The Chinese Parrot · Chapter 7 (2/2)

“I am far away in strange land,” returned Chan. “Maybe I would choose to trust no one⁠—but that, no doubt, are my heathen churlishness. Mr. Holley will pardon, I am sure.”

“Don’t worry,” said Holley. “I give you my word. I’ll tell no one.”

Chan made no reply, in his mind, perhaps, the memory of other white men who had given their word.

“It doesn’t matter, anyhow,” Eden remarked. “Charlie, I’ve come to the decision that we’re chasing ghosts. I’ve talked things over with Mr. Holley, and from what he says, I see that there’s really nothing wrong out at the ranch. When we go back this evening we’ll hand over those pearls and head for home.” Chan’s face fell. “Cheer up,” added the boy. “You yourself must admit that we’ve been acting like a couple of old women.”

An expression of deeply offended dignity appeared on the little round face. “Just one moment. Permit this old woman more nonsense. Some hours ago parrot drops from perch into vast eternity. Dead, like Caesar.”

“What of it?” said Eden wearily. “He died of old age. Don’t let’s argue about it, Charlie⁠—”

“Who argues?” asked Chan. “I myself enjoy keen distaste for that pastime. Old woman though I am, I now deal with facts⁠—undubitable facts.” He spread a white sheet of paper on Holley’s desk, and removing an envelope from his pocket, poured its contents on to the paper. “Examine,” he directed. “What you see here are partial contents of food basin beside the perch of Tony. Kindly tell me what you look at.”

“Hemp-seed,” said Eden. “A parrot’s natural food.”

“Ah, yes,” agreed Chan. “Seed of the hemp. But that other⁠—the fine greyish-white powder that seem so plentiful.”

“By gad,” cried Holley.

“No argument here,” continued Chan. “Before seeking grocer I pause at drug emporium on corner. Wise man about powders make most careful test for me. And what does he say?”

“Arsenic,” suggested Holley.

“Arsenic, indeed. Much sold to ranchers hereabouts as rat-killer. Parrot-killer too.”

Eden and Holley looked at each other in amazement.

“Poor Tony very sick before he go on long journey,” Chan continued. “Very silent and very sick. In my time I am on track of many murders, but I must come to this peculiar mainland to ferret out parrot-murder. Ah, well⁠—all my life I hear about wonders on this mainland.”

“They poisoned him,” Bob Eden cried. “Why?”

“Why not?” shrugged Chan. “Very true rumour says ‘dead men tell no tales’! Dead parrots are in same fix, I think. Tony speaks Chinese like me. Tony and me never speak together again.”

Eden put his head in his hands. “Well, I’m getting dizzy,” he said. “What in heaven’s name is it all about?”

“Reflect,” urged Chan. “As I have said before, parrot not able to perpetrate original remarks. He repeats. When Tony cry out in night, ‘Help, murder, put down gun,’ even old woman might be pardoned to think he repeats something recently heard. He repeats because words are recalled to him by⁠—what?”

“Go on, Charlie,” Eden said.

“Recalled by event just preceding cry. What event? I think deep⁠—how is this? Recalled, maybe, by sudden flashing on of lights in bedroom occupied by Martin Thorn, the secretary.”

“Charlie, what more do you know?” Eden asked.

“This morning I am about my old-woman duties in bedroom of Thorn. I see on wall stained outline same size and shape as handsome picture of desert scene nearby. I investigate. Picture has been moved, I note, and not so long ago. Why was picture moved? I lift it in my hands and underneath I see little hole that could only be made by flying bullet.”

Eden gasped. “A bullet?”

“Precisely the fact. A bullet embedded deep in wall. One bullet that has gone astray and not found resting place in body of that unhappy man Tony heard cry for help some recent night.”

Again Eden and Holley looked at each other. “Well,” said the editor, “there was that gun, you know. Bill Hart’s gun⁠—the one that’s gone from the living-room. We must tell Mr. Chan about that.”

Chan shrugged. “Spare yourself trouble,” he advised. “Already last night I have noted empty locality deserted by that weapon. I also found this in wastebasket.” He took a small crumpled card from his pocket, a typewritten card, which read, “Presented to P. J. Madden by William S. Hart. September 29, 1923.” Will Holley nodded and handed it back. “All day,” continued Chan, “I search for missing movie pistol. Without success⁠—so far.”

Will Holley rose, and warmly shook Chan’s hand. “Mr. Chan,” he said, “permit me to go on record here and now to the effect that you’re all right.” He turned to Bob Eden. “Don’t ever come to me for advice again. You follow Mr. Chan.”

Eden nodded. “I think I will,” he said.

“Think more deeply,” suggested Chan. “To follow an old woman. Where is the honour there?”

Eden laughed. “Oh, forget it, Charlie. I apologize with all my heart.”

Chan beamed. “Thanks warmly. Then all is settled? We do not hand over pearls tonight, I think?”

“No, of course we don’t,” agreed Eden. “We’re on the trail of something⁠—heaven knows what. It’s all up to you, Charlie, from now on. I follow where you lead.”

“You were number one prophet, after all,” said Chan. “Postman on vacation goes for long walk. Here on broad desert I cannot forget profession. We return to Madden’s ranch and find what we shall find. Some might say, Madden is there, give him necklace. Our duty as splendid American citizens does not permit. If we deliver necklace, we go away, truth is strangled, guilty escape. Necklace deal falls now into second place.” He gathered up the evidence in the matter of Tony and restored it to his pocket. “Poor Tony. Only this morning he tell me I talk too much. Now, like boom⁠—boomerang, remark returns and smites him. It is my pressing duty to negotiate with food-merchant. Meet me in fifteen minutes before hotel door.”

When he had gone out Holley and Eden were silent for a moment. “Well,” said the editor at last, “I was wrong⁠—all wrong. There’s something doing out at Madden’s ranch.”

Eden nodded. “Sure there is. But what?”

“All day,” continued Holley, “I’ve been wondering about that interview Madden gave me. For no apparent reason he broke one of the strictest rules of his life. Why?”

“If you’re asking me, save your breath,” advised Eden.

“I’m not asking you⁠—I’ve got my own solution. Quoting Charlie, I think deep about matter⁠—how is this? Madden knows that at any moment something may break and this thing that has happened at his ranch be spread all over the newspapers. Looking ahead, he sees he may need friends among the reporters. So he’s come down from his high horse at last. Am I right?”

“Oh, it sounds logical,” agreed Eden. “I’m glad something does. You know, I told Dad before I left San Francisco that I was keen to get mixed up in a murder mystery. But this⁠—this is more than I bargained for. No dead body, no weapon, no motive, no murder. Nothing. Why, we can’t even prove anybody has been killed.” He stood up. “Well, I’d better be moving back to the ranch. The ranch and⁠—what? Whither am I drifting?”

“You stick to your Chinese pal,” advised Holley. “The boy’s good. Something tells me he’ll see you through.”

“I hope so,” Eden replied.

“Keep your eyes open,” added Holley. “And take no chances. If you need help out there don’t forget Will Holley.”

“You bet I won’t,” Bob Eden answered. “So long. Maybe I’ll see you tomorrow.”

He went out and stood on the kerb before the Desert Edge Hotel. It was Saturday evening, and Eldorado was crowded with ranchers, lean, bronzed, work-stained men in khaki riding-breeches and gaudy lumberjack blouses⁠—simple men to whom this was the city. Through the window of the combined barbershop and poolroom he saw a group of them shaking dice. Others leaned against the trunks of the cottonwoods, talking of the roads, of crops, of politics. Bob Eden felt like a visitor from Mars.

Presently Chan passed, swung round in the street, and halted the little touring car opposite the boy. As Eden climbed in he saw the detective’s keen eyes fixed on the hotel doorway. Seating himself, he followed Chan’s gaze.

A man had emerged from the Desert Edge Hotel⁠—a man who looked strangely out of place among the roughly clad ranchers. He wore an overcoat buttoned tightly about his throat, and a felt hat was low over his eyes, which were hidden by dark spectacles.

“See who’s here,” said Eden.

“Yes, indeed,” answered Chan, as they moved down the street. “I think the Killarney Hotel has lost one very important guest. Their loss our gain⁠—maybe.”

They left the all-too-brief pavement of Main Street, and a look of satisfaction spread slowly over Charlie Chan’s face.

“Much work to do,” he said. “Deep mysteries to solve. How sweet, though far from home, to feel myself in company of old friend.”

Surprised, Bob Eden looked at him. “An old friend?” he repeated.

Chan smiled. “In garage on Punch Bowl Hill lonesome car like this awaits my return. With flivver shuddering beneath me I can think myself on familiar Honolulu streets again.”

They climbed between the mountains, and before them lay the soft glory of the desert sunset. Ignoring the rough road, Chan threw the throttle wide.

“Wow, Charlie,” cried Eden, as his head nearly pierced the top. “What’s the idea?”

“Pardon, please,” said Chan, slowing a bit. “No good, I guess. For a minute I think maybe this little car can bounce the homesick feeling from my heart.”