Mr. Moto Omnibus

by John P. Marquand

  “You must be very careful,” he said to himself. “You must try to use your mind.” He tried to use his mind while he waited. He tried to recall everything he had observed about Mr. Maddock, none of which was particularly reassuring, but he did not have long to wait. Mr. Maddock rapped on the door. When Wilson told him to come in, his visitor edged himself sideways through the half-open door and closed it softly behind him. There was a smoothness and a caution about Mr. Maddock’s entrance which made Wilson wonder whether the action was instinctive or assumed. Mr. Maddock’s yellowish eyes focused themselves studiously upon the details of the room before he spoke.

  “Hi,” said Mr. Maddock and he waved a skinny arm in a genial, loose-jointed gesture. His Adam’s apple moved convulsively and he smiled, a swift, confidential smile.

  “Hi,” said Wilson Hitchings, and examined Mr. Maddock, as Mr. Maddock continued to examine the room. Mr. Maddock looked as stringy as ever, but he was beautifully turned out in a fresh light-tan Palm Beach suit which fitted closely around his narrow waist. His shoes were white buckskin, his tie was a salmon-colored foulard, his black hair was glossed to a patent-leather finish.

  “Nice rooms they have here,” Mr. Maddock said.

  Wilson pointed to the empty chair.

  “You can sit down there, if you want to,” Wilson told him, “and a waiter will be up in just a minute to take my order for breakfast. I thought perhaps you’d like to know.”

  Mr. Maddock sat down and adjusted the creases of his trousers and stared at Wilson, unblinkingly.

  “Wise guy, ain’t you?” Mr. Maddock said, “and I suppose you’re going to write on the order blank to have the house dick waiting in the corridor. Yea, I spotted you for a wise guy. Skip it, pal. There’s no rough stuff. This is a purely social, confidential call, and I think you’ll like it, pal, really I do.”

  Wilson smiled brightly at Mr. Maddock.

  “No poison in the whisky, Mr. Maddock?” he inquired. It was a shot in the dark and he knew it, but his question did not appear to surprise Mr. Maddock in the least. He raised his dark eyebrows slightly and his long fingers hung limply on the arms of his chair.

  “You go around nights, don’t you, pal?” said Mr. Maddock, softly.

  “Sometimes,” Wilson said.

  Mr. Maddock leaned his head against the chair back and half-closed his yellow eyes.

  “Listen, pal,” he said. “I’m a guy who’s got to be careful. I am always careful, that’s why I’m here on the damn Island with the ukuleles and the grass skirts and not back home where I belong. I got too much on my own mind for rough stuff. Besides, I don’t like it on an island, wise guy. Guess why if you want to.” Mr. Maddock made his fingers move in an engaging wavelike gesture. “Too much water. It’s too damn hard to get off an island, and there’s one island I don’t want to try getting off of—Alcatraz Island, San Francisco Bay. . . . Snow, pal, if you don’t get my drift.”

  “I suppose you mean to imply that you have a criminal record, Mr. Maddock,” said Wilson, and he felt more at ease than he had, because Mr. Maddock’s cool indolence was reassuring. He even found himself growing interested in Mr. Maddock, and aware that he was faced with an unusual opportunity to study an unknown world. “You really didn’t need to tell me, Mr. Maddock,” Wilson continued. I guessed as soon as I saw you that you were on the Public Enemy list.”

  “Okay, pal,” said Mr. Maddock, softly. “All this is just a big vacation. This racket is small-time. . . . Snow, if you don’t get my drift.”

  “Very well,” said Wilson. “I’ll snow if I don’t. Please go on, Mr. Maddock.”

  Mr. Maddock opened his eyes dreamily and half-closed them again.

  “The spot is getting hot,” said Mr. Maddock gently. “I don’t want no steam room. I want ear muffs. . . . Snow, if you don’t get my drift.”

  “You are fond of that expression, aren’t you, Mr. Maddock?”

  Mr. Maddock closed his eyes.

  “Yes,” he said; “but I don’t use snow, pal, and I don’t drink or smoke and I don’t step out with any finger molls. I am always Goddamn careful.”

  “It’s nice of you to be so frank,” Wilson said. “You make me feel so much easier. Do you live at the Y.M.C.A., Mr. Maddock?”

  Mr. Maddock’s lips curled upward and his shoulders shook but he made no sound of merriment.

  “Funny guy, pal, aren’t you?” he said. “And you got a damn dead-pan. It’s comical, you’re kind of new to me.”

  “You’re new to me too, Mr. Maddock,” Wilson Hitchings said. “But snow, if you don’t get my drift.”

  “I’ve never snowed yet,” Mr. Maddock said. “I’ve never snowed on anybody, pal. You’re a wise guy. You and me can play.”

  “Play what?” asked Wilson Hitchings.

  “Ball,” said Mr. Maddock. “Ball, pal.” Mr. Maddock half-closed his eyes again and sighed and Wilson Hitchings could feel his own interest growing. At any rate, he was playing a word game with Mr. Maddock and experimenting purely with an unknown quantity and beginning to delve incredulously into Mr. Maddock’s past.

  “Do I understand that you are making me a proposition?” he inquired.

  Mr. Maddock gazed at the fingers on his right hand, blew softly on his fingernails and polished them on his coat sleeve.

  “Pierre and I were talking about you last night,” he said. “You’d really like Pierre.”

  “I’m afraid I don’t know him,” Wilson said.

  “The guy who speaks French,” Mr. Maddock explained. “The croupier at the table last night. He’s a pal of mine. You’d really like Pierre.”

  There was a knock on the door. It was the waiter with the menu card.

  “Will you join me?” Wilson asked.

  “Sure,” said Mr. Maddock. “A glass of hot milk, please.” Mr. Maddock closed his eyes and sighed, but when the waiter was gone, he opened them again.

  “First Pierre and me placed you for a college boy,” said Mr. Maddock, and his voice was more incisive; “then we didn’t, when you played the wheel.”

  “It’s a crooked wheel, isn’t it?” said Wilson.

  Mr. Maddock signed again. “Yes,” he said, “it’s crooked, pal. Don’t act dumb, pal. It’s so crooked that it’s hot. It’s too damn hot and I don’t like the crowd. When they propositioned me, I fell for it as a straight gambling proposition, when it ain’t. Them Russians and them Chinks—they’re too damn jumpy, pal. I’m used to big shots who keep cool. They got the jitters and they tried to kill the Jap last night. You know, you’re wise. Well, an island ain’t no place. First that Jap guy comes. Then you come, and now the little lady is getting wise. There isn’t anybody out there at the dump with a business head. They haven’t been in the wars, like I’ve been, pal. They got the jitters and they’re going to blow wide open. There’s no executive ability. Pierre and me, we’re going to lam. Snow, if you don’t get my drift.”

  Wilson Hitchings watched Mr. Maddock’s unblinking yellowish eyes.

  “You’re being rather frank, aren’t you?” he inquired.

  “Yes,” said Mr. Maddock. “Because I’m too hot for trouble, pal. I’m just looking for the angle where I can cash and lam.”

  The waiter came with the breakfast tray and Mr. Maddock closed his eyes again. Then he sipped his hot milk, daintily, and drew a purple handkerchief from his breast pocket and wiped his lips.

  “And you’ve come to me for cash?” Wilson Hitchings suggested.

  Mr. Maddock set down his glass of milk.

  “Yes; you or the Jap, pal,” he said, “and when I cross I’d rather cross to a white man. I set you down for a right guy, pal. Here’s the picture. Snow, if you don’t get my drift.”

  “Go ahead,” said Wilson. “Don’t let me stop you, Mr. Maddock.”

  Mr. Maddock sat up straighter and his fingers closed gently around the arms of his chair.

  “Last night you propositioned the little lady,” Mr. Maddock said, “because the name of her house hurts your
business. You propositioned her to buy for a hundred grand and close it out. The little lady turned you down.”

  “You think so?” said Wilson, carefully. “How do you know that?”

  “Don’t worry, pal,” said Mr. Maddock. “The crowd’s got ways of knowing. They don’t want the house closed just yet, but I can tell you something that can close it, pal. The authorities”—Mr. Maddock drew out his handkerchief and wiped his lips—“won’t stand for the racket unless it is quiet and refined. They’ve said as much. Well, here’s the proposition, pal. I know something that will close that house so tight it will never open. No one would dare to open it and it won’t cost you a hundred grand either to know it, pal. Five grand is my price and you can pay either by personal check or cash. You can close the little lady out for five grand and she’s through. She’s only the front, pal. She’s not worth a hundred grand and I’m putting it to you straight. If you don’t think what I tell you is worth the money, you tell me. How about it, pal? Snow, if you get my drift.”

  “You mean you’re going to squeal?” Wilson Hitchings asked.

  “Yes,” said Mr. Maddock. “I mean I am going to squeal.”

  Wilson Hitchings lighted a cigarette and thought carefully what he would say next.

  “I suppose,” he spoke slowly, watching Mr. Maddock, “you’re going to tell me that money is being sent to Manchuria. It isn’t worth the price. I know it already, Mr. Maddock.”

  The Adam’s apple moved in Mr. Maddock’s throat. He opened his eyes and half-closed them.

  “Wise guy,” he said, “ain’t you, pal?”

  “Do you think so?” Wilson Hitchings asked. “It never occurred to me until I came here that I was particularly wise.”

  Mr. Maddock nodded dreamily.

  “Yea, I think you are,” he said. “I think you’re a damn wise guy. Any time you want a job back home in a real organization, I might put in a word for you. You’ve told me all I need to know. I’m picking up the marbles, pal, and calling it a day. They got a Hawaiian word for it out here. I’m pau. That means I’m washing up. Kind of tough on the little lady, too. She had a nice layout before we muscled in, but I guess she’s pau. Thanks for the information.”

  “You’re very welcome,” Wilson Hitchings said. He could guess without exactly knowing what Mr. Maddock was thanking him for. He could believe that Mr. Maddock was speaking the exact truth, and that someone knew too much. Already someone knew too much about money going into Manchuria and Wilson could guess who it was. He was very sure that the work in which Mr. Maddock was engaged was genuinely distasteful to him.

  Mr. Maddock half-reclined in his chair and gave no sign of leaving.

  “Well”—he said—“There’s five grand gone; not that I was betting on it, pal. I wonder if you would tell me something, just idle curiosity.” Mr. Maddock’s eyes opened wider. “Will that Jap G-man come in when the pay-off comes tonight? It’s a nice-sized roll that’s going.”

  Wilson Hitchings tried to copy Mr. Maddock’s languor. He tried to show no more interest than Mr. Maddock showed.

  “I don’t know what you are talking about,” he said, “but go ahead. I am interested.”

  Mr. Maddock rubbed his fingers on his coat sleeve.

  “Nuts,” he said. “One of the carrier pigeons is going out tonight, but then I guess you’re wise. Well, I think I’ll be moving. Thank you for the hot milk, pal.” Mr. Maddock drew his feet from beneath the chair, and prepared to rise.

  “Just a minute,” Wilson said. “Just a minute before you go. What was your idea in coming here, Mr. Maddock? Do you want to tell me, or shall I guess?”

  Mr. Maddock rose and brushed his coat.

  “You don’t have to guess,” he said. “I’ve told you, pal, and you’re not snowing, because you got my drift. I came here to see how much you knew and you know plenty. Not as much as I thought you did—but plenty. You know enough so that the spiggety crowd I’m in won’t sit still and be reasonable. I told you, I won’t be mixed up in a killing on an island. For you, you can suit yourself, but for me, I know when it’s time to lam. I’m telling you the truth and you’re wise enough to know it. Take care of yourself. I’ll be seeing you sometime, pal.” Mr. Maddock nodded, waved his right hand genially, and opened the door with his left and moved out sideways, while Wilson Hitchings stood in his dressing-gown, staring after him.

  Even when Mr. Maddock was gone, the echo of his homely phrases seemed to remain in the room. Wilson Hitchings drew his hand across his forehead. He had never realized before that the world was made up of so many divergent personalities. He had never seen anyone less trustworthy than Mr. Maddock. Nevertheless, he was almost sure that Mr. Maddock had been telling him the truth, that there was something weighing heavily on Mr. Maddock’s mind. There was no longer any doubt, also, that Mr. Moto had been telling him the truth. The Hitchings Plantation was only a facade and Eva Hitchings was only a part of that facade.

  “I’ve got to get her out of this,” Wilson Hitchings spoke out loud. “She doesn’t understand them. She can’t understand.”

  Then it occurred to him that it would do no good for him to reason with her. He must speak to someone whose judgment she would respect. His mind turned logically to Mr. Wilkie, the Manager of Hitchings Brothers. He remembered Mr. Wilkie had said that Eva Hitchings was like his own little girl, and Mr. Wilkie was an honest man. He would talk to him that morning and Mr. Wilkie would talk to Eva Hitchings.

  He was pleased with his decision, because he knew it was just the sort of thing the family would have applauded. Mr. Wilkie had been employed by Hitchings Brothers for a long while—too long, Wilson thought, for there to be the slightest doubt as to his personal integrity. No matter what his feelings toward Hitchings Plantation might have been, now that there was a possibility of the Hitchings Banking House becoming involved in an unsavory matter Mr. Wilkie would undoubtedly be loyal. Besides, he certainly did not know that Eva Hitchings might be in definite danger.

  8

  THERE WAS not the slightest doubt in Wilson Hitchings’ mind that he was doing the proper thing that morning. The day was enough to confirm his opinion; the air was neither hot nor cold, the sun was out, and white clouds moved slowly across the sky keeping pace with the gentle breeze. All along the road to the city there were hedges of oleander and hibiscus, and the sea was a fine dark blue; the soft greens of the Island and the cloud haze over the tops of the mountains made a contrast against that level blueness of the sea which was restful and reassuring. The city itself had that same reassuring quality of solidity and ease. Wilson Hitchings could believe that nothing out of the ordinary could possibly happen here, in a day that was too clear and in a life that was too pleasant for undue exertion.

  The offices of Hitchings Brothers had that same sort of solidity and ease. There was no undue hurry in the high, cool outer rooms, but Wilson Hitchings was pleased to see that he was known already, and he was shown at once to Mr. Wilkie’s office, without any questions being asked.

  Mr. Wilkie’s manner was different, also. He rose and hurried around the corner of his desk, hospitably.

  “Now this is a coincidence,” Mr. Wilkie said. “You’ve been on my mind all morning, a clear case of guilty conscience. I’m afraid I wasn’t—well—not very hospitable yesterday. It was the surprise of your arrival, and it was a busy day.”

  “Please don’t be worried,” Wilson said. “I imagine you have been worried, Mr. Wilkie.”

  “Only worried because I may have appeared casual,” Mr. Wilkie said. “But I made a plan this morning. I hope you will fall in with it. I was just going to telephone you. I was about to send you a cordial invitation.” Mr. Wilkie paused and smiled. “Perhaps your uncle told you that I had a sea-going boat?”

  “Why yes, he did,” said Wilson. He spoke politely, although it made him impatient that Mr. Wilkie’s mind should have turned to yachting at such a time.

  “It’s a hobby of mine,” said Mr. Wilkie. “I suppose a rather
expensive hobby, but you might take advantage of it on a day like this. I was going to ask if you wouldn’t like to take my sampan for a turn outside the harbor, and I’ve asked—a friend—to go with you. I’ve ordered lunch put aboard, in case you’d like to go. I hope you will because it will combine business and pleasure, in a way.”

  Sometime later in trying to recall the circumstances which surrounded that offer of Mr. Wilkie’s, Wilson Hitchings could only remember with surprise the simplicity of his own reaction when he received it. He remembered that his uncle had implied that boating was an outside pleasure which perhaps took Mr. Wilkie’s attention away too much from business. Mr. Wilkie’s appearance that morning was too good natured, too much like a man of leisure . . . and yet he might have been wrong. The entire atmosphere of the Island was so genial that morning that perhaps Mr. Wilkie represented something that Hitchings Brothers needed there in the way of friendliness and good will.

  “Exactly what is a sampan?” Wilson asked.

  Mr. Wilkie’s laugh was enough to show that any pique he may have felt toward Wilson the day before had entirely evaporated.

  “I forgot you were a malihini,” Mr. Wilkie said. “That means a newcomer to the Island, in case you don’t know the word. We all get to using a bit of the Polynesian language out here. You will too, if you stay long enough, and I keep forgetting that a Hitchings doesn’t know the Island as well as I do. I was worried yesterday and you must forgive me for it. I might have known that you would be absolutely fair in dealing with Eva. But to get back to what I was saying. You don’t know what a sampan is, then. It is a vessel designed by the Japanese fishing fleet here. You may have seen some on your way from the hotel. They are about as seaworthy a craft as you can find anywhere. They are used by the tuna fishers, for expeditions sometimes a thousand miles offshore. They are a sturdy type of Diesel motor craft, built along Japanese lines, with modern Diesel engines. Mine has a cruising radius of more than two thousand miles. I use my sampan for fishing and cruises about the Islands, and for moonlight picnics. I always offer visitors a trip aboard her. I hope you will say you will go.” Mr. Wilkie paused. His mild brown eyes were kindly. “I hope you’ll say you’ll go, because I asked Eva to go with you.”