The Chinese Parrot

have the pearls, Sally, I’ll tell you something else. I didn’t want to worry you before. This afternoon at four o’clock someone called me⁠—Madden again, he said. But something in his voice⁠—anyhow, I was wary. Pearls were coming on the President Pierce, were they? Yes. And the name of the messenger? Why should I tell him that, I inquired. Well, he had just got hold of some inside facts that made him feel the string was in danger, and he didn’t want anything to happen. He was in a position to help in the matter. He insisted, so I finally said: ‘Very good, Mr. Madden. Hang up your receiver and I’ll call you back in ten minutes with the information you want.’ There was a pause, then I heard him hang up. But I didn’t phone the desert. Instead I had that call traced, and I found it came from a pay-station in a cigar-store at the corner of Sutter and Kearny Streets.”

Eden paused. He saw Charlie Chan regarding him with deep interest.

“Can you wonder I’m worried about Bob?” the jeweller continued. “There’s some funny business going on, and I tell you I don’t like it⁠—”

A knock sounded on the door, and Eden himself opened it. His son stepped into the room, debonair and smiling. At sight of him, as so often happens in such a situation, the anxious father’s worry gave way to a deep rage.

“You’re a hell of a business man,” he cried.

“Now, Father⁠—no compliments,” laughed Bob Eden. “And me wandering all over San Francisco in your service.”

“I suppose so. That’s about what you would be doing, when it was your job to meet Mr. Chan at the dock.”

“Just a moment, Dad.” Bob Eden removed a glistening raincoat. “Hello, Victor. Madame Jordan. And this, I imagine, is Mr. Chan.”

“So sorry to miss meeting at dock,” murmured Chan. “All my fault, I am sure⁠—”

“Nonsense,” cried the jeweller. “His fault, as usual. When, in heaven’s name, are you going to show a sense of responsibility?”

“Now, Dad. And a sense of responsibility just what I’ve only this minute stopped showing nothing else but.”

“Good Lord⁠—what language is that? You didn’t meet Mr. Chan, did you?”

“Well, in a way I didn’t⁠—”

“In a way? In a way!”

“Precisely. It’s a long story, and I’ll tell it if you’ll stop interrupting with these unwarranted attacks on my character. I’ll sit down, if I may. I’ve been about a bit, and I’m tired.”

He lighted a cigarette. “When I came out of the club about five to go to the dock there was nothing in sight but a battered old taxi that had seen better days. I jumped in. When I got down on the Embarcadero I noticed that the driver was a pretty disreputable lad with a scar on one cheek and a cauliflower ear. He said he’d wait for me, and he said it with a lot of enthusiasm. I went into the pier-shed. There was the President Pierce out in the harbour, fumbling round trying to dock. In a few minutes I noticed a man standing near me⁠—a thin, chilly-looking lad with an overcoat, the collar up about his ears, and a pair of black spectacles. I guess I’m psychic⁠—he didn’t look good to me. I couldn’t tell, but somehow he seemed to be looking at me behind those smoked windows. I moved to the other side of the shed. So did he. I went to the street. He followed. Well, I drifted back to the gangplank, and old Chilly Bill came along.”

Bob Eden paused, smiling genially about him. “Right then and there I came to a quick decision. I’m remarkable that way. I didn’t have the pearls, but Mr. Chan did. Why tip off the world to Mr. Chan? So I just stood there staring hopefully at the crowd landing from the old P.P. Presently I saw the man I took to be Mr. Chan come down the plank, but I never stirred. I watched him while he looked about, then I saw him go out to the street. Still the mysterious gent behind the windows stuck closer than a bill-collector. After everybody was ashore, I went back to my taxi and paid off the driver. ‘Was you expecting somebody on the ship?’ he asked. ‘Yes,’ I told him. ‘I came down to meet the Dowager Empress of China, but they tell me she’s dead.’ He gave me a dirty look. As I hurried away the man with the dark glasses came up. ‘Taxi, mister?’ said Cauliflower Ear. And old Glasses got in. I had to meander through the rain all the way to the S.P. station before I could find another cab. Just as I drove away from the station along came Cauliflower Ear in his splendid equipage. He followed along behind, down Third, up Market to Powell, and finally to the Saint Francis. I went in the front door of the hotel and out the side, on to Post. And there was Cauliflower Ear and his fare, drifting by our store. As I went in the front door of the club my dear old friends drew up across the street. I escaped by way of the kitchen, and slipped over here. I fancy they’re still in front of the club⁠—they loved me like a brother.” He paused. “And that, Dad, is the long but thrilling story of why I did not meet Mr. Chan.”

Eden smiled. “By Jove, you’ve got more brains than I thought. You were perfectly right. But look here, Sally⁠—I like this less than ever. That necklace of yours isn’t a well-known string. It’s been in Honolulu for years. Easy as the devil to dispose of it, once it’s stolen. If you’ll take my advice you’ll certainly not send it off to the desert⁠—”

“Why not?” broke in Victor. “The desert’s the very place to send it. Certainly this town doesn’t look any too good.”

“Alec,” said Sally Jordan, “we need the money. If Mr. Madden is down