Mr. Moto Omnibus

by John P. Marquand

  “Don’t be silly,” said Miss Dillaway. “As long as we’re going, we’ve got to get acquainted. You’re probably a nice boy. I hope you are.”

  “Thanks,” said Calvin.

  “Don’t get touchy,” said Miss Dillaway. “I never fight with anybody on expeditions.” She raised her hand in front of her mouth and drew in her breath. “Who is that Japanese friend of yours? The one with the gold teeth and the golf stockings?”

  “His name is Moto,” said Calvin. “He picked me up on the boat.”

  “Well, he’s tried to pick me up all day,” Miss Dillaway said. “That’s why I picked you up instead, Gates. Look, here comes Boris. He always hangs around when he thinks I’m going to take a drink.”

  She was right. The blond Russian was walking down the aisle, hesitating, smiling.

  “Sit down, Boris,” said Miss Dillaway. “This is Mr. Gates. What are you going to have, vodka?”

  Boris clicked his heels together and shook hands.

  “I am so happy to make your acquaintance, sir,” he said. “Anything, my dear Miss Dillaway, anything at all.”

  “No use being polite,” Miss Dillaway replied. “You guaranteed to see me through, and now you’re walking out on me.”

  Boris sat down. There was a look of pained concern in his protuberant, bluish eyes.

  “But I have explained,” he said. “There was a message from my wife. I have told you and I have told you—she is ill and I must go back. Nothing short of the most serious news—”

  “Forget it,” said Miss Dillaway. “There’s your vodka, Boris.”

  “Your very good health,” Boris said. “Now that you have found a fellow countryman everything will be easy. The hotel porter will see you on the train at Mukden, and there will be a man to care for the baggage at the Shan-hai-kuan customs. I have really been superfluous, my dear Miss Dillaway. You manage all without me.”

  “All right,” said Miss Dillaway. “You see me into the hotel at Mukden and you’ll get your pay. We’ve been all over it, Boris.”

  But Boris was still deeply worried. His manner was ingratiating and contrite. His voice was placating and anxious.

  “Just once again, Miss Dillaway,” he said, “I am so sorry. I can take no pay from you for what I have done. Instead, if you please, I should like to make a peace offering.” He put his hand in his inside pocket and cleared his throat. “I should like to give this to you as a peace offering. It is a silver cigarette case. Perhaps you saw them in Japan, with the dark metal inlay that goes all the way through it. Will you please accept it, Miss Dillaway?”

  His speech was elaborate and formal, and Calvin Gates was also cynical enough to believe that the gesture was not made for nothing. The Russian had produced a small silver cigarette case such as a lady might carry in her bag, certainly of no great intrinsic value. He laid it almost timidly on the table in front of Miss Dillaway, where it rattled with the glasses in time to the vibration of the train. It was only when she picked it up that something flashed in Calvin Gates’s memory. The cover was decorated by a design of reeds and birds, a number of little birds flying among grasses. As she held it, Mr. Moto’s voice came through his memory, gentle, softly modulated.

  “Very beautiful,” Mr. Moto had said, “little birds, lots of little birds.”

  The Russian’s forehead was moist and he spoke again with genuine feeling.

  “It is not worthy of you,” he said; “but I beg you to accept it, Miss Dillaway, and use it if you can, and I will take no pay.”

  Miss Dillaway picked up the case carelessly.

  “Thanks,” she said. “That’s kind of you, Boris. You’ll get your pay at Mukden. There’s no use going through gestures about it.”

  “Please, my dear Miss Dillaway,” the courier said. “I’m afraid you mistake the purpose of my little gift.”

  “Never mind,” said Miss Dillaway, “thanks. Now run along, Boris. I want to talk to Mr. Gates. I’ll see you in the hotel tonight at Mukden.”

  Boris rose and clicked his heels together and Miss Dillaway sighed.

  “Putting me under obligations, isn’t he?” she said. “I have a cigarette case already. It’s a simple little game, isn’t it?” And she opened her bag and dropped the cigarette case inside it. “Do you want one of my cigarettes? It’s the same sort of case you see with a different design. What’s the matter, Gates?”

  “Nothing,” said Calvin. “It’s a pretty cigarette case.”

  “That isn’t what you were thinking,” Miss Dillaway said.

  That was all that happened, an obscure incident in a long and tedious journey. There was nothing, when he thought of it later, that was peculiar, except that sight of little birds inlaid in black upon the silver.

  When the train pulled into the shed at Mukden—hours late, as Mr. Moto had predicted—it had only been a tedious journey that had ended in a disorderly rush of porters. They arrived in the early evening and Calvin saw Boris through the coal smoke helping with Miss Dillaway’s bags, and then, when Gates was moving away from the train indecisively, Mr. Moto stepped beside him.

  “I should be so pleased to take you to the hotel,” said Mr. Moto. “It is so confusing here at night.”

  “Thanks,” said Calvin, “thank you very much.”

  “It is such a pleasure,” said Mr. Moto. “It must be interesting here to a stranger.”

  Mr. Moto was right; even in the dark it was interesting. The air had a cold, nervous quality, and a thousand different sounds carried through it in the dark. It was a new, dark world, full of twinkling lights and voices, and it made him forget about the boat and train, as a traveler forgets such incidents almost as soon as they are over.

  4

  IN FRONT OF the station in the dark, while Mr. Moto signaled for a taxicab, it seemed to him that the place was full of violent memories of war and the rumors of war. He did not need daylight to know that he was at a crossroads, where tides of empire had met and ripped and swirled. The square outside the station, and the droshkies which were waiting beside the automobiles and rickshaws, showed that Russia had been there once. A beggar woman in blue rags came cringing up to them, holding out her hand. Mr. Moto spoke to her sternly and she went away.

  “Not Chinese,” Mr. Moto explained. “A Russian woman in Chinese clothes. Mukden is so nice. There are so very many points of interest. I hope so much that you can see them.”

  “I’m going on tomorrow,” Calvin said.

  “Oh,” said Mr. Moto, “so sorry for you that you cannot see them. Here is the motor, please.”

  The sound of motor horns broke in on his voice, while he talked precisely about the unfortunate incident which had precipitated the crisis ending in the establishment of the Manchukuo state.

  “You must understand,” said Mr. Moto, “that the Chinese make everything so very difficult.”

  “Is that why you have soldiers at all the stations?” Calvin asked.

  “Ha ha,” said Mr. Moto, “yes, the soldiers at all the stations.”

  The hotel, like the droshkies, must have dated back to the Russian days. Once he was inside, except for the Japanese attendants, he might have been in a provincial French hotel. There was the same slow-moving lift, the same broad staircases and ornate woodwork.

  Miss Dillaway was already at the desk. She waited for him while he was assigned a room.

  “Well, I’ve paid Boris off,” she said. “Will you have dinner with me? How about meeting down here in half an hour?”

  Calvin glanced at Mr. Moto.

  “Please,” said Mr. Moto hastily, “I have so much to do tonight. The manager is a friend of mine.” He waved at a gray-haired Japanese gentleman in a morning coat, who stood behind the desk. “I shall dine with the manager.”

  She was waiting for him half an hour later, her hair pulled tight back from her forehead, her face shining and guiltless of powder.

  “Well,” said Miss Dillaway. “I hope your room’s better than mine. I always thought the Japanes
e were clean, but I don’t think my room’s clean. I wonder where Boris went.”

  “Isn’t he here?” Calvin asked.

  Miss Dillaway shook her head. She was still in her brown tweed suit and she made a small, lonely, uncompromising figure in the high-ceilinged, dingy dining room, like a girl in a boarding school, he thought.

  “The food’s bad, isn’t it?” she said. “I wouldn’t touch that salad if I were you, Gates. I don’t know why that Russian still bothers me. I don’t know whether I hurt his feelings, or what. Foreigners are touchy, aren’t they? Look at your Japanese friend looking at us.”

  “Don’t worry about the Russian,” Calvin said.

  “I only worry about him,” Miss Dillaway answered, “because he always looked so worried. He was like the White Rabbit in Alice in Wonderland, always startled like a rabbit. The only thing I don’t worry about is myself, I guess. I suppose I’ll start bothering about you next.”

  “Why?” asked Calvin.

  Miss Dillaway’s eyes grew narrow, and she smiled at him.

  “I don’t know,” she said. “Maybe it’s this air. You act as though something was the matter with you.”

  “Perhaps you frighten me,” Calvin said.

  “Don’t be silly, Gates,” said Miss Dillaway. “I don’t frighten you and you know it. The trouble is you don’t get anywhere with me. That’s it, isn’t it? You’ve never seen anyone who could look out for herself probably. Well, I can, and that’s why I’m going to get some rest. Good night, Gates.”

  Calvin rose and bowed.

  “And don’t get into trouble, Gates,” Miss Dillaway said. “I want to see you on the train tomorrow. Where’s my bag?”

  Calvin handed it to her.

  “I must be losing my wits,” she said. “It’s the first time I’ve let that bag out of my hand. Take care of yourself. Good night.”

  “I’m going up too,” Calvin said. “I’ll see you as far as your room.”

  Calvin opened the tall French window of his hotel room and stepped out on a small balcony in front of it and drew a deep breath of the night air. Down below him he could see the lights of automobiles and carriages, and he could hear the sounds of horns and the clatter of hoofs. Behind him his room was almost comfortable—a single wooden bed with his baggage piled in front of it, a green carpet, a bureau and a writing table, and cream-colored, painted walls, and a single electric light that hung suspended from the center of the room. Life had become a succession of similar rooms, varying in comfort and discomfort.

  He stood at the window, thinking of Miss Dillaway, and his thoughts were puzzled and confused, for he could not tell whether he liked her or not; he had never seen anyone like her. She was as lonely as he was and as out of place in those surroundings. It would surely not have been difficult for her to have been friendly, and yet it seemed to him that each time she had started to be friendly she had stopped herself deliberately. She had been like someone who was playing a part, like someone trying to be something she was not. More than once she had actually tried to be unattractive, and her casual rudeness had a note which did not ring true. He was almost sure of that, for now and then when she was not thinking she had lost all mannerism. He had seen it happen once across the table that evening. Her lips had lost their habitual defiant twist and her face instead of looking harsh and sharp had grown delicate and sensitive. He had been surprised once by its beauty, a dark, patrician sort of beauty, and even her voice had changed; it was as though she had forgotten herself, because a moment later her face was sharp again. He had tried to reassure her; he had tried to make her see that there was no reason to be afraid of him.

  “And she never lets her purse go,” Calvin said to himself. “She’s just the kind that wouldn’t.”

  His wrist watch had a luminous dial. He looked at it when he awoke that night. It was twenty minutes before twelve and someone was tapping on his door, softly but insistently. The light switch was just above the table by his bed. When he pulled it, the light glowed dimly. A breeze swayed the curtains before his open window, and the sound outside his door continued, a furtive, gentle knocking. He got into his slippers and put on his trench coat.

  “What’s the matter out there?” he began, and then his eyes became accustomed to the dimly lighted hall, Miss Dillaway’s former courier, the Russian named Boris, stood outside the door.

  “Hello,” Calvin said to him. “What do you want?”

  He found himself growing indignant as he spoke. It was exactly as Miss Dillaway had said; the man was like the White Rabbit in Alice in Wonderland. He was smiling placatingly; his forehead was moist with perspiration.

  “I beg your pardon, sir,” he said. “I wonder if I might come in.”

  “What’s the matter with you?” began Calvin. He might have gone further, but something in the other’s expression stopped him more than any explanation could have. The man in front of him was fighting against some sort of fear, and he was controlling that fear with a visible effort.

  “I beg your pardon, sir,” he said again. “I appreciate your irritation, quite. I shall only be a minute. It is just one matter that is important.”

  Calvin Gates felt a strange, tingling sensation at the base of his spine. It did not require any explanation for him to realize that there was something wrong. Some ugly, unseen thing was coming to him out of the dullness of that journey. Some implication was being conveyed by that stranger’s anguish.

  “Come inside,” Calvin said. “What’s the matter with you, Boris?”

  Boris came inside and closed the door behind him.

  “Thank you, sir,” he said. “I shall only be a moment. I do not think there is any danger.”

  “Danger,” said Calvin, “what danger?”

  The Russian blinked his blue eyes and smiled.

  “It is just a manner of speaking, sir,” he said. “I—have been distressed by something—a little detail about Miss Dillaway.”

  “What about Miss Dillaway?” Calvin asked him. “What’s the matter?”

  “Nothing,” said Boris, “nothing really. It is only a simple detail—but I fear I have not been gentlemanly. I gave her a cigarette case. If you are traveling with her, sir, it might be better if you took it. A friend of mine may ask for it. I promised it to him—and if you will give it—” His voice was very low, almost expressionless.

  “Who?” Calvin said. “What are you talking about?”

  Boris moistened his lips before he answered, and he seemed to find the answer difficult.

  “That is all, sir,” he said. “It was intended for a friend of mine. I did not think at the time.” His voice trailed off almost into a whisper, and Calvin stared at him grimly.

  “You’re going to do some thinking now,” he said. “You’ve run into the wrong person this time. You’re going to tell me what this is about before you get out of here.”

  Boris moistened his lips again and shrugged his shoulders.

  “It is nothing,” he began. “I was foolish to speak of it, perhaps. But a friend of mine will ask for it. Miss Dillaway might not understand. She is so—determined. I do not want her to be hurt. You see—a friend of mine—”

  He paused, seemingly searching for a word, and his mouth had fallen open. He was staring beyond Calvin Gates in the direction of the French window, just as a creaking sound and a fresh gust of air made Calvin turn in the direction of Boris’s startled glance.

  The window had been pushed open quickly, and a small and stocky man stepped from the balcony halfway into the room. When he thought of it afterward, Calvin Gates had only an indefinite impression of him—of a broad, flat-nosed face, tightly closed lips and steady dark eyes, and dark somber European clothes. It was not the face but the action that Calvin Gates recalled, and the action was completely smooth and steady, giving no impression of haste. The man was holding a pistol, leveling it with the almost gentle motion of an expert marksman. In that fraction of a second, while Calvin gazed unbelievingly, he could see that the
weapon was equipped with a silencing device—he could even recognize the model. Then, before anyone moved or spoke, there was a single shot, which came with a sound not much louder than that of an air rifle. There was no word, nothing but the breeze from the open window and that sudden sound. The eyes of Boris grew wide and staring; his knees buckled beneath him. Calvin reached toward him instinctively, but Boris was a dead weight, sinking to the floor. He was sinking to the floor with a bullet hole drilled through the center of his forehead, just above his eyes, a perfect shot both merciful and merciless. He had died without a word. When Calvin Gates looked up the window and the balcony were empty. It had all been as perfect and as inevitable and as accurately rehearsed as a moment in the theater. It had been cold-blooded murder done by an expert in the art, and so completely done that there was nothing left but silence.

  Calvin Gates had never seen a dead man, but no experience was necessary to make the signs familiar. The mark on the forehead with the few drops of blood that oozed from it made him stand paralyzed, incapable of consecutive thought.

  The night breeze still waved the dingy window curtains and the room was so quiet that he could hear the curtains scrape against the panes and sashes. That gentle and insignificant noise reminded him that everything had been discreet. Whoever it was who had fired the shot must have been standing on the balcony listening by the window, and he must have moved from some other room which opened on that balcony. Whoever it was had desired secrecy and silence. Calvin Gates drew a deep breath and the color came back to his freckled face.

  His thoughts went no further because of a sound outside the door of his room. There was a click and the knob was turning. At the same instant he realized that the door was no longer locked.

  There was no time to make a move, if he had wished to make one, before Mr. Moto had opened the door and closed it softly behind him.

  “Oh,” Mr. Moto said very gently. “He is—liquidated?”

  5

  CALVIN STARED BACK without answering and there seemed to be no adequate answer. Mr. Moto had changed from his sport suit into a modest suit of black. He stood beside the closed door examining the dead man without a trace of surprise. Not a line of his delicate features moved, but his eyes were lively and very bright. Finally Mr. Moto drew in his breath with a soft, sibilant hiss.