Mr. Moto Is So Sorry

by John P. Marquand

  “So very glad to tell you,” Mr. Moto answered steadily. “Captain Hamby must understand that you have been working for me and that you are finished, please. You have escaped from me. You have heard that he is staying with Mr. Holtz. You do not like me any more, but you have other reasons. You feel there is more money for you by telling him everything that you know about me. You are worried about Miss Dillaway. It will be nice to tell him that, and you must also tell him that white men must stick together. Excuse me, he will understand.”

  “White men must stick together,” Calvin Gates repeated.

  Mr. Moto’s eyes never left his face.

  “You are to tell him particularly that I have full powers over the army, please. It cannot move without me, and be sure to tell him this last. You have just left me at the China Hotel alone. Be sure to tell him that. Are you ready now? You do not look very happy, Mr. Gates.”

  A watchful look in Mr. Moto’s eyes told Calvin Gates that his own expression must have changed, and it was more than an expression; it was a change within himself. He was not the same person who had started on those travels; he was not the same person with whom Mr. Moto had dealt a few hours before. Something had had made him see himself entirely differently. Something made his thoughts move erratically, as though he had been awakened from a sleep which had been over him for years. He was very nearly at the end of his journey and yet he was at the parting of some road which lay inside himself.

  “Why do you not answer please?” Mr. Moto was saying gently.

  But Calvin Gates did not reply. He never knew what sort of person he had been all his life, until he saw himself in that minute’s strange illumination; and he saw himself through the ruthless skill of Mr. Moto’s mind. No other man had moved him as Mr. Moto had, like a chessman on a board. He had been a marionette that danced while someone pulled the strings; he had never been man enough to seize one of those strings with his own hand and snap it. He heard himself speaking in a thick hushed voice.

  “To hell with it,” Calvin said.

  Mr. Moto’s dark eyes grew intent and sharp.

  “What?” Mr. Moto asked. “What have you said please?”

  “To hell with it,” said Calvin Gates. “I am tired of being pushed around.”

  He could see himself clearly for once. He had prided himself on living by a code and instead he had been moved by loyalty and circumstance, and he had never changed a circumstance. He had drifted aimlessly instead, without applying the independence of his mind to anything in life. He saw himself now in that dingy room with the painful clarity of truth, an ineffective romanticist, and it was Mr. Moto who made him see.

  “You can’t make me run errands for you.” He was speaking, telling the truth to himself at last. “If I wanted to, I could lie and say ‘yes,’ but I won’t lie. I’m not going to be a part of your ideas. I’ve been a part of somebody’s ideas always, and I know where it’s got me. By God, I’ve never given anything a thought. I’ve acted like someone in a copybook, taking everything that came, and I say to hell with minding your orders, Moto. I’m going out of here right now, and—so sorry for you if you try to stop me.”

  “Mr. Gates,” said Mr. Moto softly, “I am very much surprised.”

  “That doesn’t bother me,” said Calvin Gates. “To hell with you and your Oriental tricks and your majors and your generals, and to hell with Captain Hamby. I told you I would see Hamby, but I won’t take your orders. I’m going to do what I want because it suits me not you. I’m going to do what I want for the first time in my life because I want it, and not because it’s honorable or suitable.”

  “My dear Mr. Gates,” said Mr. Moto gently, “I think I understand so well.”

  Calvin took a quick step toward him, but Mr. Moto did not move away.

  “There is no need to be impetuous,” Mr. Moto said, “because you have discovered something about yourself which was so very obvious. I am here alone, I am not armed. As long as you see Captain Hamby—”

  “You heard me,” Calvin interrupted him. “To hell with you and Hamby. I’ll tell him what I think of you and what I think you’re doing, and you can get out of my way right now.”

  Mr. Moto stood motionless for a moment and then he drew a soft sibilant breath and stepped aside.

  “My dear Mr. Gates,” he said, “I do not wish to stop you. Excuse me, I might try if I wished, but I am so very happy that you will do what you want. The boy is waiting outside to take you.” Mr. Moto paused and smiled. “You see I can only hope that what you want is what I want—so difficult for me.”

  Calvin Gates scowled at him, but he could not tell whether he liked Mr. Moto or disliked him. He only knew that he understood himself. He was free for a little while at any rate of impulses and inhibitions which had always held him fast.

  “I wouldn’t be too sure,” he said.

  CHAPTER XVI

  Mr. Moto sighed.

  “It is so very interesting,” Mr. Moto said, “to see how people change. I am so glad for you that you are changed, Mr. Gates. I am so happy to think that I may have helped you. Always judge what you want, please, Mr. Gates, before you think what you ought to do. Yes, always try to make events do what you wish them. So glad if I have made you understand. I should be so very honored to shake hands. I intend no trick, believe me, please.”

  “Why can’t you be frank with me, Moto?” Calvin asked. “Well, never mind. I didn’t think that you’d take things this way.”

  “So sorry that I cannot be frank,” Mr. Moto answered. “But I should like so very much to be friendly. I think you are a nice man, Mr. Gates. I should be so honored to shake hands.” And Calvin Gates shook hands with Mr. Moto. A Chinese boy in a plain gray gown was waiting outside the door.

  “Follow me, please, master,” he said softly, and Calvin followed him through the inn gate into a quiet, dusty street. It had grown cool now that the sun was down and the air was fresh and invigorating. The faint light which was still in the sky made all the buildings shadowy and large, and now the dusky strangeness of China, its sounds and smells, and all the ordinary resilience of its life surrounded him. They walked out of the narrow street into a broad, main thoroughfare with banners in Chinese characters strung above it, and with brightly lighted shops on either side, where cloth vendors chanted in singsong voices. Rickshaw bells rang at him warningly. He heard the tinny blare of a radio and the singing of caged birds. They crossed a small stream where women were washing clothes and then they turned from the shops into another narrow street which was lined again with shadowy walls. At the end of a ten minutes’ walk his guide stopped at a corner and pointed toward a huge gate, across a narrow street.

  “It is there,” he said and then he slipped away leaving Calvin Gates gazing at a high mud wall which stretched into the shadows as far as he could see. There was nothing near him but those windowless walls, no light or sign of life, and the gate with a small door for pedestrians cut in one side was like the entrance to a fortress. It all was like some street in the Middle Ages when nearly every house was a stronghold prepared against attack.

  He pulled at a string that hung near the door and he heard the deep, sonorous ringing of a bell, and, in answer, a wicket in the door slid open. The darkness in the street, for the light was waning rapidly, made it impossible for him to see anything of the face at the wicket except the glint of eyes. A voice called something to him, and Calvin called back loudly.

  “Hamby,” he called, “Captain Hamby!” And then he thought of something else that might have significance and added: “Holtz. Ghuru Nor.”

  When he called to that unseen face at the wicket he had the feeling of shouting in space, a feeling that became a conviction when the opening was slid shut. He seized the rope again and pulled and pulled, and the insistent clatter of the bell chimed in with his anger at himself and at all the net of words and actions which had caught him. Before he knew what he was doing he found himself kicking at the door, and when his foot came in contact with the
wood, the door opened inward so suddenly that he nearly lost his balance. He stumbled into a world which was entirely strange.

  He was standing in a long, vaulted passage which opened into a dim, open space beyond, large enough to be the parade ground of a fort. The passage was lighted by torches set in brackets, like the torches of some castle gate. On either side of it was a room, carved out of the thick mud wall, and both the chambers glowed with a yellow, uncertain light. The place was reeking with the smell of burning oil from the torches and with the odors of sheep tallow and of rancid butter. In one of the rooms, some heavy men stripped to the waist were putting fuel under a huge caldron where a mutton stew was boiling. The room across the passage was filled with men sitting on their heels, eating with their fingers and chopsticks out of small round bowls. He had a confused glimpse in that flickering light of dark, greasy faces with high cheekbones and flat noses, of oily pigtails and greasy hats, of long-sleeved robes and sashes, of silver amulets and of knives in silver scabbards, and of heavy boots with curved pointed toes. That first glimpse was like a picture out of focus, but it was enough to show him that he had stepped from an ancient, meticulous civilization into a barbarous world, that the gate through which he had passed had opened into Tartary and he was gazing at a group of Mongolians enjoying their evening meal.

  He saw those sights only for an instant out of the corner of his eye because his immediate attention was given to two men in front of him. The first was a tall man in a long-sleeved robe with a silver knife in his belt and with heavy boots with up-turned toes, who stood grinning, showing a set of fine white teeth. The second man was more easy to comprehend; when one first saw him he might have seemed someone from a New York street on a hot summer night. He was a very fat German with a shaven head, in slippers, trousers and a shirt that was open at the neck. His heavy paunch shook comfortably when he moved. His small eyes peered through rolls of flesh that fell in heavy jowls around his jaw. His shaven head and his face were glowing with perspiration, and before he spoke he mopped his forehead with a blue bandanna handkerchief.

  “Vell,” he said. His voice was guttural and was small for his enormous weight. “I’m Holtz. Vat do you want yelling and kicking at the compound gate? Business hours is in the daytime. Vat do you vant?”

  “I want to speak to Hamby,” Calvin Gates said, “Captain Sam Hamby. He came here when he got off the train.” Mr. Holtz rubbed his handkerchief hard across his forehead and shouted something at the top of his lungs which made everyone stop talking.

  “These Gott verdammt camel drivers,” he said. “They will never shut up. You want to see Captain Hamby? Vy do you want to see Captain Hamby? Vat brought you here to see Captain Hamby?”

  “I come from Mr. Moto,” Calvin Gates said. “I want to see Hamby right away, it’s important.”

  The fat man grunted and his eyes glittered above the pouches of flesh that nearly covered them. His corpulence had not made him good-natured. His mouth was small and his nose like a soft button dividing the expanse of his pinkish cheeks; but he was not good-natured. He spoke to the tall Mongol beside him in a voice which sounded like a high-pitched snarl. The Mongol turned and clattered away in his heavy boots with a horseman’s swaying gait, and Mr. Holtz moved his half-concealed eyes back to Calvin.

  “All right,” he said, “I send to get him. To hell mit these Japanese. They crawl around like sand-fleas. It was bad enough before with war lords, and now come the Japanese.” Mr. Holtz spat and grunted. “It gives me a pain in the belly,” he added, “one big pain in the belly.” Mr. Holtz was not a prepossessing man, but at any rate Calvin could understand him. He was with one of his own sort again, who was devoid of Mr. Moto’s subtlety.

  “What is this place?” Calvin asked.

  The small lips of Mr. Holtz opened slightly and he emitted a breathing, whistling sound. “It must be so,” he said. “So it’s your first time out here? You have that look. You are in the compound of Holtz and Company, the same which does business with Mongolia. Ask ’em in Peiping who Holtz is. Ask ’em in Tientsin and Shanghai. Holtz buys everything, every damn thing in Central Asia—wool, antelope horn, wolf hide, Scythian bronze, gold dust, camels, horses, rugs. Holtz is loading camels next week with brick tea, leather goods and textiles. It’s damn funny if you never heard of Holtz, my friend.”

  “It’s new to me,” said Calvin Gates.

  “So,” said Mr. Holtz, and it was difficult to decide whether he was genial or sneering.

  “New to you, is it? Well, the caravan business is the oldest in the world. It’s so antique that it was old when Marco Polo came across the routes. And it’s new to you, is it? Well, so what! I think you got a lot to learn from Holtz and Company. Maybe you don’t like what you learn when we do business? Huh?”

  Mr. Holtz’s eyes twinkled icily and his fingers twitched at his waistband.

  “It’s interesting,” said Calvin Gates politely, and Mr. Holtz exhaled another breath.

  “So,” he said imitating Calvin’s voice. “It’s interesting is it, to see a lot of Mongol camel drivers, lousy Mongol camel drivers, who haven’t washed since they was born, swallowing their supper? Huh? Here is Excellency, Captain Hamby. Interesting? What?”

  Captain Hamby walked into the archway from the dim space outside. He walked with a brisk, businesslike step, evidently completely at home, while the Mongol who had gone to fetch him rolled and clumped behind him, Captain Hamby was bareheaded and the light of the torches glinted from his hard gray eyes as he walked forward smiling.

  “While you’ve a lucifer to light your fag,” he was humming, “smile, boys, that’s the style.” And then his song stopped and he looked sharply first at Mr. Holtz and then at Calvin Gates.

  “Well, well, well,” said Captain Hamby, “only fancy this now. How’d you get here, Gates?”

  “By plane,” said Calvin Gates.

  “Well, well,” said Captain Hamby, “fancy that.” He walked up to Calvin Gates still smiling at him. “And you came here to see me, did you, Gates? And you’ve met Mr. Holtz? You couldn’t have done better. What can I do for you, Gates?”

  “I’d like to speak to you,” said Calvin Gates, “alone, for about five minutes.”

  Captain Hamby’s face was hard and beaming. “That’s fine,” he said, “that’s fine. A bit busy, but there’s always time for a five minutes’ chat. Mr. Holtz, this is my acquaintance, Mr. Gates—the one I was telling you about. Shake hands.”

  Mr. Holtz held out a heavy hand.

  “Pleased to meet you, Mr. Gates,” he said.

  Mr. Holtz was fat but he was very strong. Before Calvin even suspected Mr. Holtz had snatched his hand and had jerked Calvin forward. The next instant Mr. Holtz’s arms were around him tight, pressing him against his bulbous, perspiring body.

  “Well,” Mr. Holtz was saying, “nice to make your acquaintance, what?”

  “All right, Holtz,” Captain Hamby called.

  The arms around Calvin Gates relaxed and Mr. Holtz stepped backwards. Captain Hamby was looking at them grinning. The pistol which had been in Calvin’s side pocket was now in Captain Hamby’s hand.

  “No hard feelings, Gates,” Captain Hamby said, “and don’t blame Mr. Holtz. My word, he’s just all heart. Just take it with a smile, Gates. So you want to have a talk with me?”

  Calvin Gates looked from Mr. Holtz to Captain Hamby, and he took it with a smile.

  “I’m not fool enough to start shooting here,” he said. “I didn’t come for that. I’ve just left Mr. Moto.”

  Captain Hamby’s eyelids flickered. His short square figure was motionless.

  “Moto sent you, did he?” he inquired.

  “Yes,” said Calvin Gates, “and I’m going to tell you why.” He glanced around him and back at Captain Hamby’s hard, expectant face. Captain Hamby was balancing the automatic in his hand.

  “That’s fine,” he said. “You come along with me.” And Captain Hamby put his arm through Calvin’s.

 
“What’s the use of worrying,” Captain Hamby was humming, “it never was worth while. Tell ’em to wait till I get back, Holtz. Tell the Prince I won’t be long.”

  They walked from under the archway into a huge compound. The last faint light of early evening still fell upon that open space, and the light was broken by the orange glow of torches and lanterns where men were working in the cool, evening air, packing articles into bales and boxes. The place was so unbelievable that Calvin Gates stopped to look. The whole center of the square was filled with camels, row upon row of camels sitting side by side with their long necks arched above their double humps.

  “I never saw anything like that,” said Calvin Gates.

  “No?” Captain Hamby said. “You won’t see anything like this a few years from now. It’s one of Holtz’s caravans, seven hundred of ’em. They’re still working on the loads, baling up the brick tea and odds and ends. Holtz wants to get ’em moving off before there’s any trouble. Funny-looking beggars, aren’t they? Don’t get near enough so they can get their teeth in you. A camel’s bite can be deuced dangerous. The warehouses are over yonder. It’s like loading up a freight train once they load those camels, and the beggars are in good condition too. Look at the humps, all good fat. They’ll march six days without food or water; slow, but my word, they’re useful where they’re going—greatest sight in the world, Gates, something to remember if you come through this.”

  Calvin walked across the square beside Captain Hamby, as though he were a visitor being taken on a tour, past sweating groups of Chinese who wrapped up tea which had been pressed into large slabs for greater ease in transport, past heaps of embroidered, curved-toed riding boots, past bales of textiles and piles of copper utensils, past the open doors of warehouses stacked high with furs and wool.

  “What do you mean by that last remark?” Calvin asked.

  Captain Hamby had been humming, and now his humming stopped.

  “My word,” said Captain Hamby, “you put your neck out, didn’t you? Walk on, we’re in a hurry. The living quarters are over here.”