The Chinese Parrot

by Earl Derr Biggers

  “Oh, no doubt it’s a great place to rest,” Eden agreed. “But as it happens, I wasn’t very tired.”

  “Who knows?” she said. “Perhaps before we say good-bye I can initiate you into the Very Ancient Order of Lovers of the Desert. The requirements for membership are very strict. A sensitive soul, a quick eye for beauty—oh, a very select group, you may be sure. No riff-raff on our rolls.”

  A blatant sign hung before them. “Stop! Have you bought your lot in Date City?” From the steps of a tiny real-estate office a rather shabby young man leaped to life. He came into the road and held up his hand. Obligingly the girl stopped her car.

  “Howdy, folks,” said the young man. “Here’s the big opportunity of your life—don’t pass it by. Let me show you a lot in Date City, the future metropolis of the desert.”

  Bob Eden stared at the dreary landscape, “Not interested,” he said.

  “Yeah. Think of the poor devils who once said that about the corner of Spring and Sixth, Los Angeles. Not interested—and they could have bought it for a song. Look ahead. Can you picture this street ten years hence?”

  “I think I can,” Eden replied. “It looks just the way it does to-day.”

  “Blind!” rebuked the young man. “Blind! This won’t be the desert for ever. Look!” He pointed to a small lead pipe surrounded by a circle of rocks and trying to act like a fountain. From its top gurgled an anæmic stream. “What’s that! Water, my boy, water, the pure, life-giving elixir, gushing madly from the sandy soil. What does that mean? I see a great city rising on this spot, skyscrapers and movie palaces, land five thousand a front foot—land you can buy to-day for a paltry two dollars.”

  “I’ll take a dollar’s worth,” remarked Eden.

  “I appeal to the young lady,” continued the real-estate man. “If that ring on the third finger of her left hand means anything, it means a wedding.” Startled, Bob Eden looked, and saw a big emerald set in platinum. “You, miss—you have vision. Suppose you two bought a lot to-day and held it for your—er—for future generations. Wealth, wealth untold—I’m right, ain’t I, miss?”

  The girl looked away. “Perhaps you are,” she admitted. “But you’ve made a mistake. This gentleman is not my fiancé.”

  “Oh,” said the youth, deflating.

  “I’m only a stranger, passing through,” Eden told him.

  The salesman pulled himself together for a new attack. “That’s it—you’re a stranger. You don’t understand. You can’t realize that Los Angeles looked like this once.”

  “It still does—to some people,” suggested Bob Eden gently.

  The young man gave him a hard look. “Oh—I get you,” he said. “You’re from San Francisco.” He turned to the girl. “So this ain’t your fiancé, eh, lady? Well—hearty congratulations.”

  Eden laughed. “Sorry,” he said.

  “I’m sorry, too,” returned the salesman. “Sorry for you, when I think of what you’re passing up. However, you may see the light yet, and if you ever do, don’t forget me. I’m here Saturdays and Sundays, and we have an office in Eldorado. Opportunity’s knocking, but of course if you’re from ‘Frisco you’re doing the same. Glad to have met you, anyhow.”

  They left him by his weak little fountain, a sad but hopeful figure.

  “Poor fellow,” the girl remarked, as the car moved forward. “The pioneer has a hard time of it.”

  Eden did not speak for a moment. “I’m an observing little chap, aren’t I?” he said at last.

  “What do you mean?”

  “That ring. I never noticed it. Engaged, I suppose?”

  “It looks that way, doesn’t it?”

  “Don’t tell me you’re going to marry some movie actor who carries a vanity case.”

  “You should know me better than that.”

  “I do, of course. But describe this lucky lad. What’s he like?”

  “He likes me.”

  “Naturally.” Eden lapsed into silence.

  “Not angry, are you?” asked the girl.

  “Not angry,” he grinned, “but terribly, terribly hurt I perceive you don’t want to talk about the matter.”

  “Well—some incidents in my life I really should keep to myself. On such short acquaintance.”

  “As you wish,” agreed Eden. The car sped on. “Lady,” he said presently, “I’ve known this desert country, man and boy, going on twenty-four hours. And believe me when I tell you, miss, it’s a cruel land—a cruel land.”

  They climbed the road that lay between the two piles of brown rock pretending to be mountains, and before them lay Eldorado, huddled about the little red station. The town looked tiny and helpless and forlorn. As they alighted before the Desert Edge Hotel, Eden said:

  “When shall I see you again?”

  “Thursday, perhaps.”

  “Nonsense. I shall probably be gone by then; I must see you soon.”

  “I’ll be out your way in the morning. If you like, I’ll pick you up.”

  “That’s kind of you—but morning’s a long way off,” he said. “I’ll think of you to-night, eating at the Oasis. Give my love to that steak, if you see it. Until to-morrow, then—and can’t I buy you an alarm clock?”

  “I shan’t oversleep—much,” she laughed. “Good-bye.”

  “Good-bye,” answered Eden. “Thanks for the buggy ride.”

  He crossed the road to the railroad-station, which was also the telegraph-office. In the little cubby-hole occupied by the agent Will Holley stood, a sheaf of copy paper in his hand.

  “Hello,” he said. “Just getting that interview on the wire. Were you looking for me?”

  “Yes, I was,” Eden replied. “But first I want to send a wire of my own.”

  The agent, a husky youth with sandy hair, looked up. “Say, mister, no can do. Mr Holley here’s tied up things for ever.”

  Holley laughed. “That’s all right. You can cut in with Mr Eden’s message, and then go back.”

  Frowning, Eden considered the wording of his rather difficult telegram. How to let his father know the situation without revealing it to the world? Finally he wrote:

  Buyer here, but certain conditions make it advisable we treat him to a little hoo malimali. Mrs Jordan will translate. When I talk with you over telephone promise to send valuable package at once, then forget it. Any confidential message for me care Will Holley, Eldorado Times. They have nice desert down here but too full of mystery for frank and open young business man like your loving son

  BOB

  He turred the yellow slip over to the worried telegrapher, with instructions to send it to his father’s office, and in duplicate to his house. “How much?” he asked.

  After some fumbling with a book the agent named a sum, which Eden paid. He added a tip, upsetting the boy stil further.

  “Say, this is some day here,” announced the telegrapher. “Always wanted a little excitement in my life, but now it’s come I guess I ain’t ready for it. Yes, sir—I’ll send it twice—I know—I get you—”

  Holley gave the boy a few directions about the Madden interview, and returned with Bob Eden to Main Street.

  “Let’s drop over to the office,” the editor said. “Nobody there now, and I’m keen to know what’s doing out at Madden’s.”

  In the bare little home of the Eldorado Times Eden took a chair that was already partly filled with exchanges, close to the editor’s desk. Holley removed his hat and replaced it with an eye-shade. He dropped down beside his typewriter.

  “My friend in New York grabbed at that story” he said. “It was good of Madden to let me have it. I understand they’re going to allow me to sign it, too—the name of Will Holley back in the big papers again. But look here—I was surprised by what you hinted out at the ranch this morning. It seemed to me last night that everything was O.K. You didn’t say whether you had that necklace with you or not but I gathered you had—”

  “I haven’t,” cut in Eden.

  “Oh—it’s still i
n San Francisco?”

  “No. My confederate has it.”

  “Your what?”

  “Holley, I know that if Harry Fladgate says you’re all right, you are. So I’m going the whole way in the matter of trusting you.”

  “That’s flattering—but suit yourself.”

  “Something tells me we’ll need your help,” Eden remarked. With a glance round the deserted office, he described the real identity of the servant, Ah Kim.

  Holley grinned. “Well, that’s amusing, isn’t it? But go on. I get the impression that although you arrived at the ranch last night to find Madden there and everything, on the surface, serene, such was not the case. What happened?”

  “First of all, Charlie thought something was wrong. He sensed it. You know the Chinese are a very psychic race.”

  Holley laughed. “Is that so? Surely you didn’t fall for that guff. Oh, pardon me— I presume you had some better reason for delay?”

  “I’ll admit it sounded like guff to me—at the start. I laughed at Chan, and prepared to hand over the pearls at once. Suddenly out of the night came the weirdest cry for help I ever expect to hear.”

  “What! Really? From whom?”

  “From your friend the Chinese parrot. From Tony.”

  “Oh—of course,” said Holley. “I’d forgotten him. Well, that probably meant nothing.”

  “But a parrot doesn’t invent,” Eden reminded him. “It merely repeats. I may have acted like a fool, but I hesitated to produce those pearls.” He went on to tell how, in the morning, he had agreed to wait until two o’clock while Chan had further talk with Tony, and ended with the death of the bird just after lunch. “And there the matter rests,” he finished.

  “Are you asking my advice?” said Holley. “I hope you are, because I’ve simply got to give it to you.”

  “Shoot,” Eden replied.

  Holley smiled at him in a fatherly way. “Don’t think for a moment I wouldn’t like to believe there’s some big melodrama afoot at Madden’s ranch. Heaven knows little enough happens round here, and a thing like that would be manna from above. But as I look at it, my boy, you’ve let a jumpy Chinese lead you astray into a bad case of nerves.”

  “Charlie’s absolutely sincere,” protested Eden.

  “No doubt of that,” agreed Holley. “But he’s an Oriental, and a detective, and he’s simply got to detect. There’s nothing wrong at Madden’s ranch. True, Tony lets out weird cries in the night—but he always has.”

  “You’ve heard him, then?”

  “Well, I never heard him say anything about help and murder, but when he first came I was living out at Doctor Whitcomb’s, and I used to hang round the Madden ranch a good deal. Tony had some strange words in his small head. He’d spent his days amid violence and crime. It’s nothing to wonder at that he screamed as he did last night. The setting on the desert, the dark, Charlie’s psychic talk—all that combined to make a mountain out of a molehill, in your eyes.”

  “And Tony’s sudden death this noon?”

  “Just as Madden said. Tony was as old as the hills—even a parrot doesn’t live for ever. A coincidence, yes—but I’m afraid your father won’t be pleased with you, my boy. First thing you know P. J. Madden, who is hot and impetuous, will kick you out and call the transaction off. And I can see you back home explaining that you didn’t close the deal because a parrot on the place dropped dead. My boy, my boy— I trust your father is a gentle soul. Otherwise he’s liable to annihilate you.”

  Eden considered. “How about that missing gun?”

  Holley shrugged. “You can find something queer almost anywhere, if you look for it. The gun was gone—yes. What of it? Madden may have sold it, given it away, taken it to his room.”

  Bob Eden leaned back in his chair. “I guess you’re right, at that. Yes, the more I think about it, here in the bright light of afternoon, the more foolish I feel.” Through a side window he saw a car swing up before the grocery store next door, and Charlie Chan alight. He went out on to the porch.

  “Ah Kim,” he called.

  The plump little Chinese detective approached and, without a word, entered the office.

  “Charlie,” said Bob Eden, “this is a friend of mine, Mr Will Holley. Holley, meet Detective-Sergeant Chan, of the Honolulu police.”

  At mention of his name Chan’s eyes narrowed. “How do you do?” he said coldly.

  “It’s all right,” Eden assured him. “Mr Holley can be trusted—absolutely. I’ve told him everything.”

  “I am far away in strange land,” returned Chan. “Maybe I would choose to trust no one—but that, no doubt, are my heathen churlishness. Mr Holley will pardon, I am sure.”

  “Don’t worry,” said Holley. “I give you my word. I’ll tell no one.”

  Chan made no reply, in his mind, perhaps, the memory of other white men who had given their word.

  “It doesn’t matter, anyhow,” Eden remarked. “Charlie, I’ve come to the decision that we’re chasing ghosts. I’ve talked things over with Mr Holley, and from what he says, I see that there’s really nothing wrong out at the ranch. When we go back this evening we’ll hand over those pearls and head for home.” Chan’s face fell. “Cheer up,” added the boy. “You yourself must admit that we’ve been acting like a couple of old women.”

  An expression of deeply offended dignity appeared on the little round face. “Just one moment. Permit this old woman more nonsense. Some hours ago parrot drops from perch into vast eternity. Dead, like Caesar.”

  “What of it?” said Eden wearily. “He died of old age. Don’t let’s argue about it, Charlie—”

  “Who argues?” asked Chan. “I myself enjoy keen distaste for that pastime. Old woman though I am, I now deal with facts—undubitable facts.” He spread a white sheet of paper on Holley’s desk, and removing an envelope from his pocket, poured its contents on to the paper. “Examine,” he directed. “What you see here are partial contents of food basin beside the perch of Tony. Kindly tell me what you look at.”

  “Hemp-seed,” said Eden. “A parrot’s natural food.”

  “Ah, yes,” agreed Chan. “Seed of the hemp. But that other—the fine greyish-white powder that seem so plentiful.”

  “By gad,” cried Holley.

  “No argument here,” continued Chan. “Before seeking grocer I pause at drug emporium on corner. Wise man about powders make most careful test for me. And what does he say?”

  “Arsenic,” suggested Holley.

  “Arsenic, indeed. Much sold to ranchers hereabouts as rat-killer. Parrot-killer too.”

  Eden and Holley looked at each other in amazement.

  “Poor Tony very sick before he go on long journey,” Chan continued. “Very silent and very sick. In my time I am on track of many murders, but I must come to this peculiar mainland to ferret out parrot-murder. Ah, well—all my life I hear about wonders on this mainland.”

  “They poisoned him,” Bob Eden cried. “Why?”

  “Why not?” shrugged Chan. “Very true rumour says ‘dead men tell no tales’! Dead parrots are in same fix, I think. Tony speaks Chinese like me. Tony and me never speak together again.”

  Eden put his head in his hands. “Well, I’m getting dizzy,” he said. “What in heaven’s name is it all about?”

  “Reflect,” urged Chan. “As I have said before, parrot not able to perpetrate original remarks. He repeats. When Tony cry out in night, ‘Help, murder, put down gun,’ even old woman might be pardoned to think he repeats something recently heard. He repeats because words are recalled to him by—what?”

  “Go on, Charlie,” Eden said.

  “Recalled by event just preceding cry. What event? I think deep—how is this? Recalled, maybe, by sudden flashing on of lights in bedroom occupied by Martin Thorn, the secretary.”

  “Charlie, what more do you know?” Eden asked.

  “This morning I am about my old-woman duties in bedroom of Thorn. I see on wall stained outline same size and shape as han
dsome picture of desert scene near by. I investigate. Picture has been moved, I note, and not so long ago. Why was picture moved? I lift it in my hands and underneath I see little hole that could only be made by flying bullet.”

  Eden gasped. “A bullet?”

  “Precisely the fact. A bullet embedded deep in wall. One bullet that has gone astray and not found resting place in body of that unhappy man Tony heard cry for help some recent night.”

  Again Eden and Holley looked at each other. “Well,” said the editor, “there was that gun, you know. Bill Hart’s gun—the one that’s gone from the living-room. We must tell Mr Chan about that.”

  Chan shrugged. “Spare yourself trouble,” he advised. “Already last night I have noted empty locality deserted by that weapon. I also found this in waste-basket.” He took a small crumpled card from his pocket, a typewritten card, which read, “Presented to P. J. Madden by William S. Hart. September 29, 1923.” Will Holley nodded and handed it back. “All day,” continued Chan, “I search for missing movie pistol. Without success—so far.”

  Will Holley rose, and warmly shook Chan’s hand. “Mr Chan,” he said, “permit me to go on record here and now to the effect that you’re all right.” He turned to Bob Eden. “Don’t ever come to me for advice again. You follow Mr Chan.”

  Eden nodded. “I think I will,” he said.

  “Think more deeply,” suggested Chan. “To follow an old woman. Where is the honour there?”

  Eden laughed. “Oh, forget it, Charlie. I apologize with all my heart.”

  Chan beamed. “Thanks warmly. Then all is settled? We do not hand over pearls to-night, I think?”

  “No, of course we don’t,” agreed Eden. “We’re on the trail of something—heaven knows what. It’s all up to you, Charlie, from now on. I follow where you lead.”

  “You were number one prophet, after all,” said Chan. “Postman on vacation goes for long walk. Here on broad desert I cannot forget profession. We return to Madden’s ranch and find what we shall find. Some might say, Madden is there, give him necklace. Our duty as splendid American citizens does not permit. If we deliver necklace, we go away, truth is strangled, guilty escape. Necklace deal falls now into second place.” He gathered up the evidence in the matter of Tony and restored it to his pocket. “Poor Tony. Only this morning he tell me I talk too much. Now, like boom— boomerang, remark returns and smites him. It is my pressing duty to negotiate with food-merchant. Meet me in fifteen minutes before hotel door.”