Mr. Moto Is So Sorry

by John P. Marquand

  He turned out his 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 across 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.

  “What do you mean by coming in here?” she said breathlessly. “What do you mean by pushing the door open?”

  “I’m sorry,” said Calvin Gates. Her face was growing red and so was his. “I didn’t mean to startle you. I haven’t got much time.”

  Miss Dillaway bit her lower lip and pulled her green gown more tightly about her, a quick instinctive gesture which reminded him that he was staring at her.

  “Gates,” she said, “are you going to get out of here or shall I have to ring? I didn’t think you’d act like this. You’re like all the rest of them. I thought—”

  “Don’t,” Calvin answered. “There isn’t time. I came here to help you.”

  “Oh,” she said, “that’s one way of putting it.”

  “Don’t,” Calvin Gates repeated. “I do want to help you, Miss Dillaway. I’m afraid you’re in trouble.”

  The confusion and the anger had left her face and her brown eyes grew wider.

  “Go ahead,” she answered. “What is it, Gates?” And Calvin told her bluntly because it was the only way to tell it.

  “Your Russian has been murdered,” he told her. “A political murder I think—by the police.”

  She walked toward him and rested her hand on his arm and her lips trembled. It was an ugly enough moment, but he was only conscious that she trusted him and that she had touched his arm.

  “Murdered,” she whispered. “How do you know that?”

  “I know it,” he answered, “because I saw him die.”

  She reached her hand toward him again, and he held it in his for a moment.

  “It’s going to be all right,” he said.

  Then she drew her hand away and it was exactly as though a door had closed between them, for her composure had come back—that same casual mask which he had seen on the train.

  “I want you to listen,” Calvin Gates went on. “I want you to try to trust me and do what I tell you. Do you think you can?”

  “Yes,” she said, “I think I can. I don’t know you very well.” And she smiled. It was a poor attempt at a smile. “Do you have to be so dramatic, Gates?”

  Calvin Gates looked back at her soberly.

  “I’m sorry,” he began, “to have broken in here.”

  “Good heavens,” said Miss Dillaway, “let’s not go over that again. What are you staring at, Gates?”

  “It’s you,” said Calvin Gates, “you’re beautiful.”

  “Well, you needn’t look so surprised,” said Miss Dillaway. “You didn’t come here to tell me that.”

  “No,” he said, “I didn’t. The Russian was killed on account of that cigarette case, the one he gave you, the one you put in your purse. They know you have it, Miss Dillaway. You must get rid of it at once.”

  She pushed her hair back from her forehead again.

  “Why should he be killed on account of that?” she asked.

  Calvin Gates shook his head. “You’ll have to take my word for it,” he said. “There isn’t any time to find out why. I’m asking you to give me your purse with that cigarette case right away.”

  “But why?” she asked him. “Aren’t you going to tell me why?”

  “Not now,” said Calvin Gates.

  Miss Dillaway put her head to one side. “But why should I?” she asked.

  “Because I’m asking you,” Calvin said, “and I’m asking you to do it quickly, because you need help worse than you ever did in your life.”

  She stood there for a moment small and straight in her light green gown, like a painting in a gallery, and then she smiled.

  “My knight,” she said, “my knight in armor.”

  The effect of her remark on Calvin was not agreeable.

  “I wish you wouldn’t call me that,” he said. “You can either give me your purse or not.”

  “I’m sorry, Gates,” she said, and her voice was suddenly contrite. “I’m generally able to look out for myself, you know. Suppose I give you my purse, then what?”

  “In half an hour I want you to ring your bell,” Calvin told her. “Open your door and scream if you want to. Say a man broke into your room and snatched your purse. Say that you think he was a Russian. Make all the noise you like, I’ll be there to help.”

  She looked at him and said nothing.

  “Well,” said Calvin Gates, “will you do it, or won’t you?”

  When she answered all her embarrassment had gone.

  “I never thought I’d do a thing like this,” she said: “do what I’m told without knowing why. I don’t know anything about you. I don’t know why I do it. Are you really going on that expedition, Gates? I’m all alone here. Are you really being honest?”

  “I’m going to leave with you for Peiping tomorrow,” Calvin told her.

  Miss Dillaway put her hand under the pillow of her bed, and drew out her worn black leather handbag. Now that she was in her green gown the handbag looked incongruous.

  “I’ll take my money and my passport out,” she said.

  “Please don’t,” said Calvin Gates. “That’s what you are to make the row about, because your money and your passport ar
e gone. Don’t speak about the cigarette case until they ask you.” He took the bag out of her hand.

  “Remember,” he said, “in half an hour.”

  Miss Dillaway nodded.

  “I don’t know anything about it,” she said, “but I suppose I ought to thank you, Gates.” There was an added touch of color in her cheeks and her eyes were bright. “Take care of yourself, will you, Gates? I don’t want to miss you on the train tomorrow.”

  CHAPTER VII

  Take care of yourself, Gates.

  Those casual words had an ironical sound when he stopped to think of them.

  “Yes,” his thoughts were whispering, “I don’t much care what happens. I might as well go out this way as any other.”

  He was under no illusions, since Mr. Moto’s implications, though gentle, had been precise. It was in Mr. Moto’s power to make him disappear as completely as the man whom he had spoken to that night. He lay in his bed five minutes later, listening, occasionally looking at his watch, but there was no sound to indicate that the hotel was not asleep. It was up to Miss Dillaway to do the rest, and he wondered if she would. As it happened, she did it very well, better than he had hoped.

  First he heard the lift moving and a pounding of steps on the stairs. Then he heard Miss Dillaway’s voice in the hall.

  “Doesn’t anyone hear my bell?” she was calling. “Can’t someone come up here? Help!”

  Calvin Gates lay still and listened. Doors were opening and a murmur of voices grew louder, but Miss Dillaway’s voice rose above them angrily.

  “What sort of a place do you call this?” he heard Miss Dillaway saying. “He came into my room. He snatched my purse and ran. Isn’t there anybody here who can understand English? Aren’t you going to do anything?”

  The murmur of voices continued as Calvin Gates got slowly out of bed and put on his trench coat and opened his door. At the far end of the long corridor half a dozen people had gathered. The gray-haired hotel manager was there, still in his frock coat, some hotel boys, and Mr. Moto, and some Japanese men in kimonos.

  “Please, madam,” the hotel manager was saying, “please be calm.”

  “Calm!” Miss Dillaway snapped at him. “He came right into my room. I want my passport and my letters of credit and my traveler’s checks.” Then she noticed Calvin Gates.

  “Hello,” she said, “it’s time you woke up. You’re an American, aren’t you? Aren’t you going to help me? Someone stole my purse.”

  “Your purse?” said Calvin Gates. “I’m sorry.”

  “Sorry!” Miss Dillaway said. “Everybody says he’s sorry. Aren’t you going to do something? You’re a man, aren’t you? I’ve lost my purse.”

  “Now wait a minute,” said Calvin Gates, “I don’t see how—” But Mr. Moto interrupted him.

  “Please,” said Mr. Moto, and he looked disturbed and puzzled. “Everyone is looking. When did it happen, please?”

  “He was in here just three minutes ago,” Miss Dillaway cried. “I began calling as soon as he ran out. He ran down the stairs—down there.”

  “Downstairs?” Mr. Moto said soothingly. “Make no doubt he will be found. Did you not lock your door, please?”

  “Don’t ask idiotic questions,” Miss Dillaway said. “Of course I locked my door. But any fool could pick a lock like that, and there wasn’t any bolt. He woke me up when he was reaching under the pillow.”

  “Oh yes,” said Mr. Moto. “So sorry to ask stupid questions. What did he look like, please?”

  “Look like?” Miss Dillaway repeated. “I can’t see in the dark.”

  “So silly of me,” Mr. Moto murmured; “so you did not see.” Before she could answer, he turned and looked at Calvin Gates.

  “He wasn’t tall, and he wasn’t Japanese. He spoke to me,” Miss Dillaway said.

  “Ah, he spoke to you?” Mr. Moto brightened. “Oh? What did he tell you, please?”

  “What do you think?” Miss Dillaway answered. “Do you think we talked about the weather? He told me he’d kill me if I cried out.”

  “Oh,” said Mr. Moto, “so interesting. Thank you. Not a large man—and how did his voice sound, please?”

  Miss Dillaway’s answer was prompt and incisive.

  “Like someone who has learned English out of a book,” she said. “He wasn’t English. His voice was in his throat. He might have been German, or Russian perhaps.”

  “Ah,” said Mr. Moto, “Russian? Was there anything more, please?”

  “Yes, one thing more.” Calvin Gates drew in his breath, waiting for her to go on. “He had perfume on him.”

  Calvin Gates exhaled softly. Miss Dillaway had done better than he’d thought. Mr. Moto’s eyes were bright and still and he rubbed his hands together gently.

  “Thank you,” he said. “What sort of perfume, please?”

  “How should I know?” Miss Dillaway said. “It had musk in it, that’s all.”

  “Ah,” said Mr. Moto, “musk. Thank you so very much. I am so very, very grateful.”

  He paused. A voice was calling from the stairway—one of the hotel boys was running down the hall, calling something in Japanese. Mr. Moto smiled delightedly.

  “Wait,” said Mr. Moto. “So nice that you had patience. They have found your purse—on the stairs.”

  A moment later he was holding it out to her, bowing above it. There was an excited surge of Japanese voices.

  “So glad,” said Mr. Moto. “I hope so much it is yours.”

  “Yes,” said Miss Dillaway, “of course it’s mine. They found it on the stairs?”

  Mr. Moto bowed again.

  “Will you very kindly examine it, please?” he asked. “Yes. The thief must have been so frightened that he dropped it. I hope so much that everything is there.”

  Miss Dillaway was looking through the purse.

  “Yes,” she said, “everything. Why, he didn’t even take my money! There’s only one thing that’s gone, and it doesn’t matter.”

  “I am so very pleased.” Mr. Moto drew in his breath and smiled, but it seemed to Calvin that his smile was hardly more than a courteous gesture. “What was it that did not matter?”

  Miss Dillaway shrugged her shoulders.

  “Just a silver cigarette case,” she said. “It was given to me yesterday. I’ve still got one of my own. I guess I’m pretty lucky and thank you very much.”

  “You are so welcome,” Mr. Moto said. “A silver cigarette case? What did it look like, please? We shall try so hard to find it.”

  “Really,” said Miss Dillaway, “it doesn’t amount to anything. I don’t really care at all. It was Japanese work of silver inlaid with gunmetal. There were birds on it.”

  “Ah,” said Mr. Moto, “lots of little birds? Please, you did not count them, did you?”

  “Count them?” said Miss Dillaway. “Why under the sun should I count them?”

  “No reason.” Mr. Moto sighed. “Thank you so much.”

  “Thank you,” said Miss Dillaway. “You’ve all been very kind.”

  “It has been such a great pleasure,” said Mr. Moto. “I am sure you will not be disturbed again; so very, very sure.”

  “Is there anything more I can do, Miss Dillaway?” Calvin Gates asked her.

  Miss Dillaway wrinkled her nose.

  “More?” she answered. “I don’t see that you’ve done anything except stand there.”

  Calvin Gates turned without answering and walked slowly down the hall, and Mr. Moto fell in step beside him.

  “Mr. Gates,” he said.

  “Yes,” Calvin answered.

  Mr. Moto drew in his breath behind his hand.

  “This is so very unfortunate. I am so very much ashamed. Everything has been so very clumsy. Now I must start all over again.”

  “I don’t know what you’re driving at,” Calvin said. “I suppose someone stole that case.”

  “Yes,” said Mr. Moto, “I think that I must kill myself if I do not find that case.”

&nb
sp; “Kill yourself?” Calvin Gates repeated.

  Mr. Moto’s gold teeth glittered in a polite impersonal smile.

  “So sorry,” he said. “A code of honor. You will say nothing about this, I hope so very much.”

  “I told you I wouldn’t,” said Calvin Gates. Mr. Moto drew a card from his pocket and wrote something on it.

  “My address, please,” he said. “If you hear about that case I should be so very glad if you would let me know. Have you traveled in England, Mr. Gates?”

  “Yes,” said Calvin Gates, “a little.”

  “Ha ha,” said Mr. Moto, “exactly what I thought. That is where you learned to put your shoes outside your door? So very few Americans learn to put their shoes outside their doors at night. I hope that you will have such a very pleasant journey.”

  CHAPTER VIII

  At noon the next day Calvin Gates walked across the lobby to the desk to pay his bill. He still did not know whether he had been clever or not the night before, but he knew that he had done a dangerous thing and for the first time in a long while he was not thinking about himself. He was learning that a determined urbanity was one of Japan’s heaven-sent gifts and that all which was ugly or difficult was repressed by power of will. The night was lost in a sunny morning. Memory had banished in the winelike air that set Calvin Gates’s nerves tingling in a staccato sort of rhythm, like the hoofbeats of the horses which drew those ancient Russian droshkies across the square outside.