The Chinese Parrot

by Earl Derr Biggers

  “Oh, sure,” said the young man. “Will’s explained all that. You needn’t worry. Madden and I ain’t exactly pals—not after the way he talked to me.”

  “You saw him last Wednesday night?” Eden suggested.

  “No, not that night. It was somebody else I saw then. I was here at the development until after dark, waiting for a prospect—he never showed up, the lowlife. Anyhow, along about seven o’clock, just as I was closing up the office, a big sedan stopped out in front. I went out. There was a little guy driving and another man in the back seat. ‘Good evening,’ said the little fellow. ‘Can you tell me, please, if we’re on the road to Madden’s ranch?’ I said sure, to keep right on straight. The man in the back spoke up. ‘How far is it?’ he wants to know. ‘Shut up, Jerry,’ says the little guy. ‘I’ll attend to this.’ He shifted the gears, and then he got kind of literary. ‘ “And an highway shall be there, and a way,”’ he says. ‘Not any too clearly defined, Isaiah.’ And he drove off. Now why do you suppose he called me Isaiah?”

  Eden smiled. “Did you get a good look at him?”

  “Pretty good, considering the dark. A thin, pale man with sort of greyish lips—no colour in them at all. Talked kind of slow and precise—awful neat English, like he was a professor or something.”

  “And the man in the back seat?”

  “Couldn’t see him very well.”

  “Ah, yes. And when did you meet Madden?”

  “I’ll come to that. After I got home I began to think— Madden was out at the ranch, it seemed. And I got a big idea. Things ain’t been going so well here lately—Florida’s been nabbing all the easy—all the good prospects—and I said to myself, how about Madden? There’s big money. Why not try and interest Madden in Date City? Get him behind it. Worth a shot, anyhow. So bright and early Thursday morning I came out to the ranch.”

  “About what time?”

  “Oh, it must have been a little after eight I’m full of pep at that hour of the day, and I knew I’d need it. I knocked at the front door, but nobody answered. I tried it—it was locked. I came around to the back and the place was deserted. Not a soul in sight.”

  “Nobody here?” repeated Eden, wonderingly.

  “Not a living thing but the chickens and the turkeys. And the Chinese parrot, Tony. He was sitting on his perch. ‘Hello, Tony,’ I said. ‘You’re a damn crook,’ he answers. Now I ask you, is that any way to greet a hard-working, honest real-estate man? Wait a minute—don’t try to be funny.”

  “I won’t,” Eden laughed. “But Madden—”

  “Well, just then Madden drove into the yard with that secretary of his. I knew the old man right away from his pictures. He looked tired and ugly, and he needed a shave. ‘What are you doing here?’ he wanted to know. ‘Mr Madden,’ I said, ‘have you ever stopped to consider the possibilities of this land round here?’ And I waltzed right into my selling talk. But I didn’t get far. He stopped me, and then he started. Say—the things he called me. I’m not used to that sort of thing—abuse by an expert, and that’s what it was. I saw his psychology was all wrong, so I walked out on him. That’s the best way—when the old psychology ain’t working.”

  “And that’s all?” Eden inquired.

  “That’s my story, and I’ll stick to it,” replied Mr De Lisle.

  “I’m very much obliged,” Eden said. “Of course, this is all between ourselves. And I may add that if I ever do decide to buy a lot on the desert—”

  “You’ll consider my stuff, won’t you?”

  “I certainly will. Just at present the desert doesn’t look very good to me.”

  Mr De Lisle leaned close. “Whisper it not in Eldorado,” he said. “I sometimes wish I was back in good old Chi myself. If I ever hit the Loop again I’m going to nail myself down there.”

  “If you’ll wait outside a few minutes, De Lisle—” Holley began.

  “I get you. I’ll just mosey down to the development and see if the fountain’s working. You can pick me up there.”

  The young man went out. Chan came quickly from behind a near-by door.

  “Get all that, Charlie?” Eden inquired.

  “Yes, indeed. Most interesting.”

  “We move right on,” said Holley. “Jerry Delaney came out to the ranch about seven o’clock Wednesday night, and he didn’t come alone. For the first time a fourth man enters the picture. Who? Sounded to me very much like Professor Gamble.”

  “No doubt about that,” replied Eden. “He’s an old friend of the prophet Isaiah’s—he admitted it here Monday after lunch.”

  “Fine,” commented Holley. “We begin to place Mr Gamble. Here’s another thing—some one drove up to the doctor’s Sunday night and carried Shaky Phil away. Couldn’t that have been Gamble, too? What do you say Charlie?—”

  Chan nodded. “Possible. That person knew of Louie’s return. If we could only discover—”

  “By George,” Eden cried. “Gamble was at the desk of the Oasis when Louie came in. You remember, Holley?”

  The editor smiled. “All fits in very neatly. Gamble sped out here like some sinister version of Paul Revere with the news of Louie’s arrival. He and Shaky Phil were at the gate when you drove up.”

  “But Thorn. That tear in Thorn’s coat?”

  “We must have been on the wrong trail there. This new theory sounds too good. What else have we learned from De Lisle? After the misadventure with Delaney Madden and Thorn were out all night. Where?”

  Chan sighed. “Not such good news, that. Body of Delaney was carried far from this spot.”

  “I’m afraid it was,” admitted Holley. “We’ll never find it without help from somebody who knows. There are a hundred lonely cañons round here where poor Delaney could have been tossed aside and nobody any the wiser. We’ll have to go ahead and perfect our case without the vital bit of evidence—the body of Delaney. But there are a lot of people in on this, and before we get through somebody is going to squeal.”

  Chan was sitting at Madden’s desk, idly toying with the big blotting-pad that lay on top. Suddenly his eyes lighted, and he began to separate the sheets of blotting-paper.

  “What is this?” he said.

  They looked, and saw in the detective’s pudgy hand a large sheet of paper, partly filled with writing. Chan perused the missive carefully, and handed it to Eden. The latter was written in a man’s strong hand. “It’s dated last Wednesday night,” Eden remarked to Holley. He read:

  “DEAR EVELYN,

  “I want you to know of certain developments here at the ranch. As I have told you before, Martin Thorn and I have been on very bad terms for the past year. This afternoon the big blow-off finally arrived, and I dismissed him from my service. To-morrow morning I’m going with him to Pasadena, and when we get there we part for all time. Of course, he knows a lot of things I wish he didn’t—otherwise I’d have scrapped him a year ago. He may make trouble, and I am warning you in case he shows up in Denver. I’m going to take this letter in town myself and mail it to-night, as I don’t want Thorn to know anything about it—”

  The letter stopped abruptly at that point.

  “Better and better,” said Holley. “Another sidelight on what happened here last Wednesday night. We can picture the scene for ourselves. Madden is sitting at his desk, writing that letter to his daughter. The door opens—some one comes in. Say it’s Delaney—Delaney, the man P. J.’s feared for years. Madden hastily slips the letter between the leaves of the blotter. He gets to his feet, knowing that he’s in for it now. A quarrel ensues, and by the time it’s over they’ve got into Thorn’s room somehow and Delaney is dead on the floor. Then—the problem of what to do with the body, not solved until morning. Madden comes back to the ranch tired and worn, realizing that he can’t dismiss Thorn now. He must make his peace with the secretary. Thorn knows too much. How about it, Charlie?”

  “It has plenty logic,” Chan admitted.

  “I said this morning I had some ideas on this affair out her
e,” the editor continued, “and everything that has happened to-day has tended to confirm them. I’m ready to spring my theory now—that is, if you care to listen.”

  “Shoot,” said Eden.

  “To me, it’s all as clear as a desert sunrise,” Holley went on. “Just let me go over it for you. Reconstruct it, as the French do. To begin with, Madden is afraid of Delaney. Why? Why is a rich man afraid of anybody? Blackmail, of course. Delaney has something on him—maybe something that dates back to that gambling-house in New York. Thorn can’t be depended on—they’ve been rowing, and he hates his employer. Perhaps he has even gone so far as to link up with Delaney and his friends. Madden buys the pearls, and the gang hears of it and decides to spring. What better place than way out here on the desert? Shaky Phil goes to San Francisco; Delaney and the professor come South. Louie, the faithful old retainer, is lured away by Shaky Phil. The stage is set. Delaney arrives with his threat. He demands the pearls, money, both. An argument follows, and in the end Delaney, the blackmailer, is killed by Madden. Am I right so far?”

  “Sounds plausible,” Eden admitted.

  “Well, imagine what followed. When Madden killed Delaney he probably thought Jerry had come alone. Now he discovers there are others in the gang. They have not only the information with which Delaney was threatening him, but they have something else on him too. Murder! The pack, is on him—he must buy them off. They clamour for money—and the pearls. They force Madden to call up and order the Phillimore necklace sent down here at once. When did he do that, Eden?”

  “Last Thursday morning,” Eden replied.

  “See—what did I tell you? Last Thursday morning, when he got back from his grisly midnight trip. They were on him then— they were blackmailing him to the limit. That’s the answer to our puzzle. They’re blackmailing him now. At first Madden was just as eager as they were for the necklace—he wanted to settle the thing and get away. It isn’t pleasant to linger round the spot where you’ve done murder. The past few days his courage has begun to return, he’s temporizing, seeking a way out. I’m a little sorry for him, I really am.” Holley paused. “Well, that’s my idea. What do you think, Charlie? Am I right?”

  Chan sat turning Madden’s unfinished letter slowly in his hand.

  “Sounds good,” admitted the detective. “However, here and there objections arise.”

  “For example?” Holley demanded.

  “Madden is big man. Delaney and these others nobody much. He could announce he killed blackmailer in self-defence.”

  “So he could—if Thorn were friendly and would back him up. But the secretary is hostile and might threaten to tell a different story. Besides, remember it isn’t only the killing of Delaney they have against him. There’s the information Delaney has been holding over his head.”

  Chan nodded. “So very true. One other fact, and then I cease my brutal fault-finding. Louie, long in confidence of Chinese parrot, is killed. Yet Louie depart for San Francisco on Wednesday morning, twelve hours before tragic night. Is not his murder then a useless gesturing?”

  Holley considered. “Well, that is a point. But he was Madden’s friend, which was a pretty good reason for not wanting him here. They preferred their victim alone and helpless. A rather weak explanation, perhaps. Otherwise I’m strong for my theory. You’re not so keen on it.”

  Chan shook his head. “For one reason only. Long experience has taught fatal consequence may follow if I get too addicted to a theory. Then I try and see, can I make everything fit? I can, and first thing I know theory explodes in my countenance with loud bang. Much better, I have found, to keep mind free and open.”

  “Then you haven’t any idea on all this to set up against mine?” Holley asked.

  “No solitary one. Frankly speaking, I am completely in the dark.” He glanced at the letter in his hand. “Or nearly so,” he added. “We watch and wait, and maybe I clutch something soon.”

  “That’s all right,” said Eden, “but I have a feeling we don’t watch and wait much longer at Madden’s ranch. Remember, I promised that Draycott would meet him to-day in Pasadena. He’ll be back soon, asking how come?”

  “Unfortunate incident,” shrugged Chan. “Draycott and he have failed to connect. Many times that has happened when two strangers make appointment. It can happen again.”

  Eden sighed. “I suppose so. But I hope P. J. Madden’s feeling good-natured when he comes home from Pasadena to-night. There’s a chance that he’s toting Bill Hart’s gun again, and I don’t like the idea of lying behind a bed with nothing showing but my shoes. I haven’t had a shine for a week.”

  Chapter XVI

  The Movies are in Town

  The sun set behind far peaks of snow; the desert purpled under a sprinkling of stars. In the thermometer that hung on a patio wall the mercury began its quick, relentless fall, a sharp wind swept over the desolate waste, and loneliness settled on the world.

  “Warm food needed now,” remarked Chan, “With your permission I will open numerous cans.”

  “Anything but the arsenic,” Eden told him. He departed for the cookhouse.

  Holley had long since gone, and Bob Eden sat alone by the window, looking out at a vast silence. Lots of room left in America yet, he reflected. Did they think of that, those throngs of people packed into subways at this hour, seeking tables in noisy restaurants, waiting at jammed corners for the traffic signal, climbing weary and worn at last to the pigeon-holes they called home? Elbow room on the desert; room to expand the chest. But a feeling of disquiet, too, a haunting realization of one man’s ridiculous unimportance in the scheme of things.

  Chan entered with a tray on which the dishes were piled high. He set down on the table two steaming plates of soup.

  “Deign to join me,” he suggested. “First course is now served with the kind assistance of the can-opener.”

  “Aged in the tin, eh, Charlie?” smiled Eden, drawing up. “Well, I’ll bet it’s good at that. You’re a bit of a magician in the kitchen.” They began to eat. “Charlie, I’ve been thinking,” the boy continued. “I know now why I have this sense of unrest on the desert. It’s because I feel so blamed small. Look at me, and then look out the window, and tell me where I get off to strut like a somebody through the world.”

  “Not bad feeling for the white man to experience,” Chan assured him. “Chinese has it all time. Chinese knows he is one minute grain of sand on seashore of eternity. With what result? He is calm and quiet and humble. No nerves, like hopping, skipping Caucasian. Life for him not so much ordeal.”

  “Yes, and he’s happier too,” said Eden.

  “Sure,” replied Chan. He produced a platter of canned salmon. “All time in San Francisco I behold white men hot and excited. Life like a fever, always getting worse. What for? Where does it end? Same place as Chinese life, I think.”

  When they had finished Eden attempted to help with the dishes, but was politely restrained. He sat down and turned on the wireless set. The strong voice of a leather-lunged announcer rang out in the quiet room.

  “Now, folks, we got a real treat for you this balmy, typical California evening. Miss Norma Fitzgerald, of the One Night in June company, now playing at the Mason, is going to sing—er—what are you going to sing, Norma? Norma says wait and find out.”

  At mention of the girl’s name Bob Eden called to the detective, who entered and stood expectantly. “Hello, folks,” came Miss Fitzgerald’s greeting. “I certainly am glad to be back in good old L. A.”

  “Hello, Norma,” Eden said, “never mind the songs. Two gentlemen out on the desert would like a word with you. Tell us about Jerry Delaney.”

  She couldn’t have heard him, for she began to sing in a clear, beautiful soprano voice. Chan and the boy listened in silence.

  “More of the white man’s mysteries,” Charlie remarked when she had finished. “So near to her, and yet so far away. Seems to me that we must visit this lady soon.”

  “Ah, yes—but how?” inquired
Eden.

  “It will be arranged,” Chan said, and vanished.

  Eden tried a book. An hour later he was interrupted by the peal of the telephone-bell, and a cheery voice answered his hello.

  “Still pining for the bright lights?”

  “I sure am,” he replied.

  “Well, the movies are in town,” said Paula Wendell. “Come on in.”

  He hurried to his room. Chan had built a fire in the patio, and was sitting before it, the warm light flickering on his chubby, impassive face. When Eden returned with his hat he paused beside the detective.

  “Getting some new ideas?” he asked.

  “About our puzzle?” Chan shook his head. “No. At this moment I am far from Madden’s ranch. I am in Honolulu, where nights are soft and sweet, not like chilly desert dark. Must admit my heart is weighed a little with homesick qualms. I picture my humble house on Punch Bowl Hill, where lanterns glow and my ten children are gathered round.”

  “Ten!” cried Eden. “Great Scott—you are a father.”

  “Very proud one,” assented Chan. “You are going from here?”

  “I’m running in town for a while. Miss Wendell called up—it seems the picture people have arrived. By the way, I just remembered—to-morrow is the day Madden promised they could come out here. I bet the old man’s clean forgot it.”

  “Most likely. Better not to tell him, he might refuse permission. I have unlimited yearning to see movies in throes of being born. Should I go home and report that experience to my eldest daughter, who is all time sunk in movie magazines, ancestor-worship breaks out plenty strong at my house.”

  Eden laughed. “Well, then, let’s hope you get the chance. I’ll be back early.”

  A few minutes later he was again in the small runabout, under the platinum stars. He thought fleetingly of Louie Wong, buried now in the bleak little graveyard beyond Eldorado, but his mind turned quickly to happier things. With a lively feeling of anticipation he climbed between the twin hills at the gateway, and the yellow lights of the desert town were winking at him.