Think Fast, Mr. Moto

by John P. Marquand

  “Well,” Eva Hitchings was saying, “I’ve told you where I stand. What are you going to do about it?”

  Wilson Hitchings did not answer, but it was clear that he had to do something. For once in his life, circumstances were compelling him to take a definite course of action, and he found himself completely at sea, influenced more by anger than by logic. In spite of his irritation he could admire the courage of Eva Hitchings and he was ashamed to feel that he was inadequate to meet that courage. Then he remembered a piece of advice which his father had given him once—advice as conservative as the Hitchings business policy. He even remembered his father as he had given it, seated behind his desk five thousand miles away, with the tips of his fingers placed gently together.

  “Sit quietly,” his father had said. “Never do anything unless you know exactly what it is you are going to do.”

  He had always admired his father’s composure and imperturbability, without realizing that they might both be family traits. It might have been that old advice or instinct actuating him. He was never exactly sure. He stood there trying to piece unrelated facts together, trying to recall what his uncle had said of Mr. Moto in Shanghai.

  “So Mr. Moto knows about this?” he asked. “Are you absolutely sure?”

  “You know he does, as well as I do,” Eva Hitchings answered. “Well, we’ve had our talk and I think I’ll be going now.”

  He knew it was time for him to do something, even if he did not know what. She was just turning away, when he reached forward and grasped her wrist. He must have been rougher than he intended because he heard her give a cry, half of surprise and half of pain. Nevertheless, that action and the feel of Eva Hitchings’ wrist inside his hand, held tightly enough so that she could not get away, made all these motives clear to him.

  “Oh, no, you’re not going yet,” he said.

  “What do you mean?” she asked, sharply. “Let go of my wrist, let it go, or else—!” She made a swift, lithe motion. She moved so suddenly that he nearly lost his grip. He had not realized that she would be so strong but he did not let her go.

  “Oh, no, you don’t,” he said. “We’re going to get to the bottom of this before I let you go. You’ve made a number of accusations. I’m not thinking of myself. I am thinking of the family.”

  “Oh, are you?” said Eva Hitchings. “Well, you’d do a whole lot better to think about yourself. You don’t know how ridiculous you sound.”

  “It may sound ridiculous to you,” said Wilson, “but it doesn’t to me. I’ve listened to your insinuations and every one of them is untrue and you’re going to admit it before you go back to your crooked gambling house.”

  “Crooked?” said Eva Hitchings. “What do you mean by that?”

  “Exactly what I say,” Wilson answered. “If all the Hitchingses are crooked, you’ve inherited the trait. That wheel of yours is wired. Any sensible amateur could see it. You were fleecing one of your Chinese customers just when we were leaving. It was so crude that it was almost amusing. And we’ll find out some more amusing things before we’re through.”

  “So the pot is calling the kettle black,” said Eva Hitchings; and she laughed, but her laugh was not convincing.

  “If you want to deal in metaphors,” Wilson told her, “the pot and the kettle are going to get shined clean. I’m going to find out exactly what you mean—and it won’t do any good to wriggle.”

  “Then why don’t you search in your own conscience?” Eva Hitchings asked—“Provided you’ve got a conscience. But then, all the Hitchingses are always conscientious, aren’t they?”

  “Yes,” Wilson answered. “We’re always conscientious, and I am going to do this conscientiously.”

  “Do what?” asked Eva Hitchings.

  “I am going to call on Mr. Moto,” Wilson Hitchings told her. “I am going to take you, right now, to-night, and I am going to tell him everything that you have told me, and then we’ll see exactly where we stand. That’s fair, isn’t it?”

  Eva Hitchings looked at him incredulously. “You wouldn’t dare do that,” she said. “You couldn’t.”

  “You’re going to find out,” said Wilson, “that it’s exactly what I intend to do. We’re going back to your car and we’re going to look for Mr. Moto. I imagine you know where he lives, as long as he came to call on you to-night.”

  “Suppose I don’t go?” Eva Hitchings said. “Why should I?”

  “If you don’t,” Wilson told her, “I’ll know that you’re afraid to back up anything that you have said. And I can probably find Mr. Moto by myself.”

  “You’ve got a good deal of impudence,” Eva Hitchings said. “As a matter of fact, I wouldn’t miss this for anything. You can let me go. I won’t try and get away. As a matter of fact, I know exactly where Mr. Moto lives. He’s staying in one of the cottages by the Seaside Hotel. It isn’t far from here. We could walk, if you like.”

  “Very well,” said Wilson. “But I hope you don’t mind if I take your arm. You’re a palpable fact, Miss Hitchings, and I have always been told to stick close to palpable facts.”

  “Very well,” said Eva Hitchings, “but you’re too subtle to be palpable. I suppose that makes you interesting.”

  “Thanks,” said Wilson Hitchings. “You’re rather interesting yourself. I don’t know when I have had such a pleasant evening.”

  “Before you say that,” said Eva Hitchings, “I’d wait until the evening is over.”

  CHAPTER VI

  They walked up from the beach and turned to the right on a broad avenue, the name of which Wilson Hitchings had learned from his guide, that afternoon—Kalakaua Boulevard. His wrist watch showed him that the hour was 12:15, but the street was still wide awake. In the warm darkness, it reminded Wilson almost of a street in a suburban town at home. The dark had blotted out the background and left only the doubtful imprint of America. He saw that institution, the filling station, with its pumps all lighted, exactly as they were at home, and an all night lunchroom and a drugstore. America had come to those islands, leaving as definite an impression of ideas of living as England invariably left on the outposts of the British Empire. It amused Wilson to think that the lighter ideals of his own country were stronger and more in tune with the present than those of the older nation. He recalled the jazz orchestras in the Orient, each a conscientious imitation of Broadway; and the Wild West motion pictures in Tokyo, and the baseball in Japan, and the amusement parks of Shanghai. The genius of his own nation was in them all—tawdry, superficial, but somehow strong and appealing. That genius of his country made him feel at home that night and Wilson was grateful for it, because it was something he could understand.

  For the rest, he was surrounded by imponderables. The only thing he knew quite definitely was that Eva Hitchings was walking beside him. They had been thrown together involuntarily by forces which he could not understand. They were walking down the street as though they were deeply interested in each other. In a sense, perhaps, they were. She was walking quickly, without speaking, and he tried to put her from his mind as much as possible. He tried to forget the warmth and the languor of the evening. She had spoken of Manchuria and he was recalling, as clearly as he could, what his uncle had said in Shanghai. That seemed a long while ago, on the first afternoon he had met Mr. Moto.

  “You may not know it,” he remembered his uncle had said, “but that was a highly important call. Mr. Moto and I knew it. You heard him mention Chang Lo-Shih—that means that old Chang is meddling in Manchukuo.”

  He knew that Manchukuo was the new state at Manchuria but aside from that he knew nothing very definite. There was only one other thing he was sure of. No matter who else might be meddling in Manchuria, no matter what anyone else might be doing there, he knew that his own family were well out of it. His uncle had told him as much. He knew that Hitchings Brothers was not an adventurous firm. It might have been a hundred years ago, but not at present.

  “What are you thinking about?” Eva Hitchings as
ked him.

  “About what’s brought us here,” he said.

  “Then you’d better think hard and fast,” Eva Hitchings answered.

  He did not reply. Although he knew that her advice was good, he was not particularly well able to follow it. He was thinking of the destiny which drew lives together. He and Eva Hitchings and Mr. Moto and the Chinese gentleman named Chang Lo-Shih whom he had seen only for a fleeting moment back in Shanghai, and the croupier and Mr. Maddock—all were drawn together in some curious, temporary relationship.

  By now they had turned into a dimly lighted side street and now they were walking up a driveway.

  “This is the Seaside Hotel,” said Eva Hitchings, and she stopped walking. “There is the main building and there are the cottages connected with it. This isn’t one of our best hotels. The place is managed by Japanese. Mr. Moto told me in his note that he is staying in Cottage 2A. Have you thought it might be dangerous to call on Mr. Moto?”

  “No,” said Wilson, “I hadn’t. Why?”

  “Well, you know best,” Eva Hitchings said. “I should be if I were you.”

  “We’re going just the same,” said Wilson. “Where is the cottage?”

  The main building and some of the cottages were still lit up. There were electric lights on the driveway and along the garden paths where the cottages stood, enough to show Wilson that he was in a world strange enough to him. The street outside had been primarily American but the Seaside Hotel bore the traces of Japan. There were sliding windows entirely Japanese and a pool and a Japanese garden. A girl was singing somewhere in a high falsetto voice.

  “They have sukiyaki. dinners,” Eva Hitchings said. “Mostly for tourists who are interested in Japan, but a great many of the Japanese in town stay here too. We go down this walk here.… There’s Cottage Number 2A, with the royal palm in front of it. Now what are you going to do?”

  “I am going to knock on the door,” Wilson Hitchings said. “I told you we were going to speak to Mr. Moto.”

  There was a small detached cottage in front of them. Two steps led up to a covered porch where an electric light was burning, but the windows in the cottage itself were blank and dark.

  “Come on,” said Wilson Hitchings. “What’s the matter, are you afraid?”

  “No,” said Eva Hitchings. “I’m not. Are you?”

  Wilson did not stop to analyze his emotions. He walked up the steps noisily and pounded on the cottage door.

  “Mr. Moto,” he called. “Are you in there, Mr. Moto?”

  He listened, but there was no sound inside and for just a moment the silence startled him. Then he heard a voice behind him.

  “Excuse me, please,” the voice was saying, and Wilson Hitchings turned to the path by the cottage. Mr. Moto was standing on that path, just behind them. The light from the porch was full on his face. He was still in his evening clothes and he was bowing and smiling.

  “Excuse me, please,” said Mr. Moto again. “I was waiting for someone else. This is very, very nice but I am very, very much surprised.” Mr. Moto moved forward quickly. “How nice of you both to come,” he added. He brushed by Wilson, drawing in his breath, politely, and opened the door of his cottage, switched on a light, and bowed again. “Please, do come in,” he said. “This is so very, very nice. Will you allow me to go in first?”

  They followed Mr. Moto into a little sitting room, furnished with a table, a couch, and two chairs—a bare, plain enough room.

  “This is so simple,” said Mr. Moto. “I am so very, very sorry, but there is whisky in the bedroom.”

  “Never mind the whisky,” Wilson Hitchings said. “What were you waiting outside for, Mr. Moto?” Mr. Moto’s eyes were dark and expressionless. The gold fillings in his teeth glittered as he smiled mechanically.

  “Please,” he said. “I wish to see you come in to my poor house, before I came in too. Sometimes it is so very, very necessary.”

  “Do you do that sort of thing often?” Wilson asked.

  “No,” said Mr. Moto. “But sometimes it is a very useful thing to do. Several times it has saved my life. Please to sit down, Miss Hitchings. The room is poor but the weather is so pleasant. Such a lovely night. Yes, such a lovely night.” Mr. Moto drew his breath through his teeth.

  Eva Hitchings sat down on the couch and Wilson sat down beside her. The whole scene was becoming almost ridiculous. Now that Mr. Moto was chatting about the weather, there seemed to be no logic in it. Wilson looked at Mr. Moto and Mr. Moto looked back, bland and imperturbable.

  “Well,” said Wilson, “I am glad to see you, Mr. Moto.” Mr. Moto drew in his breath again, sibilantly, politely.

  “And I am glad to see you,” Mr. Moto said, “so very, very glad.” Wilson leaned forward, trying to set his thoughts in order, but his thoughts seemed to break against the enigma of Mr. Moto, like waves against a rock.

  “I suppose this is a little unusual,” said Wilson. “I haven’t seen much of you before. As a matter of fact, I don’t exactly know who you are and I don’t know what you are doing, but Miss Hitchings said a rather curious thing to-night. She intimated that it was I who had tried to kill you, Mr. Moto.”

  Mr. Moto moved his slender hands in a quick, disparaging gesture.

  “Please,” he said, “it makes so very, very little difference. So many people have tried to kill me. Please, we must all die sometime.” Wilson moved impatiently, and his voice was harsher.

  “But I didn’t try to kill you,” he said, “and I would like to know why you think I should? Why should I, Mr. Moto?”

  “Please,” said Mr. Moto, “there is nothing personal, of course.”

  “Well, there is to me,” said Wilson. “Frankly, I don’t like it. Back in Shanghai, my uncle told me you were a Japanese agent; is that true?”

  Mr. Moto regarded him unblinkingly, with the same, fixed nervous smile, and Eva Hitchings shrugged her shoulders, impatiently.

  “Don’t be so naïve,” she said. “You’re only making yourself ridiculous.”

  Wilson kept his glance on Mr. Moto. He tried to master his sense of exasperation. Of the three, he was the only one who knew nothing of what was happening and he was determined not to leave that room until he had found out something. But he had not realized the difficulty of enlisting information from a man like Mr. Moto. He could not gather from any past experience what sort of person Mr. Moto was. He could not tell whether Mr. Moto was ill at ease or not, or whether Mr. Moto’s jerky, birdlike manner was natural or assumed.

  “I suppose I am making myself ridiculous,” Wilson Hitchings admitted, “because I know nothing, absolutely nothing. I don’t understand what you are talking about, Mr. Moto, or you either, Miss Hitchings.”

  Eva Hitchings smiled at him through narrowing eyes. Mr. Moto rose and rubbed his hands softly together.

  “It is so nice of you to say that, Mr. Hitchings,” he said, “so very, very nice. It means we will have a pleasant talk. I shall be so very glad to talk; but first please, I must be hospitable. I have some whisky in my bedroom. We shall talk over a glass of whisky. Please, do not say no. It will be so much more friendly, I think. Besides, all Americans talk business over whisky.” Mr. Moto’s voice broke into a sharp, artificial laugh. “Please, it would be no trouble. Please, I must insist.”

  Mr. Moto opened a door which apparently led to an adjoining bedroom and he was back in another moment, carrying a tray on which was a whisky bottle, a soda bottle, and two glasses. Mr. Moto’s personality seemed to have changed now that he was holding a tray. He set it down on the little table with an adroit flourish that made him seem like a Japanese valet and he was quick enough to read Wilson’s thoughts.

  “I’ve served whisky so often for gentlemen in America,” Mr. Moto said. “I am so very, very sorry there is no ice. Please, Miss Hitchings, you’ll excuse Mr. Hitchings and me. Will you have some soda? I know so very few American ladies drink whisky.”

  “No,” said Eva Hitchings. “Nothing for me, thanks.”<
br />
  “But you will excuse us, please,” Mr. Moto begged. “And I am so very, very sorry there is no ice, but there is whisky, ha-ha, there is whisky, and that is the main thing, is it not? Will you say how much, Mr. Hitchings, and how much soda? Up to there? Just so? And now excuse me, I shall pour a little for myself.” Mr. Moto’s hands moved swiftly and accurately from bottle to glass and then he handed a glass to Wilson, bowing. It was a beautiful bow, better than a Frenchman’s, Wilson thought. Mr. Moto lowered his head, slowly. His whole body seemed to droop in a gesture of complete, assumed submission and then his head and shoulders snapped up straight.

  “Please,” said Mr. Moto. “Thank you very very much.” Wilson took the glass and nodded back. Mr. Moto was holding a glass also. He raised it and bowed again.

  “To your very good health,” Mr. Moto said, and Wilson was aware of a note of music in his voice, as though he were intoning a religious response. “Please, I really mean it, Mr. Hitchings.” Mr. Moto’s studied courtesy was amusing. In spite of himself, Wilson Hitchings smiled and did his best to respond. “Here’s looking at you, Mr. Moto,” he said, and he raised his glass to his lips.

  The rim of the glass was just touching his lips, when something occurred so unexpectedly that he could never reconstruct it. He remembered the feel of the glass on his lips and the next instant, the glass was at his feet. The glass was lying broken, its contents were running over a woven palm-leaf mat. Mr. Moto had leapt forward and struck the glass out of Wilson’s hand.

  “Please,” Mr. Moto was saying. “Please, excuse. I am so very, very sorry.”

  “Here—” Wilson began stupidly. “What’s the matter, Mr. Moto?”

  Mr. Moto’s indrawn breath hissed obsequiously between his gold-filled teeth.

  “Please,” said Mr. Moto, “I hope you will forgive me. Everything is so very, very clear now. I could not believe that you would mean to drink. Please, I believe you now. I believe that you know nothing, Mr. Hitchings. You are very, very honest. Yes, excuse me, please.”