The First Mystery Novel

by Howard Mason

  “Educated, trained—and broke, Mr. Parradine. For I couldn’t make a living as a lawyer. Nobody would hire a—but do you mind telling me which one of my classmates it was who was shrewd enough to recognize me? For I had my nose changed a bit at time of my—er—surgery—” The Chinese swept a hand meaningfully over the place where his legs should have been. “—My eyebrows narrowed—my—Do you mind telling me?”

  “Not at all. Miclau Endliss.”

  “The devil—you say? Poor Endliss! The most handsome man of the class. Yes, a fact. It’s all of 20 years since we graduated, yet I remember Endliss as well as though it were all yesterday. The most handsome man, beyond any doubt, in the class. And now—disfigured!” The Chinese shook his head. Then pulled himself together, went on with his words.

  “But you’ve asked a salient question, and I’m endeavoring to answer it. As I say, I couldn’t make the slightest shadow of a living as a lawyer. Why, nobody would hire me. Certainly not the criminals, whose putative rights I had thought to protect if, Buddha help me, such possess any. Not even the Chinese would hire me. For they all thought alike, that white juries would be prejudiced hopelessly against a yellow lawyer. Perhaps they were right on that, by Jove; yes, I believe today they were. Why, I couldn’t even get a job as a case-preparer in a lawyer’s office, because of the fact that when it would get out, the firm would be thought to be doing tong-killer defense stuff, or acting surreptitiously as middlemen between opium-den proprietors, or fan-tan game proprietors, and the police—or what not. I—I was poison, I tell you!”

  A shadow passed over the Chinaman’s face—he sighed—the shadow lingered a second, then passed; his face again became the face of a philosopher.

  “For myself,” he went on, looking up at Parradine, “it didn’t matter. We Chinese are used to taking it! But my whole education had been provided for by my only living relative—my grandfather, Wing Ku, a small merchant of Hohsien, a village about a hundred miles back of Canton. He died so broke that—well, I found, on some investigation, that his remains were in the pauper section of the town’s cemetery, with only a rotten plank above his grave. All as a result—of sending me to school. And so—so—” The Chinese took a deep breath.

  “—When my legs got crushed in the wreck of the Olympia Express, en route from San Francisco to Seattle, where I was going to look for a berth, and I was offered a $5000 cash settlement over and above my hospitalization, I had to figure then and there whether to try to carry on as a lawyer, or become a beggar. And so-o-o, when the settlement came, I sent it to the Nanshing Trust Company of Shanghai—at least all but fare to New York, and the price of this cart—and had my grandfather’s remains put into a line vault in the cemetery—the most beautiful thing in Hohahien Cemetery—I have pictures of it—and I—well, I took up begging. You may call it small-scale merchandizing, Mr. Parradine, but I call it professional mendicancy. And that’s—that’s my story.”

  “Good heavens,” was all Parradine could say. “What a sto—but how do you make out?”

  The Chinaman looked quizzically pained.

  “It won’t cost me my position along your block?”

  “Heavens, no, Hoi. No! You give my block a real highlight—a touch of real color. I’m glad and honored to have you.”

  “Well, I’ll be frank then. I at least pay income-tax on my takings. A thing which, as a lawyer, I never came within a million miles of doing. In fact, as a lawyer, I had to bunk in the back of a Chinese laundry—at 75 cents a week!—with 11 chop suey restaurant waiters and laundrymen, some smoking opium, and had to live, at times, on nothing but boiled rice and tea. Meaning—I earned nothing!”

  Parradine shook his head. “A hell of a commentary on our civilization. That’s about all I can say. To allow a human mind and soul to be buried ali—”

  “Ah, Mr. Parradine, there’s where you’re quite wrong. I know today that there was, and is, nothing—in the life I would have lived. Routine, rut, and—and spiritual destruction. As I live today, I meet thousands of interesting people who chat with me, and tell me of their lives; instead of rotting away in a dusty law-firm’s anteroom, surrounded by heavy, wearisome, mind-fogging legal tomes, I am posted, literally, on the banks of a human river where I can see life actually flow past me, hour after hour; I owe no man anything today, in the matter of favors or obligations—and none owe me; why—the life I live today is a thousand times richer than the one I would have lived. For that latter life was, basically, false and empty, colorless and—

  “Indeed,” the Chinaman broke off, almost quizzically, “we Chinese have a little verse, or couplet, that describes precisely what I’m trying to convey. The only standard verse in the whole Chinese language which, when translated, comes out in rhyme. Isn’t that odd? For—but to the verse itself. Which goes—”

  And in a curious singsong voice, wherein, as even Parradine knew, pitch and inflection served to create certain differences of meaning, the Chinese repeated:

  “‘Hua shui wu yu kung tso lang,

  ‘Hsiu hun sui hao pu wen hsiang’

  “Which in English,” the Chinaman went on, without even a pause, but smiling, says:

  “‘In the mock waves of painted water, no fishes dwell;

  ‘In your embroidered flowers, though fine, there is no smell.”

  He paused but a second.

  “And that is a picture of the life I would have led: painted water—without fishes; embroidered flowers—without smell!”

  He made a philosophic gesture with his lean yellow hands.

  “I’m glad,” was all Parradine could say, “that you’re satisfied! For it seems to me—” He said no more to this wreck of a human being. “But tell me something, will you, John Hoi?” he broke off.

  “Are you retaining me?” asked the Chinaman, grinning. “The famous retort, you know, of a lawyer, when asked a question!”

  “Sure I’m retaining you! And without discussion even as to fee. So here’s the question: I’ve a chance, of sorts, to obtain a rare copy of a book contain—that is, John Hoi, I believe I have the chance, for I can’t for the life of me see how there can be anything in life that’s not for sale at any price, nor—” Parradine shook his head perplexedly. “A thing without price? That’s utterly ridicu—however,” he broke off, “I feel I’ve a chance to obtain this book. Perhaps by some artful negotiating—perhaps by the use of money only. But whether or not, the book contains, John Hoi, all the collated wisdom of your race. Classified and all, so as to apply to everything, bar nothing. So is it worth paying an—er—stiff price for?”

  “Meaning—because of its rarity—or because was—our race wise?”

  “We-ell, yes—the latter?”

  “Well, Mr. Parradine, alcohol, when thrice distilled, becomes the finest beverage—worthy even of Gordon’s Gin! Wisdom that becomes distilled through passing through the tongues of scores of generations, and filtered by application to thousands of situations, becomes the very crystallization of Wisdom. In short, to hell with the rarity of the book. If somebody really has done the backbreaking labor of collating all our wisdom—and classifying it, to boot—get the book. Live by it. For it can be your beacon light, in everything you do.”

  “Old wisdom?” chided Parradine. “Thousands of years old?”

  “Certainly,” nodded the half-man. “Wisdom is fundamental, intrinsic, you see.”

  “Yes? Well, how would one of your ancient pundits express the answer, solution, or illumination to a problem dealing with, say, gangsters?”

  “Like that house electrician of yours?” the Chinese replied promptly. He looked, for the first time, hurt. “Who calls me Half-a-Chink and, when he’s more loquacious, ‘King of the Roller-Skating Rink’?”

  A shadow passed over Parradine’s face. “The devil you say? I’ll certainly speak to him about that. For that’s not agreeable to me at all. I’ll—”

 
“Don’t do it—if you don’t mind! I like not to get New York gangsters on my wrong side.”

  Parradine shook his head. “He’s no gangster, John Hoi. Merely a chap who grew up in a territory that has spawned gangsters, but who has succeeded in making something of himself. You have to distinguish, you know. For—but all right—how would your Chinese pundit refer to our gangsters?”

  “Oh,” laughed the other, “there were gangs galore in ancient China. Bandits, they called them. Why—the Capone of 500 A.D. was Lu Wong.”

  “We-ell—okay, then. Well how would one of your old pundits express himself upon what was, some time back, the greatest problem our world ever had? Meaning Hitler. Who I see, only today, is estimated to have caused practically directly the death of 5,000,000 persons.”

  “Why, we Chinese had our Hitlers in the ancient days. Specifically, however, Genghis Khan, who conquered North China, Tartary and Persia. And caused the death of—well, guess how many persons?”

  “Not 5 million also?”

  “Precisely.”

  “Well, I’ll be!” Parradine shook his head, came back to the subject. “Then the book in question will be applicable to everything from cock-fighting to—to relativity, eh? Well—but see here, John Hoi, has the wisdom of your race given you any solution—to—ah—”

  “—To my legless condition?” the Chinese helped out. He shook his head, but deprecatingly. “Mr. Parradine, I think I can with safety say that not less than 500 of the sayings of my people teach implacably that a man’s position in life is absolutely that of a prince, compared to what it would be in some less desirable position. Even to be a Chinese, Mr. Parradine, is to be saturated with that thesis. For instance, I have no cancer, and no chance of inheriting same; I can read English and Chinese classics both, instead of being unable to read either; I’m not on trial for my life for some murder I didn’t commit; I haven’t a missing daughter who may have gone wrong, and whose absence makes my nights a living nightmare; I haven’t a wife living in an iron lung, and wondering how in Buddha’s name I shall be able to keep her there for some years yet; I—why—I’m a wealthy man, Mr. Parradine, compared to what I might be.”

  “A most remarkable man, too,” nodded Parradine. “And—but you say, John Hoi, that I should acquire this book at any cost?”

  “I say yes,” affirmed the other. “Since it’s actually in English. And I guarantee you that there is no situation in life, yours or anybody else’s, no matter how desperate, that it cannot be applied to.”

  “No situation in life?” echoed Parradine, almost chidingly.

  “No situation in life,” affirmed the Chinese stubbornly. “I guarantee it.”

  Parradine pursed his lips. “A big ticket—that ‘guarantee’ of yours,” was all he said. “But I’m a fall-guy, John Hoi, when it comes to the opinions of experts. Always was. And always will be! And so—” He allowed the rest of his words to go unsaid.

  But the Chinaman’s gaze was resting troubledly, alarmedly, on the telephone.

  “Good heavens, Mr. Parradine, you’re actually talking to somebody on the wire. Strange that I didn’t note that instrument was off its cradle. So I’ll be vamoosing out of here pronto! I—” He held forth the package of shoestrings he had extracted from his tray on his first advent in here. “That package of laces I sold you last night were shorties, as I found when I discovered only this morning that my last consignment of laces has been accidentally misbranded by the makers. Shorties instead of longies! So I desire herewith and hereupon to make commercial restitution!”

  Parradine could only look at the other helplessly.

  “But I got no—” he began.

  “Oh-oh!” The Chinaman, looking painedly at the phone, lowered his voice to no more than a whisper. “I clumsily disturb some ‘alibi’ with some lady fair—about having been ‘out of town’? By placing you here in New York last night, when—” He said no more.

  “No, oh no,” was all Parradine said. “No—nothing like that. It’s just that—you sure, John Hoi, that—what time did this happen?”

  The Chinese gazed in utter bewilderment at Parradine.

  “I don’t just know,” he said slowly, “whether you’re ribbing me a bit, Mr. Parradine, or—or whether you’re indulging in a little experiment to test the observation of an Oriental. But me—I’ll play the game! Sure. Well, it was after the building had closed down, and all. About 15 minutes after midnight, I figure. I—I had fallen asleep there, against the wall; fortunately, I’d blocked the cart rollers with pencils—hence, had no accident as a result of sleeping. Nor—but I woke up suddenly. To see you passing me, and turning into the building here. You were quite brightly illumined, momentarily, by the generous night lobby lights pouring out onto the sidewalk there. And to be even further exact, I’ll say that you were wearing a suit I’ve never seen you in before. Right? Or wrong? Anyway, I greeted you, and asked you how you were fixed on laces, figuring to give you a pair. And you took a shorty, but you insisted on paying for it. And that was about all. Except, of course, my asking you how you were going to get upstairs with no elevators running. And you said—”

  “What?” Parradine frowned.

  “We-e-ell, you said—you said: ‘Mr. Rocco’s just gone in ahead of me, and will run me up in the tower elevator.’”

  The Chinaman made a curious gesture with his two hands which plainly said: “I have played the game—whatever it is!”

  As for Parradine, he bit his lip painedly. Understanding too well the tragedy of what he had just listened to. Senility! Or rather, to be exact, pre-senility, a thing almost as bad. That condition, setting in at many different ages, but always with the same standard symptoms: the hopeless mixing up, on the part of its victim, of dreams with reality. Indeed, Parradine had had desperate experience with this identical phenomenon in the case of his own father, who, in his latter years, had led a hopelessly confused life, utterly unable to distinguish between his dreams and the events of his waking life. Till, at last—

  But Parradine made no comment, except to himself. And which inward comment sadly ran:

  “Poor devil! Locked to a roller-skate cart, without proper physical and social activity and all, his cerebral arteries are hardening—he’s becoming—” He half shook his head, continued his purely inward reflections. “And if I tell him he dreamed it all, he’ll think—no, with his legal training, he’ll know—he’s slipping. He’ll realize himself that it’s unequivocal senility. He’ll—no—no, confound it if I’ll tell him.”

  He smiled, forcibly. Reached out his hand.

  “Thanks, John Hoi. And I was neither ribbing you, nor making any tests, either. Other perhaps than on myself. For I just had a—a curious brain-slip, that’s all. As to the date of that occurrence. And wanted to see if I was goofy or what. For I was certain as all get-out that all that happened—oh, the night before—wanted to see you put me conclusively in the wrong, so I—I could jack my own wits up a bit. You see,” he broke off: clumsily, “I’m having lots of worries these days. And—”

  “I don’t doubt it,” said the Chinese, “with a huge property like this block. And besides—Time is a most illusory thing. Well, here’s the laces, anyway.” He held them smilingly out.

  Parradine took them.

  “I’ll return the other pair in due course,” was all he said. “When—no, I’ll keep it—for a certain pair of high shoes I have. So now to pay my—” He was reaching to his pocket.

  “Not so!” the Chinese shook his head firmly. “For you said, as now of course you’ll recall, for me to keep the change from that quarter against the next pair you’d buy. You remember that, do you not?”

  Parradine winced. “Too courteous to remember,” he said clumsily. “Hoping you wouldn’t!”

  The Chinese adjusted his tray.

  “Well, I’ll be going now. Good day, Mr. Parradine, and goodbye.”

&n
bsp; He nodded, took up his handle-provided blocks, revolved his cart deftly, and propelled himself across the room. Expertly turned the door handle over his head, drew the door open, enough to roll into the opening, and revolved his cart.

  “Au revoir!” he said. And, block in hand, made an odd salute.

  Then rolled back outward, reaching up and drawing the door tightly to as he did so.

  And Parradine, left completely alone, shook his head.

  “To bad—too damned bad,” he said. “That a fine mind like that should have to go the senility road, when some minds continue clear and unimpaired into the nineties, with nary a symptom. Clear into the nineties—and he no more than—” He stopped, frowned. “It—it does sound kind of fantastic at that—a man going senile at 44. I wonder what the medical textbooks would say on that! I’ll have to look into that tome I’ve got at home, when I get back from Chicago and get the lowdown on it. Yes, I will.” He had revolved about in his swivel chair as he ruminated, and now was facing his phone.

  “Oh-oh!” he ejaculated. “And I forgot completely again that I was talking to the one and only lead I possess to the collated wisdom of John Hoi’s ancestors. The book that John himself says I must beg, borrow, steal, or buy at any price. The book that— So here goes—to find out exactly who is this tough nut of a hides-dealer—this—this ‘most stubborn, micro-brained human in all New York’—who has my copy—my copy, by George!—of The Way Out from every catastrophe, problem, and enigma that man is heir to. Yup—here goes!”

  Chapter XIII

  PROPOSITION

  Quickly Parradine took up the telephone which had been lying idle.

  “Are you there yet, Mr. Jark?” he asked troubledly.

  “Right here, Mr. Parradine,” came a prompt and patient answer.

  “Awfully sorry I was off the wire so long. I—”

  “The expense is all yours,” the lower New York book-dealer replied pointedly.

  “True enough,” admitted Parradine, unperturbed. “Well, I’m far more interested now than I was just before I went off the wire about that Chinese wisdom book we were discussing. Even though I am not wallowing just now in any specific situation where I seek—well—a Way Out! And just as we were interrupted, you were evidencing that you had no particular objection toward telling me who the browser was who plucked that copy off your shelves—the hides-dealer down on the East River front—the ‘stubborn micro-brained hu—’”