The Chinese Parrot Read online

  The boy looked at his watch. Ten minutes since Charlie had left him; in ten minutes more he would go to Madden’s room and get those pearls off his hands for ever. He rose and walked about. From his window opposite the patio he looked out across the dim grey desert to the black bulk of distant hills. Ye gods, what a country. Not for him, he thought. Rather street-lamps shining on the pavements, the clamour of cable cars, crowds, crowds of people. Confusion and—noise. Something terrible about this silence. This lonely silence—

  A horrible cry shattered the night. Bob Eden stood, frozen. Again the cry, and then a queer, choked voice: “Help! Help! Murder!” The cry. “Help! Put down that gun! Help! Help!”

  Bob Eden ran out into the patio. As he did so he saw Thorn and Charlie Chan coming from the other side. Madden—where was Madden? But again his suspicion proved incorrect—Madden emerged from the living-room and joined them.

  Again came the cry. And now Bob Eden saw, on a perch ten feet away, the source of the weird outburst. A little grey Australian parrot was hanging there uncertainly, screeching its head off.

  “That damn bird,” cried Madden angrily. “I’m sorry, Mr Eden—I forgot to tell you about him. It’s only Tony, and he’s had a wild past, as you may imagine.”

  The parrot stopped screaming and blinked solemnly at the little group before him. “One at a time, gentlemen, please,” he squawked.

  Madden laughed. “That goes back to his bar-room days,” he said. “Picked it up from some bar-tender, I suppose.”

  “One at a time, gentlemen, please.”

  “It’s all right, Tony,” Madden continued. “We’re not lined up for drinks. And you keep quiet. I hope you weren’t unduly alarmed, Mr Eden. There seems to have been a killing or two in those bar-rooms where Tony used to hang out. Martin,”—he turned to his secretary—“take him to the barn and lock him up.”

  Thorn came forward. Bob Eden thought that the secretary’s face was even paler than usual in the moonlight. He held out his hands to the parrot. Did Eden imagine it, or were the hands really trembling? “Here, Tony,” said Thorn. “Nice Tony. You come with me.” Gingerly he unfastened the chain from Tony’s leg.

  “You wanted to see me, didn’t you?” Madden said. He led the way to his bedroom, and closed the door behind them. “What is it? Have you got those pearls after all?”

  The door opened, and the Chinese shuffled into the room.

  “What the devil do you want?” cried Madden.

  “You allight, boss?”

  “Of course I’m all right. Get out of here.”

  “Tomallah,” said Charlie Chan in his rôle of Ah Kim, and a glance that was full of meaning passed between him and Bob Eden. “Tomallah nice day, you bet. See you tomallah, gentlemen.”

  He departed, leaving the door open. Eden saw him moving across the patio on silent feet. He was not waiting outside Madden’s door.

  “What was it you wanted?” Madden persisted.

  Bob Eden thought quickly. “I wanted to see you alone for just a moment. This Thorn—you can trust him, can’t you?”

  Madden snorted. “You give me a pain,” he said. “Anyone would think you were bringing me the Bank of England. Of course Thorn’s all right. He’s been with me for fifteen years.”

  “I just wanted to be sure,” Eden answered. “I’ll get hold of Dad early in the morning. Good night.”

  He returned to the patio. The secretary was hurrying in from his unwelcome errand. “Good night, Mr Thorn,” Eden said.

  “Oh—er—good night, Mr Eden,” answered the man. He passed furtively from sight.

  Back in his room, Eden began to undress. He was both puzzled and disturbed. Was this adventure to be as tame as it looked? Still in his ears rang the unearthly scream of the parrot. After all, had it been in a bar-room that Tony picked up that hideous cry for help?

  Chapter VI

  Tony’s Happy New Year

  Forgetting the promise he had made to rise and telephone his father early in the morning, Bob Eden lingered on in the pleasant company of his couch. The magnificent desert sunrise, famous wherever books are sold, came and went without the seal of his approval, and a haze of heat spread over the barren world. It was nine o’clock when he awoke from a most satisfactory sleep and sat up in bed.

  Staring about the room, he gradually located himself on the map of California. One by one the events of the night before came back to him. First of all the scene at the Oasis—that agile steak eluding him with diabolic cunning—the girl whose charming presence made the dreary café an oasis indeed. The ride over the desert with Will Holley, the bright and cheery living-room of the ranch-house, the fox-trot from a Denver orchestra. Madden, leaning close and breathing hard, demanding the Phillimore pearls. Chan, in his velvet slippers, whispering of psychic fears and dark premonitions. And then the shrill cry of the parrot out of the desert night.

  Now, however, the tense troubled feeling with which he had gone to bed was melting away in the yellow sunshine of the morning. The boy began to suspect that he had made rather a fool of himself in listening to the little detective from the Islands. Chan was an Oriental, also a policeman. Such a combination was bound to look at almost any situation with a jaundiced eye. After all, he, Bob Eden, was here as the representative of Meek and Eden, and he must act as he saw fit. Was Chan in charge of this expedition, or was he?

  The door opened, and on the threshold stood Ah Kim, in the person of Charlie Chan.

  “You come ’long, boss,” said his confederate loudly. “You ac’ lazy bimeby you no catch ’um bleckfast.”

  Having said which, Charlie gently closed the door and came in, grimacing as one who felt a keen distaste.

  “Silly talk like that hard business for me,” he complained. “Chinese without accustomed dignity is like man without clothes, naked and ashamed. You enjoy long, restful sleep, I think.”

  Eden yawned. “Compared to me last night, Rip Van Winkle had insomnia.”

  “That’s good. Humbly suggest you tear yourself out of that bed now. The great Madden indulges in nervous fit on living-room rug.”

  Eden laughed. “Suffering, is he? Well, we’ll have to stop that.” He tossed aside the covers.

  Chan was busy at the curtains. “Favour me by taking a look from windows,” he remarked. “On every side desert stretches off like floor of eternity. Plenty acres of unlimitable sand.”

  Bob Eden glanced out. “Yes, it’s the desert, and there’s plenty of it, that’s a fact. But look here—we ought to talk fast while we have the chance. Last night you made a sudden change in our plans.”

  “Presuming greatly—yes.”

  “Why?”

  Chan stared at him. “Why not? You yourself hear parrot scream out of the dark. ‘Murder. Help. Help. Put down gun.’”

  Eden nodded. “I know. But that probably meant nothing.”

  Charlie Chan shrugged. “You understand parrot does not invent talk. Merely repeats what others have remarked.”

  “Of course,” Eden agreed. “And Tony was no doubt repeating something he heard in Australia, or on a boat. I happen to know that all Madden said of the bird’s past was the truth. And I may as well tell you, Charlie, that, looking at things in the bright light of the morning, I feel we acted rather foolishly last night. I’m going to give those pearls to Madden before breakfast.”

  Chan was silent for a moment. “If I might presume again, I would speak a few hearty words in praise of patience. Youth, pardon me, is too hot around the head. Take my advice, please, and wait.”

  “Wait. Wait for what?”

  “Wait until I have snatched more conversation out of Tony. Tony very smart bird—he speaks Chinese. I am not so smart—but so do I.”

  “And what do you think Tony would tell you?”

  “Tony might reveal just what is wrong on this ranch,” suggested Chan.

  “I don’t believe any thing’s wrong,” objected Eden.

  Chan shook his head. “Not very happy position for m
e,” he said, “that I must argue with bright boy like you are.”

  “But listen, Charlie,” Eden protested. “I promised to call my father this morning. And Madden isn’t an easy man to handle.”

  “Hoo malimali,” responded Chan.

  “No doubt you’re right,” Eden said. “But I don’t understand Chinese.”

  “You have made natural error,” Chan answered. “Pardon me while I correct you. That are not Chinese. It are Hawaiian talk. Well known in Islands—hoo malimali—make Madden feel good by a little harmless deception. As my cousin Willie Chan, captain of All Chinese baseball team, translate, with his vulgarity, kid him along.”

  “Easier said than done,” replied Eden.

  “But you are clever boy. You could perfect it. Just a few hours, while I have talk with the smart Tony.”

  Eden considered. Paula Wendell was coming out this morning. Too bad to rush off without seeing her again. “Tell you what I’ll do,” he said. “I’ll wait until two o’clock. But when the clock strikes two, if nothing has happened in the interval, we hand over those pearls. Is that understood?”

  “Maybe,” nodded Chan.

  “You mean maybe it’s understood?”

  “Not precisely. I mean maybe we hand over pearls.” Eden looked into the stubborn eyes of the Chinese, and felt rather helpless. “However,” Chan added, “accept my glowing thanks. You are pretty good. Now proceed toward the miserable breakfast I have prepared.”

  “Tell Madden I’ll be there very soon.”

  Chan grimaced. “With your kind permission, I will alter that message slightly, losing the word very. In memory of old times, there remains little I would not do for Miss Sally. My life, perhaps—but by the bones of my honourable ancestors, I will not say ‘velly.’” He went out.

  On his perch in the patio, opposite Eden’s window, Tony was busy with his own breakfast. The boy saw Chan approach the bird, and pause. “Hoo la ma,” cried the detective.

  Tony looked up, and cocked his head on one side. “Hoo la ma,” he replied, in a shrill, harsh voice.

  Chan went nearer, and began to talk rapidly in Chinese. Now and then he paused, and the bird replied amazingly with some phrase out of Chan’s speech. It was, Bob Eden reflected, as good as a show.

  Suddenly from the door on the other side of the patio the man Thorn emerged. His pale face was clouded with anger.

  “Here,” he cried loudly. “What the devil are you doing?”

  “Solly, boss,” said the Chinese. “Tony nice litta fellah. Maybe I take ’um to cookhouse.”

  “You keep away from him,” Thorn ordered. “Get me—keep away from that bird.”

  Chan shuffled off. For a long moment Thorn stood staring after him, anger and apprehension mingled in his look. As Bob Eden turned away he was deep in thought. Was there something in Chan’s attitude, after all?

  He hurried into the bath, which lay between his room and the vacant bedroom beyond. When he finally joined Madden he thought he perceived the afterglow of that nervous fit still on the millionaire’s face.

  “I’m sorry to be late,” he apologized. “But this desert air—”

  “I know,” said Madden. “It’s all right—we haven’t lost any time. I’ve already put in that call for your father.”

  “Good idea,” replied the boy, without any enthusiasm. “Called his office, I suppose?”

  “Naturally.”

  Suddenly Eden remembered. This was Saturday morning, and, unless it was raining in San Francisco, Alexander Eden was by now well on his way to the golf links at Burlingame. There he would remain until late to-night at least—perhaps over Sunday. Oh, for a bright day in the North!

  Thorn came in, sedate and solemn in his blue serge suit, and looked with hungry eyes toward the table standing before the fire. They sat down to the breakfast prepared by the new servant, Ah Kim. A good breakfast it was, for Charlie Chan had not forgotten his early training in the Phillimore household. As it progressed, Madden mellowed a bit.

  “I hope you weren’t alarmed last night by Tony’s screeching,” he said presently.

  “Well—for a minute,” admitted Eden. “Of course, as soon as I found out the source of the racket I felt better.”

  Madden nodded. “Tony’s a colourless little beast, but he’s had a scarlet past,” he remarked.

  “Like some of the rest of us,” Eden suggested.

  Madden looked at him keenly. “The bird was given me by a sea-captain in the Australian trade. I brought him here to be company for my caretaker, Louie Wong.”

  “I thought your boy’s name was Ah Kim,” said Eden innocently.

  “Oh—this one. This isn’t Wong. Louie was called suddenly to San Francisco the other day. This Ah Kim just happened to drift in most opportunely yesterday. He’s merely a stop-gap until Louie comes back.”

  “You’re lucky,” Eden remarked. “Such good cooks as Ah Kim are rare.”

  “Oh, he’ll do,” Madden admitted. “When I come West to stay I bring a staff with me. This is a rather unexpected visit.”

  “Your real headquarters out here are in Pasadena, I believe?” Eden inquired.

  “Yes—I’ve got a house there, on Orange Grove Avenue. I just keep this place for an occasional week-end—when my asthma threatens. And it’s good to get away from the mob, now and then.” The millionaire pushed back from the table, and looked at his watch. “Ought to hear from San Francisco any minute now,” he added hopefully.

  Eden glanced toward the telephone in a far corner. “Did you put the call in for my father, or just for the office?” he asked.

  “Just for the office,” Madden replied, “I figured that if he was out we could leave a message.”

  Thorn came forward. “Chief, how about that interview for Holley?” he inquired.

  “Oh, the devil!” Madden said. “Why did I let myself in for that?”

  “I could bring the typewriter in here,” began the secretary.

  “No—we’ll go to your room. Mr Eden, if the telephone rings, please answer it.”

  The two went out. Ah Kim arrived on noiseless feet to clear away the breakfast. Eden lighted a cigarette, and dropped into a chair before the fire, which the blazing sun outside made rather superfluous.

  Twenty minutes later the telephone rang. Eden leaped to it, but before he reached the table where it stood, Madden was at his side. He had hoped to be alone for this ordeal, and sighed wearily. At the other end of the wire he was relieved to hear the cool, melodious voice of his father’s well-chosen secretary.

  “Hello,” he said. “This is Bob Eden, at Madden’s ranch down on the desert. And how are you this bright and shining morning?”

  “What makes you think it’s a bright and shining morning up here?” asked the girl.

  Eden’s heart rank. “Don’t tell me it isn’t. I’d be broken-hearted.”

  “Why?”

  “Why! Because, while you’re beautiful at any time, I like to think of you with the sunlight on your hair—”

  Madden laid a heavy hand on his shoulder. “What the blazes do you think you’re doing—making a date with a chorus girl? Get down to business.”

  “Excuse it, please,” said Eden. “Miss Chase, is my father there?”

  “No. This is Saturday, you know. Golf.”

  “Oh, yes—of course. Then it is a nice day. Well, tell him to call me here if he comes in. Eldorado seven six.”

  “Where is he?” demanded Madden eagerly.

  “Out playing golf,” the boy answered.

  “Where? What links?”

  Bob sighed. “I suppose he’s at Burlingame,” he said over the wire.

  Then—oh, excellent young woman, thought the boy— the secretary answered: “Not to-day. He went with some friends to another links. He didn’t say which.”

  “Thank you so much,” Eden said. “Just leave the message on his desk, please.” He rang off.

  “Too bad,” he remarked cheerfully. “Gone off to play golf somewhere, and
nobody knows where.”

  Madden swore. “The old simpleton. Why doesn’t he attend to his business—”

  “Look here, Mr Madden—” Eden began.

  “Golf, golf, golf,” stormed Madden. “It’s ruined more good men than whisky. I tell you, if I’d fooled round on golf-links I wouldn’t be where I am to-day. If your father had any sense—”

  “I’ve heard about enough,” said Eden, rising.

  Madden’s manner changed suddenly. “I’m sorry,” he said. “But this is annoying, you must admit. I wanted that necklace to start to-day.”

  “The day’s young,” Eden reminded him. “It may get off yet.”

  “I hope so,” Madden frowned. “I’m not accustomed to this sort of dilly-dallying, I can tell you that.”

  His great head was tossing angrily as he went out. Bob Eden looked after him, thoughtfully. Madden, master of many millions, was putting what seemed an undue emphasis on a little pearl necklace. The boy wondered. His father was getting on in years—he was far from the New York markets. Had he made some glaring mistake in setting a value on that necklace? Was it, perhaps, worth a great deal more than he had asked, and was Madden fuming to get hold of it before the jeweller learned his error and perhaps called off the deal? Of course, Alexander Eden had given his word, but, even so, Madden might fear some hitch in the transaction.

  The boy strolled idly out into the patio. The chill night wind had vanished, and he saw the desert of song and story baking under a relentless sun. In the sandy little yard of the ranch-house life was humming along. Plump chickens and haughty turkeys strutted behind wire enclosures. He paused for a moment to stare with interest at a bed of strawberries, red and tempting. Up above, on the bare branches of the cottonwoods, he saw unmistakable buds, mute promise of a grateful shade not far away.

  Odd how things lived and grew here in this desolate country. He took a turn about the grounds. In one corner was a great reservoir half filled with water—a pleasant sight that must be on an August afternoon. Coming back to the patio, he stopped to speak to Tony, who was sitting rather dejectedly on his perch.