Mr. Moto Is So Sorry (15 page)

He stepped over a high threshold into a room which seemed dark after the glare outside, until his eyes became accustomed to the light. Then he saw that it was a large, long room, one side of which was a bare wall, and that light came through four windows which faced the courtyard, a soft light that filtered through rice paper, which was pasted over the windows in place of glass. It showed the bare beams of the building above him supported by a line of smooth red columns, and the beams were carved and colored in blues and reds and gold. At one end of the room was what he took for a platform covered with matting, with a small teakwood table upon it. The only other furnishing was a long bench against the wall. His guard walked in directly behind him and the driver closed the door leaving them alone. In the silence which followed Calvin could hear a pattering of feet and voices in the courtyard.

“Stand up,” the Japanese said. “Stand still.” And he pointed his pistol at Calvin's head. Calvin leaned against one of the pillars and shrugged his shoulders. The man in front of him grinned at him.

“Funny, aren't you?” Calvin said. There was no response, but the pistol was still pointed at his head.

He realized that it was meant to be amusing, and that he was not to be shot just yet. They were obviously waiting for someone and they did not have to wait long. It could not have been more than a minute before the door opened again, making a rectangle of bright sunlight, and a man in clean white linen stepped over the high threshold and slammed the door shut.

Though it was still hard for him to distinguish the features of one Asiatic from another, he was certain that the newcomer was also Japanese in spite of his being larger than most of his race. He was a broad-shouldered, muscular man of middle age, and the first Japanese that Calvin had' seen who looked entirely at home in European clothes. His figure might have been that of a European in the white suit, but in spite of the civilian clothes he was, like Captain Hamby, a military man, with the soldier's posture and the soldier's brisk, decisive step. When the light struck the side of one of his high cheeks Calvin saw two scars. He had seen the same on the cheeks of Prussian officers, the scars from a German students' duel. They were deep enough to have affected the muscles in one corner of the mouth, so that one corner drooped down slightly while the other tilted up.

The man in white gave a sharp order and Calvin's guard drew back, still holding his pistol ready. He halted in front of Calvin and stood with his hands clasped behind his back and spoke in a sharp, businesslike voice in English that was slurred by a German accent.

“You're an American named Calvin Gates,” he said.

It occurred to Calvin that there was no reason to be polite.

“And I take you for a Japanese educated in Germany,” he answered. “You know my name, but I don't know yours.”

The mouth of the man turned upward one corner, but the other corner remained immobile.

“Quite right,” he said. “You are speaking to Major Ahara of the Japanese army.”

“That's interesting,” said Calvin Gates, “but it doesn't mean a thing to me.”

The corner of the Major's mouth twisted upward for a second time.

“I have never liked Americans,” he said. “I hope very soon we go to war with America. It will be so after we finish our business here.”

“That's interesting,” said Calvin Gates.

The Major looked at him with frank distaste.

“I dislike Americans very much,” he said, “so I do not care to talk. I am informed you have a cigarette case with you.”

“What of it?” said Calvin Gates.

The Major unclasped his hands from behind his back.

“You will give it to me at once,” he said.

Calvin Gates still leaned against the red pillar. The guard was listening, interested. He had lowered his pistol, but he still held it in his hand.

“And then what?” Calvin said.

The Major's lips twitched.

“You and I both know then what, Mr. Gates,” he answered.

“Very well,” said Calvin Gates. “There's no use lying to you.” And he put his right hand into his jacket pocket. The Major took a step forward, holding out his hand.

“That is sensible of you,” he said, “and if you answer questions freely you'll have an easier time. You will be made to talk at any rate.”

“That's considerate of you, Major,” Calvin said.

His hand had tightened over the pistol. It was out of his pocket and he fired at just the same instant. The single shot made a roaring sound. The guard had staggered backward against the wall. The Major was standing in front of him, and Calvin took a step backward.

“That wasn't so bright of you, Major,” he said. “You Japanese are always so damn sure. Don't you ever search people when you catch them?”

The Major raised a hand to his head. He was no longer an army officer with a brisk military manner; his voice was quiet and subdued.

“Will you please to kill me now,” he said. “The information was you were not armed. I wish you would kill me please before the rest come.”

“Sensitive, aren't you?” said Calvin Gates. “Don't worry, you'll go when I go.”

He paused a moment, listening. He could hear voices and footsteps in the courtyard and the sound of a motor horn, but no one came near the door. The man he had shot had sunk down to the bench, groaning softly and holding his hand against his side, but no one came near the door. Calvin grinned at the Major.

“It looks as though they thought that shot was meant for me,” he said.

The Major's face twitched and he repeated his plea again.

“I wish you would kill me, please,” he said.

Calvin Gates moved toward him.

“Proud, aren't you?” he said, and he shifted the pistol from his right hand to his left. “Kill yourself if you want to. I'd rather do it this way,” and he struck the Major on the jaw. He saw the eyes glaze and the mouth fall open, and he struck again.

The Major was sinking to his knees and Calvin watched him. He had struck him twice with all his force, and the Major would be no trouble for a while.

Calvin Gates stood still and his face assumed an expression almost of stupid surprise as the consciousness of what he had done came over him. What amazed him most was that it had been so easy, and he had the same sort of astonishment that comes to an amateur at a gambling table after a series of successive winnings. In less than half a minute, for the first time in his life, he had fired upon a human being as coolly as though he were practising a snap shot in a shooting gallery. Instead of hitting an abstract mark he had hit a human being and had inflicted what was probably a fatal wound. A moment later he had beaten a second individual into temporary insensibility, and it all had occurred almost as fast as thought.

He had never realized his own capacity until just then, and it had an ironic significance. Standing there in that strange place, the conviction came upon him that he was doing exactly what he had always wanted, for he had always longed to be in danger. For once in his life he had achieved what he wanted, and now that he had achieved it he was not greatly elated, for he suddenly understood that his whole life had been built for such a situation and that he was only useful in such surroundings.

Now that he was faced with the reality, it was not much to be proud of, for the thing which he had done was out of keeping with his sense of fitness and humanity. Yet now that he had done it, there was no time for drawing back. He would have to go on very quickly, if he were to avail himself even of the slender chance of getting out of that courtyard and into the street alive.

Even while he was thinking, another part of him began to act. He found himself stepping toward the doorway with an even, unhurried step. At the same time he was thinking that he could do all this more easily again if he came out alive; he would be better equipped to kill and less appalled at facing the prospect. He would be like Captain Hamby, given time; it was the only thing he was good for, to be like Captain Hamby.

He understood very clearly that he must open the door and walk out into the court. The casualness of his appearance might provoke a moment of uncertainty which might allow him time to reach the gate. If anyone attempted to stop him, he must shoot again without compunction, and he felt no great compunction; he was getting more like Hamby all the time.

The courtyard had been empty when he had crossed it, but now he could hear voices which were raised in some sort of altercation. Whatever might be happening outside, it was too late for him to stop. Putting his pistol back in his jacket pocket, but still holding his hand over it, Calvin opened the door and stepped out into the brilliant sunshine.

The instant that he was in the courtyard, however, the pistol was out again and ready in his hand, while the scene outside flashed accurately across his mind, at first with only the significance that comes to a marksman. Across the court standing by the door of another of those buildings built against the wall was a knot of Japanese. They had not even noticed his appearance, for all their attention was focused upon the center of the courtyard. The antiquated black car which had brought him still stood there empty, and beside it was a smaller, tan-colored vehicle with a driver in a khaki uniform at the wheel. Midway between that brown automobile and where he stood, three Japanese stood arguing excitedly. All these details flashed before him instantaneously, just as he stepped over the high Chinese threshold. The three in the center of the courtyard saw him at the same instant, and their voices stopped.

“Run,” his mind was saying; “get over to the gate.”

Then one of the three was walking toward him holding up his hand.

“Please,” he was calling. “One moment, Mr. Gates.” And Calvin recognized the voice, and the black-and-white golf suit and the golden smile. It was Mr. Moto, walking toward him blandly.

“So nice to see you, Mr. Gates,” Mr. Moto spoke quickly. “So fortunate.”

His speech ended in a quick sibilant hiss, and he assumed a queer fixed smile. “Will you please come with me now, or I am so afraid that we will both be killed?” There was no doubt that it was Mr. Moto. His appearance in that checked suit was as preposterous as his words, but Mr. Moto took his clothes and his words entirely for granted.

“How did you get here?” Calvin asked him, still holding his pistol ready. Mr. Moto's reply was brisk and businesslike.

“No need for the pistol now, please,” Mr. Moto said. “I came by airplane. I cannot understand. This is very terrible. They do not like me here. Army officers are so very, very cross. So many factions in Japan. Please follow me. Do not shoot unless I tell you.”

In spite of the merry contour of his mouth, there was a nervous tremor in his fingers and his eyes blinked rapidly.

“You must not spoil everything,” said Mr. Moto, “when I work so hard. I thought that I understood Americans. Sorry to be rude. Do not talk but follow me.”

Mr. Moto spun quickly on his heel and began walking back toward the little brown car, and Calvin followed. The two Japanese stood near the automobile, wooden-faced, youngish men, both scowling sullenly.

“Get in,” Mr. Moto said, and then he spoke volubly in Japanese. His words made a snapping sound like electric sparks. One of the young men snapped a sentence back and Mr. Moto drew a paper from his pocket and tapped it with his forefinger. Whatever was written upon it seemed conclusive, for without another word Mr. Moto also climbed into the car and gave an order to the driver. The engine started and the car rolled through the gate. Mr. Moto's breath whistled softly through his teeth.

“So glad,” he said. “The army faction is so very hard to deal with. What happened please?”

“I shot a man,” said Calvin Gates. He felt stupid and dull from the reaction. “They grabbed me at the station—I suppose it's that damned cigarette case.”

He found himself staring at Mr. Moto, who nodded sympathetically.

“So sorry,” Mr. Moto said. “Such a bad mistake for you to leave your friends. The military faction are so impetuous. Ha ha. Our soldiers are so brave, but so very, very rash. I came as soon as I had heard.”

“You came from where?” said Calvin Gates.

“Please,” said Mr. Moto, “it does not matter. We are going where it will be safer for us please. We will be like friends and have whisky like Americans. What happened please? I hope they were polite.”

“They were going to kill me, and you know it,” said Calvin Gates.

“Oh yes,” said Mr. Moto, “they would liquidate, of course, but I hope so much that they were polite. I should not wish to report rudeness. What happened, please?”

Mr. Moto listened and rubbed his hands together, and looked troubled.

“That is very serious,” he said, “that they should have been so impolite. It makes me very, very angry. There is no reason to be impolite in a liquidation. I have seen so many where everything was nice.”

Mr. Moto smiled as though he had hit upon a happier thought.

“But you shot the man who struck you, did you not? So much nicer for your honor. And the major with the scar upon his cheek. That is Major Ahara. Ha, ha. He has tried to kill me in the political troubles, but he is a very lovely man. He always loved his flowers. Such very beautiful azaleas in his garden, Mr. Gates. I heard the first shot, but I did not hear the second. I hope so very, very much you shot him also.… You did not? I cannot understand. Americans are so very, very puzzling. So much kinder to have killed him than have struck him, Mr. Gates. Excuse me—so much more polite. You are so very, very puzzling, Mr. Gates.”

“Why?” asked Calvin Gates, and he felt that his wits were leaving him.

Mr. Moto sighed softly.

“Because I am so afraid that now he must kill himself. You understand that he is in too much disgrace. So lucky for you that he did not search you, and so like some younger officers. It has to do with the more radical wing of our military party, Mr. Gates, and they are so much out of hand.”