Mr. Moto Omnibus

by John P. Marquand

  The other man’s face brightened and he smiled.

  “Yes,” he answered. “Naturally.”

  “You stole it so very, very nicely,” Mr. Moto said. “I am so very glad to see Mr. Sergi, Mr. Chang. Now, I do not feel that I have been slow or stupid. He is so very, very clever.” Mr. Moto drew his breath through his teeth. “And now I suppose,” he inquired, “you are leaving for Harbin?”

  “Yes,” said Sergi, “in that general direction. I am a fur buyer for a London house.”

  “Ah, yes,” said Mr. Moto. “How very, very nice. It would be so nice to know, even though it does no good.”

  “You are quite right,” agreed Mr. Chang. “It will do no good, but of course, you understand why.”

  “Yes,” said Mr. Moto. “Yes, of course. There is only one solution, naturally. Please do not think I am begging for any other.” His glance had moved swiftly toward Wilson Hitchings. “So you did not take my advice,” Mr. Moto said. “But then, I was very sure you would not, Mr. Hitchings. Please do not shake your head. All this is very natural, quite to be expected.”

  Mr. Chang placed his hands on his knees.

  “Tie his wrists, Sergi,” he said. “Gag him! You have made all the arrangements, Mr. Maddock?”

  “Okay, boss,” said Mr. Maddock.

  “And they know where to bring him afterward?”

  “Yes, boss,” said Mr. Maddock. “It’s all okay.”

  “Do you need any help, Mr. Maddock?” Mr. Chang inquired. “I should be glad to spare Pierre to help.”

  “Nix,” said Mr. Maddock. “I can manage him okay.”

  “Very well,” said Mr. Chang. “I think you had better start.”

  “Come on, pal,” said Mr. Maddock.

  “Good-by, Moto,” said Sergi, smoothly. “I suppose it will be my turn some day.”

  Mr. Moto nodded. The door opened. Standing very straight and walking carefully, Mr. Moto stepped into the dark and Mr. Maddock followed him, noiselessly. Sergi bent down and locked the traveling bag. Mr. Wilkie sat staring at the floor. Everyone seemed to be waiting for something—including Mr. Chang, who had not moved from his chair. Wilson could hear Mr. Chang’s breath, smooth and regular. Then Mr. Chang was studying him attentively.

  “Listen to me,” said Mr. Chang. “In a few minutes it will be over. I know you are not a fool, Mr. Hitchings. Listen to me carefully. You and Miss Hitchings will remain here for a few hours. Mr. Wilkie will stay to look after you. He will take every care of your comfort. I shall go to see that Sergi arrives properly at the Eastern Light. By the time I come back, I hope you will have had opportunity to think. I hope that you will be reasonable with so much to gain and so little to lose. I shall be surprised if you are not. I shall dislike making other plans. Pierre, you shall come with us to the dock. I shall want my raincoat. Are you ready, Sergi?”

  Sergi nodded, and lighted a cigarette.

  “Then we have nothing to do but wait for Mr. Maddock,” said Chang. “What are you doing, Mr. Wilkie?”

  “I am getting a drink, if you don’t mind,” Mr. Wilkie said. He opened a drawer of the desk, pulled out a bottle of whisky, drew out the cork and tilted the bottle to his lips.

  Wilson waited for a sound outside. He strained his ears, but heard no sound.

  “Don’t be nervous, Mr. Wilkie,” said Mr. Chang. “I shall be back soon enough. I shall manage everything correctly. You must not let these matters trouble you. There are a hundred other things to do, if our friends are not reasonable. Open the door, Sergi, Mr. Maddock is knocking.”

  Mr. Chang rose and straightened his coat, as Mr. Maddock stepped jauntily across the threshold.

  “Everything went through properly?” Mr. Chang inquired.

  Mr. Maddock shrugged his narrow shoulders.

  “Hell,” he said. “Why shouldn’t it? You didn’t hear no rough-house, did you? He croaked easy without a sound. He’s on his way to take a dive over the cliff by now.”

  “Very good,” said Mr. Chang. “You are highly satisfactory, Maddock, and now you can go out with us on the boat. You first, Sergi. I shall see you later, Mr. Hitchings.”

  What amazed Wilson even then in that moment of incredulous revulsion was Mr. Chang’s extreme casualness. He recalled that his uncle had once told him that a foreigner could never wholly comprehend the Eastern point of view. The actions of Mr. Chang and Mr. Moto must have been bound up in an etiquette of behavior that was admirably mixed with pride. He had seen Mr. Moto being conducted into the dark under Mr. Chang’s directions, to be murdered in cold blood; yet the control of Mr. Moto and of Mr. Chang had been so perfect that there was no more emphasis on the whole affair than there might be in the exchange of ordinary social amenities. Mr. Chang had said that life was cheap, and Mr. Moto must have been in most emphatic agreement. The philosophy of those two men held something more than life. There was no doubt that manners were placed above it—manners that had placed them beyond the sickening horror which Wilson felt. He could have believed that they both would have considered his emotions uncivilized and barbaric. Mr. Chang, who had just indulged in murder, was leaving the room as calmly as a businessman might leave his office. Sergi had put on a dark hat and looked like an innocent traveling salesman. Mr. Maddock was noiseless and impersonal. He even took the trouble to lean over and pat Wilson’s cheek almost affectionately, and he grinned when Wilson winced away from his cold touch.

  “So long, pal,” said Mr. Maddock, softly. “Seeing life, ain’t you, pal?”

  15

  THEY WERE all gone. They were gone like abstract thought leaving only a memory. There was still the odor of cigarette smoke in the room. Wilson was still tied in his chair, sitting mutely, facing Eva Hitchings, but the atmosphere of the room was changing into the commonplace so that Mr. Chang seemed impossible.

  Wilson allowed his glance to rest on Mr. Wilkie, and it was clear that Mr. Wilkie did not share the cool assurance of Mr. Chang. Mr. Wilkie had all the attributes of a gambler who is playing for stakes that are too high for his resources. He looked old. His face was moist and drawn and there was a tremor in his fingers. He picked up the whisky bottle and took another drink, breathed deeply and drew the back of his hand across his lips.

  “You saw that?” said Mr. Wilkie, in a strained voice, and he seemed to be talking because he wanted to assure himself that he was not alone. “Eva, Eva, I am so sorry that you saw it; but listen to me, both of you. I don’t like it any more than you do. You understand we are all caught in this now, don’t you? You must do what he says. For Heaven’s sake, do what he says!”

  He seemed to expect an answer. He appeared to have forgotten that neither of them could speak.

  “Listen, Hitchings,” he said. “I honestly can feel for you. I am not entirely callous. I started in this because the firm’s accounts got mixed; and then I could not stop. You will know why when you talk some more to that man Chang. It was my idea to have the money lost over the gaming table, and it wasn’t a bad idea, but I am not a murderer any more than either of you two are. It is only because I am desperate, Hitchings.

  “If you will be sensible, I promise both of you that everything will be all right. No one will ever hear a breath of this. I don’t want it to come out any more than you. I am a sound man in the community and I am fond of you, Eva. I am devoted to you, even if you do not believe it.

  “Please, Mr. Hitchings. Please, be reasonable. I don’t know what will happen if you aren’t. You’ve seen him; he won’t stop at anything.”

  But Wilson Hitchings was not reasonable. He was struggling until his chair toppled and creaked.

  “Don’t do that!” said Mr. Wilkie. “That will do no good. You must not do that, Mr. Hitchings.”

  A sound at the door made Mr. Wilkie start. Someone was rapping—one long, and four short raps—and Mr. Wilkie’s mouth dropped open.

  “He’s back,” Mr. Wilkie whispered, and his face was as white as paper. “He’s changed his mind. He’s back. Tell him you’l
l do anything he says, Hitchings! Tell him! It’s your only chance!”

  Mr. Wilkie’s hands were fumbling with the lock in uncertain trembling haste.

  “Yes,” he was saying. “All right. All right.”

  Someone from the outside pushed the door so suddenly that it checked his speech and threw Mr. Wilkie off his balance, so that he stepped backward.

  Wilson heard Eva Hitchings make a sound which was half a sob and half a groan. A small man in a dark alpaca coat bounded into the room as though he had been thrown there, and he slammed the door shut with his right hand.

  “You must not make a sound please, Mr. Wilkie,” he was saying. “This is Moto speaking. Mr. Chang will not be here to help you. Not ever again, I think. Yes, I am back, I am not dead. Mr. Maddock and Pierre will manage Mr. Chang and Sergi on the boat. It will be worth it to them for what there is in the traveling bag—two hundred thousand dollars. Mr. Maddock was so quick to understand. He is so very fond of money. Do you understand me, Mr. Wilkie? Mr. Chang is so rich that he has paid to have himself eliminated, I think. It was entirely my own idea.”

  Mr. Moto spoke politely, without undue emotion. He stood in the center of the disordered little office without ever withdrawing his eyes from Mr. Wilkie, watching Mr. Wilkie as a doctor might watch a patient, or a snake might watch a bird.

  “Mr. Wilkie.” His speech was slower, but his voice was carefully modulated. “Please try to understand me. Please do not let panic make you do something which you may regret. I am not bluffing, as you say in your country, Mr. Wilkie. When I say that there is nothing for you to do, I tell the truth. It is all over for you, Mr. Wilkie, but do not be alarmed. You are no concern of mine. I shall not hurt even you if you see the truth.” Mr. Moto paused, still watching Mr. Wilkie. And then there was a change of attitude. All at once, Mr. Moto was no longer alert. His gold-filled teeth glittered in a smile.

  “I think you believe me,” Mr. Moto said. “I am so happy that you believe me. It is so much better.”

  Then Mr. Wilkie found his voice.

  “What . . . ” he began. “How did you do it?”

  “Thank you,” Mr. Moto said. “I shall be so glad to tell you. I manage such affairs so often. It is not very difficult. Everyone likes money. This morning I contrived to speak with Mr. Maddock. Yes, there is always someone who likes money. I even thought to approach you, Mr. Wilkie, but excuse me, I knew you were nervous but you have none of Mr. Maddock’s background and experience, and excuse me, not his courage. Mr. Maddock understood me perfectly as soon as I explained. How do you say it in your country? He was very glad to sell out for two hundred thousand dollars when he knew no questions would be asked. A part of the bargain was that Mr. Maddock should bring me here this evening. I wished to be sure who was the man carrying the money. The Russian carrier pigeon, as Mr. Maddock called him. The rest was very simple. Some of my own men seized the boat. Some former members of our Navy. There is enough fuel oil to take her into mid-Pacific. They have put a wireless aboard and I have arranged to have her met. Mr. Maddock will be landed safely in Japan together with his traveling bag. I tried so hard to keep my word, but I am so afraid that Mr. Chang and Sergi will not be there, because everything in the future will be much more simple without them. I was so glad to see Mr. Chang. I did not expect him here. I shall not bother to search you for a weapon, Mr. Wilkie, because I know you will not use it. Instead, if you have a knife in your pocket, I shall ask you to cut Miss Hitchings free and to rub her wrists carefully. I am afraid she has been tied too tight; and—will you permit me, Mr. Hitchings?”

  Mr. Moto turned to Wilson Hitchings, without another glance at Mr. Wilkie, and with quick expert fingers removed the gag from Wilson’s mouth. Wilson spoke with difficulty because his mouth was sore and swollen.

  “It was the family,” he said, chokingly. “I am sorry, Moto. I didn’t think they would try to kill you.” Mr. Moto was bending over Wilson’s wrists.

  “Please,” said Mr. Moto cordially, “do not give it another thought. I should have done as you did in your place, Mr. Hitchings. I was sure that you would come here. I was so sure that you would be thinking of your family and the Bank.”

  “Damn the Bank!” said Wilson Hitchings. “Damn the family!”

  “Please do not say that,” said Mr. Moto, quickly. “Please. I counted on you to come here as quickly as possible. Your doing so has helped me very much. It has stopped them from suspecting anything, because of course you were sincere. May I rub your wrists, please, Mr. Hitchings? If I had not wished you to speak to Mr. Chang, I should have told you what I will tell you now. There will be no word from me about Hitchings Brothers, ever. Any more than there will be from Mr. Wilkie over there, if you do not lose your temper. I must depend on your discretion, please, as you must depend on mine. It is why I have been so frank. I have done so many things which are not nice and quite beyond your laws, although I hope that you are glad I did them, Mr. Hitchings.”

  Wilson nodded; his speech was growing clearer.

  “If you ask me,” Wilson said, “I think you did a fine job, Mr. Moto.”

  Wilson got to his feet. His legs were still numb, so that he staggered drunkenly across the room and knelt very clumsily beside Eva Hitchings. Then his arms were around her and her chestnut-colored head was on his shoulder.

  “Eva,” he said. “I have made an awful mess of this. I am sorry, Eva . . . ”

  “You needn’t be sorry,” he heard her answer faintly, “because I don’t think you have at all.”

  “I said I would get you out of this,” said Wilson. “Well, I am going to get you out.”

  She moved back her head and he saw that she was smiling. “And you said something else,” said Eva. “I didn’t think I would ever hear you say it. It was so sacrilegious. You said, ‘Damn the family.’”

  “Yes,” said Wilson. “Damn the family. I have pulled them out of this hole. Mr. Wilkie, do you hear me? I am speaking to you now. You are lucky that Hitchings Brothers has a reputation. I can promise you that nothing will be said—nothing will be done, provided you will resign three months from now. Not because of this, but because you are inefficient. I understand you own Hitchings Plantation, Mr. Wilkie. You will sell it to me, first thing tomorrow morning, for exactly what you paid for it. I came here to close this place, and I am going to close it. I have promised to give it back to Eva and she is going to have it, but she’s going to take that sign off the gate—and I’ll tell you why, Mr. Wilkie. It will come off because she promised to marry me tonight. As long as she was silly enough to promise, I think that’s the best way out for everybody. . . . Don’t you, Mr. Moto?”

  Mr. Moto raised his hand before his lips and drew in his breath with a sibilant hiss.

  “I think that is nice,” said Mr. Moto, “so very, very nice.”

  MR. MOTO IS SO SORRY

  1

  THE POLICE official in his shoddy gray suit of European clothes looked up from his notebook and papers with expressionless dark eyes and sucked in his breath politely. Calvin Gates had been in Japan less than a week, but it had been time enough to learn a good deal about the Japanese. They were watching, always watching, hundreds of impassive faces with their dark, bright eyes.

  They were watching him now as he sat at a small table in the dining saloon of the boat which was to carry him across to Fusan in Korea. The dining room stewards were watching. Outside, near the gangway, a pair of squat muscular porters in cotton, kimonolike jumpers were watching. Two khaki-clad officers, each with heavy spectacles and a heavy saber, seated at a near-by table, were watching. He took off his hat and laid it on the table and passed his hand over his closely cropped, sandy hair. His hand seemed large and awkward, his whole body needlessly heavy. The damp, oily smell of dock-water came through an open window and with it sounds of efficient hoistings and hangings and of strange voices speaking a tongue-twisting language.

  “Excuse,” said the policeman. “You are an American?”

  Ca
lvin Gates agreed. His passport was on the table. He had been questioned so often that he no longer felt uneasy.

  “You are thirty-two years old,” the policeman said. “What does your father do?”

  “He’s dead,” said Calvin Gates.

  “Oh,” the policeman said, “I am so sorry for you. You are a student? What do you study, please?”

  “Anthropology,” said Calvin Gates. It was an inaccuracy, but it could not make much difference.

  “Oh yes,” the policeman said. “What is anthropology?”

  “The science of man,” said Calvin Gates.

  “Oh yes,” the policeman repeated, “the science of man. You do not write books? You will not write books about Japan? You are just traveling through Japan?”

  The American rested his lean freckled hands on the table and they seemed to him almost barbarously strong. The policeman studied his face, which was also lean and freckled, waiting for his reply. Calvin Gates blinked his grayish eyes and sighed. Suddenly he felt tired and homesick and entirely out of place.

  “I have to travel through as fast as I can,” he said.

  “Oh,” said the policeman. “How long have you been in Japan?”

  “Less than a week,” Gates answered. “Just long enough to make the necessary arrangements to go to Mongolia.”

  Was the man being dull, Gates wondered, or was he simply being officious? He was busy scribbling notes in his book and occasionally drawing in a sibilant breath.

  “You pass on to Mukden?” the policeman said. “You do not stop?”

  “Only for train connections,” Gates answered.

  “Oh yes,” said the policeman, “oh excuse.”

  “From Mukden to Shan-hai-kuan,” the traveler continued amiably. “From there I proceed to Peiping, and from there to Kalgan.”