Eden and Holley looked at each other. “Louie,” said the editor gently, “poor Tony’s dead.”
Anyone who believes the Chinese face is always expressionless should have seen Louie’s then. A look of mingled pain and anger contorted it, and he burst at once into a flood of language that needed no translator. It was profane and terrifying.
“Poor old Louie,” Holley said. “He’s reviling the street, as they say in China.”
“Do you suppose he knows?” asked Eden. “That Tony was murdered, I mean.”
“Search me,” answered Holley. “It certainly looks that way, doesn’t it?” Still loudly vocal, Louie Wong climbed into the back seat of the car, and Bob Eden took his place at the wheel. “Watch your step, boy,” advised Holley. “See you soon. Good night.”
Bob Eden started the car, and with old Louie Wong set out on the strangest ride of his life.
The moon had not yet risen; the stars, wan and far-off and unfriendly, were devoid of light. They climbed between the mountains, and that mammoth doorway led seemingly to a black and threatening inferno that Eden could sense but could not see. Down the rocky road and on to the sandy floor of the desert they crept along; out of the dark beside the way gleamed little yellow eyes, flashing hatefully for a moment, then vanishing for ever. Like the ugly ghosts of trees that had died the Joshuas writhed in agony, casting deformed, appealing arms aloft. And constantly as they rode on muttered the weird voice of the old Chinese in the back seat, mourning the passing of his friend, the death of Tony.
Bob Eden’s nerves were steady, but he was glad when the lights of Madden’s ranch shone with a friendly glow ahead. He left the car in the road and went to open the gate. A stray twig was caught in the latch, but finally he got it open, and, returning to the car, swung it into the yard. With a feeling of deep reliet, he swept up before the barn. Charlie Chan was waiting in the glow of the headlights.
“Hello, Ah Kim,” Eden called. “Got a little playmate for you in the back seat. Louie Wong has come back to his desert.” He leaped to the ground. All was silence in the rear of the car. “Come on, Louie,” he cried. “Here we are.”
He stopped, a sudden thrill of horror in his heart. In the dim light he saw that Louie had slipped to his knees, and that his head hung limply over the door at the left.
“My God!” cried Eden.
“Wait,” said Charlie Chan. “I get flashlight.”
He went, while Bob Eden stood fixed and frightened in his tracks. Quickly the efficient Charlie returned, and made a hasty examination with the light. Bob Eden saw a gash in the side of Louie’s old coat—a gash that was bordered with something wet and dark.
“Stabbed in the side,” said Charlie calmly. “Dead—like Tony.”
“Dead—when?” gasped Eden. “In the minute I left the car at the gate. Why—it’s impossible—”
Out of the shadows came Martin Thorn, his pale face gleaming in the dusk. “What’s all this?” he asked. “Why—it’s Louie. What’s happened to Louie?”
He bent over the door of the car, and the busy flashlight in the hand of Charlie Chan shone for a moment on his back. Across the dark coat was a long tear—a tear such as might have been made in the coat of one climbing hurriedly through a barbed-wire fence.
“This is terrible,” Thorn said. “Just a minute—I must get Mr Madden.”
He ran to the house, and Bob Eden stood with Charlie Chan by the body of Louie Wong.
“Charlie,” whispered the boy huskily, “you saw that rip in Thorn’s coat?”
“Most certainly,” answered Chan. “I observed it. What did I quote to you this morning? Old saying of Chinese. ‘He who rides on tiger cannot dismount.’”
Chapter X
Bliss of the Homicide Squad
In another moment Madden was with them there by the car, and they felt rather than saw a quivering, suppressed fury in every inch of the millionaire’s huge frame. With an oath he snatched a flashlight from the hand of Charlie Chan and bent over the silent form in the back of the car. The glow from the lamp illuminated faintly his big red face, his searching eyes, and Bob Eden watched him with interest.
There in that dusty car lay the lifeless shape of one who had served Madden faithfully for many years. Yet no sign either of compassion or regret was apparent in the millionaire’s face—nothing save a constantly growing anger. Yes, Bob Eden reflected, those who reported Madden lacked a heart spoke nothing but the truth.
Madden straightened, and flashed the light into the pale face of his secretary.
“Fine business!” he snarled.
“Well, what are you staring at me for?” cried Thorn, his voice trembling.
“I’ll stare at you if I choose—though God knows I’m sick of the sight of your silly face—”
“I’ve had about enough from you,” warned Thorn, and the tremor in his voice was rage. For a moment they regarded each other while Bob Eden watched them, amazed. For the first time he realized that under the mask of their daily relations these two were anything but friends.
Suddenly Madden turned the light on Charlie Chan. “Look here, Ah Kim—this was Louie Wong—the boy you replaced here—savvy? You’ve got to stay on the ranch now—after I’ve gone too—how about it?”
“I think I stay, boss.”
“Good. You’re the only bit of luck I’ve had since I came to this accursed place. Bring Louie into the living-room—on the couch. I’ll call Eldorado.”
He stalked off through the patio to the house, and after a moment’s hesitation Chan and the secretary picked up the frail body of Louie Wong. Slowly Bob Eden followed that odd procession. In the living-room Madden was talking briskly on the telephone. Presently he hung up the receiver.
“Nothing to do but wait,” he said. “There’s a sort of constable in town—he’ll be along pretty soon with the coroner. Oh, it’s fine business. They’ll overrun the place—and I came here for a rest.”
“I suppose you want to know what happened,” Eden began, “I met Louie Wong in town, at the Oasis Café. Mr Holley pointed him out to me, and—”
Madden waved a great hand. “Oh, save all that for some half-witted cop. Fine business, this is.”
He took to pacing the floor like a lion with the toothache. Eden dropped into a chair before the fire. Chan had gone out, and Thorn was sitting silently near by. Madden continued to pace. Bob Eden stared at the blazing logs. What sort of affair had he got into, anyhow? What desperate game was afoot here on Madden’s ranch, far out on the lonely desert? He began to wish himself out of it, back in town where the lights were bright and there was no constant undercurrent of hatred and suspicion and mystery.
He was still thinking in this vein when the clatter of a car sounded in the yard. Madden himself opened the door, and two of Eldorado’s prominent citizens entered.
“Come in, gentlemen,” Madden said, amiable with an effort. “Had a little accident out here.”
One of the two, a lean man with a brown, weather-beaten face, stepped forward.
“Howdy, Mr Madden, I know you, but you don’t know me. I’m Constable Brackett, and this is our coroner, Doctor Simms. A murder, you said on the ’phone.”
“Well,” replied Madden, “I suppose you could call it that. But fortunately no one was hurt. No white man, I mean. Just my old Chink, Louie Wong.” Ah Kim had entered in time to hear this speech, and his eyes blazed for a moment as they rested on the callous face of the millionaire.
“Louie?” said the constable. He went over to the couch. “Why, poor old Louie. Harmless as they come, he was. Can’t figure who’d have anything against old Louie.”
The coroner, a brisk young man, also went to the couch and began an examination. Constable Brackett turned to Madden. “Now, we’ll make just as little trouble as we can, Mr Madden,” he promised. Evidently he was much in awe of this great man. “But I don’t like this. It reflects on me. I got to ask a few questions. You see that, don’t you?”
“Of course,” answer
ed Madden. “Fire away. I’m sorry, but I can’t tell you a thing. I was in my room when my secretary”—he indicated Thorn—“came in and said that Mr Eden here had just driven into the yard with the dead body of Louie in the car.”
The constable turned with interest to Eden. “Where’d you find him?” he inquired.
“He was perfectly all right when I picked him up,” Eden explained. He launched into his story—the meeting with Louie at the Oasis, the ride across the desert, the stop at the gate, and finally the gruesome discovery in the yard. The constable shook his head.
“All sounds mighty mysterious to me,” he admitted. “You say you think he was killed while you was openin’ the gate. What makes you think so?”
“He was talking practically all the way out here,” Eden replied. “Muttering to himself there in the back seat I heard him when I got out to unfasten the gate.”
“What was he sayin’?”
“He was talking in Chinese. I’m sorry, but I’m no sinologue.”
“I ain’t accused you of anything, have I?”
“A sinologue is a man who understands the Chinese language,” Bob Eden smiled.
“Oh.” The constable scratched his head. “This here secretary, now—”
Thorn came forward. He had been in his room, he said, when he heard a disturbance in the yard, and went outside. Absolutely nothing to offer. Bob Eden’s glance fell on the tear across the back of Thorn’s coat. He looked at Charlie Chan, but the detective shook his head. Say nothing, his eyes directed.
The constable turned to Madden. “Who else is on the place?” he wanted to know.
“Nobody but Ah Kim here. He’s all right.”
The officer shook his head. “Can’t always tell,” he averred. “All these tong wars, you know.” He raised his voice to a terrific bellow. “Come here, you,” he cried.
Ah Kim, lately Detective-Sergeant Chan of the Honolulu police, came with expressionless face and stood before the constable. How often he had played the opposite rôle in such a scene—played it far better than this mainland officer ever would!
“Ever see this Louie Wong before?” thundered the constable.
“Me, boss? No, boss, I no see ’um”
“New round here, ain’t you?”
“Come las’ Fliday, boss.”
“Where did you work before this?”
“All place, boss. Big town, litta town.”
“I mean where’d you work last?”
“Lailload, I think, boss. Santa Fé lailload. Lay sticks on glound.”
“Ah—er—well, doggone,” The constable had run out of questions. “Ain’t had much practice at this sort of thing,” he apologized. “Been so busy confiscatin’ licker these last few years I sort of lost the knack for police work. This is sheriff’s stuff. I called him before we come out, an’ he’s sendin’ Captain Bliss of the Homicide Squad down tomorrow mornin’. So we won’t bother you no more tonight, Mr Madden.”
The coroner came forward. “Well take the body in town, Mr Madden,” he said. “I’ll have the inquest in there, but I may want to bring my jurors out here some time tomorrow.”
“Oh, sure,” replied Madden. “Just attend to anything that comes up, and send all the bills to me. Believe me, I’m sorry this thing has happened.”
“So am I,” said the constable. “Louie was a good old scout.”
“Yes—and—well, I don’t like it. It’s annoying to have something like this happen.”
“All mighty mysterious to me,” the constable admitted again. “My wife told me I never ought to take this job. Well, so long, Mr Madden—great pleasure to meet a man like you.”
When Bob Eden retired to his room Madden and Thorn were facing each other on the hearth. Something in the expression of each made him wish he could overhear the scene about to be enacted in that room.
Ah Kim was waiting beside a crackling fire. “I make ’um burn, boss,” he said. Eden closed the door and sank into a chair.
“Charlie, in heaven’s name what’s going on here?” he inquired helplessly.
Chan shrugged. “Plenty goes on,” he said. “Two nights now gone since in this room I hint to you Chinese are psychic people. On your face then I see well-bred sneer.”
“I apologize,” Eden returned. “No sneering after this, even the well-bred kind. But I’m certainly stumped. This thing to-night—”
“Most unfortunate, this thing to-night,” said Chan thoughtfully. “Humbly suggest you be very careful, or everything spoils. Local police come thumping on to scene, not dreaming in their slight brains that murder of Louie are of no importance in the least.”
“Not important, you say?”
“No, indeed. Not when compared to other matters.”
“Well, it was pretty important to Louie, I guess,” said Eden.
“Guess so too. But murder of Louie just like death of parrot—one more dark deed covering up very black deed occurring here before we arrive on mysterious scene. Before parrot go, before Louie make unexpected exit, unknown person dies screaming unanswered cries for help. Who? Maybe in time we learn.”
“Then you think Louie was killed because he knew too much?”
“Just like Tony, yes. Poor Louie very foolish, does not stay in San Francisco when summoned there. Comes with sad blunder back to desert. Most bitterly unwelcome here. One thing puzzles me.”
“Only one thing?” asked Eden.
“One at present. Other puzzles put aside for moment. Louie goes on Wednesday morning, probably before black deed was done. How then does he know? Did act have echo in San Francisco? I am most sad not to have talk with him. But there are other paths to follow.”
“I hope so,” sighed Bob Eden. “But I don’t see them. This is too much for me.”
“Plenty for me too,” agreed Chan. “Pretty quick I go home, lifelong yearning for travel for ever quenched. Keep in mind, much better police do not find who killed Louie Wong. If they do our fruit may be picked when not yet ripe. We should handle case. Officers of law must be encouraged off of ranch at earliest possible time, having found nothing.”
“Well, the constable was easy enough,” smiled Eden.
“All looked plenty mysterious to him,” answered Chan, smiling too.
“I sympathized with him in that,” Eden admitted. “But this Captain Bliss probably won’t be so simple. You watch your step, Charlie, or they’ll lock you up.”
Chan nodded. “New experiences crowd close on this mainland,” he said. “Detective-Sergeant Chan a murder suspect. Maybe I laugh at that, when I get home again. Just now, laugh won’t come. A warm good night—”
“Wait a minute,” interrupted Eden. “How about Tuesday afternoon? Madden’s expecting the messenger with the pearls then, and somehow I haven’t a stall left in me.”
Chan shrugged. “Two days yet. Stop the worry. Much may manage to occur before Tuesday afternoon.” He went out softly.
Just as they finished breakfast on Monday morning, a knock sounded on the door of the ranch-house, and Thorn admitted Will Holley.
“Oh,” said Madden sourly. His manner had not improved overnight. “So you’re here again?”
“Naturally,” replied Holley. “Being a good newspaper man, I’m not overlooking the first murder we’ve had round here in years.” He handed a newspaper to the millionaire. “By the way, here’s a Los Angeles morning paper. Our interview is on the front page.”
Madden took it without much interest. Over his shoulder Bob Eden caught a glimpse of the headlines:
ERA OF PROSPERITY DUE, SAYS
FAMED MAGNATE
P. J. MADDEN, INTERVIEWED ON DESERT
RANCH, PREDICTS BUSINESS BOOM
Madden glanced idly through the article. When he had finished he said: “In the New York papers, I suppose?”
“Of course,” Holley answered. “All over the country this morning. You and I are famous, Mr Madden. But what’s this about poor old Louie?”
“Don’t ask me,” frow
ned Madden. “Some fool bumped him off. Your friend Eden can tell you more than I can.” He got up and strode from the room.
Eden and Holley stared at each other for a moment, then went together into the yard.
“Pretty raw stuff,” remarked Holley. “It makes me hot. Louie was a kindly old soul. Killed in the car, I understand.”
Eden related what had happened. They moved farther away from the house.
“Well, who do you think?” Holley inquired.
“I think Thorn,” Eden answered. “However, Charlie says Louie’s passing was just a minor incident, and it will be better all round if his murderer isn’t found just at present. Of course he’s right.”
“Of course he is. And there isn’t much danger they’ll catch the guilty man, at that. The constable is a helpless old fellow.”
“How about this Captain Bliss?”
“Oh, he’s a big, noisy bluff with a fatal facility for getting the wrong man. The sheriff’s a regular fellow, with brains, but he may not come round. Let’s stroll out and look over the ground where you left the car last night. I’ve got something to slip you, a telegram—from your father, I imagine.”
As they went through the gate the telegram changed hands. Holding it so it could not be seen from the house, Bob Eden read it through.
“Well, Dad says he’s going to put up the bluff to Madden that he’s sending Draycott with the pearls to-night.”
“Draycott?” asked Holley.
“He’s a private detective Dad uses in San Francisco. As good a name as any, I suppose. When Draycott fails to arrive, Dad’s going to be very much upset.” The boy considered for a moment “I guess it’s about the best he can do—but I hate all this deception. And I certainly don’t like the job of keeping Madden cool. However, something may happen before then.”
They examined the ground where Bob Eden had halted the car while he opened the gate the night before. The tracks of many cars passing in the road were evident—but no sign of any footsteps. “Even my footsteps are gone,” remarked Eden. “Do you suppose it was the wind drifting the sand—”
The Chinese Parrot Page 13
