The Chinese Parrot

by Earl Derr Biggers

  “A kindly old soul, Louie,” suggested Eden.

  “One o’ the best, boy, an’ 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 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 agin. 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 floor, t’other side of 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.”

  There was a moment of tense silence. “Good Lord,” gasped Eden. “Madden? You mean to say that Madden was— Why, it’s impossible. How did you know? Are you sure?”

  “O’ course I’m sure. I know Madden well enough. I seen him three years ago at the ranch. A big man, redfaced, thin grey hair—I couldn’t make no mistake about Madden. There he was standin’, the gun in his hand, an’ he looks toward the window. I ducks back. An’ at that minute this Thorn you’re speakin’ of—he comes tearin’ into the room. ‘What have you done now?’ he says. ‘I’ve killed him,’ says Madden, ‘that’s what I’ve done.’ ‘You poor fool,’ says Thorn. ‘It wasn’t necessary.’ Madden throws down the gun. ‘Why not?’ he wants to know. ‘I was afraid of him.’ Thorn sneers. ‘You was always afraid of him,’ he says. ‘You dirty coward. That time in New York—’ Madden gives him a look. ‘Shut up,’ he says. ‘Shut up an’ fergit it. I was afraid o’ him an’ I killed him. Now git busy an’ think what we better do.’”

  The old prospector paused, and regarded his wide-eyed audience. “Well, mister,” he continued, “an’ miss—I come away. What else was there to be done? It was no affair o’ mine, an’ I wasn’t hungerin’ fer no court-room an’ all that. Jest slip away into the night, I tells myself, the good old night that’s been yer friend these many years. Slip away an’ let others worry. I runs to the barn an’ gits my pack, an’ when I comes out, a car is drivin’ into the yard. I crawls through the fence an’ moseys down the road. I thought I was out o’ it an’ safe, an’ how you got on to me is a mystery. But I’m decent, an’ I ain’t hidin’ anything. That’s my story—the truth, s’help me.”

  Bob Eden rose and paced the sand. “Man alive,” he said, “this is serious business.”

  “Think so?” inquired the old prospector.

  “Think so! You know who Madden is, don’t you? One of the biggest men in America—”

  “Sure he is. An’ what does that mean? You’ll never git him fer what he done. He’ll slide out o’ it some way. Self-defence—”

  “Oh, no, he won’t. Not if you tell your story. You’ve got to go back with me to Eldorado—”

  “Wait a minute,” cut in Cherry. “That’s something I don’t aim to do—go an’ stifle in no city. Leastways, not till it’s absolutely necessary. I’ve told my story, an’ I’ll tell it agin, any time I’m asked. But I ain’t goin’ back to Eldorado—bank on that, boy.”

  “But listen—”

  “Listen to me. How much more information you got? Know who that man was, layin’ behind the bed? Found his body yet?”

  “No, we haven’t, but—”

  “I thought so. Well, you’re jest startin’ on this job. What’s my word agin the word o’ P. J. Madden—an’ no other evidence to show? You got to dig some up.”

  “Well, perhaps you’re right.”

  “Sure I am. I’ve done you a favour—now you do one fer me. Take this here information an’ go back an’ make the most o’ it. Leave me out entirely if you kin. If you can’t—well, I’ll keep in touch. Be round down Needles in about a week—goin’ to make a stop there with my old friend, Slim Jones. Porter J. Jones, Real Estate—you kin git me there. I’m makin’ you a fair proposition—don’t you say so, miss?”

  The girl smiled at him. “Seems fair to me,” she admitted.

  “It’s hardly according to Hoyle,” said Eden. “But you have been mighty kind. I don’t want to see you stifle in a city—though I find it hard to believe you and I are talking about the same Eldorado. However, we’re going to part friends, Mr Cherry. I’ll take your suggestion—I’ll go back with what you’ve told me—it’s certainly very enlightening. And I’ll keep you out of it—if I can.”

  The old man got painfully to his feet. “Shake,” he said. “You’re a white man, an’ no mistake. I ain’t tryin’ to save Mad
den—I’ll go on the stand if I have to. But with what I’ve told you, maybe you can land him without me figurin’ in it.”

  “We’ll have to go along,” Eden told him. He laughed. “I don’t care what the book of etiquette says—Mr Cherry, I’m very pleased to have met you.”

  “Same here,” returned Cherry. “Like a talk now an’ then with a good listener. An’ the chance to look at a pretty gal—well, say, I don’t need no specs to enjoy that.”

  They said good-bye, and left the lonely old man standing by the tram-car there on the barren desert. For a long moment they rode in silence.

  “Well,” said Eden finally, “you’ve heard something, lady.”

  “I certainly have. Something I find it difficult to believe.”

  “Perhaps you won’t find it so difficult if I go back and tell you a few things. You’ve been drawn into the big mystery at Madden’s at last, and there’s no reason why you shouldn’t know as much as I do about it. So I’m going to talk.”

  “I’m keen to hear,” she admitted.

  “Naturally, after to-day. Well, I came down here to transact a bit of business with P. J.— I needn’t go into that, it has no particular bearing. The first night I was on the ranch—” He proceeded to detail one by one the mysterious sequence of events that began with the scream of the parrot from the dark. “Now you know. Some one had been killed, that was evident. Some one before Louie. But who? We don’t know yet. And by whom? To-day gave us that answer, anyhow.”

  “It seems incredible.”

  “You don’t believe Cherry’s story?” he suggested.

  “Well—these old boys who wander the desert get queer sometimes. And there was that about his eyes—the doctor at Redlands, you know—”

  “I know. But, all the same, I think Cherry told the truth. After a few days with Madden I consider him capable of anything. He’s a hard man, and if anyone stood in his way—good night. Some poor devil stood there—but not for long. Who? We’ll find out. We must.”

  “We?”

  “Yes, you’re in on this thing too. Have to be, after this, whether you like it or not.”

  “I think I’m going to like it,” Paula Wendell said.

  They returned their tired horses to the stable at Seven Palms, and after a sketchy dinner at the local hotel caught the Eldorado train. When they alighted Charlie and Will Holley were waiting.

  “Hello,” said the editor. “Why, hello, Paula—where you been? Eden, here’s Ah Kim. Madden sent him in for you.”

  “Hello, gentlemen,” cried Eden gaily. “Before Ah Kim and I head for the ranch we’re all going over to the office of that grand old sheet the Eldorado Times. I have something to impart.”

  When they reached the newspaper office—which Ah Kim entered with obvious reluctance—Eden closed the door and faced them. Well, folks,” he announced, “the clouds are breaking. I’ve finally got hold of something definite. But before I go any further—Miss Wendell, may I present Ah Kim? So we sometimes call him, after our quaint fashion. In reality, you are now enjoying the priceless opportunity of meeting Detective-Sergeant Charlie Chan of the Honolulu police.”

  Chan bowed. “I’m so glad to know you, sergeant,” said the girl, and took up her favourite perch on Holley’s typewriter table.

  “Don’t look at me like that, Charlie,” laughed Eden. “You’re breaking my heart. We can rely on Miss Wendell absolutely. And you can’t freeze her out any longer, because she now knows more about your case than you do. As they say on the stage—won’t you—sit down?”

  Puzzled and wondering, Chan and Will Holley found chairs. “I said this morning I wanted a little light,” Eden continued. “I’ve got it already—how’s that for service? Aimless trip to Barstow, Charlie, proved to be all aim. Miss Wendell and I turned aside for a canter over the desert, and we have met and interviewed that little black-bearded one— our desert rat.”

  “Boy—now you’re talking,” cried Holley.

  Chan’s eyes lighted.

  “Chinese are psychic people, Charlie,” Eden went on. “I’ll tell the world. You were right. Before we arrived at Madden’s ranch some one staged a little murder there. And I know who did it.”

  “Thorn,” suggested Holley.

  “Thorn nothing! No piker like Thorn. No, gentlemen, it was the big chief—Madden himself—the great P. J. Last Wednesday night at his ranch Madden killed a man. Add favourite pastimes of big millionaires.”

  “Nonsense,” objected Holley.

  “You think so, eh? Listen.” Eden repeated the story Cherry had told.

  Chan and Holley heard him out in amazed silence.

  “And what are present whereabouts of old prospector?” inquired Chan when he had finished.

  “I know, Charlie,” answered Eden. “That’s the flaw in my armour. I let him go. He’s on his way—over yonder. But I know where he’s going and we can get hold of him when we need him. We’ve got other matters to look after first.”

  “We certainly have,” agreed Holley. “Madden! I can hardly believe it.”

  Chan considered. “Most peculiar case ever shoved on my attention,” he admitted. “It marches now, but look how it marches backwards. Mostly murder means dead body on the rug, and from clues surrounding I must find who did it. Not so here. I sense something wrong; after long pause light breaks and I hear name of guilty man who killed. But who was killed? The reason, please? There is work to be done—much work.”

  “You don’t think,” suggested Eden, “that we ought to call in the sheriff—”

  “What then?” frowned Chan. “Captain Bliss arrives on extensive feet, committing blunder with every step. Sheriff faces strange situation, all unprepared. Madden awes them with greatness, and escapes Scotch-free. None of the sheriff, please—unless maybe you lose faith in Detective-Sergeant Chan.”

  “Never for a minute, Charlie,” Eden answered. “Wipe out that suggestion. The case is yours.”

  Chan bowed. “You’re pretty good, thanks. Such a tipsy-turvy puzzle rouses professional pride. I will get to bottom of it or lose entire face. Be good enough to watch me.

  “I’ll be watching,” Eden answered. “Well, shall we go along?”

  In front of the Desert Edge Hotel Bob Eden held out his hand to the girl. “The end of a perfect day,” he said. “Except for one thing.”

  “Yes? What thing?”

  “Wilbur. I’m beginning to find the thought of him intolerable.”

  “Poor Jack. You’re so hard on him. Good night— and—”

  “And what?”

  “Be careful, won’t you? Out at the ranch I mean.”

  “Always careful—on ranches—everywhere. Good night.”

  As they sped over the dark road to Madden’s, Chan was thoughtfully silent. He and Eden parted in the yard. When the boy entered the patio he saw Madden sitting alone, wrapped in an overcoat, before a dying fire.

  The millionaire leaped to his feet. “Hello,” he said, “Well?”

  “Well?” replied Eden. He had completely forgotten his mission to Barstow.

  “You saw Draycott?” Madden whispered.

  “Oh!” The boy remembered with a start. More deception—would it ever end? “To-morrow at the door of the bank in Pasadena,” he said softly. “Noon sharp.”

  “Good,” answered Madden. “I’ll be off before you’re up. Not turning in already?”

  “I think I will,” responded Eden. “I’ve had a busy day.”

  “Is that so?” said Madden carelessly, and strode into the living-room. Bob Eden stood staring after the big, broad shoulders, the huge frame of this powerful man. A man who seemed to have the world in his grasp, but who had killed because he was afraid.

  Chapter XIV

  The Third Man

  As soon as he was fully awake the following morning, Bob Eden’s active brain returned to the problem with which it had been concerned when he dropped off to sleep. Madden had killed a man. Cool, confident, and self-possessed though he always seemed,
the millionaire had lost his head for once. Ignoring the possible effect of such an act on his fame, his high position, he had with murderous intent pulled the trigger on the gun Bill Hart had given him. His plight must have been desperate indeed.

  Whom had he killed? That was something yet to be discovered. Why had he done it? By his own confession, because he was afraid. Madden, whose very name struck terror to many, and into whose presence lesser men came with awe and trembling, had himself known the emotion of fear. Ridiculous, but “You were always afraid of him,” Thorn had said.

  Some hidden door in the millionaire’s past must be found and opened. First of all, the identity of the man who had been killed last Wednesday night on this lonely ranch must be ascertained. Well, at least the mystery was beginning to clear, the long sequence of inexplicable, maddening events since they came to the desert was broken for a moment by a tangible bit of explanation. Here was a start, something into which they could get their teeth. From this they must push on to—what?

  Chan was waiting in the patio when Bob Eden came out. His face was decorated with a broad grin.

  “Breakfast reposes on the table,” he announced. “Consume it speedily. Before us stretches splendid day for investigation with no prying eyes.”

  “What’s that?” asked Eden. “Nobody here? How about Gamble?”

  Chan led the way to the living-room, and held Bob Eden’s chair. “Oh, cut that, Charlie,” the boy said. “You’re not Ah Kim to-day. Do you mean to say that Gamble has also left us?”

  Chan nodded. “Gamble develops keen yearning to visit Pasadena,” he replied. “On which journey he is welcome as one of his long-tailed rats.”

  Eden quaffed his orange juice. “Madden didn’t want him, eh?”

  “Not much,” Chan answered. “I rise before day breaks and prepare breakfast, which are last night’s orders. Madden and Thorn arrive, brushing persistent sleep out of eyes. Suddenly enters this Professor Gamble, plentifully awake and singing happy praise for desert sunrise. ‘You are up early,’ says Madden, growling like a dissatisfied dog. ‘Decided to take little journey to Pasadena along with you,’ announces Gamble. Madden purples like distant hills when evening comes, but regards me and quenches his reply. When he and Thorn enter big car, behold Mr Gamble climbing into rear seat. If looks could assassinate Madden would then and there have rendered him extinct, but such are not the case. Car rolls off on to sunny road with Professor Gamble smiling pleasantly in back. Welcome as long-tailed rat, but not going to worry about it, thank you.”