Think Fast, Mr. Moto

by John P. Marquand

  What amazed Wilson even then in that moment of incredulous revulsion was Mr. Chang’s extreme casualness. He recalled that his uncle had once told him that a foreigner could never wholly comprehend the Eastern point of view. The actions of Mr. Chang and of Mr. Moto must have been bound up in an etiquette of behavior that was admirably mixed with pride. He had seen Mr. Moto being conducted into the dark under Mr. Chang’s directions, to be murdered in cold blood; yet the control of Mr. Moto and of Mr. Chang had been so perfect that there was no more emphasis on the whole affair than there might be in the exchange of ordinary social amenities. Mr. Chang had said that life was cheap, and Mr. Moto must have been in most emphatic agreement. The philosophy of those two men held something more than life. There was no doubt that manners were placed above it—manners that had placed them beyond the sickening horror which Wilson felt. He could have believed that they both would have considered his emotions uncivilized and barbaric. Mr. Chang, who had just indulged in murder, was leaving the room as calmly as a businessman might leave his office. Sergi had put on a dark hat and looked like an innocent traveling salesman. Mr. Maddock was noiseless and impersonal. He even took the trouble to lean over and pat Wilson’s cheek almost affectionately, and he grinned when Wilson winced away from his cold touch.

  “So long, pal,” said Mr. Maddock, softly. “Seeing life, ain’t you, pal?”

  CHAPTER XV

  They all were gone. They were gone like abstract thought leaving only a memory. There was still the odor of cigarette smoke in the room. Wilson was still tied in his chair, sitting mutely, facing Eva Hitchings, but the atmosphere of the room was changing into the commonplace so that Mr. Chang seemed impossible.

  Wilson allowed his glance to rest on Mr. Wilkie, and it was clear that Mr. Wilkie did not share the cool assurance of Mr. Chang. Mr. Wilkie had all the attributes of a gambler who is playing for stakes that are too high for his resources. He looked old. His face was moist and drawn and there was a tremor in his fingers. He picked up the whisky bottle and took another drink, breathed deeply, and drew the back of his hand across his lips.

  “You saw that?” said Mr. Wilkie, in a strained voice, and he seemed to be talking because he wanted to assure himself that he was not alone. “Eva, Eva, I am so sorry that you saw it; but listen to me, both of you. I don’t like it any more than you do. You understand we are all caught in this now, don’t you? You must do what he says. For Heaven’s sake, do what he says!”

  He seemed to expect an answer. He appeared to have forgotten that neither of them could speak.

  “Listen, Hitchings,” he said. “I honestly can feel for you. I am not entirely callous. I started in this because the firm’s accounts got mixed; and then I could not stop. You will know why when you talk some more to that man Chang. It was my idea to have the money lost over the gaming table, and it wasn’t a bad idea, but I am not a murderer any more than either of you two are. It is only because I am desperate, Hitchings.

  “If you will be sensible, I promise both of you that everything will be all right. No one will ever hear a breath of this. I don’t want it to come out any more than you. I am a sound man in the community and I am fond of you, Eva. I am devoted to you, even if you do not believe it.

  “Please, Mr. Hitchings. Please, be reasonable. I don’t know what will happen if you aren’t. You’ve seen him; he won’t stop at anything.”

  But Wilson Hitchings was not reasonable. He was struggling until his chair toppled and creaked.

  “Don’t do that!” said Mr. Wilkie. “That will do no good. You must not do that, Mr. Hitchings.”

  A sound at the door made Mr. Wilkie start. Someone was rapping—one long, and four short raps—and Mr. Wilkie’s mouth dropped open.

  “He’s back,” Mr. Wilkie whispered, and his face was as white as paper. “He’s changed his mind. He’s back. Tell him you’ll do anything he says, Hitchings! Tell him! It’s your only chance!”

  Mr. Wilkie’s hands were fumbling with the lock in uncertain trembling haste.

  “Yes,” he was saying. “All right. All right.”

  Someone from the outside pushed the door so suddenly that it checked his speech and threw Mr. Wilkie off his balance, so that he stepped backward.

  Wilson heard Eva Hitchings make a sound which was half a sob and half a groan. A small man in a dark alpaca coat bounded into the room as though he had been thrown there, and he slammed the door shut with his right hand.

  “You must not make a sound please, Mr. Wilkie,” he was saying. “This is Moto speaking. Mr. Chang will not be here to help you. Not ever again, I think. Yes, I am back, I am not dead. Mr. Maddock and Pierre will manage Mr. Chang and Sergi on the boat. It will be worth it to them for what there is in the traveling bag—two hundred thousand dollars. Mr. Maddock was so quick to understand. He is so very fond of money. Do you understand me, Mr. Wilkie? Mr. Chang is so rich that he has paid to have himself eliminated, I think. It was entirely my own idea.”

  Mr. Moto spoke politely, without undue emotion. He stood in the center of the disordered little office without ever withdrawing his eyes from Mr. Wilkie, watching Mr. Wilkie as a doctor might watch a patient, or a snake might watch a bird.

  “Mr. Wilkie.” His speech was slower, but his voice was carefully modulated. “Please try to understand me. Please do not let panic make you do something which you may regret. I am not bluffing, as you say in your country, Mr. Wilkie. When I say that there is nothing for you to do, I tell the truth. It is all over for you, Mr. Wilkie, but do not be alarmed. You are no concern of mine. I shall not hurt even you if you see the truth.” Mr. Moto paused, still watching Mr. Wilkie. And then there was a change of attitude. All at once, Mr. Moto was no longer alert. His gold-filled teeth glittered in a smile.

  “I think you believe me,” Mr. Moto said. “I am so happy that you believe me. It is so much better.”

  Then Mr. Wilkie found his voice.

  “What …” he began. “How did you do it?”

  “Thank you,” Mr. Moto said. “I shall be so glad to tell you. I manage such affairs so often. It is not very difficult. Everyone likes money. This morning I contrived to speak with Mr. Maddock. Yes, there is always someone who likes money. I even thought to approach you, Mr. Wilkie, but excuse me, I knew you were nervous but you have none of Mr. Maddock’s background and experience, and excuse me, not his courage. Mr. Maddock understood me perfectly as soon as I explained. How do you say it in your own country? He was very glad to sell out for two hundred thousand dollars when he knew no questions would be asked. A part of the bargain was that Mr. Maddock should bring me here this evening. I wished to be sure who was the man carrying the money. The Russian carrier pigeon, as Mr. Maddock called him. The rest was very simple. Some of my own men seized the boat. Some former members of our Navy. There is enough fuel oil to take her into mid-Pacific. They have put a wireless aboard and I have arranged to have her met. Mr. Maddock will be landed safely in Japan together with his traveling bag. I tried so hard to keep my word, but I am so afraid that Mr. Chang and Sergi will not be there, because everything in the future will be much more simple without them. I was so glad to see Mr. Chang. I did not expect him here. I shall not bother to search you for a weapon, Mr. Wilkie, because I know you will not use it. Instead, if you have a knife in your pocket, I shall ask you to cut Miss Hitchings free and to rub her wrists carefully. I am afraid she has been tied too tight; and—will you permit me, Mr. Hitchings?”

  Mr. Moto turned to Wilson Hitchings, without another glance at Mr. Wilkie, and with quick expert fingers removed the gag from Wilson’s mouth. Wilson spoke with difficulty because his mouth was sore and swollen.

  “It was the family,” he said, chokingly. “I am sorry, Moto. I didn’t think they would try to kill you.” Mr. Moto was bending over Wilson’s wrists.

  “Please,” said Mr. Moto cordially, “do not give it another thought. I should have done as you did in your place, Mr. Hitchings. I was sure that you would come here. I was s
o sure that you would be thinking of your family and the Bank.”

  “Damn the Bank!” said Wilson Hitchings. “Damn the family!”

  “Please do not say that,” said Mr. Moto, quickly. “Please. I counted on you to come here as quickly as possible. Your doing so has helped me very much. It has stopped them from suspecting anything, because of course you were sincere. May I rub your wrists, please, Mr. Hitchings? If I had not wished you to speak to Mr. Chang, I should have told you what I will tell you now. There will be no word from me about Hitchings Brothers, ever. Any more than there will be from Mr. Wilkie over there, if you do not lose your temper. I must depend on your discretion, please, as you must depend on mine. It is why I have been so frank. I have done so many things which are not nice and quite beyond your laws, although I hope that you are glad I did them, Mr. Hitchings.”

  Wilson nodded; his speech was growing clearer.

  “If you ask me,” Wilson said, “I think you did a fine job, Mr. Moto.”

  Wilson got to his feet. His legs were still numb, so that he staggered drunkenly across the room and knelt very clumsily beside Eva Hitchings. Then his arms were around her and her chestnut-colored head was on his shoulder.

  “Eva,” he said. “I have made an awful mess of this. I am sorry, Eva …”

  “You needn’t be sorry,” he heard her answer faintly, “because I don’t think you have at all.”

  “I said I would get you out of this,” said Wilson. “Well, I am going to get you out.”

  She moved back her head and he saw that she was smiling. “And you said something else,” said Eva. “I didn’t think I would ever, hear you say it. It was so sacrilegious. You said, ‘Damn the family.’”

  “Yes,” said Wilson. “Damn the family. I have pulled them out of this hole. Mr. Wilkie, do you hear me? I am speaking to you now. You are lucky that Hitchings Brothers has a reputation. I can promise you that nothing will be said—nothing will be done, provided you will resign three months from now. Not because of this, but because you are inefficient. I understand you own Hitchings Plantation, Mr. Wilkie. You will sell it to me, first thing to-morrow morning, for exactly what you paid for it. I came here to close this place, and I am going to close it. I have promised to give it back to Eva and she is going to have it, but she’s going to take that sign off the gate—and I’ll tell you why, Mr. Wilkie. It will come off because she promised to marry me to-night. As long as she was silly enough to promise, I think that’s the best way out for everybody.… Don’t you, Mr. Moto?”

  Mr. Moto raised his hand before his lips and drew in his breath with a sibilant hiss.

  “I think that is nice,” said Mr. Moto, “so very, very nice.”

  About the Author

  John P. Marquand (1893–1960) was a Pulitzer Prize–winning author, proclaimed “the most successful novelist in the United States” by Life magazine in 1944. A descendant of governors of the Massachusetts Bay Colony, shipping magnates Daniel Marquand and Samuel Curzon, and famed nineteenth-century writer Margaret Fuller, Marquand always had one foot inside the blue-blooded New England establishment, the focus of his social satire. But he grew up on the outside, sent to live with maiden aunts in Newburyport, Massachusetts, the setting of many of his novels, after his father lost the once-considerable family fortune in the crash of 1907. From this dual perspective, Marquand crafted stories and novels that were applauded for their keen observation of cultural detail and social mores.

  By the 1930s, Marquand was a regular contributor to the Saturday Evening Post, where he debuted the character of Mr. Moto, a Japanese secret agent. No Hero, the first in a series of bestselling spy novels featuring Mr. Moto, was published in 1935. Three years later, Marquand won the Pulitzer Prize for Fiction for The Late George Apley, a subtle lampoon of Boston’s upper classes. The novels that followed, including H.M. Pulham, Esquire (1941), So Little Time (1943), B.F.’s Daughter (1946), Point of No Return (1949), Melvin Goodwin, USA (1952), Sincerely, Willis Wayde (1955), and Women and Thomas Harrow (1959), cemented his reputation as the preeminent chronicler of contemporary New England society and one of America’s finest writers.

  All rights reserved, including without limitation the right to reproduce this ebook or any portion thereof in any form or by any means, whether electronic or mechanical, now known or hereinafter invented, without the express written permission of the publisher.

  This is a work of fiction. Names, characters, places, events, and incidents either are the product of the author’s imagination or are used fictitiously. Any resemblance to actual persons, living or dead, businesses, companies, events, or locales is entirely coincidental.

  Copyright © 1936, 1937 by John P. Marquand

  Copyright renewed © 1964, 1965 by John P. Marquand, Jr. and Christina M. Welch

  Cover design by Andy Ross

  ISBN: 978-1-5040-1635-3

  This edition published in 2015 by Open Road Integrated Media, Inc.

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