The Chinese Parrot · Chapter 5 (1/2)

V

Madden’s Ranch

Carefully Will Holley guided his car down the steep, rock-strewn grade. “Go easy, Horace,” he murmured. Presently they were on the floor of the desert, the road but a pair of faint wheel-tracks amid the creosote brush and mesquite. Once their headlights caught a jackrabbit, sitting firmly on the right of way; the next instant he was gone forever.

Bob Eden saw a brief stretch of palm-trees behind a barbed-wire fence, and down the lane between the trees the glow of a lonely window.

“Alfalfa Ranch,” Will Holley explained.

“Why, in heaven’s name, do people live out here?” Eden asked.

“Some of them because they can’t live anywhere else,” the editor answered. “And at that⁠—well, you know it isn’t a bad place to ranch it. Apples, lemons, pears⁠—”

“But how about water?”

“It’s only a desert because not many people have taken the trouble to bore for water. Just go down a way, and you strike it. Some go down a couple of hundred feet⁠—Madden only had to go thirty odd. But that was Madden luck. He’s near the bed of an underground river.”

They came to another fence; above it were painted signs and flags fluttering yellow in the moonlight.

“Don’t tell me that’s a subdivision,” Eden said.

Holley laughed. “Date City,” he announced. “Here in California the subdivider, like the poor, is always with us. Date City where, if you believe all you’re told, every dime is a baby dollar. No one lives there yet⁠—but who knows? We’re a growing community⁠—see my editorial in last week’s issue.”

The car ploughed on. It staggered a bit now, but Holley’s hands were firm on the wheel. Here and there a Joshua-tree stretched out hungry black arms as though to seize these travellers by night, and over that grey waste a dismal wind moaned constantly, chill and keen and biting. Bob Eden turned up the collar of his top coat.

“I can’t help thinking of that old song,” he said. “You know⁠—about the lad who guaranteed to love somebody ‘until the sands of the desert grow cold.’ ”

“It wasn’t much of a promise,” agreed Holley. “Either he was a great kidder, or he’d never been on the desert at night. But look here⁠—is this your first experience with this country? What kind of a Californian are you?”

“Golden Gate brand,” smiled Eden. “Yes, it’s true, I’ve never been down here before. Something tells me I’ve missed a lot.”

“You sure have. I hope you won’t rush off in a hurry. By the way, how long do you expect to be here?”

“I don’t know,” replied Eden. He was silent for a moment; his friend at home had told him that Holley could be trusted, but he really did not need that assurance. One look into the editor’s friendly grey eyes was sufficient. “Holley, I may as well tell you why I’ve come,” he continued. “But I rely on your discretion. This isn’t an interview.”

“Suit yourself,” Holley answered. “I can keep a secret if I have to. But tell me or not, just as you prefer.”

“I prefer to tell you,” Eden said. He recounted Madden’s purchase of the Phillimore pearls, his request for their delivery in New York, and then his sudden, unexpected switch to the desert. “That, in itself, was rather disturbing,” he added.

“Odd, yes,” agreed Holley.

“But that wasn’t all,” Bob Eden went on. Omitting only Charlie Chan’s connection with the affair, he told the whole story⁠—the telephone-call from the cigar-store in San Francisco, the loving solicitude at the dock and after of the man with the dark glasses, the subsequent discovery that this was Shaky Phil Maydorf, a guest at the Killarney Hotel, and, last of all, the fact that Louie Wong had been summoned from the Madden ranch by his relative in Chinatown. As he related all this out there on that lonesome desert, it began to take on a new and ominous aspect, the future loomed dark and thrilling. Had that great opening between the hills been, in reality, the gateway to adventure? Certainly it looked the part. “What do you think?” he finished.

“Me?” said Holley. “I think I’m not going to get that interview.”

“You don’t believe Madden is at the ranch?”

“I certainly don’t. Look at Paula’s experience the other night. Why couldn’t she see him? Why didn’t he hear her at the door and come to find out what the row was about? Because he wasn’t there. My lad, I’m glad you didn’t venture out here alone. Particularly if you’ve brought the pearls⁠—as I presume you have.”

“Well, in a way, I’ve got them. About this Louie Wong? You know him, I suppose?”

“Yes. And I saw him at the station the other morning. Look at tomorrow’s Eldorado Times and you’ll find the big story, under the personals. ‘Our respected fellow-townsman, Mr. Louie Wong, went to San Francisco on business last Wednesday.’ ”

“Wednesday, eh? What sort of lad is Louie?”

“Why⁠—he’s just a Chinaman. Been in these parts a long time. For the past five years he’s stayed at Madden’s ranch the year round, as caretaker. I don’t know a great deal about him. He’s never talked much to anyone round here⁠—except the parrot.”

“The parrot? What parrot?”

“His only companion on the ranch. A little grey Australian bird that some sea-captain gave Madden several years ago. Madden brought the bird⁠—its name is Tony⁠—here to be company for the old caretaker. A rough party, Tony⁠—used to hang out in a barroom on an Australian boat. Some of his language when he first came was far from pretty. But they’re clever, those Australian parrots. You know, from associating with Louie, this one has learned to speak Chinese.”

“Amazing,” said Bob Eden.

“Oh, not so amazing as it sounds. A bird of that sort will repeat anything it hears. So Tony rattles along in two languages. A regular linguist. The ranchers round here call him the Chinese parrot.” They had reached a little group of cottonwoods and pepper-trees sheltering a handsome adobe ranch-house⁠—an oasis on the bare plain. “Here we are at Madden’s,” Holley said. “By the way⁠—have you got a gun?”

“Why, no,” Bob Eden replied. “I didn’t bring any. I thought that Charlie⁠—”

“What’s that?”

“No matter. I’m unarmed.”

“So am I. Walk softly, son. By the way, you might open that gate, if you will.”

Bob Eden got out and, unlatching the gate, swung it open. When Holley had steered Horace Greeley inside the yard, Eden shut the gate behind him. The editor brought his car to a stop twenty feet away, and alighted.

The ranch-house was a one-storey structure, eloquent of the old Spanish days in California before Iowa came. Across the front ran a long, low veranda, the roof of which sheltered four windows that were glowing warmly in the chill night. Holley and the boy crossed the tile floor of the porch, and came to a big front door, strong and forbidding.

Eden knocked loudly. There was a long wait. Finally the door opened a scant foot, and a pale face looked out.

“What is it? What do you want?” inquired a querulous voice. From inside the room came the gay lilt of a foxtrot.

“I want to see Mr. Madden,” Bob Eden said. “Mr. P. J. Madden.”

“Who are you?”

“Never mind. I’ll tell Madden who I am. Is he here?”

The door closed a few inches. “He’s here, but he isn’t seeing anyone.”

“He’ll see me, Thorn,” said Eden sharply. “You’re Thorn, I take it. Please tell Madden that a messenger from Post Street, San Francisco, is waiting.”

The door swung instantly open, and Martin Thorn was as near to beaming as his meagre face permitted.

“Oh, pardon me. Come in at once. We’ve been expecting you. Come in⁠—ah⁠—er⁠—gentlemen.” His face clouded as he saw Holley. “Excuse me just a moment.”

The secretary disappeared through a door at the rear, and left the two callers standing in the great living-room of the ranch-house. To step from the desert into a room like this was a revelation. Its walls were of panelled oak; rare etchings hung upon them; there were softly shaded lamps standing by tables on which lay the latest magazines⁠—even a recent edition of a New York Sunday newspaper. At one end, in a huge fireplace, a pile of logs was blazing, and in a distant corner a loudspeaker ground out dance music from some distant orchestra.

“Say, this is home, sweet home,” Bob Eden remarked. He nodded to the wall at the opposite end of the room from the fireplace. “And speaking of being unarmed⁠—”

“That’s Madden’s collection of guns,” Holley explained. “Wong showed it to me once. They’re loaded. If you have to back away go in that direction.” He looked dubiously about. “You know, that sleek lad didn’t say he was going for Madden.”

“I know he didn’t,” Eden replied. He studied the room thoughtfully. One great question worried him⁠—where was Charlie Chan?

They stood there, waiting. A tall clock at the rear of the room struck the hour of nine, slowly, deliberately. The fire sputtered; the metallic tinkle of jazz flowed on.

Suddenly the door through which Thorn had gone opened suddenly behind them, and they swung quickly about. In the doorway, standing like a tower of granite in the grey clothes he always affected, was the man Bob Eden had last seen on the stairs descending from his father’s office⁠—Madden, the great financier⁠—P. J. himself.

Bob Eden’s first reaction was one of intense relief, as of a burden dropping from his shoulders with a “most delectable thud.” But almost immediately after came a feeling of disappointment. He was young, and he craved excitement. Here was the big desert mystery crashing about his ears, Madden alive and well, and all their fears and premonitions proving groundless. Just a tame handing over of the pearls⁠—when Charlie came⁠—and then back to the old rut again. He saw Will Holley smiling.

“Good evening, gentlemen,” Madden was saying. “I’m very glad to see you. Martin,” he added to his secretary, who had followed him in, “turn off that confounded racket. An orchestra, gentlemen⁠—an orchestra in the ballroom of a hotel in Denver. Who says the day of miracles is past?” Thorn silenced the jazz; it died with a gurgle of protest. “Now,” inquired Madden, “which of you comes from Post Street?”

The boy stepped forward. “I am Bob Eden, Mr. Madden. Alexander Eden is my father. This is my friend, a neighbour of yours, Mr. Will Holley of the Eldorado Times. He very kindly drove me out here.”

“Ah, yes.” Madden’s manner was genial. He shook hands. “Draw up to the fire, both of you. Thorn⁠—cigars, please.” With his own celebrated hands he placed chairs before the fireplace.

“I’ll sit down just a moment,” Holley said. “I’m not stopping. I realize that Mr. Eden has some business with you, and I’ll not intrude. But before I go, Mr. Madden⁠—”

“Yes,” said Madden sharply, biting the end from a cigar.

“I⁠—I don’t suppose you remember me,” Holley continued.

Madden’s big hand poised with the lighted match. “I never forget a face. I’ve seen yours before. Was it in Eldorado?”

Holley shook his head. “No⁠—it was twelve years ago⁠—on Forty-fourth Street, New York. At”⁠—Madden was watching him closely⁠—“at a gambling-house just east of Delmonico’s. One winter’s night⁠—”

“Wait a minute,” cut in the millionaire. “Some people say I’m getting old⁠—but listen to this. You came to me as a newspaper reporter, asking an interview. And I told you to get the hell out of there.”

“Splendid,” laughed Holley.

“Oh, the old memory isn’t so bad, eh? I remember perfectly. I used to spend many evenings in that place⁠—until I discovered the game was fixed. Yes, I dropped a lot of spare change there. Why didn’t you tell me it was a crooked joint?”

Holley shrugged. “Well, your manner didn’t encourage confidences. But what I’m getting at, Mr. Madden⁠—I’m still in the newspaper game, and an interview from you⁠—”

“I never give ’em,” snapped the millionaire.

“I’m sorry,” said Holley. “An old friend of mine runs a news-bureau in New York, and it would be a big triumph for me if I could wire him something from you. On the financial outlook, for example. The first interview from P. J. Madden.”

“Impossible,” answered Madden.

“I’m sorry to hear you say that, Mr. Madden,” Bob Eden remarked. “Holley here has been very kind to me, and I was hoping with all my heart you would overlook your rule this once.”

Madden leaned back, and blew a ring of smoke toward the panelled ceiling. “Well,” he said, and his voice was somehow gentler, “you’ve taken a lot of trouble for me, Mr. Eden, and I’d like to oblige you.” He turned to Holley. “Look here⁠—nothing much, you know. Just a few words about business prospects for the present year.”

“That would be extremely kind of you, Mr. Madden.”

“Oh, it’s all right. I’m away out here, and I feel a bit differently about the newspapers than I do at home. I’ll dictate something to Thorn⁠—suppose you run out here tomorrow about noon.”

“I certainly will,” said Holley, rising. “You don’t know what this means to me, sir. I must hurry back to town.” He shook hands with the millionaire, then with Bob Eden. His eyes as he looked at the latter said: “Well, everything’s all right, after all. I’m glad.” He paused at the door. “Goodbye⁠—until tomorrow,” he added. Thorn let him out.

The door had barely closed behind the editor when Madden leaned forward eagerly. His manner had changed; suddenly, like an electric shock, the boy felt the force of this famous personality. “Now, Mr. Eden,” he began briskly, “you’ve got the pearls, of course?”

Eden felt extremely silly. All their fears seemed so futile here in this bright, homelike room. “Well, as a matter of fact⁠—” he stammered.

A glass door at the rear of the room opened, and someone entered. Eden did not look round; he waited. Presently the newcomer stepped between him and the fire. He saw a plump little Chinese servant, with worn trousers and velvet slippers, and a loose jacket of Canton crêpe. In his arms he carried a couple of logs. “Maybe you wantee catch ’um moah fiah, hey, boss?” he said in a dull voice. His face was quite expressionless. He threw the logs into the fireplace, and as he turned gave Bob Eden a quick look. His eyes were momentarily sharp and bright⁠—like black buttons in the yellow light. The eyes of Charlie Chan.

The little servant went noiselessly out. “The pearls,” insisted Madden quickly. “What about the pearls?” Martin Thorn came closer.

“I haven’t got them,” said Bob Eden slowly.

“What! You didn’t bring them?”

“I did not.”

The huge red face of Madden purpled suddenly, and he tossed his great head⁠—the old gesture of annoyance of which the newspapers often spoke. “In heaven’s name, what’s the matter with you fellows, anyhow?” he cried. “Those pearls are mine⁠—I’ve bought them, haven’t I? I’ve asked for them here⁠—I want them.”

“Call your servant.” The words were on the tip of Bob Eden’s tongue. But something in that look Charlie Chan had given him moved him to hesitate. No, he must first have a word with the little detective.

“Your final instructions to my father were that the pearls must be delivered in New York,” he reminded Madden.

“Well, what if they were? I can change my mind, can’t I?”

“Nevertheless, my father felt that the whole affair called for caution. One or two things happened⁠—”

“What things?”

Eden paused. Why go over all that? It would sound silly, perhaps⁠—in any case, was it wise to make a confidant of this cold, hard man who was glaring at him with such evident disgust? “It is enough to say, Mr. Madden, that my father refused to send that necklace down here into what might be a well-laid trap.”

“Your father’s a fool,” cried Madden.

Bob Eden rose, his face flushed. “Very well⁠—if you want to call the deal off⁠—”

“No, no. I’m sorry. I spoke too quickly. I apologize. Sit down.” The boy resumed his chair. “But I’m very much annoyed. So your father sent you here to reconnoitre?”

“He did. He felt something might have happened to you.”

“Nothing ever happens to me unless I want it to,” returned Madden, and the remark had the ring of truth. “Well, you’re here now. You see everything’s all right. What do you propose to do?”