Mr. Moto Omnibus

by John P. Marquand

  I paused awhile before I answered, trying to make up my mind. I paused, but I believed every word she said, however incredible it may sound as I have set it down on paper. Words in black and white about such matters as I have tried to describe do not convey any great basis of credibility, because the time and place do not go with those words or the personality which spoke them. There is no way which I know for me to convey the impression of her voice, or for me to describe the restlessness of Asia, since both of these are wholly indescribable to anyone who has not known them. I can only say again that I knew she told the truth. I knew it, if only from the way her story fitted with the small details I had seen. Her role was clear at last and Mr. Moto and Driscoll and even Wu Lai-fu came into place, cleverly and perfectly. More than anything else I knew that she was telling the truth because I liked her, and I have found it pays to trust quite implicitly to one’s instinctive likings.

  “Sonya,” I said, “I think you’re being straight with me.”

  “I am,” she said. “I am.” And her fingers gripped my hand. The pressure of her fingers reminded me that I had been holding her hand all the while she was speaking.

  “If you see this message,” I asked her, “what are you going to do?”

  “I’m going to find that paper, if you’ll help me, Casey.”

  “If you find it,” I asked, “what will you do then?” She was no longer candid. She did not meet my glance.

  “We’ll talk about that later,” she said. “The point is, we both want to find it, don’t we? Will you take out your flask?”

  “Yes,” I said, “I’ll trust you, Sonya. Can you read Chinese?”

  She nodded, and I drew the flask from my hip pocket. I snapped the cup off the bottom and handed it to her.

  “With my compliments,” I said.

  She took the cup and lifted out the paper very carefully between her thumb and finger and bent over it, first thoughtfully, then incredulously.

  “Why,” she exclaimed suddenly, “why—”

  “What’s the matter, Sonya?” I asked her.

  Her eyes were fixed on mine—bewildered candid eyes. “Ma never wrote this,” she said. “I know Ma’s grass characters. He taught me when I was a little girl. Someone else wrote this—not Ma!”

  There was a silence while I tried to think. Again I knew that she was telling the truth, though the whole matter was becoming too complicated for me to understand.

  “Are you sure?” I said.

  “Yes,” she answered, “I’m sure.”

  “But who else could have written it?”

  “I don’t know,” she said. “Let me try to think.” She sighed and frowned in her perplexity and said again, “Let me try to think.”

  It seemed to me that it would do no good for me to help her because I was entirely beyond my depth.

  “If you don’t mind,” I said, “I’ll take a drink while you’re thinking,” and I reached and took the cup away. Then I unscrewed the top of the flask. I was just about to pour a drink into the cup when my glance fell on the gold-washed bottom.

  “Sonya,” I said. “Look! There was another paper here. Look down at the bottom of this cup. You can see where it was lying. A corner of it’s been stuck to the bottom. Look!”

  She reached for the cup and drew in her breath sharply. She was bending over it, staring. Dimly, yet clearly enough to see, there was the outline of where a similar bit of paper had been lying. The presence of a little moisture had caused its edges to adhere slightly to the bottom of the cup. Someone had pulled it out hastily, a little carelessly. It was different from the paper in her hand. Her eyes were wide, her lips were in a thin straight line.

  “Casey,” she asked, “did you do that?”

  “No,” I said, “I didn’t.”

  “Then,” her voice dropped unconsciously to a half-whisper, “take that cup and wash it very carefully. Dry it with a towel. Don’t let your fingerprints stay on it. Someone has taken that message and left this one, and no one else must know.”

  “But who?” I asked. “I wonder who.”

  “We’ll have to find out, Casey,” Sonya said. “We’ll have to try to—you and I tonight. After all, who would have done it, Casey? Not Mr. Moto. He only guessed this morning what was in there. Who else was there? You took that flask with you when you jumped into the river.”

  I had never tried to play the role of Sherlock Holmes before. “Well,” I said, “let’s try to think. Suppose you read me that message, Sonya.”

  She looked at it again. “Why, that’s very queer,” she said.

  “What’s queer?” I asked. “You’d better read the message.”

  “It doesn’t say much,” she answered, “but it’s enough to understand. It says ‘The house of Ma Fu’Shan at Fuyu.’ That’s what the message says, of course, but that isn’t what is queer. Ma Fu’Shan was our man Ma’s elder brother, Casey. I’ve seen him often enough. His house is not at Fuyu. Ma has often told me where he lives—at a farm village near the hills, a few miles outside of Chinchow. Casey, that message has been changed.”

  “Let’s forget about that for a minute,” I said, for I had a flash of intuition. “Whether it’s been changed or not, I know where the thing is, Sonya. It’s at Ma’s brother’s house. Ma left it there.”

  “But who changed the message?” she asked me. “Why?”

  And then I had another thought. My mind had leapt dazzlingly from inconsequence to fact. In my excitement, I put my hand on her shoulder.

  “Listen,” I said, “have you thought of Wu Lai-fu? Listen, Sonya, he’s as clever as Mr. Moto, isn’t he? Why shouldn’t he want this for himself? Listen, Sonya. I think I can tell you what’s happened.”

  She looked incredulous but I knew that I was right. I had remembered something which had happened back in that room of Wu Lai-fu’s.

  “I remember how his manner changed toward me when he was talking to me,” I said. “He had someone look inside the cup of this flask, Sonya, as sure as I’m alive. When he was talking to me. I know he did. Can’t you see? It was his idea to have that message changed. He knew that Moto would be after me. He knew that sooner or later Moto’s mind would come to that flask. He wants Moto out of the way, Sonya, because he wants this for himself. He’s probably sent someone off already.”

  Sonya looked thoughtful and then the lights were dancing in her eyes. “Casey,” she said, “that’s clever of you. I never thought it possible that you could think like that.”

  “Thanks,” I said. “I didn’t either—if you want to know.”

  Sonya moved, and I felt her shoulder tremble. “You’re right,” she said; “you’re absolutely right. It’s Mr. Wu. He’s sent someone there already, probably by train this noon. It’s too late for us now.”

  “Wait a minute,” I broke in, for I had another idea. “I don’t know anything about this country. How long does it take to reach this place, wherever it is, by train?”

  Sonya frowned again. “Quite a time, I think. You would have to go by way of Tientsin and through Shan-hai-kwan.”

  “That means nothing to me,” I said. “Would anyone starting this morning reach there by tomorrow noon?”

  Sonya laughed. “Your ideas of rail travel in China are too American, Casey. It would take him another day, at least. But he’s ahead. We can’t catch up to him now.”

  “Can’t we?” I said. “Have you forgotten what I am?”

  “No,” she said seriously. “I think you’re splendid, Casey.”

  “Not that,” I answered. “I’m an air pilot, Sonya. I doubt if Mr. Wu has thought of sending a man by plane.”

  She leaped quickly to her feet. “Casey,” she whispered, “Casey, do you know where to get a plane?”

  I nodded. “I know where I can try. And if you know where this village is on the map, I can set you down there tomorrow morning. How far away is it, do you think?”

  “Five hundred miles,” she said.

  “All right,” I said. “There’s
no use starting now. We can’t make it in the dark.”

  Then her excitement left her. “Casey,” she said, “Casey dear, there’s no use talking this way. We can’t do it at all. Moto’s men are watching this hotel. We’re cornered in here like two little rats.”

  “Oh, no, we’re not,” I said.

  Now that I had thought of the plane, my mind was running smoothly. Now that there was no longer mystery, I could deal with actual facts. “If you do what I tell you, Mr. Moto will lose all further interest in us tonight. Sonya, are you listening to me? Get Mr. Moto on the telephone. Tell him to come up here. Tell him you’ve got the message. It was in the flask. Tell him I’m glad to give it to him. It’s no affair of mine. There’s the telephone. You go and tell him, Sonya.”

  Sonya stood an instant thinking and then she said, “Casey, I think you’re very clever. I mean it. You’re brave, you’re quick. I should be glad to go anywhere with you, Casey, anywhere on earth.”

  “Thanks,” I answered. Her words had made my own words unsteady. She had not been acting when she said them. We were friends. “The same goes with me, Sonya.”

  And she walked to the telephone and lifted off the receiver.

  “Remember,” she said quickly, “clean out the inside of the cup, Casey dear. And you’d better show it to me when you’ve finished.”

  Not being able to understand Japanese, I have never known what Sonya said. As a matter of fact, I did not mind any longer, because I trusted her. We were like very old friends as we waited for Mr. Moto.

  “You must put on a tie, Casey dear,” she said, “and put the flask back in your pocket. I want you to look nice when Mr. Moto comes. Perhaps it would be just as well to put those pistols in the bureau drawer.”

  “You’re sure we won’t need them?” I said.

  “Why, Casey,” she looked shocked; “that isn’t kind of you. Why should there be, when Mr. Moto is getting what he wants? He’s not a villain, Casey. He is a very considerate man.”

  Her remark struck me as amusing, now that I had encountered several examples of Mr. Moto’s consideration, including a bad arm and a lacerated scalp.

  “No,” she said, “Mr. Moto will treat you very nicely now.”

  I was curious to see. Sonya was picking up the room and making it presentable. From melodrama the situation seemed to turn into something almost resembling a tea party.

  “Casey,” Sonya said again, “since when have you had a drink?”

  I tried to think back. “I have not had a drink for hours, not since at Mr. Wu’s,” I said. “I don’t believe I need to drink, if there’s anything that interests me.”

  “Do I interest you?” she asked.

  I told her that she did and she looked pleased. The Gaiety Club and sudden death and White Russian plots of Harbin had dropped away from her.

  Mr. Moto would appear with an armed bodyguard, I thought, since he would be suspicious of some trap, but I did not give his perspicacity sufficient credit. Mr. Moto came alone, without a suspicious glance. He was dressed for the evening, carefully, in what is known as a dinner coat in America, and what the French call a smoking, an inoffensive man bowing, smiling, and holding an opera hat. He displayed his relief and pleasure by grinning so disarmingly that I very nearly liked him. There was a row of pearls on his pleated shirt front; a handkerchief was sticking neatly from his pocket; his small feet glittered in their patent-leather pumps.

  “Hello, Moto,” I said.

  “Hello, Lee,” he answered. His smile could not have been anything but genuine. “I am so glad,” Mr. Moto said, “so very, very glad, but I’m so sorry for what happened tonight. I hope you have not been hurt? If we could only have reached this conclusion before—but it was my fault, not your fault.”

  I stood up and shook hands with him. The situation was curious and Mr. Moto’s wish to be friendly was nearly moving.

  “That’s all right, Moto,” I said. “I only wish you’d thought of the flask sooner. I didn’t, Moto.”

  Mr. Moto laughed and even his laughter was relieved, not the studious social laughter which one hears so often in Japan. “My dear fellow,” said Mr. Moto, “I am so very glad that nothing happened to you. It would have been such a mistake. And you have been so very useful. Suppose now we have a drink. Good whisky for good Japanese and good Americans.”

  “Out of the flask?” I asked him.

  Mr. Moto laughed gaily. “That is very good,” he said. “You are a good companion, Mr. Lee.”

  Then Sonya interrupted. “No,” she said, “Mr. Lee is not drinking.”

  It was the first time that I had known I was not drinking.

  A shadow flitted across Mr. Moto’s smiling countenance and after it a light of comprehension.

  “Ah,” said Mr. Moto, “so that is it. You have not been drinking? I remember now. How much more fortunate it would have been if you had been drinking,” and he laughed again, so infectiously that I joined him as I handed him my flask.

  “There is good whisky inside that for a good Japanese, Mr. Moto,” I told him. “And there is one thing which perhaps you have not noticed. There is a cup on the bottom of the flask.”

  Mr. Moto was being a very good fellow. He patted my arm gently.

  “You are very funny, Mr. Lee,” he said. “I like men who are funny. We understand jokes in Japan. We love American jokes. Will you permit me?” He took the flask and his eyes became narrowly intent. He pulled the cup off quickly. “Ah—” he said, and he had the bit of paper in his hand.

  “Mr. Moto,” I said, “I want you to understand something.”

  “What?” he asked.

  “I want you to understand that I am very glad you have this paper,” I told him. “I want you to know that I bear you no ill will for anything that has happened—not even for your talk of a flight across the Pacific. I have had a very interesting time.”

  Mr. Moto’s face looked genuinely troubled. “Perhaps we will talk about the Pacific flight later,” he said. “But now I wish not to inconvenience you. The belongings you left aboard the ship will be sent to you at once, and in the meanwhile you have been subjected to great unpleasantness through my fault, and I am very, very sorry. I understand that you are a gentleman, Mr. Lee, and I am giving this to you, entirely with that understanding. You are alone here without money. You will not mistake my motive, I ask you, please.” He drew in his breath between his teeth with a sharp little hiss, pulled a wallet from his inside pocket and extracted two large notes, each for five thousand yen.

  “Please,” he said.

  I hesitated, because I did not wish to touch his money under such circumstances. Sonya’s glance stopped my refusal. “Thank you, Mr. Moto,” I said. “This is too much.”

  “No,” said Mr. Moto, “no.” And he made one of his curious bobbing bows. “It is nothing for the pain you have suffered. You must not think badly of Japan. Will you take it, please?”

  “Thanks,” I said again.

  Mr. Moto was relieved. He picked up the cup again and poured himself a drink. He raised the cup, smiling at me in a most friendly way. “Good whisky,” he said, “for a good Japanese. Banzai! And your very good health too, Miss Sonya. You have been very, very kind. I know you have had sad news today. You will not blame me for what happened, will you, Miss Sonya? Because I am very, very sorry and I like you very much.”

  Sonya’s gesture surprised me, but it was genuine. She put her hands on Mr. Moto’s shoulders. “And I like you very much, Mr. Moto,” she said.

  Mr. Moto tossed off his cup of whisky with a slight tremor, since the drink was probably distasteful to him, but he tossed it off because of manners.

  “Moto,” I said, “I take it I may come and go as I please now? You’ve got what you wanted, haven’t you? You won’t mind my saying that you make me a trifle nervous?”

  “My dear fellow!” Mr. Moto answered. “This is all over between us. If there is any help you need, call, please, at the Japanese Consulate. Mention my name, please
, because I am a friend. And if you come back to Tokyo, ask for me, also. I wish you to like Japan. We are a small people to have come to so much, but we are a good people, Mr. Lee.”

  I thanked him and I meant it.

  “And we will talk about flying the Pacific later,” Mr. Moto said, “but—” His glance traveled from Sonya to me, “but perhaps now I interrupt?”

  “No,” said Sonya. “I’m going now. I’ve done everything, I think.”

  “Yes,” said Moto. “You have done very, very well. May I offer to take you where you are going?” Then he turned his attention to me again. “You have been hurt, Mr. Lee,” he said. “You are wounded in the head. It is nothing much, I hope. You haven’t been hurt elsewhere?”

  “A flesh wound in the shoulder,” I answered. “It is nothing much.”

  “I am so sorry,” said Mr. Moto. “So very sorry. May I send a physician?”

  “No, thanks,” I said. “Sonya’s fixed me up. Good night, Sonya.”

  “I’ll call to see you in the morning,” Sonya said, “that is, if Mr. Moto does not mind.”