“Well,” he said, “Good-by, Miss Dillaway.”
Miss Dillaway had risen also.
“If you’re getting off this train,” she said, “I’m getting off with you.”
“No.” Calvin Gate’s tone was sharp. “You’re doing no such thing. This is my party, and it wouldn’t do you any good, but if you see Dr. Gilbreth up there, I wish you’d tell him that I forged that check.”
“But Gates—” she clung tight to his arm—“what are they going to do with you?”
His expression was not entirely agreeable. He stood a head and shoulders above the little officer.
“It doesn’t make a bit of difference,” he said. “But they don’t even understand English,” Miss Dillaway cried.
“It doesn’t make any difference,” Calvin Gates repeated. “Good-by, Miss Dillaway.”
He walked toward the rear platform with the officer beside him and the soldiers just behind.
“Gates!” Miss Dillaway called after him, but he did not answer. In fact he only half heard her, for he seemed to have moved from the train already and from all that country.
9
OUT ON the station platform, warm in the late June sunlight, the crowd of chattering, blue-clad Chinese rustics moved hastily aside. He had a glimpse of rolls of bedding and dilapidated baggage, broad dull faces and dull staring eyes. The air was heavy with the odors of coal smoke, and of dough cakes, spaghetti and curiously varnished chickens that were exposed for sale.
“This way please,” the officer said.
He was conducted into a bare and dirty room with a bench along one side of a wall, made greasy by others who had leaned against it waiting. Some soldiers sitting on the bench looked at him and looked away.
“Please,” the lieutenant said, “you sit.” And Calvin Gates sat down. At the end of the room, behind a plain wooden table, was seated a sallow, sickly-looking officer, whose eyes blinked from behind heavy lensed spectacles. In a sharp querulous voice he interrogated a tall, muscular Chinese peasant, clad in nothing but slippers and blue trousers. A Japanese guard whose head reached hardly above the shoulder of the Chinese stood beside him. Without knowing the language, Calvin Gates could understand what was happening by the intonation and by the repetition of syllables. The Chinese was denying something doggedly and stolidly as the officer pressed the question. The lieutenant who had brought Calvin in glanced toward the table and sat down.
“Will not take long,” he said.
The voice of the officer suddenly grew sharper, and the guard standing on tiptoe struck the Chinese across the face. The lieutenant glanced sideways at Calvin Gates.
“Bad man,” he said, “naughty man, a bandit.”
Calvin could see the train through the open window, still waiting, and he wondered why it was delayed. He finally leaned his back against the wall where so many others had leaned before him and drew a travel folder from his pocket, a descriptive pamphlet of Mukden which he had found at the hotel. The lieutenant turned toward him quickly.
“I can read, can’t I?” Calvin asked.
“Yes,” the lieutenant said, “oh yes.”
The writer of the pamphlet had been like the lieutenant, a student not wholly familiar with the English language, and thus the words and tenses of that folder progressed with a breathless, eager inaccuracy—MANCHURIAN INCIDENT AND NORTH BARRACKS. At 10:30 P.M. on the 18th of Sept. 1931, the Manchurian Incident was started by the insolent explosion of the railway track at Liutiso Kou between Mukden and Wen-kuan-tun stations of the South Manchurian Railway, which was executed by the Chinese regular soldiers. After the explosion the Chinese soldiers attempted to flee themselves in the direction of the North Barracks, but just then they were found by the Japanese railway guards under Lieutenant Kawamoto, who were patrolling the place on duty. Suddenly the both sides exchanged the bullets and the Japanese made a fierce pursuit after them. In the next moment, the Chinese forces of some three companies appeared from the thickly grown Kaolian field near the North Barracks, against which the Japanese opposed bravely and desperately, meantime despatching the urgent report to their commander. The skirmish developed speedily and the Japanese troop was compelled to make a violent attack upon the North Barracks where were stationed the brigade of Major-General Wang-icho, to lead the conditions favorable. After several hours of fierce battle, the barracks fell completely into the hand of the Japanese forces.
On the other hand, the Japanese regiment in Mukden rose in concert with the railway guards in the midnight of the same day and succeeded in occupying the walled town, East Barracks, Aerodrome, etc., fighting till 2:00 P.M. of the following day with the reinforcement of the other regiments stationed at Liao-yang and Hai-chang.
The North Barracks is opened to the public inspection, and can be reached in 20 minutes by motor car from S.M.R. Mukden Station.
The words of that short account contained an indirect significance, which revealed something of the spirit of Japan. They conveyed an inevitable sense of going somewhere and a sense of destiny. That incident had happened a good many years back but it had repeated itself since and would repeat itself again. In a small way Calvin felt its element before him in that ugly fly-brown room, illustrated by the heavy Chinese prisoner and the diminutive guard beside him.
The guard gave the prisoner a prod with the butt of his rifle, and the man walked away, beyond the imagination of Calvin Gates, impassively, without fear or anger, with a patient resignation and a poise beyond Calvin’s understanding. The lieutenant looked after him complacently.
“Naughty man,” he said. “Will be shot. Get off your sit please. The officer will see you.”
The sallow Japanese behind the table drummed the tips of his fingers on the boards and spoke sharply in the same querulous, scolding tones. The lieutenant twitched at Calvin’s sleeve and the two walked over to the table. That twitch on the sleeve, gentle though it had been, was almost a discourtesy. He knew that his resentment was not childish, because he was already learning something of the importance of personal dignity and something of that Oriental term, “face,” which no European can entirely define.
“Take your hand off me,” he said to the lieutenant. It was a small matter but he knew that the soldiers and the two officers in the room understood him. Although the lieutenant’s face was blank, he understood. The officer behind the table rose from his chair and spoke again in Japanese. The lieutenant drew in his breath, bowed to Calvin Gates and spoke in his schoolbook English.
“Sorry,” he said. “Excuse.”
Not entirely to Calvin’s surprise, but to his relief, the officer behind the table spoke in excellent English.
“Excuse him,” he said. “You are Mr. Gates I think. I am the colonel here in command of the district. There was a telegram about you.”
The colonel spoke in Japanese again and the lieutenant saluted and gave an order. There was a scuffling noise of feet which made Calvin Gates look behind him. The lieutenant and the soldiers were leaving the room. The colonel watched them go and did not speak until he and Gates were alone.
The light from the window glittered on the colonel’s glasses and he stood stiffly behind the table.
“It is a telegram from a gentleman who knows you, a very important man who shares my political beliefs. His name is Mr. Moto.”
“I thought it was,” said Calvin Gates. “About a cigarette case, is it?”
There was no longer any doubt that Mr. Moto knew where the cigarette case was, and now Calvin knew that Mr. Moto had guessed even before he had left the hotel at Mukden. He remembered Mr. Moto’s polite remark about the shoes outside the door; it was then that Mr. Moto had guessed.
“Yes,” the colonel said. “He is asking to be sure if you have a cigarette case with little birds upon it.”
“He is right,” said Calvin Gates. “I suppose you want it, Colonel.”
“Yes,” the colonel said. “So sorry to trouble you, but I must see it.”
Calvin reached in h
is inside pocket, but the colonel stopped him.
“Be careful,” he said. “Step to the corner here in case someone is looking through the window. Now you may take it out. Thank you.”
The colonel took the cigarette case in both hands and bowed. He turned it over carefully, opened it and closed it.
“Thank you,” the colonel said suddenly. “Thank you so very much. You may take it back now, Mr. Gates.”
“What—” said Calvin Gates. “You want me to take it back? What for? I don’t want it.”
Before he answered the colonel smiled at him as though they both knew something which had better not be expressed.
“Of course,” the colonel said. “That is what Mr. Moto has directed. He only wished to be sure all was in order. I am so sure that you understand.”
“Understand what?” Calvin asked him.
The colonel smiled again.
“Of course,” the colonel said. “Mr. Moto has explained. It is an honor to meet a friend of Mr. Moto. They will bring some tea if you will join me, please. The other instructions will not take a moment.”
Calvin Gates fell his thoughts move dizzily, but his instinct told him that it was better to show no astonishment.
“Here is the tea and a chair for you,” the colonel said.
“This is so very important. Will you please sit down?”
Two soldiers had entered as the colonel was speaking, one carrying a chair and another a blue-and-white teapot.
“Mr. Moto is a very able man,” he said.
“Yes,” said Calvin, “a very able man.”
“And he forgets nothing,” the colonel said.
“No,” said Calvin, “I don’t believe he forgets anything.”
“So you must listen,” the colonel said, “as I speak for Mr. Moto.” The colonel lowered his voice.
“There was a long telegram. Mr. Moto wanted you told that others know you have the case. I hope you understand.”
“Oh,” said Calvin Gates, “some others know, do they?”
“Yes,” The colonel sipped his tea. “It is so unfortunate. Mr. Moto is afraid that they may try to get it. He asked that you be very careful. You must not let it be stolen. You are not to give it away until you reach Kalgan. A man there will ask for it. His name is Mr. Holtz. Mr. Moto is most anxious that Mr. Holtz should have it.”
“He didn’t say anything more?” asked Calvin Gates.
“Just one thing more,” the colonel said. “He wanted me to say that the others understand you are Mr. Moto’s friend, and that is dangerous.”
The colonel sipped his tea and the light glittered on his glasses.
“He is sorry that it is so dangerous for you. Have you a weapon, Mr. Gates?”
Calvin Gates shook his head and the colonel opened the drawer of the table.
“You see,” he said, “Mr. Moto thinks of everything.” He reached in the drawer and drew out an automatic pistol. “There,” the colonel said. “I hope so much that you will not have to use it, and here is an extra clip of cartridges. Mr. Moto thinks of everything, does he not?”
Calvin took the pistol in the palm of his hand, examined it for a moment and slipped it into his coat pocket.
“Yes,” he said a little vaguely, “Mr. Moto thinks of everything. Look here, Colonel, you’d better take this cigarette case. I don’t want it.”
The colonel raised his cup delicately and sipped his tea before he answered.
“Mr. Moto was afraid of that,” he said. “It will do no good to give the case away. The others know you have it. They will try to get it at any rate. Mr. Moto wants you to keep it now. It is the best way he knows of having it delivered.”
“Suppose I refuse?” Calvin asked him. “I don’t want to be mixed up in this.”
“Please.” The colonel raised his hand. “You are so involved already. I do not like to threaten. You do not want to go to a military prison. You might stay there very long.”
“Oh,” said Calvin, “that’s it.”
“Yes,” the colonel answered. “I think that you had much rather get back upon the train. You see the train is waiting.”
Calvin Gates glanced out the window. The train was waiting and the colonel was waiting also. Although his thoughts were undefined and clouded by uncertainty, he was beginning to understand what had happened, and the brain of Mr. Moto was behind it. For some reason of his own, ever since they had first met on the boat, Mr. Moto had been waiting while one thing led to another.
Calvin Gates folded his hands across his knee and he felt as he had before, like a slow-witted barbarian who was uncouthly trying to understand unknown complexities.
“Why does Mr. Moto want me to carry this thing?” he asked.
The colonel smiled as though he had explained everything, though he had not expected the abruptness of the question. He replaced his glasses carefully on the wide bridge of his nose and studied Calvin carefully through the lenses.
“There is no reason to explain,” the colonel said. “Mr. Moto wishes this delivered to the right person, and he wishes no one to be suspicious. He is sure that you can do it.”
The colonel smiled as though he had explained everything.
“He says he wants you to be comfortable and to have a happy journey.”
Calvin Gates got to his feet and shook his head.
“He’s wrong,” he said. “I won’t do it.”
The colonel rose also.
“You are making a great mistake,” he said. “Excuse me, please.” He raised his voice and called something in his own language.
The soldier opened the door so quickly that Calvin was sure that he had been waiting for the order. He opened the door and stood aside, and Calvin heard a voice he recognized. It was the lieutenant speaking.
“You come in please,” the lieutenant said; and Miss Dillaway was standing in the doorway. Her chin was high and her eyes were snapping angrily.
“Hello, Gates,” she said. “What have they been doing to you? That soldier wouldn’t let me come in.”
The colonel spoke before Calvin Gates could answer.
“So sorry, madam,” he said. “You must stay, I think.”
Calvin Gates spoke quickly.
“Wait a minute,” he said. “She has nothing to do with it.”
“So sorry,” the colonel said, “she must stay here too, unless, of course, you change your mind.”
“What’s he talking about?” asked Miss Dillaway.
Calvin Gates shrugged his shoulders.
“It’s all right,” he said. “I’ll take it along—if that’s the way it is.”
The colonel smiled and bowed. “Thank you,” he said, “that is so much better.”
“And you haven’t got anything more to tell me?” Calvin asked.
“No,” said the colonel. He held out his hand. “Good-by. Nothing more to tell you, Mr. Gates.”
As they crossed the station platform Miss Dillaway touched his arm.
“What happened?” she asked. “What have they been doing to you, Gates? What have we gotten into?”
Calvin Gates looked grimly at the train and pressed his lips together. There was no need to tell her about that scene in the station, no need that she should be alarmed.
“Just passport trouble,” he said. “Just questions.”
Miss Dillaway laughed shortly.
“Well,” she said. “You didn’t think I was going to go on without you, did you? I came out to get you. I’m glad it’s only about a passport. I was afraid it was something else. If anything happens, I’m going to stop your being a hero, Gates.” And then her smile died away as she glanced up at him; his face was set and hard.
“I hope to heaven you can,” he said.
10
THE SUN moved with the hours of the afternoon in its arc across a warm blue sky where a few thin grayish clouds were floating. It moved deliberately with the hours until it was so low over the limitless rolling plain that the light became benign and soft and the
horizon assumed a reddish hue that was reflected on the clouds, making them shell pink and purple. The waning light softened the harsh outlines and made the walled towns that they passed mysteriously remote in a sort of timeless loneliness and endowed the whole country with an exotic portentous beauty. The train moved through that level country as surely as though the hours were pulling it. The map showed him that they were nearing the venerable city of Shan-hai-kuan by the first gate in the Great Wall of China of which he had heard so much but knew so little. The motion of the train through that changing but changeless country was almost reassuring.
Miss Dillaway looked out the window, and her face made a sharp, incisive profile, as clear and even as the profile on a coin.
“I was born in Winnetka, Illinois,” Miss Dillaway said suddenly, and she was evidently speaking her thoughts aloud. “I went to Chicago University and then I went to art school. I started as a commercial artist. I had to earn my living. I’m not bad at accurate work. You’ve never had to earn your living, have you, Gates?”
“What made you guess that?” Calvin asked her.
“Your attitude,” she answered. “You just look that way. It might have saved you trouble if you’d had to earn your living. It gets you in closer touch with facts.”
“I’ll have to earn my living from now on,” he said.
She leaned forward under some sudden impulse and rested her hand for a moment on his knee, and that momentary contact startled him.
“What’s the trouble at home?” she asked. “You’d better tell me, Gates.”
“I’d rather not,” he said, “if you don’t mind.”
It was no use. Whether he explained or not, in another day or two he would never see Miss Sylvia Dillaway again.
“All right,” said Miss Dillaway. “If you don’t want to talk, reach me down my sketching box, the big one on the rack there.”
She sat with her sketching box on the opposite seat, counting tubes of oil paint, arranging and rearranging all the tools of her trade as if she had forgotten his existence.
She was like others he had known who could retire suddenly behind the walls of their own interests, leaving him alone. She had asked for his confidence, but he was sure that it would have done no good to have talked about himself. It was better to try to live in the present and to examine the utter strangeness of that present. When he looked out of the window there was nothing in the scene which reminded him of anything, no face or voice in the train which reminded him of anything.
Mr. Moto Omnibus Page 42
