Mr. Moto Is So Sorry (20 page)

He saw those sights only for an instant out of the corner of his eye because his immediate attention was given to two men in front of him. The first was a tall man in a long-sleeved robe with a silver knife in his belt and with heavy boots with up-turned toes, who stood grinning, showing a set of fine white teeth. The second man was more easy to comprehend; when one first saw him he might have seemed someone from a New York street on a hot summer night. He was a very fat German with a shaven head, in slippers, trousers and a shirt that was open at the neck. His heavy paunch shook comfortably when he moved. His small eyes peered through rolls of flesh that fell in heavy jowls around his jaw. His shaven head and his face were glowing with perspiration, and before he spoke he mopped his forehead with a blue bandanna handkerchief.

“Vell,” he said. His voice was guttural and was small for his enormous weight. “I'm Holtz. Vat do you want yelling and kicking at the compound gate? Business hours is in the daytime. Vat do you vant?”

“I want to speak to Hamby,” Calvin Gates said, “Captain Sam Hamby. He came here when he got off the train.” Mr. Holtz rubbed his handkerchief hard across his forehead and shouted something at the top of his lungs which made everyone stop talking.

“These Gott verdammt camel drivers,” he said. “They will never shut up. You want to see Captain Hamby? Vy do you want to see Captain Hamby? Vat brought you here to see Captain Hamby?”

“I come from Mr. Moto,” Calvin Gates said. “I want to see Hamby right away, it's important.”

The fat man grunted and his eyes glittered above the pouches of flesh that nearly covered them. His corpulence had not made him good-natured. His mouth was small and his nose like a soft button dividing the expanse of his pinkish cheeks; but he was not good-natured. He spoke to the tall Mongol beside him in a voice which sounded like a high-pitched snarl. The Mongol turned and clattered away in his heavy boots with a horseman's swaying gait, and Mr. Holtz moved his half-concealed eyes back to Calvin.

“All right,” he said, “I send to get him. To hell mit these Japanese. They crawl around like sand-fleas. It was bad enough before with war lords, and now come the Japanese.” Mr. Holtz spat and grunted. “It gives me a pain in the belly,” he added, “one big pain in the belly.” Mr. Holtz was not a prepossessing man, but at any rate Calvin could understand him. He was with one of his own sort again, who was devoid of Mr. Moto's subtlety.

“What is this place?” Calvin asked.

The small lips of Mr. Holtz opened slightly and he emitted a breathing, whistling sound. “It must be so,” he said. “So it's your first time out here? You have that look. You are in the compound of Holtz and Company, the same which does business with Mongolia. Ask 'em in Peiping who Holtz is. Ask 'em in Tientsin and Shanghai. Holtz buys everything, every damn thing in Central Asia—wool, antelope horn, wolf hide, Scythian bronze, gold dust, camels, horses, rugs. Holtz is loading camels next week with brick tea, leather goods and textiles. It's damn funny if you never heard of Holtz, my friend.”

“It's new to me,” said Calvin Gates.

“So,” said Mr. Holtz, and it was difficult to decide whether he was genial or sneering.

“New to you, is it? Well, the caravan business is the oldest in the world. It's so antique that it was old when Marco Polo came across the routes. And it's new to you, is it? Well, so what! I think you got a lot to learn from Holtz and Company. Maybe you don't like what you learn when we do business? Huh?”

Mr. Holtz's eyes twinkled icily and his fingers twitched at his waistband.

“It's interesting,” said Calvin Gates politely, and Mr. Holtz exhaled another breath.

“So,” he said imitating Calvin's voice. “It's interesting is it, to see a lot of Mongol camel drivers, lousy Mongol camel drivers, who haven't washed since they was born, swallowing their supper? Huh? Here is Excellency, Captain Hamby. Interesting? What?”

Captain Hamby walked into the archway from the dim space outside. He walked with a brisk, businesslike step, evidently completely at home, while the Mongol who had gone to fetch him rolled and clumped behind him, Captain Hamby was bareheaded and the light of the torches glinted from his hard gray eyes as he walked forward smiling.

“While you've a lucifer to light your fag,” he was humming, “smile, boys, that's the style.” And then his song stopped and he looked sharply first at Mr. Holtz and then at Calvin Gates.

“Well, well, well,” said Captain Hamby, “only fancy this now. How'd you get here, Gates?”

“By plane,” said Calvin Gates.

“Well, well,” said Captain Hamby, “fancy that.” He walked up to Calvin Gates still smiling at him. “And you came here to see me, did you, Gates? And you've met Mr. Holtz? You couldn't have done better. What can I do for you, Gates?”

“I'd like to speak to you,” said Calvin Gates, “alone, for about five minutes.”

Captain Hamby's face was hard and beaming. “That's fine,” he said, “that's fine. A bit busy, but there's always time for a five minutes' chat. Mr. Holtz, this is my acquaintance, Mr. Gates—the one I was telling you about. Shake hands.”

Mr. Holtz held out a heavy hand.

“Pleased to meet you, Mr. Gates,” he said.

Mr. Holtz was fat but he was very strong. Before Calvin even suspected Mr. Holtz had snatched his hand and had jerked Calvin forward. The next instant Mr. Holtz's arms were around him tight, pressing him against his bulbous, perspiring body.

“Well,” Mr. Holtz was saying, “nice to make your acquaintance, what?”

“All right, Holtz,” Captain Hamby called.

The arms around Calvin Gates relaxed and Mr. Holtz stepped backwards. Captain Hamby was looking at them grinning. The pistol which had been in Calvin's side pocket was now in Captain Hamby's hand.

“No hard feelings, Gates,” Captain Hamby said, “and don't blame Mr. Holtz. My word, he's just all heart. Just take it with a smile, Gates. So you want to have a talk with me?”

Calvin Gates looked from Mr. Holtz to Captain Hamby, and he took it with a smile.

“I'm not fool enough to start shooting here,” he said. “I didn't come for that. I've just left Mr. Moto.”

Captain Hamby's eyelids flickered. His short square figure was motionless.

“Moto sent you, did he?” he inquired.

“Yes,” said Calvin Gates, “and I'm going to tell you why.” He glanced around him and back at Captain Hamby's hard, expectant face. Captain Hamby was balancing the automatic in his hand.

“That's fine,” he said. “You come along with me.” And Captain Hamby put his arm through Calvin's.

“What's the use of worrying,” Captain Hamby was humming, “it never was worth while. Tell 'em to wait till I get back, Holtz. Tell the Prince I won't be long.”

They walked from under the archway into a huge compound. The last faint light of early evening still fell upon that open space, and the light was broken by the orange glow of torches and lanterns where men were working in the cool, evening air, packing articles into bales and boxes. The place was so unbelievable that Calvin Gates stopped to look. The whole center of the square was filled with camels, row upon row of camels sitting side by side with their long necks arched above their double humps.

“I never saw anything like that,” said Calvin Gates.

“No?” Captain Hamby said. “You won't see anything like this a few years from now. It's one of Holtz's caravans, seven hundred of 'em. They're still working on the loads, baling up the brick tea and odds and ends. Holtz wants to get 'em moving off before there's any trouble. Funny-looking beggars, aren't they? Don't get near enough so they can get their teeth in you. A camel's bite can be deuced dangerous. The warehouses are over yonder. It's like loading up a freight train once they load those camels, and the beggars are in good condition too. Look at the humps, all good fat. They'll march six days without food or water; slow, but my word, they're useful where they're going—greatest sight in the world, Gates, something to remember if you come through this.”

Calvin walked across the square beside Captain Hamby, as though he were a visitor being taken on a tour, past sweating groups of Chinese who wrapped up tea which had been pressed into large slabs for greater ease in transport, past heaps of embroidered, curved-toed riding boots, past bales of textiles and piles of copper utensils, past the open doors of warehouses stacked high with furs and wool.

“What do you mean by that last remark?” Calvin asked.

Captain Hamby had been humming, and now his humming stopped.

“My word,” said Captain Hamby, “you put your neck out, didn't you? Walk on, we're in a hurry. The living quarters are over here.”

Still arm and arm, they continued past the warehouses to a group of neat white buildings at the far corner of the compound, the door of one of which Captain Hamby pushed open. It was an office brightly lighted by a gasoline lantern, evidently where the business of Mr. Holtz was transacted. It was strange after the sights outside to be in a room with ledgers and tables and adding machines, and Captain Hamby must have understood Calvin's surprise.

“Holtz's office,” he said. “It takes a bit of figuring to run this show.” The hard light made the Captain's face jovially harsh. “Well,” he said, “go on and talk. Now what's the game, Gates?”

Captain Hamby grew brisk and businesslike and everything about him was genial except the cool glow in his eye. He stood with his hands on his hips, his feet wide apart.

Calvin Gates looked back at him and answered promptly.

“He brought me up here,” he admitted, “but I've come here because I want to. I've come here to make you a proposition, Hamby.”

Captain Hamby's eyes narrowed, but he still looked friendly.

“That's fine,” he answered cordially. “So you thought over what I said on the train? Well, what's your proposition?”

It had seemed simple when he had thought of it, but now he was not so sure.

“A while ago,” said Calvin Gates, “you offered me money to tell you what Mr. Moto wanted. I didn't know then, Hamby, but I know now. Is your proposition still open?”

Captain Hamby rubbed his hand softly on his coat.

“So you're tired of playing with the Japanese?” Captain Hamby said. “You figure there's more for you in it this way? Is that the picture, Gates?”

“That's the picture,” Calvin answered. “I am going to get what I want out of this, Hamby, and you can give it to me and Mr. Moto can't.”

It sounded brutally frank as he said it and it showed him how greatly he had changed. All his old compunctions had left him. Mr. Moto had used him and now he was using Mr. Moto. For the first time in his life he was changing circumstances to fit his own desires.

“My word,” said Captain Hamby, “that's the sort of talk I like. What is it you want of me, Gates?”

“Nothing that ought to trouble you,” Calvin said. “I want you to take me to Dr. Gilbreth. I've come a long way to see him. And I want you to promise that Miss Dillaway is put into Dr. Gilbreth's care. And I want you to arrange that I stay safe with you until this trouble's over. China and Japan won't be healthy for me after this. I'm coming over to your side, Hamby.”

“Oh,” said Captain Hamby, “I thought you didn't trust me, Gates.”

“I don't,” said Calvin, “about most things. But I see no reason why you shouldn't do this, because it isn't going to help you not to do it, and it isn't going to cause you trouble. There isn't any other place for me to go. Maybe I'll be useful to you, Hamby.”

Captain Hamby nodded thoughtfully.

“You wouldn't lie to me, Gates?” he asked. “My word, if you're lying, you won't live.”

Calvin shrugged his shoulders.

“I wouldn't be here if I were lying,” he said, “and you know it.”

Captain Hamby smiled brightly.

“You must want to see this Dr. Gilbreth a hell of a lot,” he remarked. “What's the idea, Gates?”

“That's my business,” Calvin answered.

Captain Hamby chuckled softly; he did not appear to be offended.

“Well, well,” he said. “Don't be so touchy, Gates. You're talking the way I like a man to talk. Right in my own language. You tell me what Moto wants, and I'll know if it's the truth or not, no fear. And if it is the truth—” Captain Hamby grinned and held out his hand. “I'll do what you want, word of honor, Gates. You'll see Gilbreth, and Miss Dillaway will be put in Gilbreth's care, and you'll come up along with me, and everything is fine. I know how to keep a promise, Gates, no fear. Now what does Moto want? Shake hands.”

Their hands met and Captain Hamby's grasp was firm and hard.

“No fear, Gates,” Captain Hamby said.

“All right,” said Calvin Gates, “I'm going to trust you, Hamby. Mr. Moto's after you.”

Captain Hamby rubbed the palms of his hands carefully on the sides of his coat.

“Is that a fact?” he said.

“He wants to get you to the China Hotel,” Calvin said. “He wanted me to make it clear to you that he's alone there, but I don't believe it. He's after something, Hamby. He's able to run the whole Japanese army if he wants. I've seen him give orders to a general.”

Captain Hamby swung back and forth on his heels. “Smile,” he hummed, “smile, smile.” And Calvin felt his eyes move over him, examining his clothes and hands and feet.

“I don't want to be a party to a murder,” Calvin said. “Moto's strong on liquidation, Hamby.”

Captain Hamby teetered from his toes to his heels and back.

“Damned considerate of you,” Captain Hamby said. “My word, I'd never thought of that. Are you telling me he's out from Tokyo and that he's giving orders to the army? My word, I've seen him do that once before. Has he got papers on him? Tell me what you saw, Gates.”