The Chinese Parrot

by Earl Derr Biggers

  Peter Fogg nodded. “I’m not surprised,” he said seriously. “But I’m sorry to hear it, just the same. I’ve always liked Madden. Not many people do—but he has certainly been a friend to me. As you may imagine, this work I’m doing here is hardly in my line. I was a lawyer back East. Then my health broke, and I had to come out here. It was a case of taking anything I could get. Yes, sir, Madden has been kind to me, and I’ll help you any way I can.”

  “You say you’re not surprised. Have you any reason for that statement?”

  “No particular reason—but a man as famous as Madden— and as rich—well, it seems to me inevitable.”

  For the first time Charlie Chan spoke. “One more question, sir. Is it possible you have idea why Mr Madden should fear a certain man? A man named—Jerry Delaney?”

  Fogg looked at him quickly, but did not speak.

  “Jerry Delaney,” repeated Bob Eden. “You’ve heard that name, Mr Fogg?”

  “I can tell you this,” answered Fogg. “The chief is rather friendly at times. Some years ago he had this house gone over and a complete set of burglar-alarms installed. I met him in the hall while the men were busy at the windows. ‘I guess that’ll give us plenty of notice if anybody tries to break in,’ he said. ‘I imagine a big man like you has plenty of enemies, chief,’ said I. He looked at me kind of funny. ‘There’s only one man in the world I’m afraid of, Fogg,’ he answered. ‘Just one.’ I got sort of nervy. ‘Who’s that, chief?’ I asked. ‘His name is Jerry Delaney,’ he said. ‘Remember that, if anything happens.’ I told him I would. He was moving off. ‘And why are you afraid of this Delaney, chief?’ I asked him. It was a cheeky thing to say, and he didn’t answer at first.”

  “But he did answer?” suggested Bob Eden.

  “Yes. He looked at me for a minute, and he said: ‘Jerry Delaney follows one of the queer professions, Fogg. And he’s too damn good at it.’ Then he walked away into the library, and I knew better than to ask him anything more.”

  Chapter XVIII

  The Barstow Train

  A few moments later they left Peter Fogg standing on the trimly kept lawn beside P. J. Madden’s empty palace. In silence they rode down the avenue, then turned toward the more lively business district.

  “Well, what did we get out of that?” Bob Eden wanted to know. “Not much, if you ask me.”

  Chan shrugged. “Trifles, mostly. But trifles sometimes blossom big. Detective business consist of one unsignificant detail placed beside other of the same. Then with sudden dazzle light begins to dawn.”

  “Bring on your dazzle,” said Eden. “We’ve learned that Madden visited his house here on Wednesday, but did not go inside. When questioned about his daughter he replied that she was well and would be along soon. What else? A thing we knew before—that Madden was afraid of Delaney.”

  “Also that Delaney followed queer profession.”

  “What profession? Be more explicit.”

  Chan frowned. “If only I could boast expert knowledge of mainland ways. How about you? Please do a little speculating.”

  Eden shook his head. “Promised my father I’d never speculate. Just as well too, for in this case I’d get nowhere. My brain—if you’ll pardon the mention of one more insignificant detail—is numb. Too many puzzles make Jack a dull boy.”

  The taxi landed them at the station whence hourly buses ran to Hollywood, and they were just in time to connect with the twelve o’clock run. Back up the hill and over the bridge spanning the Arroyo they sped. A cheery world lay about them, tiny stucco bungalows tinted pink or green, or gleaming white, innumerable service stations. In time they came to the outskirts of the film city, where gaily coloured mansions perched tipsily on miniature hills. Then down a long street that seemed to stretch off into eternity, into the maelstrom of Hollywood’s business district.

  Expensive cars honked deliriously about the corner where they alighted, and on the pavement crowded a busy throng, most of them living examples of what the well-dressed man or woman will wear if not carefully watched. They crossed the street.

  “Watch your step, Charlie,” Eden advised. “You’re in the auto salesman’s paradise.” He gazed curiously about him. “The most picturesque factory town in the world. Everything is here except the smoking chimneys.”

  Paula Wendell was waiting for them in the reception-room of the studio with which she was connected. “Come along,” she said. “I’ll take you to lunch at the cafeteria, and then perhaps you’d like to look round a bit.”

  Chan’s eyes sparkled as she led them down a street lined with the false fronts of imaginary dwellings. “My oldest girl would exchange the favour of the gods to be on this spot with me,” he remarked. “I shall have much to relate when I return to Punch Bowl Hill.”

  They lunched among the film players, grotesque in makeup and odd costumes. “No postman before,” said Chan, over his chicken-pie, “ever encountered such interesting walk on his holiday. Pardon, please, if I eat with unashamed enjoyment and coo much gusto. New experience for me to encounter food I have not perspired over myself in person.”

  “They’re taking a picture on Stage Twelve,” the girl explained, when lunch was finished. “It’s against the rules, but if you’re not too boisterous I can get you in for a look.”

  They passed out of the dazzling sunshine into the dim interior of a great building that looked like a warehouse. Another moment, and they reached the set, built to represent a smart foreign restaurant. Rich hangings were in the background, beautiful carpets on the floor. Along the walls were many tables with pink-shaded lights, and a resplendent head-waiter stood haughtily at the entrance.

  The sequence being shot at the moment involved, evidently, the use of many extras, and a huge crowd stood about, waiting patiently. The faces of most of them were vital and alive, unforgettable. Here were people who had known life—and not too much happiness—in many odd corners of the world. Nearly all the men were in uniform—a war picture, no doubt. Bob Eden heard snatches of French, German, Spanish; he saw in the eyes about him a hundred stories more real and tragic than any these people would ever act on the silver screen.

  “Leading men and women are standardized, more or less,” said Paula Wendell, “but the extras—they’re different. If you talked with some of them you’d be amazed. Brains and refinement—remarkable pasts—and on the bargain counter now at five dollars a day.”

  A call sounded, and the extras filed on to the set and took their allotted stations at the various tables, Chan watched fascinated; evidently he could stay here for ever. But Bob Eden, sadly lacking in that lovely virtue, patience, became restless.

  “This is all very well,” he said. “But we have work to do. How about Eddie Boston?”

  “I have his address for you,” the girl replied. “I doubt whether you’ll find him in at this hour, but you can try.”

  An old man appeared in the shadowy space behind the cameras. Eden recognized the veteran player who had been yesterday at Madden’s ranch—the actor known as “Pop.”

  “Hello,” cried Paula Wendell. “Maybe Pop can help you.” She hailed him. “Know where we can find Eddie Boston?” she inquired.

  As Pop joined them Charlie Chan stepped back into a dark corner.

  “Why—how are you, Mr Eden?” the old man said. “You want to see Eddie Boston, you say?”

  “I’d like to—yes.”

  “That’s too bad. You won’t find him in Hollywood.”

  “Why not? Where is he?”

  “On his way to San Francisco by this time,” Pop answered. “At least, that was where he was going when I saw him late last night.”

  “San Francisco? What’s he going there for?” asked Eden, amazed.

  “One grand outbreak, to hear him tell it. You know, it looks to me like Eddie’s come into a bit of money.”

  “He has, has he?” Eden’s eyes narrowed.

  “I met him on the street last night when we got in from the desert. He’d come by train
, and I asked him why. ‘Had some rush business to attend to, Pop,’ he says. ‘I’m off to ’Frisco in the morning. Things are looking up. Now the picture’s finished I aim to take a little jaunt for my health.’ Said he hadn’t been in ’Frisco since the nineties and was hungry to see it again.”

  Eden nodded. “Well, thank you very much.” With Paula Wendell he moved toward the door, and Chan, his hat low over his eyes, followed.

  At the foot of the runway in the bright world outside Eden paused. “That’s that,” he said. “One more disappointment. Will we ever get to the end of this? Well, Charlie—Boston’s beat it. Our bird has flown.”

  “Why not?” said Chan. “Madden pays him to go, of course. Did Boston not say he knew all about Delaney?”

  “Which must mean he knows Delaney’s dead. But how could he? Was he on the desert that Wednesday night? Ye gods!” The boy put his hand to his forehead. “You haven’t any smelling-salts, have you?” he added to Paula Wendell.

  She laughed. “Never use ’em.”

  They moved out to the street.

  “Well, we must push on,” said Eden. “The night is dark and we are far from home.” He turned to the girl. “When do you go back to Eldorado?”

  “This afternoon,” she replied. “I’m working on another script—one that calls for a ghost city this time.”

  “A ghost city?”

  “Yes—you know. A deserted mining town. So it’s me for the Petticoat Mine again.”

  “Where’s that?”

  “Up in the hills about seventeen miles from Eldorado. Petticoat Mine had three thousand citizens ten years ago, but there’s not a living soul there to-day. Just ruins, like Pompeii. I’ll have to show it to you—it’s mighty interesting.”

  “That’s a promise,” Eden returned. “We’ll see you back on your dear old desert.”

  “Warmest thanks for permitting close inspection of picture factory,” Chan remarked. “Always a glowing item on the scroll of memory.”

  “It was fun for me,” answered the girl. “Sorry you must go.”

  On the car bound for Los Angeles Eden turned to the Chinese. “Don’t you ever get discouraged, Charlie?” he inquired.

  “Not while work remains to do,” the detective replied. “This Miss Fitzgerald. Songbird, perhaps, but she will not have flown.”

  “You’d better talk with her—” Eden began.

  But Chan shook his head.

  “No, I will not accompany on that errand. Easy to see my presence brings embarrassed pause. I am hard to explain, like black eye.”

  “Well, I shouldn’t have called you that,” smiled the boy.

  “Go alone to see this woman. Inquire all she knows about the dead man—Delaney.”

  Eden sighed. “I’ll do my best. But my once proud faith in myself is ebbing fast.”

  At the stage-door of the deserted theatre Eden slipped a dollar into the hand of the doorman, and was permitted to step inside and examine the call-board. As he expected, the local addresses of the troupe were posted up, and he located Miss Fitzgerald at the Wynnwood Hotel.

  “You have aspect of experienced person,” ventured Chan.

  Eden laughed. “Oh, I’ve known a few chorus-girls in my time. Regular man of the world, I am.”

  Chan took up his post on a bench in Pershing Square, while the boy went on alone to the Wynnwood Hotel. He sent up his name, and after a long wait in the cheap lobby the actress joined him. She was at least thirty, probably more, but her eyes were young and sparkling. At sight of Bob Eden she adopted a rather coquettish manner.

  “You Mr Eden?” she said. “I’m glad to see you, though why I see you’s a mystery to me.”

  “Well, just so long as it’s a pleasant mystery—” Eden smiled.

  “I’ll say it is—so far. You in the profession?”

  “Not precisely. First of all, I want to say that I heard you sing over the radio the other night, and I was enchanted. You’ve a wonderful voice.”

  She beamed. “Say, I like to hear you talk like that. But I had a cold—I’ve had one ever since I struck this town. You ought to hear me when I’m going good.”

  “You were going good enough for me. With a voice like yours you ought to be in grand opera.”

  “I know—that’s what all my friends say. And it ain’t that I haven’t had the chance. But I love the theatre. Been on the stage since I was a teeny-weeny girl.”

  “Only yesterday that must have been.”

  “Say, boy—you’re good,” she told him. “You don’t happen to be scouting for the Metropolitan, do you?”

  “No— I wish I were.” Eden paused. “Miss Fitzgerald, I’m an old pal of a friend of yours.”

  “Which friend? I’ve got so many.”

  “I’ll bet you have. I’m speaking of Jerry Delaney. You know Jerry?”

  “Do I? I’ve known him for years.” She frowned suddenly. “Have you any news of Jerry?”

  “No, I haven’t,” Eden answered. “That’s why I’ve come to you. I’m terribly anxious to locate him, and I thought maybe you could help.”

  She was suddenly cautious. “Old pal of his, you say?”

  “Sure. Used to work with him at Jack McGuire’s place on Forty-fourth Street.”

  “Did you really?” The caution vanished. “Well, you know just as much about Jerry’s whereabouts as I do. Two weeks ago he wrote me from Chicago—I got it in Seattle. He was kind of mysterious. Said he hoped to see me out this way before long.”

  “He didn’t tell you about the deal he had on?”

  “What deal?”

  “Well, if you don’t know—Jerry was about to pick up a nice little bit of change.”

  “Is that so? I’m glad to hear it. Things ain’t been any too jake with Jerry since those old days at McGuire’s.”

  “That’s true enough, I guess. By the way, did Jerry ever talk to you about the men he met at McGuire’s? The swells. You know, we used to get some pretty big trade there.”

  “No, he never talked about it much. Why?”

  “I was wondering whether he ever mentioned to you the name of P. J. Madden.”

  She turned upon the boy a baby stare, wide-eyed and innocent “Who’s P. J. Madden?” she inquired.

  “Why, he’s one of the biggest financiers in the country. If you ever read the papers—”

  “But I don’t. My work takes so much time. You’ve no idea the long hours I put in—”

  “I can imagine it. But look here—the question is, where’s Jerry now? I may say I’m worried about him.”

  “Worried? Why?”

  “Oh—there’s risk in Jerry’s business, you know.”

  “I don’t know anything of the sort. Why should there be?”

  “We won’t go into that. The fact remains that Jerry Delaney arrived at Barstow a week ago last Wednesday morning, and shortly afterwards he disappeared off the face of the earth.”

  A startled look came into the woman’s eyes. “You don’t think he’s had an—an accident?”

  “I’m very much afraid he has. You know the sort Jerry was. Reckless—”

  The woman was silent for a moment. “I know,” she nodded. “Such a temper. These red-headed Irishmen—”

  “Precisely,” said Eden, a little too soon.

  The green eyes of Miss Norma Fitzgerald narrowed. “Knew Jerry at McGuire’s, you say?”

  “Of course.”

  She stood up. “And since when has he had red hair?” Her friendly manner was gone. “I was thinking only last night—I saw a cop at the corner of Sixth and Hill—such a handsome boy. You certainly got fine-looking fellows on your force out here.”

  “What are you talking about?” demanded Eden.

  “Go peddle your papers,” advised Miss Fitzgerald. “If Jerry Delaney’s in trouble I don’t hold with it, but I’m not tipping anything off. A friend’s a friend.”

  “You’ve got me all wrong,” protested Eden.

  “Oh, no, I haven’t. I’ve got you al
l right—and you can find Jerry without any help from me. As a matter of fact, I haven’t any idea where he is, and that’s the truth. Now run along.”

  Eden stood up. “Anyhow, I did enjoy your singing,” he smiled.

  “Yeah. Such nice cops—and so gallant. Well, listen in any time—the radio’s open to all.”

  Bob Eden went glumly back to Pershing Square. He dropped down on the bench beside Chan.

  “Luck was poor,” remarked the detective. “I see it in your face.”

  “You don’t know the half of it,” returned the boy. He related what had happened. “I certainly made a bloomer of it,” he finished. “She called me a cop, but she flattered me. The kindergarten class of rookies would disown me.”

  “Stop the worry,” advised Chan. “Woman a little too smart, that is all.”

  “That’s enough,” Eden answered. “After this, you officiate. As a detective, I’m a great little jeweller.”

  They dined at a hotel, and took the five-thirty train to Barstow. As they sped on through the gathering dusk Beb Eden looked at his companion.

  “Well, it’s over, Charlie,” he said. “The day from which we hoped for so much. And what have we gained? Nothing. Am I right?”

  “Pretty close to right,” admitted Chan.

  “I tell you, Charlie, we can’t go on. Our position is hopeless. We’ll have to go to the sheriff—”

  “With what? Pardon that I interrupt. But realize, please, that all our evidence is hazy, like flowers seen in a pool. Madden is big man, his word law to many.” The train paused at a station. “We go to sheriff with queer talk—a dead parrot, tale of a desert rat, half-blind and maybe crazy, suit-case in attic filled with old clothes. Can we prove famous man guilty of murder on such foolish grounds? Where is body? Few policemen alive who would not laugh at us—”

  Chan broke off suddenly, and Eden followed his gaze. In the aisle of the car stood Captain Bliss of the Homicide Squad, staring at them.

  Eden’s heart sank. The captain’s little eyes slowly took in every detail of Chan’s attire, then were turned for a moment on the boy. Without a sign, he turned about and went down the aisle and into the car behind.