured two hot libations—then, taking a seat on the far side of the room, she gazed curiously at this notable relative from across the seas. Once she had read of his exploits in the San Francisco papers.

  For an hour or more Chan sat, talking with his cousin of the distant days when they were children in China. Finally he glanced toward the mantel. “Does that clock speak the truth?” he asked.

  Kee Lim shrugged. “It is a foreign-devil clock,” he said. “And therefore a great liar.”

  Chan consulted his watch. “With the keenest regret,” he announced, “I find I must walk my way. To-night my business carries me far from here—to the desert that lies in the South. I have had the presumption, honest and industrious cousin, to direct my wife to send to your house any letters of importance addressed to me. Should a message arrive in my absence, you will be good enough to hold it here awaiting my return. In a few days, at most, I will walk this way again. Meanwhile I go beyond the reach of messengers.”