Mr. Moto Is So Sorry

by John P. Marquand

  He had never realized his own capacity until just then, and it had an ironic significance. Standing there in that strange place, the conviction came upon him that he was doing exactly what he had always wanted, for he had always longed to be in danger. For once in his life he had achieved what he wanted, and now that he had achieved it he was not greatly elated, for he suddenly understood that his whole life had been built for such a situation and that he was only useful in such surroundings.

  Now that he was faced with the reality, it was not much to be proud of, for the thing which he had done was out of keeping with his sense of fitness and humanity. Yet now that he had done it, there was no time for drawing back. He would have to go on very quickly, if he were to avail himself even of the slender chance of getting out of that courtyard and into the street alive.

  Even while he was thinking, another part of him began to act. He found himself stepping toward the doorway with an even, unhurried step. At the same time he was thinking that he could do all this more easily again if he came out alive; he would be better equipped to kill and less appalled at facing the prospect. He would be like Captain Hamby, given time; it was the only thing he was good for, to be like Captain Hamby.

  He understood very clearly that he must open the door and walk out into the court. The casualness of his appearance might provoke a moment of uncertainty which might allow him time to reach the gate. If anyone attempted to stop him, he must shoot again without compunction, and he felt no great compunction; he was getting more like Hamby all the time.

  The courtyard had been empty when he had crossed it, but now he could hear voices which were raised in some sort of altercation. Whatever might be happening outside, it was too late for him to stop. Putting his pistol back in his jacket pocket, but still holding his hand over it, Calvin opened the door and stepped out into the brilliant sunshine.

  The instant that he was in the courtyard, however, the pistol was out again and ready in his hand, while the scene outside flashed accurately across his mind, at first with only the significance that comes to a marksman. Across the court standing by the door of another of those buildings built against the wall was a knot of Japanese. They had not even noticed his appearance, for all their attention was focused upon the center of the courtyard. The antiquated black car which had brought him still stood there empty, and beside it was a smaller, tan-colored vehicle with a driver in a khaki uniform at the wheel. Midway between that brown automobile and where he stood, three Japanese stood arguing excitedly. All these details flashed before him instantaneously, just as he stepped over the high Chinese threshold. The three in the center of the courtyard saw him at the same instant, and their voices stopped.

  “Run,” his mind was saying; “get over to the gate.”

  Then one of the three was walking toward him holding up his hand.

  “Please,” he was calling. “One moment, Mr. Gates.” And Calvin recognized the voice, and the black-and-white golf suit and the golden smile. It was Mr. Moto, walking toward him blandly.

  “So nice to see you, Mr. Gates,” Mr. Moto spoke quickly. “So fortunate.”

  His speech ended in a quick sibilant hiss, and he assumed a queer fixed smile. “Will you please come with me now, or I am so afraid that we will both be killed?” There was no doubt that it was Mr. Moto. His appearance in that checked suit was as preposterous as his words, but Mr. Moto took his clothes and his words entirely for granted.

  “How did you get here?” Calvin asked him, still holding his pistol ready. Mr. Moto’s reply was brisk and businesslike.

  “No need for the pistol now, please,” Mr. Moto said. “I came by airplane. I cannot understand. This is very terrible. They do not like me here. Army officers are so very, very cross. So many factions in Japan. Please follow me. Do not shoot unless I tell you.”

  In spite of the merry contour of his mouth, there was a nervous tremor in his fingers and his eyes blinked rapidly.

  “You must not spoil everything,” said Mr. Moto, “when I work so hard. I thought that I understood Americans. Sorry to be rude. Do not talk but follow me.”

  Mr. Moto spun quickly on his heel and began walking back toward the little brown car, and Calvin followed. The two Japanese stood near the automobile, wooden-faced, youngish men, both scowling sullenly.

  “Get in,” Mr. Moto said, and then he spoke volubly in Japanese. His words made a snapping sound like electric sparks. One of the young men snapped a sentence back and Mr. Moto drew a paper from his pocket and tapped it with his forefinger. Whatever was written upon it seemed conclusive, for without another word Mr. Moto also climbed into the car and gave an order to the driver. The engine started and the car rolled through the gate. Mr. Moto’s breath whistled softly through his teeth.

  “So glad,” he said. “The army faction is so very hard to deal with. What happened please?”

  “I shot a man,” said Calvin Gates. He felt stupid and dull from the reaction. “They grabbed me at the station—I suppose it’s that damned cigarette case.”

  He found himself staring at Mr. Moto, who nodded sympathetically.

  “So sorry,” Mr. Moto said. “Such a bad mistake for you to leave your friends. The military faction are so impetuous. Ha ha. Our soldiers are so brave, but so very, very rash. I came as soon as I had heard.”

  “You came from where?” said Calvin Gates.

  “Please,” said Mr. Moto, “it does not matter. We are going where it will be safer for us please. We will be like friends and have whisky like Americans. What happened please? I hope they were polite.”

  “They were going to kill me, and you know it,” said Calvin Gates.

  “Oh yes,” said Mr. Moto, “they would liquidate, of course, but I hope so much that they were polite. I should not wish to report rudeness. What happened, please?”

  Mr. Moto listened and rubbed his hands together, and looked troubled.

  “That is very serious,” he said, “that they should have been so impolite. It makes me very, very angry. There is no reason to be impolite in a liquidation. I have seen so many where everything was nice.”

  Mr. Moto smiled as though he had hit upon a happier thought.

  “But you shot the man who struck you, did you not? So much nicer for your honor. And the major with the scar upon his cheek. That is Major Ahara. Ha, ha. He has tried to kill me in the political troubles, but he is a very lovely man. He always loved his flowers. Such very beautiful azaleas in his garden, Mr. Gates. I heard the first shot, but I did not hear the second. I hope so very, very much you shot him also.… You did not? I cannot understand. Americans are so very, very puzzling. So much kinder to have killed him than have struck him, Mr. Gates. Excuse me—so much more polite. You are so very, very puzzling, Mr. Gates.”

  “Why?” asked Calvin Gates, and he felt that his wits were leaving him.

  Mr. Moto sighed softly.

  “Because I am so afraid that now he must kill himself. You understand that he is in too much disgrace. So lucky for you that he did not search you, and so like some younger officers. It has to do with the more radical wing of our military party, Mr. Gates, and they are so much out of hand.”

  If most of what Mr. Moto had said was not entirely comprehensible, there was one thing of which Calvin was entirely convinced.

  “I wish I had never set eyes on you,” he said.

  CHAPTER XIV

  Mr. Moto raised his hand before his mouth and drew in his breath.

  “So sorry,” he said, “but excuse me, Mr. Gates, this was all so unnecessary. I had made such careful plans. I had tried to think about you and just what you would do. There was a lady on the train, such a very lovely lady, and yet you did not stay with her. I do not understand. You would have been safe with Captain Hamby.”

  Calvin Gates was startled.

  “How did you know about Hamby?” he asked.

  “Please,” said Mr. Moto, “it does not matter. All that matters is that I am so very stupid. I was so sure that you wou
ld stay with Captain Hamby and the lady. I do not see, indeed I do not see. But surely you gave Captain Hamby the cigarette case with the little birds upon it?”

  Calvin Gates shook his head, and Mr. Moto gave a start, but his face was inscrutable. All the complicated repressions of a complicated race made it difficult to read.

  “I didn’t trust him,” said Calvin Gates.

  Mr. Moto’s hands rubbed against each other nervously.

  “So very silly of me,” he said. “I had never thought of that. When I heard that Captain Hamby had come to meet you, I thought there would not be the slightest doubt. You are so very difficult, Mr. Gates. You leave the lady, and now you have the cigarette case with you. I had not thought of that.”

  “I haven’t got it,” Calvin told him.

  He had not believed that Mr. Moto could display such emotion. Mr. Moto half rose from his seat and struck his hand on his forehead.

  “Did they take it from you back there?” he almost shouted. “Quickly, Mr. Gates.”

  Mr. Moto’s cheeks had grown greenish and sallow, and he seized Calvin by the lapel of his coat.

  “No,” said Calvin, “they didn’t take it.”

  Mr. Moto groaned and muttered something in his own language.

  “This is so very terrible,” he groaned. “You did not throw it away?” and his fingers twitched at Calvin’s coat lapel.

  “No,” Calvin said. “You needn’t pull at me, Mr. Moto. I gave the thing back to Miss Dillaway. We had a quarrel and I got angry. I wish I’d never seen it or you, Mr. Moto. I’m worried about Miss Dillaway.”

  Mr. Moto sank back in his seat. The color had returned to his cheeks and he sighed deeply.

  “Excuse my rudeness, please,” he said. “I was so very startled. So Miss Dillaway has it then. But you spoke to Captain Hamby about that cigarette case? Surely you did that?”

  Calvin moved his shoulders impatiently.

  “Well,” he said, “what’s going to happen to her? I know that thing is dangerous for her, Moto. Of course I spoke to Hamby about it. He told me what it was—a code message going to the Russians. It’s military information, and instead of trying to intercept it, you do everything to have it go through. Hamby knows about you, Moto, and he thinks I’m helping you. He offered me three thousand dollars if I would tell him what you wanted.”

  He had expected the news to be disturbing, but instead Moto gave a little jump in his seat and clapped his hands.

  “Oh,” said Mr. Moto, “that is so very nice. So exactly what I wished. I am so obliged to you, Mr. Gates. So very much obliged.”

  Calvin Gates scowled at him.

  “What’s going to happen to that message and what’s going to happen to Miss Dillaway?” he asked. “Aren’t you going to stop it?”

  “Please,” said Mr. Moto, “that is why I have worked so hard. I do not wish to stop it. It must not be disturbed. It is going to a man in Kalgan named Mr. Holtz, and now I think it will surely go there. It is so very nice.”

  “Moto,” Calvin asked him, “are you a patriotic Japanese?”

  Mr. Moto looked as though the question pained him.

  “I should be so pleased to die for my emperor,” he said. “This is all so very nice. You have done me such a service, Mr. Gates. The army will be angry at you, but I shall see that you are safe. So nice that Captain Hamby knows so much,” and Mr. Moto smiled as though some secret joke of his own amused him.

  “I’ve learned quite a lot on this train ride, Mr. Moto,” Calvin said. “Do you know the Russians have two divisions they are going to move to this place called Ghuru Nor? Do you know that, and do you mean to say that you’re not going to stop that message?”

  Mr. Moto turned his head toward Calvin with a quick birdlike gesture and smiled and rubbed his hands.

  “This does not concern you, Mr. Gates,” he said. “Why are you so interested?”

  “Because I want to know what’s going to happen to Miss Dillaway,” Calvin said. “She has that cigarette case.”

  “Then why did you not stay with her?” said Mr. Moto. “What was it that made you angry?”

  Calvin scowled at the little man on the seat beside him and repressed a growing desire to shake him. His motives were entirely beyond him, but he could not help but admire Mr. Moto in a way.

  “Hamby told her I was a Japanese spy,” he said. “I’ve got a good deal to thank you for, Moto. He told her I was a Japanese spy, and she said I was making use of her.”

  Mr. Moto put his hand before his mouth and his shoulders began to shake.

  “Excuse me,” said Mr. Moto, “it is so rude to laugh. Things are so difficult, but they are so very funny. I have been using both of you I think. Ha ha, I am using everyone. And they caught you back there and they never knew you had such information. So sorry if I laugh, Mr. Gates. You will laugh too when you understand.”

  Mr. Moto rubbed his hand across his eyes.

  “I’ve found you,” Mr. Moto said, “in the offices of the Intelligence section of the staff of our Third Army. You had the information of Russia they are trying so hard to get. Excuse me, your position is so confusing.”

  Calvin Gates scowled back at him.

  “To hell with your nonsense, Moto,” he said. “Miss Dillaway’s got that cigarette case. What’s going to happen to her?”

  Mr. Moto’s face became dull and masklike.

  “I hope so much that nothing bad will happen,” he said. “It depends on Captain Hamby, I am so afraid. You do not understand me very well, but I am so obliged to you, Mr. Gates. I think I shall not need you any further. We will talk about your plans in just a minute. We are going to the house of a friend of mine, a very important Japanese friend. He is not there, but you will be so very welcome. We are arriving now, I think.”

  Calvin Gates had not noticed where they had been going. He had lost all sense of direction long ago and nearly all sense of time. He was moving in a sort of fantasy not relieved by Mr. Moto’s conversation and Captain Hamby’s remark that anything might happen was growing increasingly true. The car had stopped in another alley which was almost like the one they had left, before another red gate in another gray wall. The driver opened the door of the car. A gate keeper in a white livery stood waiting.

  “Get out quickly please,” said Mr. Moto. Calvin hesitated.

  “Quickly,” Mr. Moto said. “It is dangerous in the street.” And Calvin got out quickly.

  “It is my friend’s house,” Mr. Moto said. “You are so welcome.”

  They were in a courtyard and the gate had closed behind them. The courtyard was cool and shaded by a huge matting awning supported on bamboo poles. There was a pool in the center of the court surrounded by potted bushes. A Japanese servant in a white uniform stood before Mr. Moto bowing.

  “This way please,” Mr. Moto said. “It is nicer than where we were last, is it not? You will like it here so much.”

  They walked through a round gate in the wall into a second courtyard, and then through another red doorway into a room. The floor was covered with heavy carpets, the chairs and tables were black lacquer and there were pictures of Chinese landscapes upon the wall.

  “A very simple room,” Mr. Moto said. “My friend has such good taste. They will bring us some whisky in a moment. Ha ha, all Americans like whisky. Sit down, Mr. Gates. The chairs are so very comfortable.”

  Calvin seated himself beside a small lacquer table and looked about him. The room he saw was used as some sort of office. There was a great flat desk at one end with a telephone and books and papers. A table in the center of the room supported a large map tacked to a board, a military map with colored pins upon it. Mr. Moto smiled and rubbed his hands.

  “My friend allows me to work here,” he said.

  A servant had appeared carrying a tray with bottles and glasses. He placed them upon the table beside Calvin and bowed and smiled and hissed. A second servant followed holding a sheaf of papers which he handed to Mr. Moto. Mr. Moto took them quickly
and hurried over to the desk.

  “Please refresh yourself,” he said. “Ask for what you wish. Excuse, I shall be busy for a little while.”

  Mr. Moto seated himself behind the desk and read each paper carefully. When he had finished, he placed them in a drawer and picked up the telephone.

  “Please pour yourself whisky,” he said. “Captain Hamby and Miss Dillaway are on the train for Kalgan. They have no trouble.” Then he began speaking into the telephone, in Chinese or Japanese, Calvin could not tell.

  He only realized that he was sitting there comfortably, sipping whisky and water, while Miss Dillaway was with Captain Hamby, going where he should have been going. Mr. Moto had said it was nice, but he knew it was not true. The game was not nice which Mr. Moto was playing, if it was not even safe to linger on the street, and it was not hard to see that the game was reaching some sort of crisis. Through the obscurity which surrounded that intrigue and through that ignorance of his, an American’s ignorance of the geography and the affairs of the Far East, he was still able to gain a sense of forces taking shape. It was a game for high stakes, where China was involved, and war, and peace. Even as a stranger he could feel the shadow of Japan moving inexorably across the map of China. The shadow was already across Peiping, and moving farther. There was some sort of Japanese army control in Peiping already, and forces were advancing beneath the shadow. Russia was playing a part in it, and the Japanese factions of which Mr. Moto had spoken.

  “Arigato,” Mr. Moto was saying over the telephone, “arigato.”

  There was no doubt any longer that Mr. Moto was a very important man. He was balancing those forces as Calvin sat there watching, holding the strings of intrigue in his fingers, pulling this one and that, moving people here and there. He had used Calvin Gates and now he was using Captain Hamby. Before long there would be some sort of denouement when everything would evolve into sinister action. He would not have minded if Miss Dillaway had not been there.