Chan shrugged. “Mr Jordan juggles truth,” he replied, dropping his dialect with a sigh of relief. “He has no claim on pearls. They are property of his mother, to whom I give promise I would guard them with life.”
“See here, Charlie,” cried Victor angrily, “don’t tell me I lie. I’m sick and tired of this delay down here, and I’ve come with my mother’s authority to put an end to it. If you don’t believe me, read that.”
He handed over a brief note in Madame Jordan’s old-fashioned script. Chan read it. “One only answer,” he remarked. “I must release the pearls.” He glanced toward the clock, ticking busily by the patio window. “Though I am much preferring to wait Mr Eden’s come back—”
“Never mind Eden,” said Victor. “Produce that necklace.”
Chan bowed and, turning, fumbled for a moment at his waist. The Phillimore necklace was in his hand.
Madden took it eagerly. “At last,” he said.
Gamble was staring over his shoulder. “Beautiful,” murmured the professor.
“One minute,” said Chan. “A receipt, if you will be so kind.”
Madden nodded, and sat at his desk. “I got one ready this afternoon. Just have to sign it.” He laid the pearls on the blotter, and took a typewritten sheet from the top drawer. Slowly he wrote his name. “Mr Jordan,” he was saying, “I’m deeply grateful to you for coming down here and ending this. Now that it’s settled I’m leaving at once—” He offered the receipt to Chan.
A strange look had come into the usually impassive eyes of Charlie Chan. He reached out toward the sheet of paper offered him, then with the speed of a tiger he snatched for the pearls. Madden snatched too, but he was a little late. The necklace disappeared into Chan’s voluminous sleeve.
“What’s this?” bellowed Madden, on his feet. “Why, you crazy—”
“Hush,” said Chan. “I will retain the pearls.”
“You will, will you?” Madden whipped out a pistol. “We’ll see about that—”
There was a loud report and a flash of fire—but they did not come from Madden’s gun. They came from the silken sleeve of Charlie Chan. Madden’s weapon clattered to the floor, and there was blood on his hand.
“Do not stoop!” warned Chan, and his voice was suddenly high and shrill. “Postman has been on such long walk, but now at last he has reached journey’s end. Do not stoop, or I put bullet in somewhat valuable head!”
“Charlie—are you mad?” cried Victor.
“Not very,” smiled Chan. “Kindly favour me by backing away, Mr Madden.” He picked up the pistol from the floor—Bill Hart’s present, it seemed to be. “Very nice gun, I use it now.” Swinging Madden round, he searched him, then placed a chair in the centre of the room. “Be seated here, if you will so far condescend—” he said.
“The hell I will,” cried Madden.
“Recline!” said Chan.
The great Madden looked at him a second, then dropped sullenly down upon the chair. “Mr Gamble,” called Chan. He ran over the slim person of the professor. “You have left pretty little weapon in room. That is good. This will be your chair. And not to forget Mr Thorn, also unarmed. Comfortable chair for you too.” He backed away, facing them. “Victor, I make humble suggestion that you add yourself to group. You are plenty foolish boy, always. I remember—in Honolulu—” His tone hardened. “Sit quickly, or I puncture you and lift big load from mother’s mind!”
He drew up a chair between them and the exhibition of guns on the wall. “I also will venture to recline,” he announced. He glanced at the clock. “Our wait may be a long one. Mr Thorn, another suggestion occurs. Take handkerchief and bind up wounded hand of chief.”
Thorn produced a handkerchief and Madden held out his hand. “What the devil are we waiting for?” snarled the millionaire.
“We await come back of Mr Bob Eden,” replied Chan. “I am having much to impart when he arrives.”
Thorn completed his act of mercy, and slunk back to his chair. The tall clock by the patio windows ticked on. With the patience characteristic of his race Chan sat staring at his odd assortment of captives. Fifteen minutes passed, a half-hour, the minute hand began its slow advance toward the hour of nine.
Victor Jordan shifted uneasily in his chair. Such disrespect to a man worth millions! “You’re clear out of your mind, Charlie,” he protested.
“Maybe,” admitted Chan. “We wait and see.”
Presently a car rattled into the yard. Chan nodded. “Long wait nearly over,” he announced. “Now Mr Eden comes.”
His expression altered as a knock sounded on the door. It was pushed open, and a man strode brusquely in. A stocky, red-faced, determined man—Captain Bliss of the Homicide Squad. After him came another, a lean, wiry individual in a two-quart hat. They stood amazed at the scene before them.
Madden leaped to his feet. “Captain Bliss. By gad, I’m delighted to see you. You’re just in time.”
“What’s all this?” inquired the lean man.
“Mr Madden,” said Bliss, “I’ve brought along Harley Cox, sheriff of the county. I guess you need us here.”
“We sure do,” replied Madden. “This Chinaman has gone crazy. Take that gun away from him and put him under arrest.”
The sheriff stepped up to Charlie Chan. “Give me the firearms, John,” he ordered. “You know what that means—a Chinaman with a gun in California. Deportation. Good Lord—he’s got two of them.”
“Sheriff,” said Charlie with dignity. “Permit me the honour that I introduce myself. I am Detective-Sergeant Chan, of the Honolulu police.”
The sheriff laughed. “You don’t say. Well, I’m the Queen of Sheba. Are you going to give me that other gun, or do you want a charge of resisting an officer?”
“I do not resist,” said Chan. He gave up his own weapon. “I only call to your attention I am fellow-policeman, and I yearn to save you from an error you will have bitter cause to regret.”
“I’ll take the chance. Now, what’s going on here?” The sheriff turned to Madden. “We came about that Louie Wong killing. Bliss saw this Chinaman on a train last night with the fellow named Eden, all dolled up in regular clothes and as chummy as a brother.”
“You’re on the right trail now, Sheriff,” Madden assured him. “There’s no doubt he killed Louie. And just at present he has somewhere about him a string of pearls belonging to me. Please take them away from him.”
“Sure, Mr Madden,” replied the sheriff. He advanced to make a search, but Chan forestalled him. He handed him the necklace.
“I give it to your keeping,” he said. “You are officer of law and responsible. Attend your step.”
Cox regarded the pearls. “Some string, ain’t it? Kinda pretty, Mr Madden. You say it belongs to you?”
“It certainly does—”
“Sheriff,” pleaded Charlie, with a glance at the clock, “if I may make humble suggestion, go slow. You will kick yourself angrily over vast expanse of desert should you make blunder now.”
“But if Mr Madden says these pearls are his—”
“They are,” said Madden. “I bought them from a jeweller named Eden in San Francisco ten days ago. They belonged to the mother of Mr Jordan here.”
“That’s quite correct,” admitted Victor.
“It’s enough for me,” remarked the sheriff.
“I tell you I am of the Honolulu police—” protested Chan.
“Maybe so, but do you think I’d take your word against that of a man like P. J. Madden? Mr Madden, here are your pearls—”
“One moment,” cried Chan. “This Madden says he is the same who bought the necklace at San Francisco jeweller’s. Ask him, please, location of jeweller’s store.”
“On Post Street,” said Madden.
“What part Post Street? Famous building across way. What building?”
“Officer,” objected Madden, “must I submit to this from a Chinese cook? I refuse to answer. The pearls are mine—”
Victor Jo
rdan’s eyes were open wide. “Hold on,” he said. “Let me in this. Mr Madden, my mother told me of the time when you first saw her. You were employed then— where—in what position?”
Madden’s face purpled. “That’s my affair.”
The sheriff removed his ample hat and scratched his head. “Well, maybe I better keep this trinket for a minute,” he reflected. “Look here, John—or—er—Sergeant Chan, if that’s your name—what the devil are you driving at, anyhow?”
He turned suddenly at a cry from Madden. The man had edged his way to the array of guns on the wall, and stood there now, with one of them in his bandaged hand.
“Come on,” he cried, “I’ve had enough of this. Up with your hands—Sheriff, that means you! Gamble—get that necklace! Thorn—get the bag in my room!”
With a magnificent disregard for his own safety, Chan leaped upon him and seized the arm holding the pistol. He gave it a sharp twist, and the weapon fell to the floor.
“Only thing I am ever able to learn from Japanese,” he said. “Captain Bliss, prove yourself real policeman by putting handcuffs on Thorn and the professor. If the sheriff will so kindly return my personal automatic, which I employ as detective in Hawaii, I will be responsible for this Madder here.”
“Sure, I’ll return it,” said Cox. “And I want to congratulate you. I don’t know as I ever saw a finer exhibitior of courage—”
Chan grinned. “Pardon me if I make slight correction. One recent morning at dawn I have busy time removing all cartridges from this splendid collection of old-time pistols on the wall. Long, dusty job, but I am glad I did it.” He turned suddenly to the big man beside him. “Put up the hands, Delaney,” he cried.
“Delaney?” repeated the sheriff.
“Undubitably,” replied Chan. “You have questioned value of my speech against word of P. J. Madden. Happy to say that situation does not arise. This is not P. J. Madden. His name is Jerry Delaney.”
Bob Eden had entered quietly from the patio. “Good work, Charlie,” he said. “You’ve got it now. But how in Sam Hill did you know?”
“Not long ago,” answered Chan, “I shoot gun from his grasp. Observe the bandage on his hand, and note it is the left. Once in this room I told you Delaney was left-handed.”
Through the open door behind Eden came a huge, powerful, but weary-looking man. One of his arms was in a sling, and his face was pale beneath a ten days’ growth of beard. But there was about him an air of authority and poise; he loomed like a tower of granite, though the grey suit was sadly rumpled now. He stared grimly at Delaney.
“Well, Jerry,” he said, “you’re pretty good. But they always told me you were—the men who ran across you at Jack McGuire’s. Yes—very good, indeed. Standing in my house, wearing my clothes, you look more like me than I do myself.”
Chapter XXII
The road to Eldorado
The man at the door came farther into the room and looked inquiringly about him. His eyes fell on Thorn.
“Hello, Martin,” he said. “I warned you it wouldn’t work. Which of you gentlemen is the sheriff?”
Cox came forward. “Right here, sir. I suppose you’re P. J. Madden?”
Madden nodded. “I suppose so. I’ve always thought I was. We telephoned the constable from a ranch down the road, and he told us you were here. So we’ve brought along another little item to add to your collection.” He indicated the patio door, through which Holley came at that moment leading Shaky Phil by the arm. Maydorf’s hands were tied behind him. Paula Wendell and Evelyn Madden also entered.
“You’d better handcuff this newcomer to Delaney, Sheriff,” suggested Madden. “And then I’ll run over a little list of charges against the crowd that I think will hold them for a while.”
“Sure, Mr Madden,” agreed the sheriff. As he stepped forward Chan halted him.
“Just one minute. You have string of pearls—”
“Oh, yes—that’s right,” replied the sheriff. He held out the Phillimore necklace. Chan took it and placed it in the hand of P. J. Madden.
“Fully aware you wanted it in New York,” he remarked, “but you will perform vast kindness to accept it here. I have carried it to outside limit of present endurance. Receipt at your convenience, thank you.”
Madden smiled. “All right, I’ll take it.” He put the necklace in his pocket. “You’re Mr Chan, I imagine. Mr Eden was telling me about you on the way down from the mine. I’m mighty glad you’ve been here.”
“Happy to serve,” bowed Chan.
The sheriff turned. “There you are, sir. The charge, I guess, is attempted theft—”
“And a lot of other things,” Madden added, “including assault with intent to kill.” He indicated his limp arm. “I’ll run over my story as quickly as I can—but I’ll do it sitting down.” He went to his desk. “I’m a little weak— I’ve been having a rough time of it. You know in a general way what has happened, but you don’t know the background, the history, of this affair. I’ll have to go back—back to a gambling-house on Forty-fourth Street, New York. Are you familiar with New York gamblers and their ways, Sheriff?”
“Been to New York just once,” said the sheriff. “Didn’t like it.”
“No, I don’t imagine you would,” replied Madden. He looked about. “Where are my cigars? Ah—here. Thanks, Delaney—you left me a couple, didn’t you? Well, Sheriff, in order that you may understand what’s been going on here, I must tell you about a favourite stunt of shady gamblers and confidence men in New York—a stunt that was flourishing there twelve or fifteen years ago. It was a well-known fact at the time that, in the richly furnished houses where they lay in wait for trusting out-of-town suckers, certain members of the ring were assigned to impersonate widely known millionaires, such as Frank Gould, Cornelius Vanderbilt, Mr Astor—myself. The greatest care was exercised—photographs of these men were studied; wherever possible they themselves were closely observed in every feature of height, build, carriage, dress. The way they brushed their hair, the kind of glasses they wore, their peculiar mannerisms—no detail was too insignificant to escape attention. The intended dupe must be utterly taken in, so he might feel that he was among the best people, and that the game was honest.”
Madden paused a moment. “Of course, some of these impersonations were rather flimsy, but it was my bad luck that Mr Delaney here, who had been an actor, was more or less of an artist. Starting with a rather superficial resemblance to me, he built up an impersonation that got better and better as time went on. I began to hear rumours that I was seen nightly at the gambling-house of one Jack McGuire, in Forty-fourth Street. I sent my secretary, Martin Thorn, to investigate. He reported that Delaney was making a good job of it—not, of course, so good that he could deceive anyone really close to me, but good enough to fool people who knew me only from photographs. I put my lawyer on the matter, and he came back and said that Delaney had agreed to desist, on threat of arrest.
“And I imagine he did drop it—in the gambling-houses. What happened afterward I can only conjecture, but I guess I can hit it pretty close. These two Maydorf boys, Shaky Phil and”—he nodded at Gamble—“his brother, who is known to the police as the Professor, were the brains of the particular gang at McGuire’s. They must long ago have conceived the plan of having Delaney impersonate me somewhere, some time. They could do nothing without the aid of my secretary, Thorn, but they evidently found him willing. Finally they hit on the desert as the proper locale for the enterprise. It was an excellent selection. I come here rarely; meet few people when I do come. Once they could get me here alone, without my family, it was a simple matter. All they had to do was to put me out of the way, and then P. J. Madden appears with his secretary, who is better known locally than he is—no one is going to dream of questioning his identity, particularly as he looks just like his pictures.”
Madden puffed thoughtfully on his cigar. “I’ve been expecting some such move for years. I feared no man in the world—except Delaney. The poss
ibilities of the harm he might do me were enormous. Once I saw him in a restaurant, studying me. Well—they had a long wait, but their kind is patient. Two weeks ago I came here with Thorn, and the minute I got here I sensed there was something in the air. A week ago last Wednesday night I was sitting here writing a letter to my daughter Evelyn—it’s probably still between the leaves of this blotter where I put it when I heard Thorn cry out sharply from his bedroom. ‘Come quick, chief,’ he called. He was typing letters for me, and I couldn’t imagine what had happened. I rose and went to his room—and there he was, with an old gun of mine—a gun Bill Hart had given me—in his fist. ‘Put up your hands,’ he said. Some one entered from the patio. It was Delaney.
“‘Now don’t get excited, chief,’ said Thorn, and I saw the little rat was in on the game. ‘We’re going to take you for a ride to a place where you can have a nice little rest. I’ll go and pack a few things for you. Here, Jerry—you watch him.’ And he handed Delaney the gun.
“There we stood, Delaney and I, and I saw that Jerry was nervous—the game was a little rich for his blood. Thorn was busy in my room. I began to call for help at the top of my voice—why? Who would come? I didn’t know, but a friend might hear—Louie might have got home— some one might be passing on the road. Delaney told me to shut up. His hand trembled like a leaf. In the patio outside I heard an answering voice—but it was only Tony, the parrot. I knew well enough what was afoot, and I decided to take a chance. I started for Delaney; he fired and missed. He fired again, and I felt a sort of sting in my shoulder, and fell.
“I must have been unconscious for a second, but when I came to Thorn was in the room, and I heard Delaney say he’d killed me. In a minute, of course, they discovered I was alive, and my good friend Jerry was all for finishing the job. But Thorn wouldn’t let him—he insisted on going through with the original plan. He saved my life—I’ll have to admit it—the contemptible little traitor. Cowardice, I imagine, but he saved me. Well, they put me in a car, and drove me up to the jail at Petticoat Mine. In the morning they left—all except the Professor, who had joined our happy party. He stayed behind, dressed my wound, fed me after a fashion. On Sunday afternoon he went away and came back late at night with Shaky Phil. Monday morning the Professor left, and Shaky Phil was my jailer after that. Not so kind as his brother.
The Chinese Parrot Page 25
