Mr. Moto Omnibus

by John P. Marquand

  Her eyes grew darker and he knew that she was startled.

  “He did?” she replied carelessly. “And what did Mr. Maddock want?”

  “He wanted to tell me something,” Wilson said. “Mr. Maddock is very much disturbed by something which he thinks may happen. He says he doesn’t want to get mixed up in a killing on an island. Do you know what he means?”

  Eva Hitchings shrugged her shoulders, and then her voice was appealing. “Can’t we forget all this for a little while? Can’t we—can’t we, please? I am tired of thinking—thinking all the time. I am sick and tired of everything. I should rather like you, too, if I had met you somewhere casually, particularly if your name were not Hitchings. Kito, will you bring us some cocktails, please?”

  When he tasted the cocktails, Wilson realized that Mr. Wilkie had done things very well. And everything had changed now that Eva Hitchings had spoken. They began to talk of ships and sailing. He had always been fond of the sea, as the sea had been in his blood. He felt better when they were through the opening in the reef and heading straight out over the blue water. The color of the sea inside the waves, and the fresh breeze on his face, made him forget a good deal. What interested him most was that an attractive girl was with him and that he was having a pleasant time. He never remembered exactly what they had talked about, but he knew her a good deal better before they were through.

  9

  KITO, THE Japanese, brought them sandwiches from the cabin, then afterward they went forward and sat near the bow. Nothing disturbed Wilson for a long while until he looked at his watch. Their course had been straight from land and they had been going at a good rate of speed, until the Island had grown hazy and everything upon it indistinct except for the tones of the browns and greens in the mountains.

  “I never knew it was as late as this,” Wilson said. “We are going to be late getting back. We ought to turn around.”

  Eva Hitchings looked back at the Island and nodded. Wilson walked to the open hatch of the engine room. The white man, George, was leaning over a piece of machinery. The noise was loud enough so that he did not notice Wilson looking down. The man’s heavy back was bent forward. There was an indistinct bulge in his hip pocket but its outlines were plain enough for Wilson to see that George was carrying a gun. It was the first thing since they had left the dock which disturbed him, the first thing which made him suspicious and alert. Wilson raised his voice above the smooth sound of the engine.

  “You, down there!” he called.

  George straightened up quickly at the sound of his voice and rubbed his heavy forearm across his forehead and scowled into the sunlight.

  “You had better turn,” Wilson called to him. “It is late.”

  George climbed up the ladder to the deck. Wilson did not realize how heavy and powerful the man was until he stood beside him. George was greasy and perspiring freely.

  “All right, Mister,” he said. “You can tell the boy at the wheel to turn her. You and the lady had better stay aft. The bow will get wet when he turns.”

  “Thanks,” said Wilson. “I am sorry I have to go back so soon, but we are going to be late, anyway. We must be a good ten miles offshore.”

  “Yes,” said George slowly. “About ten miles, Mister, but I will get you back all right.”

  The smile lingered about George’s heavy lips as though something amused him.

  “Yes,” he repeated, slowly. “I’ll get you home, Mister.”

  “Thank you,” said Wilson. “I am sure you will.” He called Eva Hitchings and they walked aft past the cabin into the cockpit beneath the awning.

  “I suppose Mr. Wilkie has had George for a long time?” Wilson said.

  “Yes,” Eva Hitchings answered. “What makes you ask?”

  “Only idle curiosity,” Wilson said. But he was no longer idly curious, because certain elements of the morning were growing picturesquely and startlingly together. Mr. Wilkie’s anxiety to get him aboard that boat and even Eva Hitchings’ efforts to be agreeable came logically together when he thought of the man in the engine room. He moved over toward the coffee-colored, barefoot sailor by the wheel.

  “You can turn now,” he said. “We’re going back.”

  The man looked at him vacantly and grinned.

  “Do you want to go back now?” he asked.

  “Yes,” said Wilson, sharply. “George told me to tell you.”

  “All right,” the man said. “Oh, yes, we go back.” And he began to move the wheel.

  As the sampan responded, they felt the full force of the rolling sea and the trade wind. The motion changed so that he had to brace himself, and then the pulsing of the engine stopped. Wilson looked at Eva Hitchings, questioningly.

  “I wonder what is the matter now?” he said.

  “I suppose there is something wrong with the motor,” she answered.

  Wilson nodded and climbed out of the cockpit.

  “Where are you going?” she asked. It might have been his imagination, but it seemed to him that there was a new edge to her voice and he did not answer her. Instead, without speaking, he walked around the cabin and paused by the engine-room hatch. The second member of the crew was sitting near the bow, staring into space. The sampan had lost her way already and was rolling idly in the sea. Then Wilson climbed down the ladder quickly. The engineer was seated, doing nothing, but he rose when Wilson stepped off the ladder, and grinned.

  “What is wrong?” Wilson asked. “Why have we stopped?”

  The grin on George’s face grew broader.

  “Something wrong with the pump, Mister,” George said. “It looks like we’re busted down.”

  Wilson Hitchings tried to make his face show nothing, but his heart was beating fast. There was a rack of wrenches beside him and, as the ship rolled, he lost his balance and regained it by leaning his hand against the rack.

  “Will it take a long while to fix?” he asked.

  George grinned at him more openly than he had before.

  “Yes,” he said. “It’s a tough job, Mister. I’ll get you in all right, but you might as well be patient. We ain’t gonna tie up to any dock until mighty late tonight.”

  Wilson stared at the machinery with all the stupidity of a landsman, and allowed his voice to rise.

  “But I’ve got to get back; it’s important I get back,” he said.

  His anxiety seemed to afford George a certain amount of quiet amusement.

  “Well, you ain’t going to, Mister,” George said. “The engine is busted and we’re going to stay right here.”

  Wilson stared at the machinery again.

  “That’s funny,” he said, slowly. “Everything looks all right to me, except I saw you fiddling with that pump when I called you five minutes ago. Who told you to fiddle with it? Was it Mr. Wilkie, George?”

  It was clear that deception was not in George’s line. His face was enough to show Wilson that he was absolutely right. The answer was written in the flicker of George’s eyelids. A good two seconds before he spoke Wilson knew as sure as fate that it was Mr. Wilkie who had put him on that boat and it was Mr. Wilkie’s intention that he should stay there. As he watched George struggling with the mental problem which confronted him, Wilson knew that he must do something very quickly, before George thought ahead too far.

  It was amazing how quickly and eccentrically his mind ran in that brief lapse of time, before that slow-witted man could speak. He felt, with all the sharp shock of surprise, incredulity that Mr. Wilkie should be playing any part in such an affair as that. But it all was perfectly clear as he stood in the oily engine room. He tried to restrain his anger and think. The man in front of him was more than a match for him physically, and Wilson knew that George knew it, and was ready to use his strength. Wilson knew that he must do something very quickly, something which he had never done in his life before; but he had already pictured the whole act in his mind. His hand was resting on a wrench. It was loose beneath his hand in the rack and George was spe
aking.

  “What if he did?” George said. “It ain’t my business, Mister.”

  “No,” said Wilson, slowly. “It’s not your business, George.”

  He intended his next move to be unexpected, and it was. He had pulled the wrench gently out of the rack as he was speaking, and he swung it in a sharp sidewise blow that caught George behind the ear. The result was more than he had anticipated, although he had been careful not to strike too hard. The sailor’s mouth sagged. His eyes glazed and his knees buckled. He sank in a heap at Wilson’s feet and sprawled on the grating beside the engine, while Wilson stood looking at him, half amazed, half shocked at himself, still holding the wrench in his right hand. At first he had a sickening thought that he had killed the man, but he saw it was not so a moment later when he stooped and felt behind the greasy hair where he had struck. He had not broken the skull, but the man was knocked out cold. What surprised Wilson most was that he felt no perturbation or panic after that first sickening moment. Instead he could almost have believed that he had been used to such actions all his life.

  He seemed to know exactly what to do. First he reached into the hip pocket of the figure that lay sprawled before him, then drew out a gunmetal revolver and placed it in his own pocket. Then he felt in the side pocket and pulled out a knife. There was a coil of light rope lying by the ladder. He cut two lengths of it quickly, and tied the man’s hands and feet. Then he took the rest of the coil and climbed out of the engine room to the deck. Everything was exactly as he had left it. The ship still rolled in the trough of the sea. He could see the helmsman gazing at him over the top of the cabin. The second man still sat in the bow. Wilson called to him.

  “You there,” he called, “George wants you.”

  The man moved toward him slowly, without the least suspicion that anything was wrong. He did not notice that anything was amiss until he was down the ladder and in the engine room, and then he had no chance to make a sound, because Wilson told him not to, with a revolver in his hand, just as though he had done such things always.

  “You don’t want to get sick like George, do you?” he said. “Then lie down on your face and don’t make any noise. I am going to tie you up, boy.”

  Three minutes later, Wilson walked aft, still holding the revolver.

  “Stand still, you,” he said to the man at the wheel. “Stand exactly where you are!”

  Eva Hitchings was staring at him, open-mouthed.

  “What is it?” she cried. “Have you gone crazy?”

  Wilson Hitchings shook his head.

  “There seems to be a little trouble here,” he answered. “You said I was a cool customer and I begin to believe you are right. I have tied two men up and now I am going to tie up this one. Will you go into the cabin, please, and stay there until I call you?”

  “No,” she said. “I won’t.”

  “I am afraid you will,” Wilson answered, “unless you want me to pick you up and toss you in there. Go into the cabin and stay with the steward.”

  He did not think she would do what he ordered, but she did. She turned away without a word, and he slammed the cabin door behind her.

  Ten minutes later, Wilson Hitchings pulled out the piece of iron which he had inserted in the hasp of the cabin door. He had removed his coat and rolled up his sleeves, for he was hot from unaccustomed exertion.

  “Kito,” he said, “you come out here!”

  The Japanese steward came out slowly, holding his hands above his head.

  “Please sir?” he began. “Please?”

  “Put down your hands!” Wilson told him. “Are you going to be a good boy, Kito?”

  “Yes,” said Kito. “Oh, yes. I do not understand.”

  “There is only one thing you need to understand,” said Wilson. “I am in charge of this boat now, Kito. You behave, and I won’t hurt you. Stay in the cabin, unless I call you. If you try to sneak forward, I will wring your neck.”

  “Yes,” said Kito. “Oh, yes, sir.”

  “And now,” Wilson said, “you tell the missy, I want her to come out and talk to me. You tell her to come out quick.”

  Wilson stood with his feet apart and his hands on his hips, swaying with the rhythm of the drifting sampan. He could not believe he was the same person he had known all his life: a quiet, well-mannered, conventional person, both repressed and shy. He was still half-stunned by his own capacities, which had been revealed by what he had done in those last few minutes. He wondered if a criminal felt as he did on achieving his first deed of violence; whether his surprise was the same. He had heard of the subconscious mind and of the unexpected capabilities of persons laboring under great excitement. He could almost believe that he was a psychological case, a dual personality. He still could not exactly believe all he had done and yet some voice inside him prompted him to go ahead. He felt a curious mixture of disillusion and of anger. It seemed to him that he had never known, until then, any real emotion, hot and strong, that could galvanize the nerves into sudden action and could tear away inhibitions and manners.

  When he saw Eva Hitchings walking toward him, everything that he had thought about her, and every wishful illusion that had warped his opinion of her from reality to some sort of mawkish romance, was gone into ashes like a sheet of paper that strikes a bed of white-hot coals. It seemed to him that he saw her at last entirely accurately, just as Mr. Moto saw her. He could hear Mr. Moto saying, “I am afraid she is not nice. I am very, very sorry.”

  Eva Hitchings must have seen what he was thinking, because her face was assuming a startled look. First she had looked as though she were about to demand an explanation but now she was obviously startled.

  “What is it?” she asked. Her voice was timid. “What has come over you, Wilson Hitchings?”

  She was acting still, and he wanted her to know that he knew it.

  “I guess it’s common sense, Eva,” he told her; “common sense has come over me for the first time in my life. I should have known what you are and what your friend Mr. Wilkie is, if you had not been so pretty, Eva Hitchings. You are both of you a pair of crooks, using the Hitchings Bank in your schemes. But when you thought I knew too much, you thought you could get me out here, while you cleaned up your game. You wanted me out of the way and you thought I would believe some story about a broken engine, while your Uncle Joe—isn’t that what you call him?—cleaned up his business with Mr. Chang from Shanghai. Didn’t you, Eva Hitchings? Well, you made just one mistake. I happen to know a good deal about boats and Diesel power. There is nothing wrong with that engine that I can’t fix up in five minutes. I saw your seagoing friend George throwing it out of whack.”

  “But what did you do?” she asked. “I don’t see how you could have . . . ”

  Wilson laughed at her and she did not finish her question.

  “It surprises you, does it?” he inquired. “Well, I guess that Hitchingses are a tough lot, Eva. It probably runs in the family. I was a little surprised myself, but I am getting used to it now. I will tell you something else, Eva, that perhaps you did not know. I am perfectly able to start that engine and to bring this boat in by myself and I am going to do it. Now I think you had better go into the cabin again, unless there is something you want particularly to say.”

  Eva Hitchings did not move. Her eyes met his and the trade wind blew her hair across her forehead.

  “I don’t believe a word of it, not a single word.”

  Wilson shrugged his shoulders.

  “It doesn’t really make much difference what you believe,” he said. “The Hawaiians have a word for it. Your friend, Mr. Maddock told it to me, this morning. You are through, Eva Hitchings, and the word for it is pau. I like that word. You and your gang of crooks are very nearly pau. I offered to buy your place last night, but now I am going to save the money. You are going to be put out with your gunmen, Eva.”

  Eva Hitchings moved convulsively, as though something invisible were clutching at her throat.

  “It isn�
��t so!” she cried. Her voice was strained and discordant. “It isn’t so!”

  “It won’t do any good to act that way,” Wilson told her. “If you are going to have hysterics, have them in the cabin.”

  Eva Hitchings pushed her hair back from her forehead.

  “I won’t have any,” she said. “I would not give you the satisfaction; but I repeat, it isn’t so.”

  In spite of himself, Wilson looked at her admiringly.

  “No, Eva, it won’t do,” he said. “Who came last night to see if Mr. Moto had taken his drink of whisky? Your friend, Mr. Wilkie, came. I thought it was coincidence, until he got me aboard this boat.”

  Eva Hitchings opened her lips and closed them, as though something stopped her from speaking.

  “I don’t believe it. I can’t believe it.”

  “Well,” said Wilson, “that’s your own affair.”

  “I don’t care about myself,” she continued, as though she had not heard him. “They—they bought me out six months ago, with an agreement that I should stay on for a year, so that no one should know about it. Uncle Joe arranged it, but he wouldn’t do a thing like that.”

  “Wouldn’t he?” Wilson asked politely. He was interested in spite of himself, although he was not entirely sure that he believed her. “So you don’t own Hitchings Plantation?”

  Eva Hitchings shook her head.

  “No, I don’t,” she repeated. “But I was glad to pretend I did. I told you last night that I wanted to find out what they were doing. I thought, of course, that your family was in it. Uncle Joe as good as told me they were in it. I wanted to find out exactly what they were doing. I have never liked your family.”

  “And you thought I was in it?” Wilson Hitchings asked.

  “Yes, of course, I did,” Eva Hitchings answered. “But I don’t think so now.”

  “Would you mind telling me why you don’t?” Wilson asked her. And her answer was logical enough.

  “Because you wouldn’t do what you have done,” she said. “You wouldn’t start tearing this boat apart.” She looked at him steadily. “I still don’t see how you did it. You haven’t killed anybody, Wilson Hitchings?”