Mr. Moto Is So Sorry (19 page)

“The old compounds,” Mr. Moto said, “for the horses and the camels, when the caravans went to Urga. So very interesting.” But Calvin was growing weary with unfamiliar sights. Mr. Moto touched his arm again, and pointed out of the window.

“Down there,” he said, “is where Captain Hamby will stop when the train comes in—the compound of a company that does business with Mongolia. It is conducted by a gentleman whose name is Mr. Holtz.”

Mr. Moto was pointing toward a walled enclosure that looked almost like a fortress. It was toylike from the distance, with figures of men and animals moving behind thick mud walls.

“The Captain stays there always,” Mr. Moto said. “Yes—they will be waiting for the cigarette case—so very eager.”

His voice was hardly audible because the change of pressure deafened Calvin Gates as the plane descended. They landed in a dusty field which could have been used only for emergencies, but an automobile was waiting for them on the bare brown ground and a dusty, tired-looking Japanese was waiting with it. He spoke to Mr. Moto excitedly while Calvin stood blinking stupidly in the glare of the afternoon sunlight.

“So very nice we got here so quickly,” Mr. Moto said. “We shall have an opportunity for a little rest. We are going to the China Hotel, such a nice hotel. Get in the automobile, please.”

Calvin did not try to see where they were going, for all sights and sounds had become monotonous and endowed with a peculiar similarity. The hotel consisted of a slatternly courtyard with cell-like rooms that opened off it. An old Chinese in a dirty black gown led them to two narrow, connecting cubicles, each with a bed, a chair and a basin of water, with flies from the courtyard buzzing through open windows.

“This is your room, please,” Mr. Moto said. “You will want so much to rest I think. There is nothing to do till sundown, and it will not be nice if you go outside. Make yourself comfortable, please.”

Mr. Moto and the Japanese who met them moved into the next room and Calvin Gates listened incuriously to their voices. The buzzing of the flies mingled drowsily with their talk, and the sound made Calvin Gates aware of his own weariness. As he lay down on the narrow bed he felt almost contented. At least he was where he had wished to go. He was very nearly on the edge of no man's land, where civilization as he had known it ended. The city and its walls bore the definite imprint of a Chinese culture but beyond the hills which encircled it he had seen the crumbling mound of China's ancient wall, and there were no more cities beyond that mound, only the yellowish green rolling country, where the plateau of Central Asia began, a space upon which no civilization either of the east or west had made a very permanent imprint. He was at the edge of that blank which Mr. Moto had shown him on the map, over which Japan and Russia both sought to gain control while they eyed each other like wrestlers waiting to come to grips.

It was dusk when he was awakened by a hand grasping his shoulder, and when he opened his eyes, he saw Mr. Moto standing over him.

“So very nice you slept,” Mr. Moto said. “I am having tea and sandwiches sent in. It is time you were awake now, please. The train has come. Captain Hamby and Miss Dillaway have arrived.”

Calvin Gates stood up, and saw that Mr. Moto's face looked thin and anxious in the dusk. His voice was as soft as ever, but Calvin could detect a vibration of excitement in it.

“You are prepared to do what I told you?” Mr. Moto said.

Calvin Gates looked back at him, but Mr. Moto's expression told him nothing.

“I promised you, didn't I?” he said.

Mr. Moto clasped his hands and bowed.

“It is so nice that I can believe you,” he said. “You are like a man in a game of chess. You will just move forward, please.”

“Go ahead,” said Calvin Gates, “tell me what to do.”

“First you will have tea and a sandwich,” Mr. Moto said. “You must not be surprised at anything.”

“Believe me,” said Calvin fervently, “I won't be surprised at anything.”

“So glad for you,” Mr. Moto said. “There will be a boy waiting for you who will take you to Captain Hamby, please. Captain Hamby will be staying with this merchant who does business with Mongolia. He is Mr. Holtz, part German, part Russian, very fat. Please to remember the name.”

“All right,” said Calvin, “I'll remember.”

“He lives in a place behind great walls,” Mr. Moto said. “Matters are so unsettled here that businessmen must protect themselves. You are to go to the main gate the guide will show you there. You are to beat upon the gate and shout for Captain Hamby. It will be very strange inside, but they will take you to Captain Hamby I think, and then you are to be very frank with Captain Hamby, please, just exactly as I told you, please.”

Calvin Gates shrugged his shoulders impatiently.

“You'd better tell me exactly what you want,” he said.

“So very glad to tell you,” Mr. Moto answered steadily. “Captain Hamby must understand that you have been working for me and that you are finished, please. You have escaped from me. You have heard that he is staying with Mr. Holtz. You do not like me any more, but you have other reasons. You feel there is more money for you by telling him everything that you know about me. You are worried about Miss Dillaway. It will be nice to tell him that, and you must also tell him that white men must stick together. Excuse me, he will understand.”

“White men must stick together,” Calvin Gates repeated.

Mr. Moto's eyes never left his face.

“You are to tell him particularly that I have full powers over the army, please. It cannot move without me, and be sure to tell him this last. You have just left me at the China Hotel alone. Be sure to tell him that. Are you ready now? You do not look very happy, Mr. Gates.”

A watchful look in Mr. Moto's eyes told Calvin Gates that his own expression must have changed, and it was more than an expression; it was a change within himself. He was not the same person who had started on those travels; he was not the same person with whom Mr. Moto had dealt a few hours before. Something had had made him see himself entirely differently. Something made his thoughts move erratically, as though he had been awakened from a sleep which had been over him for years. He was very nearly at the end of his journey and yet he was at the parting of some road which lay inside himself.

“Why do you not answer please?” Mr. Moto was saying gently.

But Calvin Gates did not reply. He never knew what sort of person he had been all his life, until he saw himself in that minute's strange illumination; and he saw himself through the ruthless skill of Mr. Moto's mind. No other man had moved him as Mr. Moto had, like a chessman on a board. He had been a marionette that danced while someone pulled the strings; he had never been man enough to seize one of those strings with his own hand and snap it. He heard himself speaking in a thick hushed voice.

“To hell with it,” Calvin said.

Mr. Moto's dark eyes grew intent and sharp.

“What?” Mr. Moto asked. “What have you said please?”

“To hell with it,” said Calvin Gates. “I am tired of being pushed around.”

He could see himself clearly for once. He had prided himself on living by a code and instead he had been moved by loyalty and circumstance, and he had never changed a circumstance. He had drifted aimlessly instead, without applying the independence of his mind to anything in life. He saw himself now in that dingy room with the painful clarity of truth, an ineffective romanticist, and it was Mr. Moto who made him see.

“You can't make me run errands for you.” He was speaking, telling the truth to himself at last. “If I wanted to, I could lie and say ‘yes,' but I won't lie. I'm not going to be a part of your ideas. I've been a part of somebody's ideas always, and I know where it's got me. By God, I've never given anything a thought. I've acted like someone in a copybook, taking everything that came, and I say to hell with minding your orders, Moto. I'm going out of here right now, and—so sorry for you if you try to stop me.”

“Mr. Gates,” said Mr. Moto softly, “I am very much surprised.”

“That doesn't bother me,” said Calvin Gates. “To hell with you and your Oriental tricks and your majors and your generals, and to hell with Captain Hamby. I told you I would see Hamby, but I won't take your orders. I'm going to do what I want because it suits me not you. I'm going to do what I want for the first time in my life because I want it, and not because it's honorable or suitable.”

“My dear Mr. Gates,” said Mr. Moto gently, “I think I understand so well.”

Calvin took a quick step toward him, but Mr. Moto did not move away.

“There is no need to be impetuous,” Mr. Moto said, “because you have discovered something about yourself which was so very obvious. I am here alone, I am not armed. As long as you see Captain Hamby—”

“You heard me,” Calvin interrupted him. “To hell with you and Hamby. I'll tell him what I think of you and what I think you're doing, and you can get out of my way right now.”

Mr. Moto stood motionless for a moment and then he drew a soft sibilant breath and stepped aside.

“My dear Mr. Gates,” he said, “I do not wish to stop you. Excuse me, I might try if I wished, but I am so very happy that you will do what you want. The boy is waiting outside to take you.” Mr. Moto paused and smiled. “You see I can only hope that what you want is what I want—so difficult for me.”

Calvin Gates scowled at him, but he could not tell whether he liked Mr. Moto or disliked him. He only knew that he understood himself. He was free for a little while at any rate of impulses and inhibitions which had always held him fast.

“I wouldn't be too sure,” he said.

CHAPTER XVI

Mr. Moto sighed.

“It is so very interesting,” Mr. Moto said, “to see how people change. I am so glad for you that you are changed, Mr. Gates. I am so happy to think that I may have helped you. Always judge what you want, please, Mr. Gates, before you think what you ought to do. Yes, always try to make events do what you wish them. So glad if I have made you understand. I should be so very honored to shake hands. I intend no trick, believe me, please.”

“Why can't you be frank with me, Moto?” Calvin asked. “Well, never mind. I didn't think that you'd take things this way.”

“So sorry that I cannot be frank,” Mr. Moto answered. “But I should like so very much to be friendly. I think you are a nice man, Mr. Gates. I should be so honored to shake hands.” And Calvin Gates shook hands with Mr. Moto. A Chinese boy in a plain gray gown was waiting outside the door.

“Follow me, please, master,” he said softly, and Calvin followed him through the inn gate into a quiet, dusty street. It had grown cool now that the sun was down and the air was fresh and invigorating. The faint light which was still in the sky made all the buildings shadowy and large, and now the dusky strangeness of China, its sounds and smells, and all the ordinary resilience of its life surrounded him. They walked out of the narrow street into a broad, main thoroughfare with banners in Chinese characters strung above it, and with brightly lighted shops on either side, where cloth vendors chanted in singsong voices. Rickshaw bells rang at him warningly. He heard the tinny blare of a radio and the singing of caged birds. They crossed a small stream where women were washing clothes and then they turned from the shops into another narrow street which was lined again with shadowy walls. At the end of a ten minutes' walk his guide stopped at a corner and pointed toward a huge gate, across a narrow street.

“It is there,” he said and then he slipped away leaving Calvin Gates gazing at a high mud wall which stretched into the shadows as far as he could see. There was nothing near him but those windowless walls, no light or sign of life, and the gate with a small door for pedestrians cut in one side was like the entrance to a fortress. It all was like some street in the Middle Ages when nearly every house was a stronghold prepared against attack.

He pulled at a string that hung near the door and he heard the deep, sonorous ringing of a bell, and, in answer, a wicket in the door slid open. The darkness in the street, for the light was waning rapidly, made it impossible for him to see anything of the face at the wicket except the glint of eyes. A voice called something to him, and Calvin called back loudly.

“Hamby,” he called, “Captain Hamby!” And then he thought of something else that might have significance and added: “Holtz. Ghuru Nor.”

When he called to that unseen face at the wicket he had the feeling of shouting in space, a feeling that became a conviction when the opening was slid shut. He seized the rope again and pulled and pulled, and the insistent clatter of the bell chimed in with his anger at himself and at all the net of words and actions which had caught him. Before he knew what he was doing he found himself kicking at the door, and when his foot came in contact with the wood, the door opened inward so suddenly that he nearly lost his balance. He stumbled into a world which was entirely strange.

He was standing in a long, vaulted passage which opened into a dim, open space beyond, large enough to be the parade ground of a fort. The passage was lighted by torches set in brackets, like the torches of some castle gate. On either side of it was a room, carved out of the thick mud wall, and both the chambers glowed with a yellow, uncertain light. The place was reeking with the smell of burning oil from the torches and with the odors of sheep tallow and of rancid butter. In one of the rooms, some heavy men stripped to the waist were putting fuel under a huge caldron where a mutton stew was boiling. The room across the passage was filled with men sitting on their heels, eating with their fingers and chopsticks out of small round bowls. He had a confused glimpse in that flickering light of dark, greasy faces with high cheekbones and flat noses, of oily pigtails and greasy hats, of long-sleeved robes and sashes, of silver amulets and of knives in silver scabbards, and of heavy boots with curved pointed toes. That first glimpse was like a picture out of focus, but it was enough to show him that he had stepped from an ancient, meticulous civilization into a barbarous world, that the gate through which he had passed had opened into Tartary and he was gazing at a group of Mongolians enjoying their evening meal.