Eva Hitchings clasped her hands together in her lap and sat up straight, then she shook her head.
“I think you know enough already, Mr. Moto,” she answered. Her voice was cool and hard. “And I think you’re so clever that I don’t need to tell you anything. I was almost taken in by your trick about the whisky. I think you’ll be able to manage Mr. Hitchings very well by yourself and perhaps I had better leave you, so that you won’t be embarrassed. I think I’ll be going now.”
For a moment Wilson Hitchings found it difficult to speak.
“Don’t you believe me?” he said. “Don’t you believe me at all?”
Eva Hitchings’ glance was cold and self-possessed. She pushed a strand of hair from her forehead, folded her hands again.
“If you really want to know what I think,” she said, “I think you’re the smoothest liar since Ananias. I think you can tell Mr. Moto exactly what’s happening to that money, and I rather think that Mr. Moto knows that you can tell him. I still believe what I told you on the beach, Mr. Hitchings. You never meant to touch that drink on the table—did you?”
For the first time that day Wilson Hitchings realized that he was very tired. He felt a weariness which numbed his ability to reason and it placed him beyond surprise and beyond incredulity.
“I don’t exactly understand you,” he said.
Eva Hitchings shrugged her bare, brown shoulders.
“I’ve noticed that you don’t understand anything,” she remarked. “You’re quite attractive when you are naive. I imagine Mr. Moto understands you. I don’t think you’ve fooled either of us.”
“Yes,” said Mr. Moto. “Thank you very much.” He seemed about to continue, and then he stopped and lowered his voice to a whisper.
“Be quiet, please,” he whispered. “Do not say a word, please. Sit just as you are. Someone is coming up the path.”
Then Wilson knew that Mr. Moto must have been listening all the time and that his ears were very keen. For several seconds Wilson could hear nothing except that soft, ceaseless, tropical trade wind which seemed to form a background to all life, and then he heard a footstep; a quick, decisive footstep. The sound made him move uneasily.
“Quiet,” hissed Mr. Moto. “Quiet, please!” There was an insistence in Mr. Moto’s whisper which made him absolutely still and Eva Hitchings’ face made him even quieter. Her face was a little pale. Her lips were half-parted and her self-confidence and irony were gone with the sound of the footsteps. They were coming nearer. They stopped and Wilson knew that someone was pausing before the window of the cottage. Then there was another sound. Whoever it was outside was walking up the porch steps directly to the door.
The back of Wilson’s neck was cold and his mouth was dry, and if he had tried, he could not have moved just then. Mr. Moto was standing on the palm mat in the center of the room, still with a faint mechanical smile. Softly but deliberately, Mr. Moto thrust his right hand into the side pocket of his coat. The steps had stopped by the door and again there was not a sound except for the wind. Then there was a rapping on the door. The sound seemed very loud in the stillness of the room but Mr. Moto did not move or speak. Then the knob of the door turned and the door was opened briskly.
Wilson could not have said what he expected to see, but the actual sight was a complete anticlimax. A man stood in the doorway, dressed in a light linen suit and wearing a panama hat that had a band of feathers round it, a peculiar product of the Islands which Wilson had already noticed. A thin, oldish man, with a close-cropped mustache and a lean, tan face. . . . Wilson remembered the droop of the mouth, half good-natured, half querulous, and the benign, rather lazy cast of the eyes. It was Mr. Wilkie, the Office Manager of Hitchings Brothers, standing in the door. Mr. Wilkie stood for a moment, quite motionless, as though the light confused him.
“Excuse me,” he said quickly. “I was looking for—” and then he saw Eva Hitchings. It was plain that he had not noticed her at first, because his voice changed.
“Why, Eva,” said Mr. Wilkie “—so there you are, you little hide-and-seek. I’ve been looking for you everywhere!”
Eva Hitchings stood up and she laughed a quick, nervous laugh of complete relief.
“Why, Uncle Joe,” she said, “you didn’t need to look. I don’t need a caretaker!” She rose and walked toward him, still laughing, and Mr. Wilkie placed his arm around her shoulders.
“Oh, yes, you do,” he said. “At least I think you do. Good evening, Mr. Hitchings. Eva always seems like a little girl to me, like my own little girl. I still get worried when she’s out alone at night. They told me that she’d taken you home, Mr. Hitchings, and when she did not come back, well, I thought that I might as well go and find her. Of course nothing can happen to anyone on these Islands, not since King Kamehameha laid down the law that women and children were safe wherever they went; but there is a time for girls to go to bed, even nowadays. I saw Eva’s car by the hotel and walked over to the beach, then one of the boys over at the filling station told me that they had seen Eva coming here, and one of the boys at the Seaside had seen her walk this way. And I knew that Eva was at her old tricks again, forgetting what time it was, forgetting that it was after one o’clock; so the old man has come to take her home. I am sure that Mr. Hitchings understands.”
“Certainly,” said Wilson. “I was just about to take her back myself, Mr. Wilkie. We just stopped in to call on Mr. Moto. My uncle introduced me to him in Shanghai.”
“Yes,” said Mr. Moto. “It has been so very nice and it is so nice of you to come, sir. May I not offer you a glass of whisky, Mr.—Mr. . . . ?”
“Mr. Wilkie,” said Wilson. “Excuse me; this is Mr. Wilkie, Mr. Moto, the Manager of Hitchings Brothers’ Branch.”
Mr. Moto bowed.
“I am so honored,” he said, “so very, very honored. I have been to call on Mr. Wilkie, but twice he was out. Please, will you not have some whisky, Mr. Wilkie?”
“No, thank you,” Mr. Wilkie said. “Some other time, but not tonight. I’ve just come to take my little girl away. If you are ready, Eva?”
“All right, Uncle Joe,” said Eva. “Good night, Mr. Moto. Good night, Mr. Hitchings.”
Mr. Moto stood at his doorway, watching the two walk down the path—for a longer time, it seemed to Wilson, than was necessary. Then Mr. Moto closed the door gently and looked at Wilson Hitchings. His face was tranquil and passive, and he was not smiling. He had withdrawn his right hand from his pocket and was rubbing both his hands together gently, in a curious half-submissive gesture.
Wilson walked to the tray with the whisky bottle.
“Well,” he said, “I’ll have a drink now, if you don’t mind?”
Mr. Moto did not move but he spoke very gently.
“First,” he said, “I think you had better smell that whisky carefully, Mr. Hitchings, and then if you are tired of life, pour yourself a little in the glass. Everything will be over reasonably quickly, although the effect of cyanide is not as rapid as is usually supposed. It depends on the condition of the individual and when he has eaten. Nevertheless it is a very, very deadly poison—but you are an educated man; I do not need to tell you that.”
“Then you weren’t fooling me?” Wilson Hitchings asked “—the way she said?”
“No,” said Mr. Moto. “That would be what you call in your country a cheap trick. I am not cheap, Mr. Hitchings, at least not very often, I hope.
“No. Mr. Hitchings, please, I have meant what I said to you and I have believed exactly what you said. You know nothing about this matter and I am very, very glad that it is so. Will you permit me, if I give you now my humble but best advice?”
Mr. Moto walked closer to Wilson Hitchings.
“I have believed you, Mr. Hitchings,” he said, “but I am very, very sorry that I do not believe the young lady. I am so sorry to say that I do not think she is very nice. I should be very careful of her, Mr. Hitchings. I should not see her again.”
Wilson Hitchings w
as surprised at his own answer. He was indignant without knowing that he would be.
“You’re wrong there,” he said, earnestly. “I’ll guarantee you that Miss Hitchings has nothing to do with this, absolutely nothing. There’s no doubt there is a bad element in that place of hers, because I have seen some of them myself. I suppose a bad crowd gets into every such establishment; but it isn’t Miss Hitchings’ fault. She accused me of being mixed up in this. She would hardly do that, if she were involved.”
“Why not?” said Mr. Moto gently. “Please, will you answer me why not?”
Wilson scowled and was surprised. He found Mr. Moto’s question hard to answer.
“Well, she wouldn’t,” he said. “She’s honest, Mr. Moto.”
Mr. Moto blinked and for the first time it seemed to Wilson Hitchings that there was genuine amusement in Mr. Moto’s smile.
“Excuse me,” he said, “please, excuse me, Mr. Hitchings, if I say something which is not very, very nice. Please, I have been to very many places in both Europe and America during the course of my work and my education. I have seen many types of people and there is one thing I have observed about your great country, Mr. Hitchings. You do not treat women very realistically. You think they are all very nice, because they are women. You think Miss Hitchings is very nice. Why? Because you think she is beautiful. You like her wide violet eyes. You enjoy the flame color in her hair and no doubt the way she swings herself when she walks. Excuse me, please. I come from a race with a tradition which is very, very different. Excuse me, I do not think Miss Hitchings is beautiful at all. Please, that is why I can see her more clearly than you do, Mr. Hitchings. A beautiful woman is so very, very confusing to a man. He desires her. Excuse me for my rudeness, but you desire Miss Hitchings.”
“I don’t,” said Wilson Hitchings, quickly. “I don’t, at all. I am only trying to be fair.”
“I hope so much that you will excuse me, please, when I make myself so very rude as to contradict, because I do it to be nice. She interests you, Mr. Hitchings, very, very much; and she knows it—women always know. She is playing with you, Mr. Hitchings. She is clever to put the blame on you because she thinks I may be deceived by it. Believe me, I am not deceived. She is in company which is not very nice. No one in that company can be nice.”
“Now, wait a minute,” Wilson interrupted. “Miss Hitchings is a distant relative of mine. She’s had a hard time. Her father lost his money.”
Mr. Moto shrugged his shoulders.
“Please,” he said. “Please, stop, Mr. Hitchings. All such persons have an interesting history which is very, very sad. The life of everyone, I think, is very, very sad; but misfortune must not interfere with logic. It is fortunate for you, I think, that she came here with you tonight, because I can help you very much. You have come only to close the Hitchings Plantation. Honolulu is so very, very beautiful. There are so very many things to do. Amuse yourself, please, after this. Bathe in the warm seas. See the other pretty girls. Listen to the lovely music. Sit in the sun and think, but not about this affair, Mr. Hitchings. You are out of it, now. I think, when I am through, that Miss Hitchings will be very, very glad to close her establishment. And now that matters have gone as far as this, they will move very, very quickly. Please, you need not give it another thought. You only have to wait.”
Mr. Moto lighted a cigarette.
“Yes,” he said. “This is my business. You only have to wait.”
In spite of his small size, Mr. Moto looked grimly adequate and Wilson Hitchings could understand his logic. What he could not understand was his own reluctance to agree. Although he knew that Mr. Moto was right, he knew that he could not leave things as they were. He tried to think it was a sense of responsibility which prompted him, but he knew it was not that. It had something to do with the grim finality of Mr. Moto’s voice. He did not want to leave Eva Hitchings to Mr. Moto. He wanted to attend to Eva Hitchings himself. He wanted to see her again. He wanted to speak to her again, and it was utterly unthinkable that he should not be allowed to do it.
“You’re wrong, Mr. Moto,” he said. “I’m in this as much as you.”
“Please,” said Mr. Moto. “I do not understand.”
“I am out here to represent my family,” Wilson said. “I was sent here to deal with Miss Hitchings, and I am going to.”
“Please,” said Mr. Moto. “It is dangerous. There is no need.”
“Never mind,” said Wilson Hitchings. “I am going to. You needn’t worry about me, Mr. Moto.”
“I shall be sorry for you,” said Mr. Moto. “Very, very sorry. What are you going to do?”
“Tomorrow morning,” Wilson said, “I am going to speak to Mr. Wilkie.”
“I should not do that,” said Mr. Moto. “It will do no good.”
“Well, I am going to,” Wilson Hitchings said.
“Please, may I give you a present? You will need it very much, I think.” Mr. Moto’s hand moved to his pocket. He was holding out an automatic pistol.
“Nonsense,” said Wilson. “I won’t need that. No, thank you. Good night, Mr. Moto.”
“You are sure you will not take it?” Mr. Moto said. “You may need it even before you get to your hotel. Good night, Mr. Hitchings. I am so very, very sorry.”
It was after two in the morning when Wilson Hitchings reached his room in his hotel and locked the door very carefully behind him. Once he was inside his room, where all his personal belongings lay methodically and neatly according to his habit, nearly everything which had happened that day assumed grotesque proportions. The wind and the sound of the surf on the reef had dropped to a lazy reassuring murmur and he could feel around him nothing but security. It was the old security in which he had been bred and reared, where nothing happened which was unusual—nothing which was not the result of balanced thought and plan. Viewed in that perspective, the entire day and night seemed to move beyond his mental grasp as something to be discounted, as something which had not actually occurred; and now his mind was busy proving that many things meant nothing. The impressions which were crowded on him were too numerous to be assimilated and his mind was tossing half of those impressions into discard. The internal struggles in the former province of Manchuria were too far beyond him to disturb him any more than the threats that Mr. Moto made of personal danger. He could believe it was complete exaggeration now that he was alone. The faces and the voices which he had heard, now that he was trying to get to sleep, had become as unconvincing as those of actors in a badly directed play. There was only one face of the entire gallery which remained with him as evidence of actual experience.
He could not, although he tried deliberately, push Eva Hitchings from his mind. She was so entirely different from anything he imagined that his thoughts dwelt on her speculatively. He could still hear the irony of her voice. He could recall the way the light glittered in her hair. He could remember a dozen half-graceful, half-careless gestures; the way she had pulled petulantly at the shoulder strap of that red dress with white flowers, the contemptuous ease with which she had driven her car, the way her eyes had met his squarely, more like a man’s eyes than a woman’s. Hers was the only face in that gallery which stood out distinctly and which had nothing furtive about it, nothing deceitful and nothing ugly. And he knew why she was distinct to him and he knew that his conviction was not induced by sentiment as Mr. Moto had said. It was because she did not belong with those others, because she had an integrity which all those others lacked. She had been completely frank with him on her likes and dislikes. She did not belong there. She was entirely alone. There had been moments, too, when he believed she was afraid; and in a sense he felt responsible for that isolation of hers because, in a way, it was the fault of his own family. He knew that he could not leave her and keep his conscience clear, without giving her another chance to get away from the situation in which she was placed. He was convinced that his intuition was right, that she was in some sort of trouble.
He closed his eye
s and he could hear the music at Hitchings Plantation. Then the music died out and he seemed to be back in that dark-paneled room with the green rays of the gaming table beneath its hard white light. He could hear the clinking of the counters and the soft whirr of the wheel and the oily-faced croupier was saying: “Rien ne va plus.”
He knew that the wheel was crooked. There was not much doubt that one of the men beside it could manipulate it, so that the house could either win or lose. That was the last thing he remembered thinking before he fell asleep.
7
HE WAS awakened by the ringing of his telephone. His sleep must have been very light, because the sound of the jangling bell ran through him like a shock of electricity that aroused him to complete and instant consciousness. Yet, in spite of his awareness of everything around him, he had that sensation, that everyone must have experienced at some time or other, of a temporary lack of memory, of not knowing exactly where he was. The room was full of sunlight, the breeze was blowing the curtain of his open window and he heard that restless perpetual sound of the sea. He almost believed that he was at home on a June morning until he saw his dressing-case on his bureau and heard the sea. He was still trying to gather his thoughts together when he picked up the telephone. A girl’s voice was speaking in a mechanical, impersonal way—peculiar to the switchboard operator of a large office or hotel.
“Mr. Hitchings,” the operator was saying, “there’s a man downstairs who wants to see you. His name is Mr. Maddock.”
“Mr.—who?” said Wilson.
“Mr. Maddock,” the operator said. “Shall I tell him to go up?”
Then everything came back to Wilson Hitchings. The telephone had awakened his body and now the name had awakened everything in his mind. He remembered Mr. Maddock very clearly and not very pleasantly. He looked at his watch and found it was after ten o’clock.
“Send him up,” said Wilson, “and send up a waiter, please. I want some breakfast.” He shoved his bare feet into his slippers and put on a silk dressing-gown and looked at himself carefully in the mirror, as he brushed his straight, brown hair. He was pleased to see that his face looked serene, although he felt very much disturbed. He sat down with his back to the open window, with an empty chair opposite him, waiting.
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