“What is it?” Eva asked. Wilson felt his heart give an unexpected leap. Mr. Moto had drawn a photograph from his pocket.
“Miss Hitchings, you see so many interesting people in that very interesting house of yours,” Mr. Moto said. “Please, have you ever seen the man in this picture there? It would save so much trouble if you have seen him. It is the only thing of which I wish to be entirely sure.”
Eva Hitchings was looking at the photograph, holding it carefully in both hands. Wilson wished to give her some signal but he did not dare. She frowned, studying the picture.
“I have seen a number of people like him,” she said. “He seems very well dressed and dark. He is a rather good example of a certain type, but I don’t think I have seen exactly that man before.”
Mr. Moto sighed.
“I am sorry,” he said, “so very, very sorry. I think he is the man who will be carrying the money. I think—but I must be sure. I must go to look, myself. And now, there is only one thing more.”
“What is it?” asked Wilson Hitchings.
Mr. Moto stood up.
“When you get ashore,” Mr. Moto said, “please, I beg you to do nothing. It would be very, very nice, I think, if you went quietly to your hotel and dined, but do not go near the Plantation. Neither of you, please. It will not be very nice out there tonight. They will be so very anxious to get this money on the boat. Remember, you must do nothing, Mr. Hitchings.”
“Yes,” said Wilson. “I’ll remember.”
“I am so glad,” Mr. Moto said. “And now, if you will excuse me, I shall go forward to start the engine. No, please, do not bother, Mr. Hitchings. I shall need no help. Will you stand by the wheel, please? It will be growing dark in a very little while.”
Mr. Moto moved away, forward, and Wilson looked at Eva Hitchings.
“Thanks,” he said, “for not letting me down. Did you know the man in that picture, Eva?”
She nodded.
“Yes,” she whispered. “He’s the man, the one who takes the money.”
“Well,” said Wilson. “Moto mustn’t see him. We’ve got to tell them, Eva. I hate it. But we’ve got to tell them.”
12
THERE WAS no difficulty in getting the sampan back. The cool efficiency of Mr. Moto, which seemed to make him at home in any situation, made everything move perfectly without any sense of effort.
“Thank you so much for being so polite,” Mr. Moto said. “Yes, I can do many, many things. I can mix drinks and wait on table, and I am a very good valet. I can navigate and manage small boats. I have studied at two foreign universities. I also know carpentry and surveying and five Chinese dialects. So very many things come in useful. Ah, there are the lights in line. You steer so very nicely, Mr. Hitchings.”
“Thanks,” said Wilson. “Yes, Mr. Moto, you are a useful man.”
“It is so very nice to have you say so,” Mr. Moto said. “It has been a pleasure to make your acquaintance. I think I should go back to the engines, please.”
Everything ran smoothly except Wilson Hitchings’ thoughts and those made him hate himself because he had not been frank with Mr. Moto. He had not realized how much he had grown to like the man who was so different from himself in race and in tradition. He liked him for his courage. He liked him for his wit. And Mr. Moto trusted him—that was the worst of all. Eva Hitchings stood beside him near the wheel and her presence gave him an unexpected sense of security.
“I feel like Judas Iscariot,” Wilson Hitchings said.
“Yes,” she said. “I know the way you feel.”
“But you understand me, don’t you?” he asked.
He saw her face near his, white and shadowy in the dark.
“Do you care if I understand?” she asked.
“Yes,” he said. “I do.”
“I am glad of that,” she answered.
He was convinced that he should not feel about her the way he did. It complicated matters and had nothing to do with actuality, but it made no difference.
“Eva,” he whispered, “I am going to get you out of this. This isn’t any place for you.” She laughed very softly.
“You’re awfully nice,” she said. “It’s curious, I have just been thinking that I might have to look after you.”
He did not answer her because he heard Mr. Moto calling softly.
“Please, is everything all right?” Mr. Moto asked. “If you will give me the wheel, I know a dock where we can tie up. We should be alongside in a very few minutes. What a nice time we had.”
“Yes,” said Wilson. “Very nice. So interesting.”
“So very interesting,” Mr. Moto said. “Excuse me, there is one thing more I wish to ask. There is a man named Mr. Maddock. Did you see him this morning, Mr. Hitchings?”
The lights from the city rising up into the darkness of the hills came up from the harbor in a dim, faint light. Wilson hoped that the light would be faint enough so that Mr. Moto would not see him clearly.
“What makes you think I saw him?” Wilson asked.
“Please,” said Mr. Moto. “I saw him this morning going to your hotel. Could you tell me what he wanted, please?”
“He came to sell me information,” Wilson said. “He seemed very nervous. I didn’t buy the information because I knew it already.”
“Thank you,” said Mr. Moto, “very much. I think you were very wise. He is not a very nice man but he is very, very capable. And now we shall be ashore in a few minutes. I can manage everything very nicely. I shall telephone you in the morning, Mr. Hitchings. Remember, keep away from the Plantation, please. You must not bother about anything. Kito will look after the men forward. Walk to the street and find an automobile and have a pleasant evening.”
There was no one at the dock where they landed but Mr. Moto was very careful. He stood for a full minute examining the shadows made by the street lights.
“Good-by,” whispered Mr. Moto, as he climbed up to the pier. “I must leave you now, please. It has been so very, very nice.”
“Good-by,” said Wilson. “Good luck, Mr. Moto.”
The three of them walked together to the street which ran by the waterfront. A closed car was standing waiting at the curb and the driver was opening the door.
“Good-by,” said Mr. Moto again. “I am so sorry I have so very much to do.”
He stepped into the car, the door slammed, and the car moved off, while Wilson and Eva Hitchings stood staring after him.
“Now what do you think of that?” said Wilson. “He has it all arranged. We must get to the Plantation as quickly as we can. There won’t be much time if he starts like that.”
There was no trouble in finding a taxicab and a driver; and Wilson told the driver to hurry. As the car moved through the city, he felt as if he were at the Plantation already. He hardly noticed that Eva Hitchings was holding his hand.
“We’ve got to hurry,” he said again.
“Yes, Wilson,” she said. “We’re hurrying.”
“I suppose Wilkie was playing the stock market,” he said. “That’s the way these things always happen.”
“Yes,” said Eva Hitchings. “I’m afraid he was. You mustn’t be too hard on him.”
“I can’t be,” Wilson told her. “I wish to Heaven I could.”
Her fingers tightened over his.
“What are you thinking about?” she asked. “I wish you wouldn’t look so far away.”
“I’m thinking about you,” he answered. “And I wish very much I wasn’t but I can’t help it.”
Although common sense told him it was incongruous, what he did seemed perfectly in keeping with the time and the place. Before he knew what he was doing, his arm was around her and her head was on his shoulder.
“Think about me some more,” she suggested. “Maybe it will do you good. It might make you less responsible.”
“Why do you like me?” Wilson asked.
“I don’t know,” she said.
“Well, it’s the same
here,” Wilson said. “I don’t know why I like you either. Eva, I want to tell you something. . . . ”
It was true he felt less responsible. He did not seem to care much about Hitchings Brothers, or Mr. Maddock, or Mr. Chang, or Mr. Wilkie. He had an odd sense of being himself for the first time in his life. He did not lose that feeling until they were in the mountains, passing through the gateposts of the drive that was marked “Hitchings Plantation.”
“Well,” said Wilson, “we are coming home.”
“Yes,” she said. “I am coming home. It seems as though I had never been at home until just now.”
13
WILSON RECALLED what Mr. Moto had said the night before. He had an accurate faculty for remembering conversations.
“The only thing I need to know now,” Mr. Moto had said, “is how Mr. Chang’s money disappears at Hitchings Plantation and reappears in Manchukuo. I only need to know who gets it and who brings it there. Then, a few simple words over the cable to suitable persons will do the rest.”
It was ironical to think that such a short while ago Wilson had been in sympathy with Mr. Moto’s efforts. That was before he knew that the Manager of Hitchings Brothers had involved himself in that fantastic scheme.
A few minutes before, Mr. Moto had shown him a photograph, hoping to get an answer. Clearly enough Mr. Moto was still looking for the man who had brought the money, and he had not found him yet. His search had brought him aboard the sampan, Wilson knew, and his search had not succeeded. Wilson could guess by then that Mr. Moto never did anything without a definite reason. There was a reason for his idle conversation as he sipped abstemiously at his whisky. Wilson had watched him in a dull fascination. Mr. Moto had been trying to find out something as he talked, his restless eyes darting from face to face. Mr. Moto had been hoping to learn what both of those two strangers thought. He was painting a picture in his mind, each line of it was pitilessly accurate. His manner had been enough to tell Wilson that the picture was nearly finished.
Although it was early in the evening, only shortly after nine, the lights of the house were on full blast, casting uncertain yellow patterns against the trees and bushes around it. Halfway up the drive Wilson told the car to stop and paid off the driver. Even at that distance from the house, he could hear the music from the front room. He could not tell why the atmosphere of the place set his nerves on edge, unless it was the contrast of the music and the lights against a certain half-lost dignity. It reminded him of an old estate in the East, turned into a roadhouse or into a private school, because of death or misfortune. There was the same sadness about Hitchings Plantation in the dark—the same muted speech of better days; and yet, there was an ugliness about it too. There was a rank, musty smell of vegetation and a feeling that unseen eyes were on them, as they walked toward the house.
“It might be better if we went in by a back door,” Wilson said. “We don’t want to make a scene in front.”
He heard Eva Hitchings laugh.
“You’re very silly sometimes,” Eva said. “They probably know we are here already. There should be watchers all around the house.” But her voice was very low, as though the silence depressed her. “They will be looking for Mr. Moto, don’t you think?”
A moment later, Wilson saw that she was right, when a man stepped noiselessly from a clump of bamboo close by the road. There was enough light from the house by then to make him out fairly clearly.
“Why, howdy, pal,” the man said. “Howdy, Miss Hitchings. Say, what the hell are you doing here? I thought you was out sailing.” It was Mr. Maddock speaking. He stood in front of them as black as an undertaker, a hand in either pocket.
“We came back early, Mr. Maddock,” Wilson said.
“Well, well,” said Mr. Maddock. “That’s interesting, pal.”
“I am glad I met you,” Wilson said. “Are you enjoying the evening, sir?”
“Yes,” said Mr. Maddock. “It’s nice I met you too, before some of the boys got rough with you. What the hell do you want here, pal?”
“Miss Hitchings lives here, doesn’t she?” Wilson asked.
“Say what you want to say quick, pal,” said Mr. Maddock urgently. “What’s your game? Have you got the cops with you and the wagon?”
“Don’t be nervous, Mr. Maddock,” Wilson told him. “I’m in a hurry too. I’m in a hurry to see Mr. Wilkie. He’s here, isn’t he? And I’m in a hurry to see a Chinese gentleman called Mr. Chang. I take it he’s here too.”
Mr. Maddock made a half-audible sound in his throat.
“Wise guy, ain’t you?” he said. “How the hell did you know that?”
“Never mind,” said Wilson. It was plain that Mr. Maddock was startled. “I know so much that I’m frightened for you, Mr. Maddock. They’ve got to get that money on the boat just as quick as they can get it, see? Will you take me in to Wilkie, or do you want me to go alone?”
Then Eva Hitchings spoke. “You’d better hurry, Paul,” she said. “He means it. He’s worried about the Bank.”
“Excuse me,” Mr. Maddock said. “The big boy wouldn’t miss seeing you for anything. So you was worried about the Bank, was you? Excuse me, first I had better frisk you, pal. Reach up at the sky easy. No hard feelings, pal.” His left hand fluttered over Wilson’s pockets.
“Oh-oh,” said Mr. Maddock. His hand had come upon the gunmetal revolver, and he balanced it on his palm. “Say,” he said. “That’s George’s gun. What’s the story, pal?”
“I took it away from him,” Wilson said. “He was antisocial, Mr. Maddock.”
“The hell you say,” said Mr. Maddock.
“The hell I don’t!” said Wilson. “George and the two sailors are tied up in their bunks and the boat is at the public dock. You had better get them untied quickly. You haven’t got much time.”
“You don’t say?” said Mr. Maddock. “And where’s that Jap boy, Kito?”
“I wouldn’t trust him if I were you,” Wilson answered. “I don’t know where he is.”
Mr. Maddock tapped Wilson’s chest. “And you’re looking for the big guy, are you?” he said. “All right, you’re going to see him now, whether you like it or not. Step ahead of me, and you too, missy, through the garden to the office door. You know the way. Step lively. I knew there would be a blow-off. Didn’t I say it was time to lam?”
Eva Hitchings walked first, and then Wilson and then Mr. Maddock. They walked around the house, over the path and by the overgrown garden, past the brightly lighted kitchen and then around the corner to an inconspicuous door with a window beside it. The shutters of the window were closed and the curtain was drawn, but Wilson could see a chink of light.
Someone was in the room behind the door. Mr. Maddock was knocking softly—one rap, then a pause and four short raps. The door opened a crack and he heard Mr. Maddock say: “It’s okay. It’s Maddock. Open up and be damn quick! This way, missy. This way, pal.”
And Eva and Wilson Hitchings were standing in a small square room that was furnished like an office, and Mr. Maddock was shooting home a bolt on the door. The room was probably Eva’s father’s office, because the furniture was old and there were old photographs on the wall. Against the wall opposite where he was standing was a battered rolltop desk. There was a safe beside it with its door open and half a dozen assorted chairs that must have come from other parts of the house. But Wilson remembered the furnishings only afterward. The room was stifling hot and filled with cigarette smoke and bright with electric light. Mr. Wilkie was seated near the desk, with his coat off, staring at him.
In front of the desk, in ugly business clothes, wearing a heavy watch-chain, was a placid fat Chinese, and Wilson knew who he was. He was Mr. Chang, the man he had seen for an instant in his uncle’s house and the man he had seen again in Joe’s Place at Shanghai. Two other men were kneeling in front of the safe. They were evidently packing neat piles of bills into a black traveling bag that lay at Mr. Chang’s feet. One of them was the half-caste croupier, and the oth
er Wilson had also seen before. He had seen him in Shanghai; a lean, cadaverous man, with dead-black hair—thin, bony features and cool white skin. There was a Russian cigarette drooping from the corner of his mouth, just as Wilson had seen it last. His narrow eyes were on Wilson and his thin forehead was creased under his black hair. It was a face that was hard to forget, a wild, relentless face. There was an instant silence as Mr. Wilkie started from his chair.
“Maddock, you damn fool!” Mr. Wilkie said. “What do you mean by this?”
Mr. Chang raised his hand and allowed it to fall gently on his knee.
“Sit down, Mr. Wilkie!” he said. His voice was high and bell-like. His enunciation was perfect. “What is it, Mr. Maddock?” Mr. Maddock gave his head a jerk toward Wilson Hitchings.
“There’s plenty, boss,” said Mr. Maddock. “This guy has tied up the boat at the public dock and tied up George and them two Kanakas in it. Kito’s lammed, that’s what.” The dark-haired man got slowly to his feet.
“So,” he began in a strange, foreign voice, and he leaned toward Mr. Wilkie. “So, that’s what comes of your foolishness. You said he was a fool. Do you still think that he’s a fool?”
“Be quiet!” said Mr. Chang. “Wait a minute, please.” He picked up a telephone on the desk and called a number, and then he was speaking in Chinese, softly, swiftly, while everyone watched him without speaking, until he set down the telephone.
“That will do,” Mr. Chang said. “That will be attended to. Yes, I agree with you, Sergi. It was an asinine idea of Mr. Wilkie’s, and one I should have prevented, should I have known it. Maddock, bring a chair for Miss Hitchings and a chair for the gentleman! So you found them walking here, did you, Maddock? You did very well to bring them. I see you remember me, Mr. Hitchings. It is so pleasant to see one of the family here. I heard from a Mr. Stanley, in Shanghai, that you were interested in our arrangements. I have always enjoyed your uncle’s conversation, and I know you will be reasonable. You have evidently come here to say something. You find us rather occupied. We are arranging to ship this money—$200,000 worth—to our poor friends in Manchuria. If you have anything to say, may I ask you to say it quickly?”
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