Mr. Moto Omnibus

by John P. Marquand

  “I think,” I suggested, “I should feel more comfortable if you put down that knife. I don’t think I’ve ever struck or mishandled a woman, but believe me I will, if you don’t set it down. I don’t want my throat cut too.”

  She looked blankly at the knife she was holding and then she dropped it on the floor. “I did not know I’d picked it up,” she said.

  “That was very absent-minded,” I answered, “don’t you think?” Then she moved a step towards me and came near to stumbling over that figure on the floor.

  “Please,” she said, “please, won’t you help me?”

  Her suggestion seemed to me grimly amusing—so amusing that I wanted to laugh out loud.

  “Don’t you think you’re very well able to help yourself?” I suggested. “You’ve done an efficient job—not exactly neat, but efficient. Do you always stab them in the back?”

  I do not believe that she heard me. At any rate, she disregarded my question.

  Her hand went up to her bare throat, a slim, white trembling hand.

  “I—” she stopped and seemed to choke upon her words. “I came here to see you.” Again I had an almost uncontrollable desire to break out into laughter.

  “That was thoughtful of you,” I answered, “but selfishly, perhaps, I am just as glad that I was out.” She did not seem to hear me.

  “It’s Ma—” Her voice was choked. “Don’t you see it’s Ma?”

  “You mistake your tenses,” I suggested. “You mean it was Ma, don’t you? You Russians are so linguistic that you’ve conjugated him from the present to the past.”

  “Don’t!” she whispered. “Don’t!”

  “Oh?” I said. “Perhaps you’re sorry, now?”

  “Don’t!” she whispered again. “Please, please—I didn’t kill him! I came to see you. And I found him lying here. It’s Ma—”

  “So you’ve said several times,” I answered. “Who is Ma?”

  By that time she had regained her self-possession. In spite of her delicacy and beauty she always, as I have said, gave one the sense of competence to encounter any situation.

  “You don’t understand,” she said. “I didn’t know he was here. Why didn’t he speak to me? I suppose he didn’t dare.”

  “Perhaps you didn’t give him a chance,” I suggested.

  “Don’t!” She did not raise her voice, but its intensity made me stop. “Don’t speak like that! I swear I didn’t kill him. You don’t understand. He was my father’s old interpreter and servant.”

  Though my intellect told me she would naturally be lying, something made me believe her, for no one could have simulated her look of pain. I thought for a second that she would lose control of herself and weep. Her face became convulsed. She raised a handkerchief to her lips.

  “Don’t!” I said sharply. “Who killed him then?”

  “They—” she whispered. “He must have had a message. They suspected something. Why didn’t he tell me?” Then she was completely calm again. Whatever she might have been and whatever she meant, that girl was brave.

  If I could not understand what part she was playing in that drama, at least I could admire her bravery. She must have lived a life where one made accurate decisions, without time for much mental debate.

  “We must leave here at once,” she said. “If he knew I had come here, I don’t know what would happen. Please—” she touched my arm and nodded to the door. “Quickly, quickly, please!” Her urgency and the swiftness of her decision made me respond instantly.

  I whipped open the door and then we were out in the corridor and her hand on my arm was trembling. There was no one in the passageway.

  “This way,” she whispered and pulled me around a corner. “Listen! Here they come.”

  She was right. At the end of the passage we had left I heard soft steps and low voices. If she had not been decisive, they would have seen us in another instant. She snatched at the handle of the cabin door beside us, but even in her haste she was adroit and quick, and fortunately the door was not locked. A second later we were in the dark of a vacant cabin, listening to footsteps and the voices through a crack of the door. Then she closed it noiselessly and we were plunged into pitch blackness, standing close together—so close that I felt her breath on my cheek. She still held my arm and her fingers tightened on my sleeve. I felt her lips brush my cheek as she whispered so faintly that I could hardly hear her.

  “I don’t think they saw us. You must never say that you came down to your cabin—never! You must wait here for just a moment, not too long. When I open the door, move to the right and go straight up to the deck. Someone will speak to you there, of course. They will say they’ve changed your cabin.”

  I whispered back to her and I felt my forehead touch that soft gold hair. “What did you want to see me for? What was it?”

  “Because I was a fool,” she whispered. “Because I grew to like you. I wanted to tell you something—about this rotten business. I wanted you to be sure you knew what you were doing . . . sure you knew what he was using you for. I can’t tell you now because you must go . . . but when you get to Shanghai, go home to America! Go anywhere. Don’t trust them! No one should like anyone in this business. I know I’ve been a fool. Now go quickly up on deck.”

  “What about you?” I whispered.

  “Never mind about me. I know how to look out for myself. Good-by.”

  But I did not move. I did not want to go away. “I rather like you too,” I said. “Will I ever see you again?”

  “Probably not,” she whispered, and suddenly she threw her arms around me. She held me close to her for an instant. “Good-by—now go!” she said.

  I crept through the half-open door and turned to the right as she directed. Except for the vibration of the ship, everything was very quiet. I did exactly what she told me, because I knew she meant every word she said. I hurried up on deck. I could not have been there more than a minute, looking over the rail, when that toy bulldog of an officer came up to me.

  “I have been looking for you,” he said. “Something has occurred. I am so sorry, if for a few minutes you cannot go to bed.”

  “Why not?” I asked him. “What’s the matter?” And when I asked, I could not help wondering if he was the man who had driven home the knife.

  “So sorry,” he said apologetically, “so very sorry. The water pipe in your cabin has been leaking. We are removing you to a better one, a de luxe cabin on this deck. It will not take long.”

  “All right,” I said. “I never liked that cabin.”

  “No,” he agreed, “it was uncomfortable. A very nice night, is it not?”

  They were doing everything very smoothly. Clearly, as a part of the plan, the little officer was there to watch me safe to bed. “It is a nice night,” he said again, “is it not?”

  “Fine,” I answered. “I’ve been up in the bow. I hope you weren’t looking for me long.”

  “In the bow,” he answered; “that is very nice. No, I was not looking for you long.”

  Five minutes later a steward spoke to the officer softly in Japanese.

  “We can go now. Your room is ready,” my bulldog said.

  He was right that my quarters were improved. I was shown to a fine cabin with a large square port. My pajamas were laid out, and my slippers and my bags were all in place, in the same order that they had been in the stateroom below. Even my leather-covered pocket flask was standing by the washbowl. Further, to my relief, my cabin door had a bolt on it, which I drew noiselessly as soon as I was alone. Then I looked carefully at my bags and saw that the clothes in them had been moved, although they were folded neatly. My baggage had been searched again. Every one of my pockets had been searched. Every inch of my baggage had been gone over by deft-fingered experts. They had been looking for something in my old cabin. They had been searching for something with a tireless zeal. It was because that dead Chinese had left something there,—some note, some message for me before he had died, a note which he hoped
I would give to Commander Driscoll because I had been in the American navy. It must have been an important message, important enough, at any rate, to cost a man his life. I wondered if they had found it. As I wondered, I looked at my pocket flask longingly, for after the excitement, the desire for a drink was very strong in me. I even picked it up and had my fingers on the silver cup that formed the bottom of the flask before I checked myself. I knew more than ever that it would be wise to be cold sober, and I set the flask back in its place.

  Then I thought of Sonya Karaloff. I could still feel the touch of her hair against my forehead and the pressure of her arms as she held me close. Had she been sincere at that moment, I wondered? Or was it simply a part of seduction, because she thought I was a broken drunkard who might be used? I could not tell, but I hoped that she had meant it, I was surprised how much I hoped. . . .

  I examined the bolt on my door carefully before I undressed for bed, but the bolt was firmly set and I was not disturbed that night. The lock on the inside was perfect, but when I moved back the bolt and endeavored to open the door, I found it had been fastened on the outside also. I was a prisoner in the cabin.

  I have never been under any illusion that I’m intellectually brilliant beyond the average. Yet it is true that the shock of such a sequence of events and the realization of imminent danger are calculated either to cause panic or to set the mind at work. They had on me a beneficial effect which was close to a sort of regeneration. They gave me a new perspective on myself.

  I knew something which Mr. Moto did not. He was looking for a message and he had not found it, or else he would not have locked my door. Since he had locked me in, he clearly thought that I had found it.

  “Let him think,” I whispered to myself. “He won’t get any change from me.”

  For I was sure of one thing by then. I was through with Mr. Moto and through with the whole lying devious affair in which he had involved me, and through with all the motives which had drawn me into it. I was myself again. I was Casey Lee. It was a long while since I had been myself.

  7

  I DID what I thought was best under the circumstances. I went quietly to bed, confident that I would not remain locked in my room indefinitely; nor was I mistaken. At eight o’clock in the morning there was a tapping on my door, which grew increasingly persistent until I arose and drew back the bolt. It was a room steward carrying a tray with fruit and coffee, and he drew in his breath politely.

  “So sorry,” he said, “so very sorry. Somehow the door was locked. Please, there is a gentleman to see you.” He set the tray on a chair beside my bed.

  “Where is he?” I asked.

  “Please,” the steward said, “if you are ready, he will come right in.” He must have taken it for granted that I was ready, because an instant later Mr. Moto appeared in his morning coat.

  We must have looked strange, me in my pajamas, and Mr. Moto in his morning coat, but neither of us forgot the formalities. I bowed and Mr. Moto bowed and the steward departed.

  “Moto,” I asked, “why was I locked in here last night?”

  Mr. Moto raised his eyebrows. “I do not understand,” he said. “Some mistake, I think.” He sat down in a little straight-backed chair near the washstand and lighted a cigarette, and then he said what all his people say continuously: “I am so very sorry. Now I must ask a question. I hope you do not mind.”

  “Does it make any difference if I mind?” I inquired.

  He appeared to consider his answer carefully. “No,” he admitted, “perhaps not. What I wish to ask is this—did you visit your cabin last night after dinner?”

  “No,” I said. “What of it?”

  Mr. Moto blew a cloud of cigarette smoke and smiled apologetically. “There is no use lying, Mr. Lee. Please excuse the word.”

  “Moto,” I said, “you shock me.”

  “I am sorry,” Mr. Moto answered, “but were you not in your cabin?”

  “You heard me,” I said promptly. “I said no.”

  I wondered if he would speak of what had happened in the cabin and I did not have long to wonder. His opaque brown eyes studied me cryptically for a moment and then he said:

  “The knife was moved.”

  It reminded me of the old days when we sat about a table playing poker, with a heavy pile of chips in the center. I had an idea that Mr. Moto was bluffing, that he was not entirely sure of my movements for about five minutes the night before.

  “What knife?” I asked.

  Again Mr. Moto considered his answer carefully. “Well,” he said, “it makes no difference. You remember our conversation yesterday, Mr. Lee? I have come to get the message.”

  Then I knew that I had guessed right; they had not found what they had been looking for.

  “What message?” I asked.

  “There was a message in your cabin,” repeated Mr. Moto politely. “It is very important that it should go no further. You have that message, I think.”

  “Do you?” I asked.

  “Yes,” said Mr. Moto; “will you give it to me, please?” His tone was considerate. Mr. Moto always was a gentleman.

  “I told you,” I repeated, “that I haven’t got a message.”

  “I’m so sorry,” said Mr. Moto. “If you do not give it to me I shall have men in here to search you, Mr. Lee. It will be an indignity that I shall be sorry for. A very careful search of your body. Come—will you give me the message?”

  I took a step toward Mr. Moto’s straight-backed chair. “Moto,” I said, “if you call anyone in here to search me, I’m going to break your neck.”

  Mr. Moto dropped his cigarette into one of those water-filled ash receivers and reached thoughtfully into his pocket, I believed for his cigarette case, but instead his hand whisked out with a compact little automatic pistol.

  “I am so very sorry,” he said. “You will stay where you are, Mr. Lee.” And he called out in his native tongue. At that exact instant that he called, the door shot open and three stewards filed in silently.

  “I am so sorry,” Mr. Moto said again, “but you must submit to have them search you. Please.”

  A single glance at the stewards and at Mr. Moto convinced me that any further argument was useless, for the men all had an air of complete efficiency written on them which displayed a familiarity with forms of business not usually practiced by steamship employees.

  “Very well,” I said to Mr. Moto. “You have entirely convinced me.”

  He did not answer but he smiled most agreeably and put his automatic back into his inside pocket.

  If I had not been so personally involved in this search to the extent of losing a good deal of my own dignity, I should have found their procedure interesting. I never really knew until then what was meant by thoroughness. First they went through my bags again, even going so far as to pull out the linings. Then they examined all my clothing and my shoes, shaking, exploring, touching every seam with their fingers. While this was going on, two stewards had the cabin carpets up and the mattress and bedding ripped off to be examined. I will say that they were neat about it. Once they finished, every article was put carefully back in its place. The top of my flask was unscrewed and one of the men probed its contents with a long wire. For easily half an hour the cabin was a vortex of silent, lubricated activity. Each of the men knew exactly what to do, and in case they did not, Mr. Moto made occasional gentle suggestions. Once they had finished with the room, two of them turned to me.

  “So sorry,” Mr. Moto said, and they stripped off my pajamas, leaving me in a state of nature.

  “Like a diamond miner in Kimberly, eh—Mr. Moto?” I suggested.

  “Believe me,” said Mr. Moto seriously, “what we are looking for is worth more than the Kohinoor, Mr. Lee.”

  I tried to be indifferent under their prodding fingers and I was somewhat cheered by Mr. Moto’s growing air of surprise and discouragement.

  “So it is not there,” Mr. Moto said. “I am sorry.”

  “I told
you it wasn’t there,” I answered, “and now do you mind if I put on some clothes?”

  “No, indeed.” Mr. Moto rose and regarded me seriously. “I am very much afraid that what I am looking for has been destroyed. Can you tell me, Mr. Lee?”

  “I can’t tell you anything,” I answered.

  The stewards filed out but Moto paused beside the door. “I am very much afraid,” he said, “that what I want rests inside you there.” He tapped his wrinkled forehead. “If that is so, you must tell me. You really must. We cannot be good fellows about this matter.”

  “Why not?” I asked.

  “Because what I’m looking for,” said Mr. Moto softly, “must not go any further. Will you think this over carefully, please, and someone will be in to talk to you later? I dislike certain parts of my profession very much. Now you must stay here while you think, please.” Then Mr. Moto was gone and I heard the lock on the cabin door click softly.

  I do not recollect that I was as much alarmed as I was puzzled, not having the slightest idea of exactly what Mr. Moto was looking for. I could not entirely understand why he was so serious, nor did the implications of his remarks immediately dawn upon me. It only seemed to me incredible that a comparatively harmless person like myself, who, a few days ago, had nothing but self to think of, should be caught up in the edges of a completely fantastic snarl. The only thing I could think of by the time I had finished dressing was that I must remain composed.

  Now that the door was locked, the air in the cabin seemed still and oppressive and the walls seemed closer together. I walked over to the square porthole and looked out on the shining waters of the ocean, perhaps twenty feet below, but there was no consolation at the sight of that blank sea. Then I tried to open the port, only to discover that it was one of those sliding windows which one screwed down with a crank-like implement which fitted into the sill. That appliance was not there, however. It must have been intentionally removed and there was no way for me to leave that cabin by door or port. It is curious what eccentric matters may disturb one’s calm. Nothing upset me as much as that discovery that I could not open my port, that I could not feel the air on my face. It gave me an unreasoning sense of suffocation and panic, which aroused in me a desire to cry out for help, although I knew there was no help and that I must take my medicine. If I had told Moto frankly everything I knew, I might not have been locked inside, but I would be hanged before I would tell him.