The Chinese Parrot Page 4

  The girl rose and came forward. “Even on the desert,” she said, “there are telephones.”

  Charlie looked at her with sudden interest. “On the desert,” he repeated.

  “Most assuredly. Only two days ago I had a longdistance call for a ranch near Eldorado. A ranch named— but I do not remember.”

  “Perhaps—the ranch of Madden,” said Chan hopefully.

  She nodded. “Yes—that was the name. It was a most unusual call.”

  “And it came from Chinatown.”

  “Of course. From the bowl-shop of Wong Ching, in Jackson Street. He desired to speak to his relative, Louie Wong, caretaker on Madden’s ranch. The number, Eldorado seven six.”

  Chan dissembled his eagerness, but his heart was beating faster. He was of the foreign-devil police now. “Perhaps you heard what was said?”

  “Louie Wong must come to San Francisco at once. Much money and a fine position awaited him here—”

  “Haie!” cut in Kee Lim. “It is not fitting that you reveal thus the secrets of your white-devil profession. Even to one of the family of Chan.”

  “You are right, ever-wise cousin,” Charlie agreed. He turned to the girl. “You and I, little blossom, will meet again. Even though the desert has telephones, I am beyond reach there. Now, to my great regret, I must go.”

  Kee Lim followed him to the door. He stood there on the reed mat, stroking his thin beard and blinking. “Farewell, notable cousin. On that long journey of yours upon which you now set out—walk slowly.”

  “Farewell,” Charlie answered. “All my good wishes for happiness in the new year.” Suddenly he found himself speaking English. “See you later,” he called, and hurried down the stairs.

  Once in the street, however, he obeyed his cousin’s parting injunction, and walked slowly indeed. A startling bit of news, this, from Rose, the telephone-operator. Louie Wong was wanted in San Francisco—wanted by his relative Wong Ching, the bowl merchant. Why?

  An old Chinese on a corner directed him to Jackson Street, and he climbed its steep pavement until he reached the shop of Wong Ching. The brightly lighted window was filled with Swatow cups and bowls, a rather beautiful display, but evidently during this holiday season the place was not open for business, for the curtains on the door were drawn. Chan rattled the latch for a full minute, but no one came.

  He crossed the street, and took up a post in a dark doorway opposite. Sooner or later his summons would be answered. On a near-by balcony a Chinese orchestra was playing—the whanging flute, the shrill plink of the moon-kwan, the rasping cymbals, and the drums filled the night with a blissful dissonance. Presently the musicians ceased, the din died away, and Chan heard only the click of American heels and the stealthy swish of felt slippers passing his hiding-place.

  In about ten minutes the door of Wong Ching’s shop opened and a man came out. He stood looking cautiously up and down the dim street. A thin man in an overcoat which was buttoned close about him—a chilly-seeming man. His hat was low over his eyes, and as a further means of deceit he wore dark spectacles. Charlie Chan permitted a faint flash of interest to cross his chubby face.

  The chilly man walked briskly down the hill, and, stepping quickly from the doorway, Chan followed at a distance. They emerged into Grant Avenue; the dark-spectacled one turned to the right. Still Chan followed; this was child’s play for him. One block, two, three. They came to a cheap hotel, the Killarney, on one of Grant Avenue’s corners, and the man in the overcoat went inside.

  Glancing at his watch, Chan decided to let his quarry escape, and turned in the direction of Union Square. His mind was troubled. “This much even a fool could grasp,” he thought. “We move toward a trap. But with eyes open—with eyes keenly open.”

  Back in his tiny hotel room, he restored to his inexpensive suit-case the few articles he had previously removed. Returning to the desk, he found that his trunk had reached the hotel, but had not yet been taken upstairs. He arranged for its storage until his return, paid his bill, and sitting down in a great leather chair in the lobby, with his suit-case at his feet, he waited patiently.

  At precisely ten-thirty Bob Eden stepped inside the door of the hotel and beckoned. Following the young man to the street, Chan saw a big limousine drawn up to the kerb.

  “Jump in, Mr Chan,” said the boy, taking his bag. As the detective entered the darkened interior Alexander Eden greeted him from the gloom. “Tell Michael to drive slowly—I want to talk,” called the older man to his son. Bob Eden spoke to the chauffeur, then leaped into the car, and it moved off down Geary Street.

  “Mr Chan,” said the jeweller in a low voice, “I am very much disturbed.”

  “More events have taken place?” suggested Chan.

  “Decidedly,” Eden replied. “You were in the room this afternoon when I spoke of a telephone-call I had received from a pay-station at Sutter and Kearny Streets.” He repeated the details. “This evening I called into consultation Al Draycott, head of the Gale Detective Agency, with which I have affiliations. I asked him to investigate and, if possible, find that man in the overcoat Bob saw at the dock. An hour ago he reported that he had located our man with no great difficulty. He has discovered him—”

  “At the Killarney Hotel, perhaps, on Grant Avenue,” suggested Chan, dissembling a deep triumph.

  “Good Lord,” gasped Eden. “You found him too. Why—that’s amazing—”

  “Amazing luck,” said Chan. “Please pardon rude interruption. Will not occur again.”

  “Well, Draycott located this fellow, and reports that he is Shaky Phil Maydorf, one of the Maydorf brothers, as slick a pair of crooks as ever left New York for their health. The fellow suffers from malaria, I believe, but otherwise he is in good form and, it seems, very much interested in our little affairs. But, Mr Chan—your own story—how in the world did you find him too?”

  Chan shrugged. “Successful detective,” he said, “is plenty often man on whom luck turns smiling face. This evening I bask in most heart-warming grin.” He told of his visit to Chan Lee Kim, of the telephone-call to the desert from Wong’s bowl-shop, and of his seeing the man in the overcoat leaving the shop. “After that, simple matter to hound him to hotel,” he finished.

  “Well, I’m more disturbed than ever,” Eden said. “They have called the caretaker away from Madden’s ranch. Why? I tell you I don’t like this business—”

  “Nonsense, Father,” Bob Eden protested. “It’s rather interesting.”

  “Not to me. I don’t welcome the attention of these Maydorfs—and where, by the way, is the other one? They are not the modern type of crook that relies entirely on a gun. They are men of brains—old-fashioned outlaws who are regarded with respect by the police whom they have fought for many years. I called Sally Jordan and tried to abandon the whole proceeding—but that son of hers! He’s itching to get the money, and he’s urging her to go ahead. So what can I do? If it was anyone else I’d certainly drop out of the deal—but Sally Jordan—well, she’s an old friend. And as you said this afternoon, Mr Chan, there is such a thing as loyalty in the world. But I tell you I’m sending you two down there with the deepest reluctance.”

  “Don’t you worry, Dad. It’s going to be great fun, I’m sure. All my life I’ve wanted to be mixed up in a good exciting murder. As a spectator, of course.”

  “What are you talking about?” the father demanded.

  “Why, Mr Chan here is a detective, isn’t he? A detective on a vacation. If you’ve ever read a mystery story you know that a detective never works so hard as when he’s on vacation. He’s like the postman who goes for a long walk on his day off. Here we are, all set. We’ve got our bright and shining mark, our millionaire—P. J. Madden, one of the most famous financiers in America. I tell you, poor P. J. is doomed. Ten to one Mr Chan and I will walk into that ranch-house and find him dead on the first rug we come to.”

  “This is no joking matter,” Eden rebuked severely. “Mr Chan—you seem to be a man of cons
iderable ability. Have you anything to suggest?”

  Charlie smiled in the dark car. “Flattery sounds sweet to any ear,” he remarked. “I have, it is true, inclination for making humble suggestion.”

  “Then for heaven’s sake make it,” Eden said.

  “Pray give the future a thought. Young Mr Eden and I walk hand in hand, like brothers, on to desert ranch. What will spectator say? Aha, they bring pearls. If not, why come together for strength?”

  “Absolutely true,” Eden agreed.

  “Then why travel side by side?” Charlie continued. “It is my humble hint that Mr Bob Eden arrive alone at ranch. Answering all inquiries he says no, he does not carry pearls. So many dark clouds shade the scene, he is sent by honourable father to learn if all is well. When he is sure of that he will telegraph necklace be sent at once, please.”

  “A good idea,” Eden said. “Meanwhile—”

  “At somewhat same hour,” Chan went on, “there stumble on to ranch weary old Chinese, seeking employment. One whose clothes are of a notable shabbiness, a wanderer over sand, a what you call—a desert rat. Who would dream that on the stomach of such a one repose those valuable Phillimore pearls?”

  “Say—that’s immense,” cried Bob Eden enthusiastically.

  “Might be,” admitted Chan. “Both you and old Chinese look carefully about. If all is well, together you approach this Madden and hand over necklace. Even then, others need not know.”

  “Fine,” said the boy. “We’ll separate when we board the train. If you’re in doubt at any time just keep your eye on me, and tag along. We’re due in Barstow to-morrow at one-fifteen, and there’s a train to Eldorado at three-twenty, which arrives about six. I’m taking it, and you’d better do the same. One of my newspaper friends here has given me a letter to a fellow named Will Holley, who’s editor of a little paper at Eldorado. I’m going to invite him to have dinner with me, then I’ll drive out to Madden’s. You, of course, will get out some other way. As somebody may be watching us, we won’t speak on our journey. Friends once, but strangers now. That’s the idea, isn’t it?”

  “Precisely the notion,” agreed Chan.

  The car had stopped before the ferry building. “I have your tickets here,” Alexander Eden said, handing over a couple of envelopes. “You have lower berths, in the same car, but at different ends. You’ll find a little money there for expenses, Mr Chan. I may say that I think your plan is excellent—but for heaven’s sake be careful, both of you. Bob, my boy—you’re all I’ve got. I may have spoken harshly to you, but I—I—take care of yourself.”

  “Don’t you worry, Dad,” Bob Eden said. “Though you’ll never believe it, I’m grown up. And I’ve got a good man with me.”

  “Mr Chan,” Eden said, “good luck. And thank you a thousand times.”

  “Don’t talk about it,” smiled Charlie. “Happiest walk of postman’s life is on his holiday. I will serve you well. Good-bye.”

  He followed Bob Eden through the gates and on to the ferry-boat. A moment later they had slipped out upon the black waters of the harbour. The rain was gone, the sky spattered with stars, but a chill wind blew through the Gate. Charlie stood alone by the rail; the dream of his life had come true; he knew the great mainland at last. The flaming ball atop the ferry building receded; the yellow lamps of the city marched up the hills and down again. He thought of the tiny island that was his home, of the house on Punch Bowl Hill where his wife and children patiently awaited his return. Suddenly he was appalled at the distance he had come.

  Bob Eden joined him there in the dark, and waved his hand toward the glow in the sky above Grant Avenue. “A big night in Chinatown,” he said.

  “Very large night,” agreed Chan. “And why not? To-morrow is the first day of the new year. Of the year four thousand eight hundred and sixty-nine.”

  “Great Scott,” smiled Eden. “How time flies. A Happy New Year to you.”

  “Similar one to you,” said Chan.

  The boat ploughed on. From the prison island of Alcatraz a cruel, relentless searchlight swept at intervals the inky waters. The wind was bitter now.

  “I’m going inside,” shivered Bob Eden. “This is goodbye, I guess.”

  “Better so,” admitted Charlie. “When you are finally at Madden’s ranch, look about for that desert rat.”

  Alone, he continued to stare at the lamps of the city, cold and distant now, like the stars.

  “A desert rat,” he repeated softly, “with no fondly feeling for a trap.”

  Chapter IV

  The Oasis Special

  Dusk was falling in the desert town of Eldorado when, on Friday evening, Bob Eden alighted from the train at a station that looked like a little red schoolhouse gone wrong. His journey down from San Francisco to Barstow had been quite without incident. At that town, however, a rather disquieting thing had happened. He had lost all trace of Charlie Chan.

  It was in the Barstow lunch-room that he had last seen the detective from the Islands, busy with a cup of steaming tea. The hour of three-twenty and the Eldorado train being some distance off, he had gone for a stroll through the town. Returning about three, he had looked in vain for the little Chinese policeman. Alone he had boarded the train, and now, as he stared up and down the dreary railroad tracks, he perceived that he had been the only passenger to alight at this unpromising spot.

  Thinking of the fortune in “undigestible” pearls on the detective’s person, he was vaguely alarmed. Had Chan met with some unfortunate accident? Or perhaps—who could say? What did they really know about this Charlie Chan? Every man is said to have his price, and this was an overwhelming temptation to put in the way of an underpaid detective from Honolulu. But no—Bob Eden recalled the look in Chan’s eyes when he had promised Sally Jordan to guard those pearls well. The Jordans no doubt had good reason for their faith in an old friend. But suppose Shaky Phil Maydorf was no longer in San Francisco—

  Resolutely Bob Eden put these thoughts aside and, rounding the station, entered a narrow strip of ground which was, rather pathetically, intended for a park. February had done its worst, and up above the chill evening wind from the desert blew through the stark branches of Carolina poplars and cotton-woods. Crossing a gravel path almost hidden by a mass of yellow leaves, he stood on the kerb of the only pavement in Eldorado.

  Against the background of bare brown hills, he saw practically the entire town at a glance. Across the way a row of scraggly buildings proclaimed yet another Main Street—a bank, a picture theatre, the Spot Cash Store, the News Bureau, the post-office, and, towering above the rest, a two-storey building that announced itself as the Desert Edge Hotel. Eden crossed the street, and, threading his way between dusty automobiles parked head on at the kerb, approached the door of the latter. On the double seat of a shoe-shining stand two ranchers lolled at ease, and stared at him with mild interest as he went inside.

  An electric lamp of modest candle-power burned above the desk of the Desert Edge, and a kindly old man read a Los Angeles paper in its dim company.

  “Good evening,” said Bob Eden.

  “Evenin’,” answered the old man.

  “I wonder if I might leave this suit-case in your check-room for a while?” the boy inquired.

  “Check-room, hell,” replied the old man. “Just throw her down anywhere. Ain’t lookin’ fer a room, I suppose. Make you a special rate.”

  “No,” said Eden. “I’m sorry.”

  “‘Sail right,” answered the proprietor. “Not many are.”

  “I’d like to find the office of the Eldorado Times,” Eden informed him.

  “Round corner on First,” murmured the old man, deep in his pink newspaper again.

  Bob Eden went to the corner, and turned off. His feet at once left Eldorado’s solitary pavement for soft-crunching sand. He passed a few buildings even meaner than those on Main Street, a plumber’s shop, a grocer’s, and came to a little yellow shack which bore on its window the fading legend: “The Eldorado Tim
es. Job Printing Neatly Done.” There was no light inside, and crossing a narrow, dilapidated porch, he saw a placard on the door. Straining his eyes in the dusk, he read:

  Back in an hour—

  God knows why.

  WILL HOLLET

  Smiling, Eden returned to the Desert Edge. “How about dinner?” he inquired.

  “Wonderin’ about it myself,” admitted the old man. “We don’t serve meals here. Lose a little less that way.”

  “But there must be a restaurant—”

  “Sure there is. This is an up-to-date town.” He nodded over his shoulder. “Down beyond the bank—the Oasis Café.”

  Thanking him, Bob Eden departed. Behind unwashed windows he found the Oasis dispensing its dubious cheer. A long, high counter and a soiled mirror running the length of it suggested that in other days this had been an oasis indeed.

  The boy climbed on to one of the perilously high stools. At his right, too close for comfort, sat a man in overalls and jumper, with a week’s growth of beard on his lean, hard face. At his left, equally close but somehow not so much in the way, was a trim girl in khaki riding-breeches and blouse.

  A youth made up to resemble a motion-picture sheik demanded his order, and from a soiled menu he chose the Oasis Special— “steak and onions, French fried, bread and butter and coffee. Eighty cents.” The sheik departed languidly.

  Awaiting the special, Bob Eden glanced into the smoky mirror at the face of the girl beside him. Not so bad, even in that dim reflection. Corn-yellow hair curling from under the brim of a felt hat; a complexion that no beauty parlour had originated. He held his left elbow close so that she might have more room for the business that engrossed her.

  His dinner arrived, a plenteous platter of food—but no plate. He glanced at his neighbours. Evidently plates were an affectation frowned upon in the Oasis. Taking up a tarnished knife and fork, he pushed aside the underbrush of onions and came face to face with his steak.