Your Turn, Mr. Moto

by John P. Marquand

  “I’m going to my last roundup,” the Chinese singer said through his megaphone, “my last roundup”… and I held Sonya in my arms. There never was a more perfect dancer. Her hair was brushing my cheek. Her lips were close to my ear.

  “Whose roundup?” I asked her. “I got your note. Do they mean mine?”

  She laughed as though I had said something casual and amusing and then I heard her whispering in my ear.

  “You fool—what brought you here? I tried to make my note show that you shouldn’t come. Casey, I thought you’d understand!”

  “I understood,” I whispered back and held her closer. “And that’s exactly why I’m here. You’re going to see a lot of me tonight.”

  “Casey,” she whispered, “they’re going to kill you.”

  “I thought so,” I whispered back. “And you’re putting the finger on me, aren’t you, Sonya? Well, try—but you won’t get away from me.”

  “Casey,” she answered, “I can’t—I can’t let them kill you.”

  “Then what did you get me here for?” I asked. “You sent that note, didn’t you?”

  “Be careful,” she whispered. “They’re watching us. Try to laugh—try to smile. You might—even try to kiss me, Casey.”

  The idea amused me. I tried and she drew her head away. I’ve never heard anything more genuine than her laughter.

  “I’m going to my last roundup,” the Chinese was shouting again, “roundup.”

  “Casey,” she whispered, “please, I had to send that note, but I made it obvious enough. He thinks—he thinks you have it on you, Casey—that message.”

  “Who thinks?” I asked.

  “Moto,” she whispered. “Casey, I ought not to tell you but I can’t help it. Why were you dull enough to come? I shall have to help you now. Casey, we’re going back to the table. Then I’ve been told to leave you. As soon as I do, a fight is going to start. The lights are going out. What are you going to do?”

  “Find out what this is about,” I answered. “It was the only way I could think of to see you again.”

  Now that the program was laid before me, I was not particularly alarmed, because the unknown is what is most alarming. “You’d better understand me. I thought this was set for a killing, but I came to see you. I came to find out what all this is about and you’re not going to get away from me this time, Sonya.”

  She laughed again, that ingenuous careless laugh, and moved closer into my arms. “We haven’t time to argue,” she whispered. “But I’ll promise you this—I’ll swear that I’ll be waiting for you in an automobile in the street. Don’t try to leave by a door. Go out a window; don’t go down the stairs. Remember, nothing has happened. Look as though you loved me, Casey.”

  I tried to laugh. I tried to talk about something else and then the music stopped.

  “I’ll see you later, Sonya,” I whispered. “I give you my word for it.” And we walked back to the table. “Sonya,” I said, “you’re beautiful.” And we sat down beside the dance floor.

  I believed what she had told me—that she would help me. She kept talking to me gaily. I never could remember about just what, but once she said beneath her breath:

  “You’d better look around you, Casey. I’m going in a minute.” She did not need to tell me.

  There was a waiter standing near us who looked as heavy as a wrestler. His face was dull and clay-like and his hands were not made to handle trays of dishes. On either side of us and just behind us were three tables where only men were seated. All of them were Japanese.

  “Waiter,” I said, and he moved toward me, “get me a bottle of champagne.” I felt better when the bottle was on the table. I raised my glass and smiled at Sonya.

  “Happy landings,” I said, and added softly, “I believe you’ll be waiting for me. I want to see you, if I get out of this.”

  She rose and said, “Will you excuse me for a moment?”

  And I rose also and bowed. Then I sat down again, alone at my table, the fingers of my left hand playing with the bottle, my right hand moving up and down over my necktie. I tried to look deeply interested in the dancers. The music had started up again as I sat there waiting. Seconds and minutes drag at such a time, but, after all, I did not have so long to wait.

  Voices in one corner of the club were growing louder, like sounds offstage. It flashed across my mind that the plan for my elimination, as Sonya had outlined it, was not a bad one; indeed it would cause scarcely a ripple of excitement if it were handled right. It would simply appear the next day that K. C. Lee, once a well-known airman, who had fallen on hard times, had been killed in a nightclub brawl. It would be a natural comprehensible epitaph to nearly everyone who knew me. I had been mixed up in enough free-for-all fights before to have some idea of looking out for myself, and this was my only hope, combined with my knowledge of what was due to happen.

  The noise from the far corner of the Gaiety Club grew louder. There was a shout and a table crashed. Since I fully understood that there would be no use fighting my way toward the stairs because they would expect me there, I was trying to get the plan of the Gaiety Club and the disposition of its patrons clearly in my mind.

  I was hemmed in by men on three sides, by tables. A glance over my shoulder showed me that the heavy waiter was just behind my chair, probably waiting to fall on me or to knock me over from behind. He was by far the most dangerous element in the picture. For the rest, it seemed to me they had made a tactical mistake in seating me next to the dance floor, because my way across this floor was clear to a row of tall shuttered windows just to the right of the orchestra. I gauged the distance carefully, for by that time there was no doubt that Sonya was correct. Pandemonium was breaking loose in the Gaiety Club. I gathered my feet under my chair, waiting, and then the Lights went out.

  I do not believe they knew I was ready, and this, combined with the quickness of my reflexes, probably saved my life. At the instant the lights went, I did three things: I kicked my own table hard in the direction of one of the tables near me, I threw the champagne bottle straight at where the faces had been at the table to my left, and hurtled backwards with all my weight, chair and all, into the Chinese waiter’s stomach. I must have hurt him, because I heard him scream as we went down, but I managed to roll free of him just as we touched the floor, and I had out Sam Bloom’s gun by the time I had gathered my knees beneath me. Then I fired three shots fast and bounded to one side. There is nothing worse than staying in the same place when you are shooting in the dark. Then, as I started to run, they must have guessed where I was going. I heard a voice rising above the others, shouting out some order, but I maintained my sense of direction and kept my wits about me. I pride myself that I kept my wits about me so completely that the whole affair, in spite of its tumult and darkness, remains with me in a sort of geometric exactitude. I made a dive across the dance floor, bending low, slithered against a table and plop! into someone’s arms.

  An arm went behind my back and a hand clamped on my throat. There was no time for amenities just then, because it was my life or the man’s who held me. I presented my automatic at his middle and pulled the trigger. He dropped free of me and I plowed on through a clatter of glass and dishes, and just then the lights went up, giving me a momentary picture of the Gaiety Club which looked as though a tornado had struck it.

  I was just beside one of the windows. Two men across the dance hall were swinging automatics in my direction and in another split second they would probably have got me as easily as I might have hit a pipe in a shooting gallery. There was only one thing left for me, as there had been all along—to hope that the window was flimsy and that there was a street outside not too far below. I took a shot across the dance hall. Then I dove into the window, straight through it, frame and all. I could see the dusky blackness of the street just as I lost my balance and went pitching out the window. I was very lucky in my landing in that I struck the street on all fours. Though the impact was bad enough to make me groggy, my
instinct made me run for the shelter of the side of the building.

  “Casey!” I heard Sonya’s voice call me. “This way, Casey!” I saw a closed motor with its door open. I heard the engine running as I staggered toward it. I think Sonya must have pulled me inside, because I have not much recollection of getting there. The automobile was tearing very fast along the street. Sonya’s arm was around me, her hand moved gently across my face.

  “Casey,” she was asking, “are you hurt? You must be hurt.”

  I tried to answer conscientiously, but I was in no condition to take stock of myself.

  “Sonya,” I said, “they didn’t do that very well. They thought I’d be too easy. And now I think we’re going to have a little talk. That’s what I came for, Sonya.”

  “Casey,” she was touching my right shoulder—“you’re bleeding! They’ve shot you!”

  I had felt nothing, because one feels little at such moments.

  “All right,” I said, “they had a damn good chance”—and Sonya seemed used to such matters.

  “Quickly!” she said. “Take off your coat!” The car was still going at high speed through dim streets, but there was enough light to see that my left arm was bleeding badly. Sonya ripped back the sleeve of my shirt, which was soaked with blood.

  “There.” she said, and I said:

  “Thanks. Tear off a piece of my shirt and tie it tight. That’s a good girl, Sonya.” I must have been in pretty bad condition, but she acted like a nurse in an emergency ward. The bleeding stopped when she tied my arm up tight. She leaned forward and spoke to the driver.

  “Well,” I said, “what next?”

  “I’m stopping to buy you an overcoat and a new hat,” she explained. “People mustn’t see you this way, Casey.” The car had stopped before a half-Chinese, half-European clothing store.

  “Stay here,” said Sonya. “I won’t leave you, Casey.”

  I did not notice very much what happened for the next few minutes. Then she came back with a hat and cheap overcoat and bundled it around me.

  “Where are we going now?” I asked. I trusted her absolutely then, if for no other reason than because there was nothing else to do.

  “We’re going to your hotel,” she said. “It’s nearly the only place where we can be safe, I think.” Her voice caught in half a sigh and half a laugh. “I’ve burnt my bridges, Casey. They’ll know I got you away. They’ll know I warned you. You and I are outlaws, now.”

  “Are we?” I asked her.

  “Yes,” she said, and I took her hand.

  “All right,” I said, “as long as you’re one too. Will it be possible at the hotel?”

  My question made her laugh again. “You have American ideas. I don’t think they’ll bother much. You can say that I’m your wife. Let me wipe your face clean. And put that pistol in your pocket.”

  I had forgotten the pistol, but there it was, still grasped in my right hand.

  CHAPTER XI

  I suppose they thought at the hotel that I was drunk. I might have been, for all that I remember. Sonya steadied me like a capable nurse and locked the door. I put the automatic on the bureau and wriggled out of my overcoat and found myself staring at my image in the mirror. There was no doubt that I had been through the mill. There was a gash on my scalp that was still bleeding. My shirt had been stripped off me. A sleeve of my coat was torn and bloody. My trousers were ripped at the knees.

  “Casey,” Sonya said, “you look dreadfully.”

  “You’re right,” I answered, “but you don’t, Sonya.” My hand touched something in the side pocket of my coat. I pulled it out with my flask. “I’ll feel better, maybe,” I said vaguely, “if I have a drink.”

  “You’ll feel better,” Sonya said, “if you let me wash you, Casey,” and turned me gently around. She was looking at me respectfully. “There are not so many people who could have left the Gaiety Club tonight,” she said. “And I know what I’m talking about.”

  “Yes,” I said soberly. She was standing beside me, as untouched and unmoved by what had happened as though it were all a part of her life. “I’m afraid you know too much,” I said, and ended with an inconsequent question:

  “Are you glad they didn’t get me, Sonya?”

  Her answer was simple, entirely devoid of emotion.

  “Do you think I’d be here, if I weren’t? I never thought that I should allow sentiment mix itself with this. I shouldn’t have. It may be the end, perhaps, but I don’t seem to mind. I’ve seen members of my own family shot like dogs, but I couldn’t let them kill you, Casey. It was too ugly, I think, with me a part of it. You’d better lie down, Casey. I’m going to fix your arm.”

  There comes a time when events are moving so fast that one’s mind becomes immune to new impressions, which I suppose is the reason that everything seemed natural. I could not think it was odd that Sonya and I should be there alone. It was what I had wanted. It seemed inevitable that we must reach some final understanding. Who was she? What was she? I knew that I would find out that night.

  I stood there, holding my old flask. The leather case was as battered as myself.

  “If you’ll excuse me,” I said, “I think I’ll have a drink. Perhaps you’ll have one too?”

  Then I saw that something about her had changed indefinably. I noticed, as I tugged at the cup on the bottom of the flask, that her glance seemed sharper, suddenly anxious.

  “No,” she said. “First you let me fix your arm. Casey, please put down the flask.”

  Her voice was sharper, like her eyes.

  “Why?” I asked. There was something different between us.

  “Your arm,” she said, “it may be bad for you.”

  She was not telling the truth and I knew it.

  “What’s the matter with you, Sonya?” I said. “This won’t hurt my arm.”

  I yanked off the bottom of my flask as I said it but I did not take a drink. Instead, I stared at the bottom of the cup—at a bit of rice paper in the bottom about the size of a paper for rolling cigarettes, with writing upon it in Oriental characters. I saw Sonya’s hand move toward it and I drew the cup away. I was learning what she wanted faster than I thought I would.

  “No, you don’t,” I said. “So that’s your little game! No, Sonya, you’re a nice girl, but you don’t get it now.” I picked up the automatic from the bureau. “Drop your handbag, Sonya!” I said. “We don’t want any more trouble. We’re going to get the truth right now.”

  A part of the truth had already come over me, stunning me completely. I knew what that paper was in the bottom of my flask. I had never put it there.

  “Drop your handbag, Sonya!” I said again. “You’ve done a good job but you haven’t done it quite well enough. It looks as though I have the message now. Not that I can read it,” I added, “but perhaps before we’re through you’ll read it for me; and Commander Driscoll can check you up. He’s here in the hotel. Do you hear me? Drop that handbag, Sonya! I don’t want you reaching in it for a powder puff. I’m going to call Commander Driscoll now.”

  “No,” she said, “no! Don’t do that. You mustn’t!” and her handbag dropped out of her fingers to her feet.

  The nervous stimulation which had buoyed me until then had not left me. I could see Sonya with part of my mind but the rest of me was back in the cabin on the Imoto Maru. I had to admire the astuteness of that man named Ma, who had thought of the cup on the bottom of my flask. Where would have been a better place to have left a message to a man like me than where he must have chosen before he had been discovered? Where would there have been a place where others would have been less likely to have discovered it? It was Ma’s bad luck that I had never used the bottom of the flask until that moment. He had not counted on my unnatural abstemiousness. That was all.

  “No,” said Sonya again. “Casey, please, you mustn’t. That was why they wanted to kill you. They wanted that flask, Casey. I had to ask you to bring it—Do you remember?”

  I nodded to
her agreeably. “And that’s why you wanted to save my life, I suppose,” I said. “I’m grateful to you, Sonya.”

  “No,” she said. “It wasn’t entirely that. Casey, we must think. Let me see that paper.”

  I put the paper back in the cup again, snapped the cup back on the bottom of my flask and put the whole in my hip pocket. Then, bending quickly, I recovered Sonya’s white handbag from the floor. I found, as I expected, a small pearl-handled automatic in the middle compartment of her bag.

  “You won’t need that tonight,” I said “and we’re going to talk about this paper; but you won’t need to see it.”

  She did not seem surprised by my answer, not offended. “Casey,” she said, “don’t you think I’d better fix your arm now? It’s beginning to bleed again.”

  “Stay where you are,” I told her. “Right in that corner of the room. I’m not going to give you the chance to knock me over the head, Sonya.”

  She stood watching me irresolutely. “Don’t you trust me, Casey? Wouldn’t you, if I promised you?”

  “No,” I said. “I don’t see why I should. Do you?”

  She moved her white hands in a sort of hopeless gesture. “Casey, someone’s got to help you. Someone’s got to wash your head. Someone must bind your arm. I—I want to, Casey.”

  “You’re a beautiful emotional actress,” I said. “Don’t act any more. Sit down!”

  She began to cry, and I knew she was not acting then. “Casey,” she said, “Casey, please, I swear I only want to help you.”

  I felt my resolve slipping, moved by that appeal. There was no doubt that I needed someone to help me.

  “Very well,” I said. “But mind, I’m watching you, Sonya.”

  As a matter of fact, she did it very well. She took me into the bathroom and stripped me to the waist. She washed out the wound with hot water—a flesh wound, I found it was, hardly more than a graze, which would probably make my arm stiff and wretchedly sore by morning, and might also give me a degree of fever; but I doubted if it would be much worse. Then she washed my head and fetched me a clean shirt from my bag.