The Chinese Parrot

by Earl Derr Biggers

  “Hoo la ma,” he said.

  Tony perked up. “Sung Kai yat bo,” he remarked.

  “Yes, and a great pity, too,” replied Eden facetiously.

  “Gee fung low hop,” added Tony, somewhat feebly.

  “Perhaps, but I heard different,” said Eden, and moved on. He wondered what Chan was doing. Evidently the detective thought it best to obey Thorn’s command that he keep away from the bird. This was not surprising, for the windows of the secretary’s room looked out on Tony’s perch.

  Back in the living-room, Eden took up a book. At a few minutes before twelve he heard the asthmatic cough of Horace Greeley in the yard, and, rising, he admitted Will Holley. The editor was smiling and alert.

  “Hello,” Eden said. “Madden’s in there with Thorn, getting out the interview. Sit down.” He came close. “And please remember that I haven’t brought these pearls. My business with Madden is still unfinished.”

  Holley looked at him with sudden interest. “I get you. But I thought last night that everything was lovely. Do you mean—”

  “Tell you later,” interrupted Eden. “I may be in town this afternoon.” He spoke in a louder tone. “I’m glad you came along. I was finding the desert a bit flat when you flivvered in.”

  Holley smiled. “Cheer up. I’ve got something for you. A veritable storehouse of wit and wisdom.” He handed over a paper. “This week’s issue of the Eldorado Times, damp from the presses. Read about Louie Wong’s big trip to San Francisco. All the news to fit the print.”

  Eden took the proffered paper—eight small pages of mingled news and advertisements. He sank into a chair. “Well,” he said, “it seems that the Ladies’ Aid Supper last Tuesday night was notably successful. Not only that, but the ladies responsible for the affair laboured assiduously and deserve much credit.”

  “Yes, but the real excitement’s inside,” remarked Holley. “On page three. There you’ll learn that coyotes are getting pretty bad in the valley. A number of people are putting out traps.”

  “Under those circumstances,” Eden said, “how fortunate that Henry Grattan is caring for Mr Dickey’s chickens during the latter’s absence in Los Angeles.”

  Holley rose, and stared for a moment down at his tiny newspaper. “And once I worked with Mitchell on the New York Sun,” he misquoted sadly. “Don’t let Harry Fladgate see that, will you? When Harry knew me I was a newspaper man.” He moved off across the room. “By the way, has Madden shown you his collection of firearms?”

  Bob Eden rose, and followed. “Why no—he hasn’t.”

  “It’s rather interesting. But dusty—say, I guess Louie was afraid to touch them. Nearly every one of these guns has a history. See—there’s a typewritten card above each one. ‘Presented to P. J. Madden by Til Taylor’—Taylor was one of the best sheriffs Oregon ever had. And here— look at this one—it’s a beauty. Given to Madden by Bill Tilghman. That gun, my boy, saw action on Front Street in the old Dodge City days.”

  “What’s the one with all the notches?” Eden asked.

  “Used to belong to Billy the Kid,” said Holley. “Ask them about Billy over in New Mexico. And here’s one Bat Masterson used to tote. But the star of the collection”—Holley’s eyes ran over the wall—“the beauty of the lot—” He turned to Eden. “It isn’t there,” he said.

  “There’s a gun missing?” inquired Eden slowly.

  “Seems to be. One of the first Colts made—a forty-five—it was presented to Madden by Bill Hart, who’s staged a lot of pictures round here.” He pointed to an open space on the wall. “There’s where it used to be,” he added, and was moving away.

  Eden caught his coat sleeve. “Wait a minute,” he said in a low, tense voice. “Let me get this. A gun missing. And the card’s gone, too. You can see where the tacks held it in place.”

  “Well, what’s all the excitement—” began Holley, surprised.

  Eden ran his finger over the wall. “There’s no dust where that card should be. What does that mean? That Bill Hart’s gun has been removed within the last few days.”

  “My boy,” said Holley. “What are you talking about?”

  “Hush,” warned Eden. The door opened and Madden, followed by Thorn, entered the room. For a moment the millionaire stood regarding them intently.

  “Good morning, Mr Holley,” he said. “I’ve got your interview here. You’re wiring it to New York, you say?”

  “Yes. I’ve queried my friend there about it this morning. I know he’ll want it.”

  “Well, it’s nothing startling. I hope you’ll mention in the course of it where you got it. That will help to soothe the feelings of the boys I’ve turned down so often in New York. And you won’t change what I’ve said?”

  “Not a comma,” smiled Holley. “I must hurry back to town now. Thank you again, Mr Madden.”

  “That’s all right,” said Madden. “Glad to help you out.”

  Eden followed Holley to the yard. Out of earshot of the house, the editor stopped.

  “You seemed a little het up about that gun. What’s doing?”

  “Oh, nothing, I suppose,” said Eden. “On the other hand—”

  “What?”

  “Well, Holley, it strikes me that something queer may have happened lately on this ranch.”

  Holley stared. “It doesn’t sound possible. However, don’t keep me in suspense.”

  “I’ve got to. It’s a long story, and Madden mustn’t see us getting too chummy. I’ll come in this afternoon, as I promised.”

  Holley climbed into his car. “All right,” he said. “I can wait, I guess. See you later, then.”

  Eden was sorry to watch Horace Greeley stagger down the dusty road. Somehow the newspaper man brought a warm, human atmosphere to the ranch, an atmosphere that was needed there. But a moment later he was sorry no longer, for a little speck of brown in the distance became a smart roadster, and at its wheel he saw the girl of the Oasis, Paula Wendell.

  He held open the gate, and with a cheery wave of her hand the girl drove past him into the yard.

  “Hello,” he said as she alighted. “I was beginning to fear you weren’t coming.”

  “I overslept,” she explained. “Always do in this desert country. Have you noticed the air? People who are in a position to know tell me it’s like wine.”

  “Had a merry breakfast, I suppose?”

  “I certainly did. At the Oasis.”

  “You poor child. That coffee.”

  “I didn’t mind. Will Holley says that Madden’s here.”

  “Madden? That’s right—you do want to see Madden, don’t you? Well, come along inside.”

  Thorn was alone in the living-room. He regarded the girl with a fishy eye. Not many men could have managed that, but Thorn was different.

  “Thorn,” said Eden. “Here’s a young woman who wants to see Mr Madden.”

  “I have a letter from him,” the girl explained, “offering me the use of the ranch to take some pictures. You may remember—I was here Wednesday night.”

  “I remember,” said Thorn sourly. “And I regret very much that Mr Madden cannot see you. He also asks me to say that unfortunately he must withdraw the permission he gave you in his letter.”

  “I’ll accept that word from no one but Mr Madden himself,” returned the girl, and a steely light flamed suddenly in her eyes.

  “I repeat—he will not see you,” persisted Thorn.

  The girl sat down. “Tell Mr Madden his ranch is charming,” she said. “Tell him I am seated in a chair in his living-room and that I shall certainly continue to sit here until he comes and speaks to me himself.”

  Thorn hesitated a moment, glaring angrily. Then he went out.

  “I say—you’re all right,” Eden laughed.

  “I aim to be,” the girl answered, “and I’ve been on my own too long to take any nonsense from a mere secretary.”

  Madden blustered in. “What is all this—”

  “Mr Madden,” the girl said,
rising and smiling with amazing sweetness, “I was sure you’d see me. I have here a letter you wrote me from San Francisco. You recall it, of course.”

  Madden took the letter and glanced at it. “Yes, yes— of course. I’m very sorry, Miss Wendell, but since I wrote that certain matters have come up—I have a business deal on—” He glanced at Eden. “In short, it would be most inconvenient for me to have the ranch overrun with picture people at this time. I can’t tell you how I regret it.”

  The girl’s smile vanished. “Very well,” she said, “but it means a black mark against me with the company. The people I work for don’t accept excuses—only results. I have told them everything was arranged.”

  “Well, you were a little premature, weren’t you?”

  “I don’t see why. I had the word of P. J. Madden. I believed—foolishly, perhaps—the old rumour that the word of Madden was never broken.”

  The millionaire looked decidedly uncomfortable. “Well—I—er—of course I never break my word. When did you want to bring your people here?”

  “It’s all arranged for Monday,” said the girl.

  “Out of the question,” replied Madden. “But if you could postpone it a few days—say, until Thursday.” Once more he looked at Eden. “Our business should be settled by Thursday,” he added.

  “Unquestionably,” agreed Eden, glad to help.

  “Very well,” said Madden. He looked at the girl, and his eyes were kindly. He was no Thorn. “Make it Thursday, and the place is yours. I may not be here then myself, but I’ll leave word to that effect.”

  “Mr Madden, you’re a dear,” she told him. “I knew I could rely on you.”

  With a disgusted look at his employer’s back, Thorn went out.

  “You bet you can,” said Madden, smiling pleasantly. He was melting fast. “And the record of P. J. Madden is intact. His word is as good as his bond—isn’t that so?”

  “If anyone doubts it let him ask me,” replied the girl.

  “It’s nearly lunch-time,” Madden said. “You’ll stay?”

  “Well—I—really, Mr Madden—”

  “Of course she’ll stay,” Bob Eden broke in. “She’s eating at a place in Eldorado called the Oasis, and if she doesn’t stay, then she’s just gone and lost her mind.”

  The girl laughed. “You’re all so good to me,” she said.

  “Why not?” inquired Madden. “Then it’s settled. We need some one like you around to brighten things up. Ah Kim,” he added, as the Chinese entered, “another place for lunch. In about ten minutes, Miss Wendell.”

  He went out. The girl looked at Bob Eden. “Well, that’s that. I knew it would be all right, if only he would see me.”

  “Naturally,” said Eden. “Everything in this world would be all right, if every man in it could only see you.”

  “Sounds like a compliment,” she smiled.

  “Meant to be,” replied the boy. “But what makes it sound so cumbersome? I must brush up on my social chatter.”

  “Oh—then it was only chatter?”

  “Please—don’t look too closely at what I say. I may tell you I’ve got a lot on my mind just now. I’m trying to be a business man, and it’s some strain.”

  “Then you’re not a real business man?”

  “Not a real anything. Just sort of drifting. You know, you made me think last night.”

  “I’m proud of that.”

  “Now—don’t spoof me. I got to thinking—here you are, earning your living—luxurious pot roasts at the Oasis and all that—while I’m just Father’s little boy. I shouldn’t be surprised if you inspired me to turn over a new leaf.”

  “Then I shan’t have lived in vain.” She nodded toward the far side of the room. “What in the world is the meaning of that arsenal?”

  “Oh—that’s gentle old Madden’s collection of firearms. A hobby of his. Come on over and I’ll teach you to call each one by name.”

  Presently Madden and Thorn returned, and Ah Kim served a perfect lunch. At the table Thorn said nothing, but his employer, under the spell of the girl’s bright eyes, talked volubly and well. As they finished coffee Bob Eden suddenly awoke to the fact that the big clock near the patio windows marked the hour as five minutes of two. At two o’clock! There was that arrangement with Chan regarding two o’clock. What were they to do? The impassive face of the Oriental as he served lunch had told the boy nothing.

  Madden was in the midst of a long story about his early struggle toward wealth, when the Chinese came suddenly into the room. He stood there, and, though he did not speak, his manner halted the millionaire as effectively as a pistol-shot.

  “Well, well, what is it?” Madden demanded.

  “Death,” said Ah Kim solemnly in his high-pitched voice. “Death unevitable end. No wolly. No solly.”

  “What in Sam Hill are you talking about?” Madden inquired. Thorn’s pale green eyes were bulging.

  “Poah litta Tony,” went on Ah Kim.

  “What about Tony?”

  “Poah litta Tony enjoy happly noo yeah in Hadesland,” finished Ah Kim.

  Madden was instantly on his feet, and led the way to the patio. On the stone floor beneath his perch lay the lifeless body of the Chinese parrot.

  The millionaire stooped and picked up the bird. “Why—poor old Tony,” he said. “He’s gone west. He’s dead.”

  Eden’s eyes were on Thorn. For the first time since he met that gentleman he thought he detected the ghost of a smile on the secretary’s pale face.

  “Well, Tony was old,” continued Madden. “A very old boy. And as Ah Kim says, death is inevitable—” He stopped, and looked keenly at the expressionless face of the Chinese. “I’ve been expecting this,” he added. “Tony hasn’t seemed very well of late. Here, Ah Kim”—he handed over all that was mortal of Tony—“you take and bury him somewhere.”

  “I take ’um,” said Ah Kim, and did so.

  In the big living-room the clock struck twice, loud and clear. Ah Kim, in the person of Charlie Chan, was moving slowly away, the bird in his arms. He was muttering glibly in Chinese. Suddenly he looked back over his shoulder.

  “Hoo malimali,” he said clearly.

  Bob Eden remembered his Hawaiian.

  Chapter VII

  The Postman sets out

  The three men and the girl returned to the living-room but Madden’s flow of small talk was stilled, and the sparkle was gone from his luncheon party.

  “Poor Tony,” the millionaire said when they had sat down. “It’s like the passing of an old friend. Five years ago he came to me.” He was silent for a long time, staring into space.

  Presently the girl rose. “I really must be getting back to town,” she announced. “It was thoughtful of you to invite me to lunch, Mr Madden, and I appreciate it. I can count on Thursday, then?”

  “Yes—if nothing new comes up. In that case, where could I reach you?”

  “I’ll be at the Desert Edge—but nothing must come up. I’m relying on the word of P. J. Madden.”

  “Nothing will, I’m sure. Sorry you have to go.”

  Bob Eden came forward. “I think I’ll take a little fling at city life myself,” he said. “If you don’t mind, I’d like to ride into Eldorado with you.”

  “Delighted,” she smiled. “But I’m not sure I can bring you back.”

  “Oh, no—I don’t want you to. I’ll walk back.”

  “You needn’t do that,” said Madden. “It seems that Ah Kim can drive a flivver—a rather remarkable boy, Ah Kim.” He was thoughtfully silent for a moment. “I’m sending him to town later in the afternoon for supplies. Our larder’s rather low. He’ll pick you up.” The Chinese entered to clear away. “Ah Kim, you’re to bring Mr Eden back with you this evening.”

  “Allight. I bling ’um,” said Ah Kim, without interest.

  “I’ll meet you in front of the hotel any time you say,” suggested Eden.

  Ah Kim regarded him sourly, “Maybe five ’clock,” he said.
>
  “Fine. At five, then.”

  “You late, you no catch ’um lide,” warned the Chinese.

  “I’ll be there,” the boy promised. He went to his room and got a cap. When he returned Madden was waiting.

  “In case your father calls this afternoon, I’ll tell him you want that matter rushed through,” he said.

  Eden’s heart sank. He hadn’t thought of that. Suppose his father returned to the office unexpectedly—but no, that was unlikely. And it wouldn’t do to show alarm and change his plans now.

  “Surely,” he remarked carelessly. “If he isn’t satisfied without a word from me, tell him to call again about six.”

  When he stepped into the yard the girl was skilfully turning her car about. He officiated at the gate, and joined her in the sandy road.

  The car moved off and Eden got his first unimpeded look at this queer world Holley had called the devil’s garden. “Plenty acres of unlimitable sand,” Chan had said, and that about summed it up. Far in the distance was a touch of beauty—a cobalt sky above snow-capped mountains. But elsewhere he saw only desert, a great grey interminable blanket spattered with creosote brush. All the trees, all the bushes, were barbed and cruel and menacing—a biznaga, pointing like a finger of scorn toward the sky, an unkempt palo verde, the eternal Joshua-trees, like charred stumps that had stood in the path of a fire. Over this vast waste played odd tricks of light and shade, and up above hung the sun, a living flame, merciless, ineffably pure, and somehow terrible.

  “Well, what do you think of it?” asked the girl.

  Eden shrugged. “Hell’s burnt out and left the embers,” he remarked.

  She smiled. “The desert is an acquired taste,” she explained. “No one likes it at first. I remember the night, long ago, when I got off the train at Eldorado with poor Dad. A little girl from a Philadelphia suburb—a place that was old and settled and civilized. And there I stood in the midst of this savage-looking world. My heart broke.”

  “Poor kid,” said Eden. “But you like it now.”

  “Yes—after a while—well, there’s a sort of weird beauty in this sun-drenched country. You waken to it in the course of time. And in the spring, after the rains—I’d like to take you over round Palm Springs then. The verbena is like a carpet of old rose, and the ugliest trees put forth the most delicate and lovely blossoms. And at any time of the year there’s always the desert nights, with the pale stars overhead, and the air full of peace and calm and rest.”