Mr. Moto Omnibus

by John P. Marquand

  “Hitchings Plantation,” the driver said.

  It was late afternoon by then, an hour which was very close to sunset. The driver was right for the flurry of rain in the valley had been over in a moment leaving the air moist, soft and clean and full of the scent of flowers. Now that the car had slowed down, he was aware of a sense of solitude such as he had not felt all day. They had left the complexities of the city which formed one of the crossroads of the world and were stopping in a cleft between high, dark, green hills whose peaks rose mistily into a sky that was growing reddish with the sunset. Except for the house which was standing where the road ended he could believe that this part of the valley had hardly ever changed. The wildness and isolation of older days hung over it mistily. Wilson Hitchings remembered feeling cold, not entirely because the sun was going down or because of that touch of rain. The Island had changed from a distant, pagan paradise of gods and drums to an outpost of a nation that was half a fortress, half a garden. The missionaries had come to bring the word of God to a childlike trusting people, and the traders had come, and the whaling fleet and the French, and the Russians and the English. The fields had been planted with sugar cane, riches such as no one had ever dreamed of had flowed in. The beaches had become a playground. The city had become a carpet of twinkling lights, but the valley had not changed. It was growing sad and shadowy, a tropical island valley brooding over a simple past. The steep hills seemed to Wilson Hitchings to be waiting, waiting for a time when the vanity of man was gone and when the strong trees and vines would march from down the mountains again into the clearings.

  “Hitchings Plantation,” the driver said politely, “a lovely place.”

  “Yes,” Wilson said, “a lovely place.” He was thinking of the ironies of life. He had reached the spot toward which he had traveled a good many thousand miles and now he gazed at it somberly. The road had ended in a valley stopping at a driveway, flanked by two tall posts that bore the name newly painted, “Hitchings Plantation.” The house stood on a lawn that was dotted with fantastic branching trees—a rambling wooden house that had been built in the style of the South at home. He could understand its name as soon as he saw the house—there was a high pillared portico, there were wings and verandas. When he saw it he could understand what Ned Hitchings had done with his money. He had sunk it all prodigally into one estate; it was simple enough to see what had happened afterward, because the house and the grounds above it gave an impression of desuetude and of disrepair. Ned Hitchings’ money had gone into the house and now there was no more money. A building could not last long in that genial climate without upkeep. The grass about it was unkempt, shrubbery was growing wildly against the white wall, the paint was growing dingy, the shutters were sagging.

  “They play roulette every night,” the driver said. “You want to go inside?”

  “No,” said Wilson, “not now. I’ll go back to the hotel.”

  He did not say what was in his thoughts, that the loneliness of the hills was in that house and vanished hopes. Something caught in his throat, because it must have been a gallant place once. Then another thought was running through his mind.

  “Anything might happen there,” Wilson said to himself, “anything might happen.”

  Then they were going through the outskirts of the city back to the hotel on the beach where music was playing. They were passing along a street which might have been in the Orient. There were open-front Chinese shops where dried fish and parasols and cloth were out for sale. There was a rich smell of cooking and of bean oil—there were rice cakes on the counters, the streets echoed with the notes of Oriental voices, and someone was singing in high falsetto notes. The dark was coming down quickly like a curtain, blotting out the contradictions of that city that was neither East nor West.

  “All kinds of people here,” the driver said. “Japanese, Chinese, Filipinos, all kinds of people.”

  “Yes,” said Wilson, “all kinds of people.” The darkness made the place mysterious and he stood for a while on the hotel lawn beneath the palm trees looking at the sea. It occurred to him that he had never felt so lonely. He was thinking of the valley and of the house.

  The clerk gave him his card to the Hitchings Plantation Club and he put it in his pocket and then he went up to his room, a large room overlooking the sea. He unlocked the door and turned on the light and then he noticed a piece of paper lying on the carpet. Wilson picked it up and bent over it frowning.

  It was a plain slip of paper with a single line of typewriting upon it. It had evidently been pushed beneath the crack of his bedroom door.

  “You look healthy,” the paper said; “if you want to keep healthy, keep away from Hitchings Plantation.”

  He could hear the soft noise of the surf outside and he could smell that strange sweet smell of sea spray and flowers—all these made the note in his hand utterly incongruous. For the first time in a long while he felt his heart beat fast. There was no doubt that the message was intended for him. There was no doubt that the message was a threat. He folded the paper carefully, opened one of his bags and took out his evening clothes. He moved deliberately and thoughtfully, but his mind was filled with an incredulous sort of wonder. For the first time in his life he was entirely alone at the mercy of his own resources with no one to lean upon for advice or help. For once in his life he was aware that his family name and his connection was something on which he could not lean. He was surrounded by ill-wishers. The note had taught that much, and more than that it had made him understand that this ill will was not entirely passive.

  He tried to keep his thoughts calm. The family had always been logical. The significance of the message puzzled him. If it had been intended to frighten him its psychology was very poor, because the note had aroused in him a streak of stubbornness of which he had never dreamed. He was amazed at his own anxiety to get to Hitchings Plantation now that he had received the message. As he stood before the mirror arranging his tie he noticed that his face looked pale and that his eyes were unusually bright. He was wondering where the message had come from. Then he remembered that Honolulu was only a small town as far as his own race was concerned. His name had been on the ship’s list and anyone might know him. Mr. Wilkie himself had intimated that anyone might recognize him who was familiar with the Hitchingses—he had the same long nose, the same narrow forehead, the same deep-set eyes, the same large tranquil mouth. Wilson Hitchings stared at himself thoughtfully in the mirror. On the whole the sensation that he was entirely alone was not wholly unpleasant.

  “I can probably take care of myself,” his mind was saying. “The family always have.” The idea of the family was reassuring—it had always reassured him when he thought of his family.

  The orchestra in the hotel dining room was playing Hawaiian music, the waiters were Japanese in trim white uniforms. The diners as far as he could gather were all strangers like himself, pleased with the music and with the sea outside. It was like a tranquil June night at home. Against the background of the sea and palms there was a new significance in the music. There was a lingering sadness in it—the echo of old days—the echo of the voices of a dying race. A large man in evening clothes stopped by Wilson’s table. Even before he spoke, Wilson guessed who he was.

  “Good evening, Mr. Hitchings,” the man said. “I am the manager. We are all pleased to have you here. Hitchings is an old name on the Islands.”

  “And I am new on them,” Wilson said. “Won’t you sit down for a moment, sir? You have a name for people like me, haven’t you—a native name?” The manager seated himself and smiled, the patient smile of one who has answered the questions of a thousand inquisitive guests.

  “The name is malihini. It’s the old Hawaiian word for ‘stranger.’ I am the exact opposite—a kamaaina. I have been born and brought up on the Islands. I’ve played with the natives here ever since I could walk. But what are you doing to amuse yourself tonight?”

  “I am going to the Hitchings Plantation,” said Wils
on. He looked carefully at the man opposite him and realized that the manager had known it all the while. “I wonder if you’d tell me something I am curious about,” Wilson continued. “If you’ve been here always, you must have known a distant cousin of mine—of my father’s: Ned Hitchings.”

  “Ned Hitchings?” the other said, and his formality left him when he said it as though something in the name made him warm and friendly. “Yes, I knew Ned. There aren’t many left like him. You should have seen the Plantation in the old days when Ned was playing host. It was a grand place then—music all the time, and all the champagne you could drink. Everybody in the world was there. Nearly any night. Ned was the greatest host in the world. You should have heard his stories! The Hawaiians loved him, everyone in the world loved Ned. There was a time when the old Queen wanted him in her court, but that was long ago.”

  Wilson was thinking of the former owner when he saw Hitchings Plantation again that night. That mysterious soft darkness of the tropics, which had fallen so suddenly like the dropping of a curtain, had shut out the loneliness of the valley, leaving only the brightness of the house lights shining through the dark. Looking backward far below him, Wilson Hitchings could see the lights of the city like the embers of a huge campfire in the night. The lights of the house where he was going looked like the sparks which had been blown from the edges of that fire.

  Now that it was dark an electric light burned above the sign at the gatepost showing the name Hitchings Plantation with a clarity that made him wince; but even so, even as his car moved up the drive, he seemed to feel something of the personality of the man who had made the place. He recalled the words he had heard earlier that evening: “You should have seen the Plantation in the old days when Ned was playing host.” There was still an air of genial expansiveness now that it was dark. Although the place was being run for money now, and filled with paying guests, there was still an atmosphere of hospitality, almost of careless generosity, as though money did not matter. The great veranda and the columns spoke of it and so did the wide hall inside. There was no doubt that Ned Hitchings had once lived high. As Wilson walked up the steps he could hear music and laughter and through the window he had a glimpse of people dancing in the hall. There was a man at the door, enormously muscular, a Polynesian with grizzled hair, dressed in white trousers and a white silk shirt, a wreath of flowers around his neck. His features in the glow of light were regular and almost imposing, and Wilson could imagine that he had been with the Plantation for a long while.

  “Your card, please, sir,” the doorman said, and he read the card carefully, and then he smiled benignly.

  “Good evening, sir,” he said. “Miss Eva said you might be coming.”

  “She knew I was coming?” Wilson asked.

  “Oh, yes,” the doorman smiled again. “Oh, yes, she knew.” Wilson smiled back at him as they stood there in the doorway. The hall was brilliantly lighted. There were chairs and tables around the walls such as might have belonged in a gentleman’s drawing room, and been moved aside for an informal party. There was a white-shirted orchestra playing stringed instruments in the corner, just as though they had been called in only for the evening, and almost opposite him, in direct line with the door, was an open fireplace, a needless addition to a house in such a climate. Above it was a portrait, three-quarters length, of an elderly man in white, a pleasure-loving man, whose face in the bright light stared out genially over the strangers in the hall. There was no doubt at whom Wilson was looking, for it was a family face, although the countenance was less practical and less austere than the Hitchings faces which Wilson had known. Ned Hitchings in his portrait was looking over his domain, much as he must have done in life. You could see that he would have loved the music and the dancing and the general disorder of the place. Wilson Hitchings smiled at the huge doorman.

  “It’s a nice house,” he said, and the doorman smiled back.

  “Yes,” he said, “it’s a nice house. Everybody has a good time here.” He paused and looked about the hall. “Everybody has always had a good time here.” Wilson could agree with him. There was something indefinable about the place—an ineradicable sense of happy days and happy nights. Wilson, himself, could feel it.

  “Have you got time to show me around?” he asked.

  “Oh, yes,” the doorman said. “Miss Eva, she wants to see you. Give that boy your hat and come this way.”

  “Have you been here long?” Wilson asked.

  “Oh, yes,” the doorman said. “I have worked for Mr. Hitchings always. My family, they have lived here always. They have lived here when Mr. Hitchings bought the land.” In a certain way his voice seemed like the Hawaiian music—it had the same sad gaiety.

  “Yes, the house is very fine. Miss Eva, she keeps it very well. There is always dancing in the hall and refreshments in the dining room and tables on the great lanai, and lights in the garden. Then here are the card rooms and the fan-tan room, and in back the roulette room. Miss Eva will be there.”

  The music followed them as they walked through room after room on the lower floor of that large house. Except for certain people in the rooms, they might have been in a gentleman’s house at an evening party. The house was furnished in excellent taste; the bridge room had been the library and the books were still along the wall. There was a studious concentration in the room, although it did not come from the volumes. The dining room and the great terrace beyond it were set and ready for an evening party.

  “You may help yourself to anything you want,” the Hawaiian said. “Miss Eva, she won’t take no money. The entertainment is on the house. Will you have a glass of wine before you go to the roulette room?”

  “Thank you, no,” Wilson said.

  Wilson was listening to the music and looking at the people. The house was full of people, and he doubted if there would have been such a wholly democratic company in old Ned Hitchings’ time. There was one thing they had in common—the guests seemed well-to-do. But beyond this all resemblance ended, because Hitchings Plantation appeared to be open to every type and to every race. There were tourists easily distinguished from the rest, there were adventurers and adventuresses such as he had seen in other seaports, there were steamship officers, businessmen, and army men in civilian clothing, there were Portuguese, and dusky-skinned part Hawaiians in whose blood ran either white or Chinese strain. It seemed to Wilson that all the visitors who had ever touched the shores had sent some representatives to the racial congress moving through the rooms of Hitchings Plantation. There were Japanese businessmen and bland Chinese and there was a Hindu with his turban—taken altogether they made a mysterious and diverting sight and one which appealed to the imagination. He had read of the varied races on the Hawaiian Islands and of the experiments in Democracy and now he could see it working beneath the protection of the outlawed democracy of chance. There was no apparent prejudice in that mingling of the races. There was nothing but good humor and an order which was almost decorous. It amazed Wilson to find himself thinking that representatives of his own race seemed the least attractive of any in that room, but this may have been because he understood them better. He had seen enough of the world to recognize the political, professional gambler type among his own people and he observed that several men of this sort were watching him curiously and he could imagine what they were thinking. They were thinking of how to reach him and of how to get his money. Still smiling, Wilson turned toward the huge Hawaiian who stood beside him.

  “This is all new to me,” Wilson said. “Are there always so many different sorts of people here?”

  The man’s teeth flashed again as he answered.

  “Oh, yes, we have all sorts of people on the Island. All people get on very well together on the Island, they have always. So many strangers are surprised like you. Anyone can come here as long as he behaves.”

  “What if he doesn’t behave?” Wilson asked.

  The large dark man frowned thoughtfully.

  “He is sen
t away,” he said. “There are men to take care of every room. There is never any trouble.” The music was playing again, one of those gay sad tunes, and the room was sweet and fresh from the warm air which came through the open doors and windows. He could see lights from the exotic trees on the terrace.

  “Miss Hitchings runs this very well,” he said. “She must be very capable.”

  “Oh, yes,” the man said. “Miss Eva, she is a fine lady, everybody likes her very much.”

  “Yes,” said Wilson, “so I’ve heard.”

  He was glancing toward the door which led to the entrance hall as he said it and he remembered afterward that he was thinking of the strangeness of the place. He was thinking as he had at first that it had an air of kindly, tolerant hospitality more than any atmosphere of vice or folly. The rooms with their white woodwork were fine and well-proportioned—in spite of everything it was a gentleman’s house.

  “Well,” he said, “shall we go to the roulette room? I mustn’t take too much of your time.” And then he stopped—a figure in the dining room stopped him, and he felt the same surprise as though someone had called his name. A small man in impeccable evening clothes was standing in the doorway, glancing about the dining room, holding an ivory cigarette holder between two slender delicate fingers. He was examining the room thoughtfully and the light fell on his face.

  For an instant Wilson was looking at him straight in the face; for an instant Wilson could not believe it was so, but he had an accurate memory for faces and he knew that face. It was that of the Mr. Moto he had seen in Shanghai, and though it seemed contrary to every possibility, he could have sworn it was Mr. Moto in the doorway.

  “Wait a minute, please,” said Wilson, and he took a step forward, but as he did so, the small man in the dinner coat turned and walked away and Wilson did not follow him. He suddenly realized that he was being foolish, that there must be a large number of other members of the Japanese race who might resemble Mr. Moto. It occurred to him that he was a long way from any place where Mr. Moto could possibly be.