The Chinese Parrot · Chapter 9 (2/2)

I don’t understand what it’s all about but I am most disturbed. For the present I will follow your instructions. I am trusting you two utterly but I must remind you that it would be most embarrassing for me if sale fell through. Jordans are eager to consummate deal and Victor threatens to come down there any moment. Keep me advised.

“Huh,” said Bob Eden. “That would be fine.”

“What would?” asked Holley.

“Victor threatens to come⁠—the son of the woman who owns the pearls. All we need here to wreck the works is that amiable bonehead and his spats.”

“What’s new?” asked Holley, as they sat down.

“Several things,” Bob Eden replied. “To start with the big tragedy, I’m out forty-seven dollars.” He told of the poker game. “In addition, Mr. Thorn has been observed burying a can that once held arsenic. Furthermore, Charlie has found that missing pistol in Thorn’s bureau⁠—with two chambers empty.”

Holley whistled. “Has he really? You know, I believe your friend Chan is going to put Thorn back of the bars before he’s through.”

“Perhaps,” admitted Eden. “Got a long way to go, though. You can’t convict a man of murder without a body to show for it.”

“Oh⁠—Chan will dig that up.”

Eden shrugged. “Well, if he does he can have all the credit. And do all the digging. Somehow, it’s not the sort of thing that appeals to me. I like excitement, but I like it nice and neat. Heard from your interview?”

“Yes. It’s to be released in New York tomorrow.” The tired eyes of Will Holley brightened. “I was sitting here getting a thrill out of the idea when you came in.” He pointed to a big scrapbook on his desk. “Some of the stories I wrote on the old Sun,” he explained. “Not bad, if I do say it myself.”

Bob Eden picked up the book, and turned the pages with interest. “I’ve been thinking of getting a job on a newspaper myself,” he said.

Holley looked at him quickly. “Think twice,” he advised. “You, with a good business waiting for you⁠—what has the newspaper game to offer you? Great while you’re young, maybe⁠—great even now when the old order is changing and the picture paper is making a monkey out of a grand profession. But when you’re old⁠—” He got up and laid a hand on the boy’s shoulder. “When you’re old⁠—and you’re old at forty⁠—then what? The copy desk, and some day the owner comes in, and sees a streak of grey in your hair, and he says: ‘Throw that doddering fool out. I want young men here.’ No, my boy⁠—not the newspaper game. You and I must have a long talk.”

They had it. It was five by the little clock on Holley’s desk when the editor finally stood up, and closed his scrapbook. “Come on,” he said. “I’m taking you to the Oasis for dinner.”

Eden went gladly. At one of the tables opposite the narrow counter Paula Wendell sat alone.

“Hello,” she greeted them. “Come over here. I felt in an expansive mood tonight⁠—had to have the prestige of a table.”

They sat down opposite her. “Did you find the day as dull as you expected?” inquired the girl of Eden.

“Very dull by contrast, after you left me,” he answered.

“Try the chicken,” she advised. “Born and raised right here at home, and the desert hen is no weak sister. Not so bad, however.”

They accepted her suggestion. When the generously filled platters were placed before them Bob Eden squared his shoulders.

“Take to the lifeboats,” he said. “I’m about to carve, and when I carve it’s a case of women and children first.”

Holley stared down at his dinner. “Looks like the same old chicken,” he sighed. “What wouldn’t I give for a little home cooking?”

“Ought to get married,” smiled the girl. “Am I right, Mr. Eden?”

Eden shrugged. “I’ve known several poor fellows who got married hoping to enjoy a bit of home cooking. Now they’re back in the restaurants, and the only difference is they’ve got the little woman along. Double the check and half the pleasure.”

“Why all this cynicism?” asked Holley.

“Oh, Mr. Eden is very much opposed to marriage,” the girl said. “He was telling me today.”

“Just trying to save her,” Eden explained. “By the way, do you know this Wilbur who’s won her innocent, trusting heart?”

“Wilbur?” asked Holley blankly.

“He will persist in calling Jack out of his name,” the girl said. “It’s his disrespectful way of referring to my fiancé.”

Holley glanced at the ring. “No, I don’t know him,” he announced. “I certainly congratulate him, though.”

“So do I,” Eden returned. “On his nerve. However, I oughtn’t to knock Wilbur. As I was saying only this noon⁠—”

“Never mind,” put in the girl. “Wake up, Will. What are you thinking about?”

Holley started. “I was thinking of a dinner I had once at Mouquin’s,” he replied. “Closed up now, I hear. Gone⁠—like all the other old landmarks⁠—the happy stations on the five o’clock cocktail route. You know, I wonder sometimes if I’d like New York today⁠—”

He talked of the old Manhattan he had known. In what seemed to Bob Eden no time at all the dinner hour had passed. As they were standing at the cashier’s desk the boy noted, for the first time, a stranger lighting a cigar nearby. He was, from his dress, no native⁠—a small, studious-looking man with piercing eyes.

“Good evening, neighbour,” Holley said.

“How are you?” answered the stranger.

“Come down to look us over?” the editor asked, thinking of his next issue.

“Dropped in for a call on the kangaroo-rat,” replied the man. “I understand there’s a local variety whose tail measures three millimetres longer than any hitherto recorded.”

“Oh,” returned Holley. “One of those fellows, eh? We get them all⁠—beetle men and butterfly men, mouse and gopher men. Drop round to the office of the Times some day and we’ll have a chat.”

“Delighted,” said the little naturalist.

“Well, look who’s here,” cried Holley suddenly. Bob Eden turned, and saw entering the door of the Oasis a thin little Chinese who seemed as old as the desert. His face was the colour of a beloved meerschaum pipe, his eyes beady and bright. “Louie Wong,” Holley explained. “Back from San Francisco, eh, Louie?”

“Hello, boss,” said Louie, in a high, shrill voice. “My come back.”

“Didn’t you like it up there?” Holley persisted.

“San Flancisco no good,” answered Louie. “All time lain dlop on nose. My like ’um heah.”

“Going back to Madden’s, eh?” Holley inquired. Louie nodded. “Well, here’s a bit of luck for you, Louie. Mr. Eden is going out to the ranch presently, and you can ride with him.”

“Of course,” assented Eden.

“Catch ’um hot tea. You wait jus’ litta time, boss,” said Louie, sitting down at the counter.

“We’ll be down in front of the hotel,” Holley told him. The three of them went out. The little naturalist followed, and slipped by them, disappearing in the night.

Neither Holley nor Eden spoke. When they reached the hotel they stopped.

“I’m leaving you now,” Paula Wendell said. “I have some letters to write.”

“Ah, yes,” Eden remarked. “Well⁠—don’t forget. My love to Wilbur.”

“These are business letters,” she answered severely. “Good night.”

The girl went inside. “So Louie’s back,” Eden said. “That makes a pretty situation.”

“What’s the matter?” Holley said. “Louie may have a lot to tell.”

“Perhaps. But when he shows up at his old job⁠—what about Charlie? He’ll be kicked out, and I’ll be alone on the big scene. Somehow, I don’t feel I know my lines.”

“I never thought of that,” replied the editor. “However, there’s plenty of work for two boys out there when Madden’s in residence. I imagine he’ll keep them both. And what a chance for Charlie to pump old Louie dry. You and I could ask him questions from now until doomsday and never learn a thing. But Charlie⁠—that’s another matter.”

They waited, and presently Louie Wong came shuffling down the street, a cheap little suitcase in one hand and a full paper bag in the other.

“What you got there, Louie?” Holley asked. He examined the bag. “Bananas, eh?”

“Tony like ’um banana,” the old man explained. “Pleasant foah Tony.”

Eden and Holley looked at each other. “Louie,” said the editor gently, “poor Tony’s dead.”

Anyone who believes the Chinese face is always expressionless should have seen Louie’s then. A look of mingled pain and anger contorted it, and he burst at once into a flood of language that needed no translator. It was profane and terrifying.

“Poor old Louie,” Holley said. “He’s reviling the street, as they say in China.”

“Do you suppose he knows?” asked Eden. “That Tony was murdered, I mean.”

“Search me,” answered Holley. “It certainly looks that way, doesn’t it?” Still loudly vocal, Louie Wong climbed into the back seat of the car, and Bob Eden took his place at the wheel. “Watch your step, boy,” advised Holley. “See you soon. Good night.”

Bob Eden started the car, and with old Louie Wong set out on the strangest ride of his life.

The moon had not yet risen; the stars, wan and far-off and unfriendly, were devoid of light. They climbed between the mountains, and that mammoth doorway led seemingly to a black and threatening inferno that Eden could sense but could not see. Down the rocky road and on to the sandy floor of the desert they crept along; out of the dark beside the way gleamed little yellow eyes, flashing hatefully for a moment, then vanishing forever. Like the ugly ghosts of trees that had died the Joshuas writhed in agony, casting deformed, appealing arms aloft. And constantly as they rode on muttered the weird voice of the old Chinese in the back seat, mourning the passing of his friend, the death of Tony.

Bob Eden’s nerves were steady, but he was glad when the lights of Madden’s ranch shone with a friendly glow ahead. He left the car in the road and went to open the gate. A stray twig was caught in the latch, but finally he got it open, and, returning to the car, swung it into the yard. With a feeling of deep relief, he swept up before the barn. Charlie Chan was waiting in the glow of the headlights.

“Hello, Ah Kim,” Eden called. “Got a little playmate for you in the back seat. Louie Wong has come back to his desert.” He leaped to the ground. All was silence in the rear of the car. “Come on, Louie,” he cried. “Here we are.”

He stopped, a sudden thrill of horror in his heart. In the dim light he saw that Louie had slipped to his knees, and that his head hung limply over the door at the left.

“My God!” cried Eden.

“Wait,” said Charlie Chan. “I get flashlight.”

He went, while Bob Eden stood fixed and frightened in his tracks. Quickly the efficient Charlie returned, and made a hasty examination with the light. Bob Eden saw a gash in the side of Louie’s old coat⁠—a gash that was bordered with something wet and dark.

“Stabbed in the side,” said Charlie calmly. “Dead⁠—like Tony.”

“Dead⁠—when?” gasped Eden. “In the minute I left the car at the gate. Why⁠—it’s impossible⁠—”

Out of the shadows came Martin Thorn, his pale face gleaming in the dusk. “What’s all this?” he asked. “Why⁠—it’s Louie. What’s happened to Louie?”

He bent over the door of the car, and the busy flashlight in the hand of Charlie Chan shone for a moment on his back. Across the dark coat was a long tear⁠—a tear such as might have been made in the coat of one climbing hurriedly through a barbed-wire fence.

“This is terrible,” Thorn said. “Just a minute⁠—I must get Mr. Madden.”

He ran to the house, and Bob Eden stood with Charlie Chan by the body of Louie Wong.

“Charlie,” whispered the boy huskily, “you saw that rip in Thorn’s coat?”

“Most certainly,” answered Chan. “I observed it. What did I quote to you this morning? Old saying of Chinese. ‘He who rides on tiger cannot dismount.’ ”