The Chinese Parrot · Chapter 3 (1/2)

III

At Chan Kee Lim’s

An hour later Charlie Chan rode down in the elevator to the bright lobby of his hotel. A feeling of heavy responsibility again weighed upon him, for he had restored to the money-belt about his bulging waist the pearls that alone remained of all the Phillimore fortune. After a quick glance about the lobby he went out into Geary Street.

The rain no longer fell and for a moment he stood on the kerb, a little, wistful, wide-eyed stranger, gazing at a world as new and strange to him as though he had wakened to find himself on Mars. The pavement was crowded with theatregoers; taxis honked in the narrow street; at intervals sounded the flippant warning of cable-car bells, which is a tune heard only in San Francisco, a city with a voice and a gesture all its own.

Unexplored country to Charlie Chan, this mainland, and he was thrilled by the electric gaiety of the scene before him. Old-timers would have told him that what he saw was only a dim imitation of the night life of other days, but he had no memories of the past, and hence nothing to mourn. Seated on a stool at a lunch-counter, he ate his evening meal⁠—a stool and a lunch-counter, but it was adventure enough for one who had never known Billy Bogan’s Louvre Café, on the site of which now stands the Bank of Italy⁠—adventure enough for one who had no happy recollections of Delmonico’s on O’Farrell Street or of the Odeon or the Pup or the Black Cat, bright spots blotted out forever now. He partook heartily of the white man’s cooking, and drank three cups of steaming tea.

A young man, from his appearance perhaps a clerk, was eating a modest dinner at Chan’s side. After a few words concerned with the sugar-bowl, Chan ventured to address him further.

“Please pardon the abrupt advance of a newcomer,” he said. “For three hours I am free to wander the damp but interesting streets of your city. Kindly mention what I ought to see.”

“Why⁠—I don’t know,” said the young man, surprised. “Not much doing any more. San Francisco’s not what it used to be.”

“The Barbary Coast, maybe,” suggested Chan.

The young man snorted. “Gone forever. The Thalia, the Elko, the Midway⁠—say, they’re just memories now. Spider Kelley is over in Arizona, dealing in land. Yes, sir⁠—all those old dance-halls are just garages today⁠—or maybe ten-cent flophouses. But look here⁠—this is New Year’s Eve in Chinatown. However⁠—” He laughed. “I guess I don’t need to tell you that.”

Chan nodded. “Ah, yes⁠—the twelfth of February. New Year’s Eve.”

Presently he was back on the pavement, his keen eyes sparkling with excitement. He thought of the somnolent thoroughfares of Honolulu by night⁠—Honolulu, where everyone goes home at six, and stays there. How different here in this mainland city! The driver of a sightseeing bus approached him and also spoke of Chinatown. “Show you the old opium dens and the fan-tan joints,” he promised, but after a closer look moved off and said no more of his spurious wares.

At a little after eight the detective from the Islands left the friendly glow of Union Square and, drifting down into the darker stretches of Post Street, came presently to Grant Avenue. A loiterer on the corner directed him to the left, and he strolled on. In a few moments he came to a row of shops displaying cheap Oriental goods for the tourist eye. His pace quickened; he passed the church on the crest of the hill and moved on down into the real Chinatown.

Here a spirit of carnival filled the air. The façade of every tong house, outlined by hundreds of glowing incandescent lamps, shone in yellow splendour through the misty night. Throngs crowded on the narrow pavements⁠—white sightseers, dapper young Chinese lads in college-cut clothes escorting slant-eyed flappers attired in their best, older Chinese shuffling along on felt-clad feet, each secure in the knowledge that his debts were paid, his house scoured and scrubbed, the new year auspiciously begun.

At Washington Street Chan turned up the hill. Across the way loomed an impressive building⁠—four gaudy stories of light and cheer. Gilt letters in the transom over the door proclaimed it the home of the Chan Family Society. For a moment the detective stood, family pride uppermost in his thoughts.

A moment later he was walking down the dim, almost deserted pavement of Waverly Place. A bright-eyed boy of his own race offered him a copy of the Chinese Daily Times. He bought it and moved on, his gaze intent on dim house-numbers above darkened doorways.

Presently he found the number he sought, and climbed a shadowy stair. At a landing where crimson and gold-lettered strips of paper served as a warning to evil spirits he paused, and knocked loudly at the door. It was opened, and against the light from within stood the figure of a Chinese, tall, with a grey, meagre beard and a loose-fitting, embroidered blouse of black satin.

For a moment neither spoke. Then Chan smiled. “Good evening, illustrious Chan Kee Lim,” he said in pure Cantonese. “Is it that you do not know your unworthy cousin from the Islands?”

A light shone in the narrow eyes of Kee Lim. “For a moment, no,” he replied, “since you come in the garb of a foreign-devil, and knock on my door with the knuckles, as rude foreign devils do. A thousand welcomes. Deign to enter my contemptible house.”

Still smiling, the little detective went inside. The room was anything but contemptible, as he saw at once. It was rich with tapestries of Hang-chiu silk, the furniture was of teakwood, elaborately carved. Fresh flowers bloomed before the ancestral shrine, and everywhere were Chinese lilies, the pale, pungent sui-sin-far, symbol of the dawning year. On the mantel, beside a tiny Buddha of Ningpo-wood, an American alarm clock ticked noisily.

“Please sit in this wretched chair,” Kee Lim said. “You arrive unexpectedly as August rain. But I am happy to see you.” He clapped his hands and a woman entered. “My wife, Chan So,” the host explained. “Bring rice-cakes, and my Dew of Roses wine,” he ordered.

He sat down opposite Charlie Chan, and regarded him across a teakwood table on which were sprays of fresh almond-blossoms. “There was no news of your coming,” he remarked.

Chan shrugged. “No. It was better so. I come on a mission. On business,” he added, in his best Rotary Club manner.

Kee Lim’s eyes narrowed. “Yes⁠—I have heard of your business,” he said.

The detective was slightly uncomfortable. “You do not approve?” he ventured.

“It is too much to say that I do not approve,” Kee Lim returned. “But I do not quite understand. The foreign-devil police⁠—what has a Chinese in common with them?”

Charlie smiled. “There are times, honourable cousin,” he admitted, “when I do not quite understand myself.”

The reed curtains at the rear parted, and a girl came into the room. Her eyes were dark and bright; her face pretty as a doll’s. Tonight, in deference to the holiday, she wore the silken trousers and embroidered jacket of her people, but her hair was bobbed and her walk, her gestures, her whole manner, all too obviously copied from her American sisters. She carried a tray piled high with New Year delicacies.

“My daughter Rose,” Kee Lim announced. “Behold, our famous cousin from Hawaii.” He turned to Charlie Chan. “She too would be an American, insolent as the daughters of the foolish white men.”

The girl laughed. “Why not? I was born here. I went to American grammar schools. And now I work American fashion.”

“Work?” repeated Charlie, with interest.

“The Classics of Girlhood are forgotten,” explained Kee Lim. “All day she sits in the Chinatown telephone exchange, shamelessly talking to a wall of teakwood that flashes red and yellow eyes.”

“Is that so terrible?” asked the girl, with a laughing glance at her cousin.

“A most interesting labour,” surmised Charlie.

“I’ll tell the world it is,” answered the girl in English, and went out. A moment later she returned with a battered old wine-jug. Into Swatow bowls she poured two hot libations⁠—then, taking a seat on the far side of the room, she gazed curiously at this notable relative from across the seas. Once she had read of his exploits in the San Francisco papers.

For an hour or more Chan sat, talking with his cousin of the distant days when they were children in China. Finally he glanced toward the mantel. “Does that clock speak the truth?” he asked.

Kee Lim shrugged. “It is a foreign-devil clock,” he said. “And therefore a great liar.”

Chan consulted his watch. “With the keenest regret,” he announced, “I find I must walk my way. Tonight my business carries me far from here⁠—to the desert that lies in the South. I have had the presumption, honest and industrious cousin, to direct my wife to send to your house any letters of importance addressed to me. Should a message arrive in my absence, you will be good enough to hold it here awaiting my return. In a few days, at most, I will walk this way again. Meanwhile I go beyond the reach of messengers.”

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 long-distance 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 nearby 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 suitcase 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 suitcase 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 heartwarming 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.”