Mr. Moto Omnibus

by John P. Marquand

  “I wish you would,” said Wilson.

  “You’ve only made one mistake,” she answered. “Your mistake is in talking to me about the family—that was exactly the wrong card to play, because I hate the family. I wonder if I can make you understand how much I hate them. Your family turned on my father because he didn’t have your cool face, Mr. Hitchings—and didn’t have ice water in his blood; because he wasn’t correct and poised like you; because he didn’t do the right thing. He made the great mistake of marrying my mother—I’m very glad he did, because that’s why I’m not like you, that’s why I haven’t got your self-importance and your manners, and your easy condescension. That’s why I’m a plebeian, Mr. Hitchings. And why I associate with these low people. And I’ll tell you something more—Father was not a businessman. When he lost his money, when his back was to the wall, when you could have helped him easily, as you are offering to help me now, not a member of your family raised its hand. You’re only doing it now, and you know it, because I’m interfering with your business interests. If you want to know the truth, I had made up my mind to interfere with them, after Father died.”

  “Simply out of spite?” said Wilson.

  “Yes,” she answered, “simply out of spite. I am paying you back by running this place. I know I am. And one of the pleasantest moments I have had is to be able to sit here and to tell you so. To see you come here, and to hear you try to buy me out. This place is going to be run as long as I can run it and as long as it can hurt the Hitchingses. You couldn’t buy it for a million dollars! Is that quite clear?”

  “Yes,” said Wilson, “it’s very clear; but it’s rather foolish, don’t you think?”

  “No,” she answered, “not if you knew what I’ve been through on account of the Hitchings family; it’s not foolish to me at any rate. I hate every one of you—I hate your sanctimonious pretense.”

  “Do you hate me?” Wilson asked.

  “Yes,” she said, “of course I hate you. And I have sat here long enough, listening to your patronage. I’d like to see you try to close this place! I’d like to see any of you try.”

  “Well,” said Wilson, “I’m sorry. At any rate, I don’t want to see it closed tonight; I rather like it.”

  “Then go out and enjoy yourself,” Miss Hitchings said, “we’ve been here long enough.” Wilson rose.

  “It’s been good of you to give me so much time,” he said. “I think I’ll try roulette.”

  “Don’t mention it,” said Miss Hitchings, “the pleasure has been all mine. I hope you will have a pleasant evening.”

  “You are sure you don’t want to be friends?” said Wilson.

  “No,” said Miss Hitchings, “I’m sure I don’t.”

  There was a discreet tapping on the door and a Japanese servant entered. “A gentleman wants to see you, Miss,” he said.

  “Very well,” said Miss Hitchings. “Show him into the office.” And she turned to Wilson, smiling. “I’m sorry that I am busy now,” she said.

  “So am I,” said Wilson. “Good evening, Miss Hitchings!” Then, just as he turned away, he found that the other gentleman was entering—Mr. Moto was standing in the doorway, bowing, smiling.

  “Excuse me,” he was saying, “do I interrupt?”

  There was no doubt in Wilson now that it was Mr. Moto.

  “No,” Miss Hitchings said, “this gentleman is just leaving.”

  “Yes,” said Wilson, “I’m leaving.” He hoped that he showed no surprise, he hoped that he was smiling as cordially as Mr. Moto.

  “Good evening, Mr. Moto,” he said, “I thought I saw you a while ago. I did not think I’d see you here.”

  “Oh, yes,” said Mr. Moto, “isn’t it very nice? Such a nice place, so beautiful. How nice to see you, Mr. Hitchings.” And Mr. Moto drew in his breath through his shining gold teeth.

  It sometimes seemed strange to Wilson how small half-forgotten details returned to him later when he reconstructed that scene. All sorts of things registered in his memory—the black rectangles of the open windows, the sound of the wind outside as it rustled through large unfamiliar leaves, the scratches on that bare oval table where the light struck it, the shine of the light in Eva Hitchings’ close-cropped hair, that half malicious, half mischievous smile of hers because she was composed again, completely herself. There had been a moment in that outburst of her anger when she had revealed a new side of her personality. He had been able to understand her loyalty and her bitterness, not so much by what she had said as by its implication. There must have been some prepossessing quality about Ned Hitchings, for his daughter had loved him as everyone else seemed to have who had known him, in spite of all his faults.

  But what surprised Wilson most was the unexpected interest which she had aroused in him, which was more than curiosity. She had not spoken of her loneliness but he had seen it. She was not a person who was meant to be alone. Suddenly he realized that he was thinking of her emotionally, not logically; that she was appealing indirectly to his sense of chivalry, and he knew that this was foolish. Then he heard Mr. Moto speak again.

  “Please,” Mr. Moto was saying, “I’m afraid I interrupt.”

  That close-clipped voice of Mr. Moto’s brought him to himself and made him realize that both of those persons in the room were waiting for him to go and that he had been standing almost stupidly with his hand on the knob of the door looking at Eva Hitchings.

  “I’m sorry,” he said. “Good night.”

  “Good night,” said Eva Hitchings.

  He remembered that Mr. Moto had been glancing at the open window as he spoke.

  “Good night,” said Mr. Moto. “I shall see you soon again, I hope. It will be so very nice.”

  Eva Hitchings was standing motionless waiting for him to go and Mr. Moto was glancing back at the windows. Wilson’s back was half turned, he was reaching for the doorknob, when a sound like the snap of a whip made him whirl about. Even with his back to the room, he knew that the sound had come from the night outside. It was its sharpness more than its loudness which startled him. His first thought as he was turning was that a motor had back-fired in the driveway, and in the same second he was ashamed that he had started.

  “I am sorry,” he began, “I didn’t mean to jump.” And then he stopped. He found himself looking at Mr. Moto. Something had happened in that instant which was very odd. Mr. Moto was crouching, staring out of an open window. He was holding a small automatic pistol, he was absolutely motionless, evidently listening. In that first second of amazement Wilson did not move. He remembered that he glanced almost stupidly about the room wondering what had happened, for nothing in the room had changed. Eva Hitchings was standing just as he had seen her last but she was no longer smiling. She was holding tight to the back of the chair, also staring at the open window.

  “What’s the matter?” said Wilson. “What was that?”

  No one answered for the moment. Mr. Moto still peered into the darkness and Eva Hitchings gave no sign of hearing. Then, still holding his pistol, Mr. Moto straightened himself and turned away from the window. It seemed to Wilson that his color was lighter, but Mr. Moto was smiling. And his eyes were dark and placid.

  “Excuse me,” he said, “I think perhaps you know. It was a pistol shot—the bullets will be in the wall somewhere behind me. The man was a very bad marksman, Miss Hitchings. You should get one who is more steady. Yes, he was very bad and I was very very foolish. I did not think that such a thing would happen. Yes, I was very foolish, but I do not think that he will try again to-night because he moved away. The next time that you and Mr. Hitchings try to kill me, will you do it better, please, I hope you will. Thank you very, very much. And now, Mr. Hitchings, please stand away from the door. I think I shall be going now. Good evening, Miss Hitchings! Thank you very very much.”

  There had not been much excitement in Wilson Hitchings’ life and the idea of such a piece of melodrama was more than he could grasp at once. The thing had happened so su
ddenly, and yet so casually, that it became ordinary and matter of fact. The ordinary quality of such an episode seemed reflected in Mr. Moto’s manner, and judging from appearances such an event had happened often in Mr. Moto’s life.

  “What do you mean?” said Wilson, and he still stood in front of the door. His sense of law and order was so outraged that his mind moved dully trying to reconcile what had happened with ordinary fact. “What are you talking about, Mr. Moto?”

  He had thought of Mr. Moto in the past as an insignificant man but now he looked as compact and as nerveless and as efficient as the pistol he was carrying. Mr. Moto’s dinner coat was double-breasted and cut in extreme lines; his round head and his black hair arranged in a shoebrush pattern was almost grotesque, but there was nothing grotesque about Mr. Moto’s answer.

  “Excuse me, please, if I did not make myself clear,” he said, “perhaps I was excited. Please, I am not excited now.” Mr. Moto’s eyes were bright and steady, he was breathing fast through his closed teeth. “A shot was fired at me through the open window. I’m very very sorry—I did not expect one so soon. Attempts have been made to liquidate me before, Mr. Hitchings. Enough of them so that I should have been more careful. I had not thought I had been asked to this room to be murdered. I am very very much surprised. Please, I shall be going now.” And he took a step toward Wilson, who stood with his back to the door.

  Wilson glanced at Eva Hitchings. The girl looked pale and frightened but she did not speak, and the absurdity of the situation began to dawn on him. Mr. Moto and his automatic looked absurd, so amusing all at once that he almost smiled.

  “Well,” said Wilson, “I’ve always heard you Japanese were egotists. Do you really think I paid a man to stand outside to murder you, Mr. Moto?”

  Mr. Moto smiled.

  “Excuse me,” he said, “I’m so very very sorry. It is not nice to say so, but I think that is what you and Miss Hitchings did. Excuse me, I must be careful. Please do not move your hands.”

  “And what do you propose to do about it?” Wilson asked. He found the matter increasingly amusing. The idea of his being connected with Eva Hitchings in any capacity amused him.

  “I propose to do nothing about it,” said Mr. Moto. And he said it genially, like someone anxious to be kind and forgiving. “These matters happen, do they not? Let us say no more about it, please. It would be very very much better, don’t you think? Please, it does not make me angry. It was so very badly done.”

  “Perhaps you won’t mind then,” suggested Wilson, “if I tell you what I think.”

  “Oh, no,” said Mr. Moto, “except I am in a hurry to be going, please.”

  Wilson moved a step nearer to him and looked down at Mr. Moto.

  “Please,” said Mr. Moto again, “do not move your hands.”

  Then Wilson heard Eva Hitchings speak and her voice sounded frightened.

  “Don’t,” she said softly, “don’t move.”

  Wilson thrust his hands deliberately into the side pockets of his coat.

  “That will do for your giving me orders, Mr. Moto,” he said pleasantly. “Personally I think you are rather too high-strung, and that you have a powerful imagination. I don’t know much about these things but I don’t believe anybody fired at you, Mr. Moto. Try to think of it calmly; a car made a noise outside probably. Or else a window shade snapped up. Now, if I were you I’d put that pistol in your pocket where it won’t do any harm. I don’t know what manners are in Japan but I don’t think you have been very polite to Miss Hitchings, Mr. Moto, and you have startled her a good deal. Personally, I don’t mind; in fact, I rather enjoy it, but I think it would be very very nice if you said ‘good night’ to Miss Hitchings and begged her pardon.”

  Mr. Moto’s expression had changed since Wilson had spoken; his forehead had wrinkled into little creases; he looked puzzled, almost hurt.

  “Excuse me,” he said, “I do not understand. Please, do you think this is funny, Mr. Hitchings?”

  “Yes,” said Wilson, “mildly funny. Now don’t you think you’d better put that gun away? And tell Miss Hitchings you are sorry? I won’t hurt you, Mr. Moto, really I won’t.”

  Mr. Moto put his pistol in his pocket and his breath hissed through his teeth, then his tenseness and his watchfulness entirely disappeared, and he bowed his head to Eva Hitchings. There was a strange, submissive dignity in his bow.

  “Excuse me, please,” he said, “if I have done anything to be rude. I am so very very sorry, and I am so very very sorry if I have been funny. Excuse me, please. Good evening, please.”

  Wilson opened the door to the roulette room and when he closed it he began to laugh.

  “Excuse me, please,” said he to Eva Hitchings. “I am very very sorry.” Then something on the dark polished floor, near the wall, caught his attention, he never knew just why. Close by the door he had just shut were a few grains of new white plaster. Something made him look upward to the wall. There was a small hole where something had struck and had knocked the plaster down. He looked from the dent in the wall toward Eva Hitchings, curiously. She was no longer the same person he had seen before—she had regained her poise, but she was no longer as she had been before Moto had come in. Somehow as she stood there, resting her hands on the back of the chair, she looked enigmatic and extremely capable.

  There was a mysterious quality about that dent in the wall which had changed the point of view. Wilson could feel a number of illusions leaving him and the sensation was almost physical. For one thing he felt as cold as though he had lost a comfortable covering; for another his visual faculties seemed entirely different. Eva Hitchings was no longer a lonely girl, no longer a flower on a midden, not to be associated with such a place as Hitchings Plantation. She was looking at him coolly, almost contemptuously, he thought, and in a way which made his next remark seem immature and stupid.

  “So it was a shot?” he said.

  Her shining reddish head moved in a brief sarcastic nod.

  “What did you think it was?” she inquired, “a bean from a blower? This isn’t exactly a Sunday School, Mr. Hitchings.”

  Wilson leaned against the wall with his hands in his pockets watching her. He did not know what attracted him, certainly nothing which was right. He knew that he was close to something which was dangerous and he had never known that danger would carry with it an intriguing fascination. He was aware of a strange exaltation beneath his training of habit and formality.

  “You’re quite right,” he agreed. “This isn’t like any Sunday School that I remember. And you’re not like a Sunday School teacher, either.”

  “No, but I could teach you a good deal,” she said. “I could teach you enough so that your family wouldn’t know you, Mr. Hitchings! Perhaps you have learned already that this isn’t the place for you. The name of Hitchings is being dragged in the mud, isn’t it?” She paused and laughed and seated herself on the edge of the table, and Wilson noticed mechanically that she wore gold slippers, and that her legs were bare. “I hoped for a minute that you were going to be dragged in the mud, too. It did look as though you were going to get into a brawl with Mr. Moto—that wouldn’t have looked well, would it? A Hitchings shot at Hitchings Plantation? That would have made the family jump.”

  He could not understand why the remark annoyed him as much as it did.

  “I should have been careful of him,” he said. “I don’t want to hurt any of your friends.” She laughed again and swung her slippers slowly back and forth, tossing her head back a little, and holding to the edge of the table.

  “Don’t be so naive,” she said, “and don’t worry. I’ll see you won’t get hurt.”

  “Thank you,” said Wilson. “I suppose you know who fired that shot?”

  Her face had grown hard again; she looked at him without speaking for a moment.

  “If I were you,” she said, “I’d keep my lily white hands out of this, because it’s none of your business, Mr. Hitchings.”

  “I wonder,”
said Wilson. “It might be my business if that shot were meant for me; perhaps you know whom it was meant for—me or Mr. Moto. Would it be too forward of me if I asked you?”

  The gold slippers were motionless; she leaned toward him and her eyes grew narrow.

  “What do you mean by that?” she asked.

  “I mean,” said Wilson, “that you are not exactly a Sunday School teacher, Cousin Eva. You can’t help my having vague ideas.”

  Her voice changed; it was low and urgent.

  “Stop! Be quiet,” she said.

  Wilson Hitchings smiled at her; he could not understand why he felt so tolerant or so kindly toward her unless it was because of a sense of his own superiority. He thought his remark had frightened and shocked her; certainly she looked frightened.

  “Why should I be quiet, Cousin Eva?” he asked. “Have you got a sense of free guilt, as the psychologists put it?” Then her expression told him that she was not listening, at least not to him. He saw that she was tense and motionless, staring at something beyond his right shoulder and he turned and followed her glance. The door to the roulette room was opening very slowly.

  “What is it?” asked Eva Hitchings. “Who is that?”

  It was the man with the watery eyes, the watcher at the roulette table. Now that Wilson saw him standing up, the man’s awkwardness was gone. The man was thin with a whiplike thinness and his voice showed he was a long way from home. It was a New York City voice.

  “It’s me, ain’t it,” he said. He spoke slowly, huskily, as he closed the door behind him and walked almost noiselessly to the center of the room. “I thought maybe there might be a little argument in here.” He looked Wilson slowly up and down. “Who’s the guy, Miss Eva?”

  Miss Eva slid down from the table.

  “Have I, or have I not told you not to interrupt me, Paul?” she asked. “You might frighten someone sneaking in that way.”

  “Nuts!” the thin man said softly. “Who’s the guy?”

  “This is Mr. Hitchings,” Miss Eva said. “This is Mr. Maddock,” Miss Eva said.