Mr. Moto Omnibus

by John P. Marquand

  “So sorry for you,” Mr. Moto said, “so very, very sorry. You did not kill him I think.” Calvin had intended to be impersonal and calm, but Mr. Moto’s question broke down his resolution.

  “No,” Calvin said, “I guess you know I didn’t.”

  “Please,” Mr. Moto’s voice was hardly more than a whisper. “Do not speak so loudly. I am so sorry for you, Mr. Gates. I could not help but hear the sound.”

  “What did you hear?” Calvin asked him. “You were listening, were you? Why? What are you sneaking around me for?”

  Mr. Moto raised a fragile, coffee-colored hand.

  “Please,” he said. “It will be nice if you will please be reasonable. You were here in this room alone with this man who is now dead. I saw him enter, Mr. Gates.”

  “And what business was it of yours if he did?” Calvin said.

  “Please,” said Mr. Moto again. “It would be so very nice if you were calmer, Mr. Gates. Do not concern yourself with who I am, please. I must ask you to sit in that chair by the writing table, please.”

  Before he spoke, Calvin took a careful step toward him.

  “You go to the devil,” he said, “unless you’re going to try to kill me first.”

  “No,” said Mr. Moto, “no please. It would not help. It would be so very nice if you would sit down—in the chair by the writing table, please. Do you not think it would be very, very nice?”

  Mr. Moto smiled as he asked the question. There was a moment’s silence and Calvin drew his trench coat around him and scowled.

  “All right,” he said. “I’m sitting down.”

  “So sorry for you,” Mr. Moto said. “If you will excuse me, please.”

  Mr. Moto was displaying the sprightly impersonality of an undertaker, and it was apparent that he had dealt with similar situations. All his movements were adroit and unhurried like those of a hunter who finally moves to the point where the game has fallen.

  “So too bad,” Mr. Moto said, “so very, very clumsy.”

  First he knelt beside the body and touched it delicately. Then his hands moved flutteringly through the dead man’s pockets, but it was evident to Calvin that Mr. Moto did not find what he wanted.

  “So too bad,” he murmured again, “so very, very clumsy.”

  Finally he rose from his knees, dusted his trousers carefully, clasped his hands together and bowed.

  “And now I must ask a favor,” Mr. Moto said. “It would be so much nicer for me and for you if you will grant this favor. Do not be angry, please.”

  Calvin Gates understood at once that Mr. Moto was not asking a favor—he was making a definite request.

  “What do you want?” Calvin repeated.

  The answer was hesitant, but the hesitation was only make-believe; every intonation and every gesture of Mr. Moto’s was coldly precise.

  “So sorry,” Mr. Moto said. “It is all such a very bad mistake. We are so happy to die for our Emperor—sometimes we do too much.”

  “What do you want?” Calvin repeated.

  “That you will allow me to search your person,” Mr. Moto said. “I shall do so with the greatest respect. It is simply a matter of passing my hands over the pockets of your coat and over your pajamas. Such a simple matter.”

  “Suppose I don’t agree?” Calvin asked.

  “Then,” Mr. Moto said, “someone else would do it.”

  “You’ve been through all my baggage,” Calvin said. “Isn’t that enough?”

  “I am so sorry,” Mr. Moto said. “Nothing was taken. Will you please stand up?”

  Calvin stood up and Mr. Moto’s hands touched him gently.

  “So kind of you,” said Mr. Moto, “so very, very kind. I suppose you are thinking of so many things. You are wondering what we are going to do. If you will help, everything will be so nice.”

  “It would be a whole lot easier,” Calvin said, “if you didn’t talk about things being nice. There doesn’t seem to be much for me to do, does there? A man comes in here, a stranger, and he’s killed in front of me.”

  Mr. Moto lighted a cigarette and perched himself carefully on the edge of the bed.

  “It was all so very clumsy,” Mr. Moto said. “He should not have been killed. It was all such a very bad mistake.” Mr. Moto smiled brightly. “The best we can do is to forget. Do you not think it would be nicer, Mr. Gates?”

  “Forget?” repeated Calvin.

  Mr. Moto nodded and smiled.

  “It has all been so bad,” he repeated. “So much better to say nothing about mistakes. Will you listen to me for a moment, please?”

  Calvin did not answer and Mr. Moto continued as though he had hit upon a happy social stratagem.

  “You must not mind so much about so little. You are on a journey, and I hope so much that you will have a very happy journey.”

  Mr. Moto paused. The words were charmingly soft, but Calvin could feel an insistence behind them which resembled a threat.

  “Go ahead, Mr. Moto, I am not a fool,” he answered.

  “Oh no. You are not a fool, Mr. Gates,” Mr. Moto agreed cordially. “Because you are not a fool, I make a suggestion, a humble, nice suggestion.”

  “Go ahead,” said Calvin.

  “If you agree,” said Mr. Moto, “I shall speak to my friend, the manager. He is so very nice to tourists. He will give you another room and your baggage will be brought there. This will only be a little secret, and I hope so much that you will say nothing, particularly to that young lady, Miss Dillaway. She would be very much disturbed. I hope so much that you understand me. If you do not you will not have a happy journey.”

  “Is that a threat?” asked Calvin.

  “Please,” said Mr. Moto. “That is not a nice word. I am trying so very hard. It is not a threat, but a request, I am so afraid. I am so sorry for you. You are suspected by the police.”

  Calvin felt his face change color, while Mr. Moto sat there watching him.

  “You better tell me what you mean.” he said.

  “Oh yes,” said Mr. Moto, “I shall be so very glad. You are going to such a strange place, Mongolia. My country is so interested in Mongolia. You say you are a scientist. That is not so, Mr. Gates. Do not interrupt me, please. We have means of information. You did very badly at Yale University. You have been in businesses since, but not successful. You have won some prizes at shooting with the rifle and the revolver. It is so funny you should be traveling, please—There are so many funny people in Asia, Mr. Gates. So many are here to get away from their police.”

  Mr. Moto leaned forward slightly and his glance was fixed steadily on the other’s face.

  “I’m afraid you are a dangerous man, Mr. Gates, although I cannot be quite sure. I think perhaps that you might like to kill me. Do not try it, if you please.”

  Calvin Gates put his hands in the pockets of his trench coat.

  “I might try if I had the chance,” he said. “I don’t like you, Mr. Moto.”

  “So sorry,” Mr. Moto answered. “But you will listen please. I received a telegram about you tonight. The police in your country are looking for you, Mr. Gates.”

  Calvin Gates hesitated before he answered. He tried to keep his face composed and to hide whatever it was he felt, and he could understand at last the reason for all of Mr. Moto’s interest. He was in something that was very close to danger.

  “The police?” he said. “You must be crazy.”

  “No,” said Mr. Moto. “So sorry to be rude. There are so many people in Asia wanted by the police. It will be so much nicer in Mongolia. There are no police in Mongolia.”

  Calvin passed his hand across his forehead.

  “That can’t be so,” he said. “There must be something wrong somewhere. They wouldn’t do that. He wouldn’t. It was a family matter, Mr. Moto. I can explain it to you, if you want. There must be some mistake.”

  But Mr. Moto’s face showed him that there was no mistake.

  “Please,” Mr. Moto said, “there is no reason to
explain. You can help me, so very much. If you will travel quickly, everything will be so nice.”

  “What do they want me for?” Calvin asked.

  Mr. Moto smiled and drew in his breath.

  “For taking money,” he said. “Excuse my rudeness, please. Someone has been taking a great deal of money from a gentleman in New York for several years. He says that it is you. I hope so much they are not right.”

  “For several years?” Calvin repeated, and his face felt moist and clammy. “It was only once—it wasn’t for several years. It was my uncle—it was a family matter. He wouldn’t—he couldn’t have called in the police. He’s too much of a man for that—”

  Mr. Moto drew in his breath again.

  “So sorry,” he said. “But you do not want to go back. I think. Please, am I not right?”

  For a moment Calvin’s mind moved back sickeningly into the past.

  “I never knew that she’d done it before,” he said, and his freckled face looked ugly. “But it’s like her, though, and it’s like her to get out from under—that girl would lie her head off—”

  He stopped, suddenly realizing that Mr. Moto was no friend of his.

  “You’re right,” he said, “I don’t want to go back. If I could, I wouldn’t want to. It would kill him if he knew about it. I’m going ahead to see this through. I’ve got to get there to see this Gilbreth.”

  Mr. Moto rose from his seat on the bed and stood before Calvin. His manner had changed to a sort of businesslike precision, which took Calvin off his guard. He realized that in his agitation at the news he had said a good deal more than he intended.

  “It is so much nicer,” Mr. Moto said, “now that we understand each other. I think we will get along so very nicely, if you are careful, Mr. Gates.”

  Mr. Moto pointed a delicate finger at him and nodded solemnly.

  “Believe me, you must be careful, please. I am so used to bad men, Mr. Gates. They do not frighten me, not very much. I should not enjoy it if you had your hands upon my throat. I was so very happy that you have no weapons in your baggage. You look so gentle, but I think that you are dangerous, and able to think.”

  Calvin Gates scowled at Mr. Moto, “So nice of you to say so,” he answered, “but you’re wrong. I’m a sentimental fool, or I wouldn’t be here tonight.”

  Mr. Moto raised his hand in polite agreement.

  “Oh yes,” he said, “Nordics are never very logical. I am not asking what you have done, Mr. Gates. You are wanted by the police for taking money, but you are more than a thief I think. I do not ask about you, and you do not ask about me.”

  Calvin Gates’s forehead was smoother.

  “I don’t ask about you,” Calvin said, “because I don’t give one continental damn.”

  “Thank you,” said Mr. Moto, “so very much. I am glad that you say it clearly. Our authorities have been asked to detain you, but I think it can be arranged perhaps. So nice that I have influence.”

  “Detain me?” repeated Calvin Gates.

  “Yes,” said Mr. Moto, “yes.”

  “All right, you want me to keep still,” Calvin told him. “Anything else, Mr. Moto? I’m ready to oblige, as long as I can keep on going.”

  Mr. Moto rubbed his hands together very softly.

  “You will leave tomorrow on your journey as if nothing had happened,” he said. “There is only one thing more. There is a cigarette case inlaid with little birds. It is not here.”

  Calvin Gates answered almost cordially.

  “If that’s what you want,” he said, “I can get it for you. It might have been easier if you’d just asked for it before.”

  Mr. Moto shook his head very quickly.

  “It is exactly what I do not want, please,” he said. “I know where the little case is now, since you do not have it. You will do nothing and forget about it altogether. This is very important, please.”

  “All right,” said Calvin Gates. “I don’t know what your game is, but I’ll forget it.”

  “I am so very glad,” Mr. Moto said, “that you should understand. It is a very important game, please. I should not hesitate to go very, very far in it. I do not want anything disturbed. And now I shall show you to your room. It will be right across the hall, and I hope you will have a very pleasant night and such a very pleasant journey.”

  Calvin Gates stepped carefully past the dead man near the door.

  “Well,” he said, “I suppose I’ll be seeing you again.”

  “I hope not,” said Mr. Moto gently. “For your sake, Mr. Gates.”

  Calvin Gates hesitated. He knew so little that he could not tell how far to go; he only knew that he had been caught up in something entirely beyond his own control, and that he was not the only one who was caught. He was thinking of Miss Dillaway with her hair tied in an uncompromising knot, who made no effort to appear attractive.

  “So you know who has that case?” he asked.

  “Yes,” said Mr. Moto, “I am so sure that I know now.” He nodded toward the dead man. “Since he does not have it, and you have not. It was very important that the case should go where you are going. I wish so much for it to go there without trouble. It must. This was all such a bad mistake.”

  “It seems to me,” said Calvin, “that it will be dangerous for Miss Dillaway.”

  Mr. Moto’s expression gave no hint of agreement or disagreement.

  “It will be dangerous for you if you should meddle,” Mr. Moto said.

  “Thanks,” Calvin Gates answered, and he paused, and he and Mr. Moto looked at each other carefully. “I won’t forget that, Moto.”

  “I am so glad,” Mr. Moto breathed softly, “so glad you won’t forget. I should be so sorry for you. May I show you your new room, please? It is right across the hall. I am so sorry, I shall be busy here tonight, so that we cannot have a pleasant talk.”

  The room where Mr. Moto took him was almost the same as the one he had left.

  “Your bags will arrive in a few minutes,” Mr. Moto said. “I am sorry I must leave you, I am so very busy.”

  6

  WHEN MR. MOTO left him, Calvin opened the window and peered out into a dark courtyard; then he closed the window and stood with his ear close to the door listening to sounds from the room across the hall. He could hear a soft thud of footsteps, and he could hear Mr. Moto’s voice speaking in an insistent undertone.

  He had not been listening long before there was a knock at his door. Two men who were obviously not hotel attendants carried his trunk into the room. They gazed at him incuriously and set the trunk at the head of the bed, and returned a moment later with his brief case and his bag. One of them brought in his clothes, which he laid carefully on a chair. Calvin took a piece of money from his trouser pocket, but they looked at him blankly and shook their heads. He heard them hurry across the hall again, open a door and close it, and a moment later he opened his own door. The hallway stretched before him to right and left, absolutely empty, and Calvin closed his door noiselessly and smiled. He had been surprised at first that his room had not been watched, but now he was not surprised: the thing that he proposed to do was so obvious that only a fool would have attempted it, and Mr. Moto had said that he was not a fool.

  He turned out the light and dressed quickly in the dark. Then he opened the door again and stepped out into the hall, holding his shoes in his hand. He dropped them noisily in front of his door and listened. There was a confused and gentle murmur of voices in the room across the hall. Standing in the hallway, Calvin Gates slammed his door shut, and ran on tiptoe down the hall. He had judged the distance he must travel and the chances he must take.

  He darted along the corridor in his stocking feet past the well of the lift to the stairway. When he reached the angle of the stairs, he paused in its shelter and looked behind him. He had moved quickly and just quickly enough. Not a second after he had reached the stairs the door of the room he had first occupied opened and Mr. Moto’s head appeared. Mr. Moto was looking acro
ss the hall toward the shoes. Calvin Gates could not help smiling at their guilelessness. Mr. Moto gazed at them before he closed the door again, and Calvin’s smile grew broader.

  “I guess,” he murmured, “Mr. Moto has put me in bed for the night.”

  He waited for a few moments, but the hall was empty. Finally he stepped from the angle of the stairs and continued moving softly down the corridor. He had seen Miss Dillaway to her room that night, and he remembered the number. He knocked upon her door without any hesitation, because the noise was a chance that he was obliged to take and he had realized long ago that when one started it was always better to move ahead. He knocked three times, and when he paused he was relieved to hear the key in the lock. A moment later Miss Dillaway opened the door a crack. He could not see her, but he heard her voice—a voice that was soft and incredulous.

  “What’s the matter, Gates?” she asked. “What is it?”

  Calvin pushed the door open and he was in her room before he answered.

  “Don’t make a noise,” he whispered.

  He had forgotten about propriety and she had only been an abstraction to him until he was in her room, but when he was there he felt a self-conscious embarrassment at his rudeness. He had broken in upon something which he was not meant to see, upon a different person from the girl he had known on the train and upon a sort of privacy that made him stare at her blankly. She had on a negligee of delicate pastel green. Her bare feet were thrust into green silk mules, and her hair fell over her back and shoulders in a dark, misty cloud that framed the delicate oval of her face. Even with the startled look in her wide brown eyes her face was beautiful. In that moment of surprise she was very young and entirely untouched by the world outside.

  The bare ugliness of the room had been changed by her small possessions—a gold-backed comb and brush upon the bureau, and some books on a chair. Her small blue leather traveling clock was on the table. They were all small things, but all of them made her different and all of them told him that he should not be there. For a second she was breathless and confused, and he shared her confusion.