Mr. Moto Is So Sorry (11 page)

“Thanks,” he said, “awfully. Deuced careless of me to forget my fags. Now you leave everything to me, I know the ropes here. I've got boys to handle the bags. We'll get through the customs before you can say knife. I'll get three compartments—Chinese sleeping train. Right? Not as good as a
wagon-lit
, but it's clean. Just leave everything to me.”

Captain Hamby waved his hand toward the rear of the train in a broad, expansive gesture.

“Back there in Manchukuo—just you understand this,—” his red face wrinkled in a pantomime—“everything is dead serious; but over here—” the wrinkles curved into an exaggerated grin—“over here everything is funny, always something funny in China. I ought to know. I've been here long enough. Just remember to keep smiling—smile, smile, smile.”

Although the hard nasal voice and the pronunciation puzzled Calvin, he was beginning to comprehend that Captain Hamby was a part of that new country and as much in keeping with it as the native population. Captain Hamby was a type which Calvin had heard casually mentioned, but one which he had never seen—the Old China Hand. The analysis of Miss Dillaway went even further.

“Australian, aren't you, Captain Hamby?” she asked.

“You win, Miss Dillaway,” Captain Hamby said. “Been around a bit, haven't you, to pick me out so easy? Just a noisy Aussie, and that's about the same as American, isn't it? We better pop off the train now. Just leave everything to me.”

Captain Hamby jerked a window open with a quick heave of his broad shoulders and began shouting directions to the station platform in a curious mixture of English and Chinese.

“Here come the boys,” he said. “The bags will be out in a minute. All you have to do is get on the other train and wait. I'll take you.”

“We're certainly glad to see you,” said Miss Dillaway.

“Righto,” said Captain Hamby.

Two minutes later they were moving across the train shed with Captain Hamby just beside them, leading a line of four porters carrying their luggage. They were with a man who knew the ropes and who knew how to arrange everything in a way that was breezy and bullying and yet good-natured.

“Just jolly the Chinese,” Captain Hamby said. “Every Chinese is a perfect gentleman. Over there—very grim; over here—comic opera.”

With Captain Hamby no great effort seemed necessary. He exchanged a few sharp sentences with the Chinese Customs and then, before Calvin could even understand what formality had taken place, they were in three compartments of the Peiping train with all their baggage identified and stowed away. Captain Hamby pulled a handkerchief from his pocket, grinned and mopped his brow.

“Everything's shipshape now, eh what?” he said. “Miss Dillaway bunks there, you next, Gates, and me right beside you. I'll leave our connecting door open, Gates. And now how about a drink? Always travel with whisky in China if you know what's good for you. I'll get the boy.” He opened the door and hurried into the narrow passageway outside. “Boy,” Calvin could hear him shouting, “boy!”

Miss Dillaway looked after him smilingly.

“Isn't he wonderful?” she said.

“He's been a help,” said Calvin Gates, but her remark gave him another twinge of jealous resentment. Miss Dillaway wrinkled her nose.

“He was a help,” she said, “and a lot of help you'd have been. Don't be such a snob, Gates.”

“I'm not a snob,” said Calvin. “I just wonder why he asked for a cigarette.”

“Why shouldn't he ask for a cigarette?” she inquired.

“No reason,” Calvin answered, “but he might have had some of his own.”

Captain Hamby was back with the train boy before she had time to reply. The Captain was carrying a bottle of English whisky and the train boy followed with a tray and glasses and soda.

“You can get anything you like if you know how to get it,” Captain Hamby said. “Soda, Miss Dillaway? I'll take mine neat. Chin chin!”

“Chin chin,” said Miss Dillaway. They sat side by side on Calvin Gates's bunk, with the glasses on a wooden hinged table in front of them. The sleeping compartment was of plain, varnished wood with a single dim yellow electric bulb, but, as Captain Hamby had said, it was reasonably clean. There was a sliding glass paneled door which communicated with the passageway outside. Other passengers stared through the panel curiously and Captain Hamby pulled the shade.

“You'll get used to that,” he said. “White people are a traveling circus to the Chinese. They still think our knees bend backward upcountry and that we eat babies' eyes, but they're all right, always ready for a laugh. Just pack up your troubles in your old kit bag, and smile, boys, that's the style. What's the use of worrying? It never was worth while.”

“Did you say there was some trouble up where you came from?” Calvin asked.

The Captain laughed and reached for the whisky bottle.

“There's a lot of talk going around in China, always talk,” he said.

“What sort of talk?” asked Calvin Gates.

The Captain reached for one of Calvin's cigarettes and spoke with it dangling from his lips, so that its glowing end moved jerkily with his words.

“Out here,” said Captain Hamby, “you'll find out there's always trouble. There's either some war lord in the provinces, or a disbanded army running wild, or the Japanese. This time it looks like the Japanese. They're setting out to start something. Out our way it's hard to get through the wall.”

“What wall?” Calvin asked him.

The Captain's light gray eyes met his with a calculating glance.

“Seems as though you're new here,” the Captain said. “I'm referring to the real wall of China built before Christ. It isn't much more than a mound now but there's a gate in it outside of Kalgan, and then there comes Mongolia. It's hard to get through now. That's why Gilbreth sent me.”

“Oh,” said Calvin Gates, “I see. You mean the Japanese?”

Captain Hamby nodded and finished his drink.

“You can't be sure,” he said and lowered his voice. “It looks as though they're pushing in again. First it was Manchuria and then it was Jehol, and then influence over Peiping. It looks like all North China this time. Another incident—of course you can never be sure. I've seen enough of this never to be sure. Someone might start shooting. Anyway, up where I live things aren't going right. Maybe I don't make myself clear.”

Captain Hamby took off his felt hat and it changed him. His dark brown hair was very closely clipped and growing gray at the temples, but he looked neither young nor old. The wrinkles in his forehead and the crow's-feet about his eyes were made by wind and dust rather than by age.

“I'm sorry,” he said. “I talk Chinese and Russian and Mongolian so much that I don't make myself clear in English. I come from Ghuru Nor. I'm commanding the Prince's Cavalry. The Prince is up-to-date, Prince Wu Fang at Ghuru Nor—that's his Chinese name. He's not bad, the Prince. It's a way to earn your living. Soldier of fortune—Captain Sam Hamby. Served under the Christian General and under the old marshal and the young marshal. Who wants another drink?”

Captain Hamby stared ahead of him at nothing. A whistle blew and the train had begun to move. Captain Hamby had spoken, he had explained himself perfectly, and his hard-bitten face and wiry body confirmed his speech. Miss Dillaway was looking at him with a respect that was annoying.

“You must have seen a lot,” Miss Dillaway said.

“Beg pardon?” said Captain Hamby, and his glance traveled toward her out of nowhere. “Oh yes, a lot, and it's nice to see an English-speaking girl again. We're going to get on fine, Miss Dillaway. Well, we're off. I'm here to get you up to Ghuru Nor just as fast as we can go. No delaying, or the line to Kalgan may be cut. Old man Holtz will take us out from Kalgan.”

“I'm glad to hear it,” said Miss Dillaway.

The Captain blinked his pale gray eyes and continued to watch Miss Dillaway.

“Gilbreth was worried about you,” he said. “The Prince received him and is interested. His Highness is an educated man. I was going down here at any rate on business for the Prince—purchases—firearms. Gilbreth is twenty miles away from the palace, digging in a hill—funny business, digging.”

“The palace,” said Miss Dillaway. “Is there a palace?”

“You'll see it,” the Captain answered. “A real palace with white and orange yurts in front and courtyards and red and yellow lama priests and attendants with peacock plumes. You can paint some pretty pictures there. Yes, it's quite a palace, like the days of Ghengis Khan.”

Captain Hamby paused again, but it seemed to Calvin that his nasal unmusical voice still echoed above the rumbling of the train. He was not showing off now that he had spoken about himself. He had spoken and something of his past was with them on the train, turbulent and restive. Hearing, one could not help but wonder what had brought him there, but there was no doubt that everything he said was true.

“Don't blame you, if you don't believe me,” Captain Hamby said. “When you see the antelope and the camels and the prayer flags blowing and the black men with their pigtails and their pointed boots, I'll guarantee you'll think you're dreaming. It hasn't changed since Marco Polo except the Prince has a radio and guns.”

“What does he want them for?” Calvin asked.

The Captain laughed shortly.

“You don't know the Asiatic situation,” he said, “or else you'd know that Ghuru Nor is an important place right now. Mongolia's made up of principalities, and each prince is an independent little monarch. In the old days they dined once a year at table with the Emperor in Peking. The principality of Ghuru Nor has the old caravan route going through it, the shortest way to outer Mongolia and Russia, and the hills at Ghuru Nor are strategic. Either Russia or Japan wants them in case there is a war. I'll show you on the map tomorrow, except maps aren't worth much in Mongolia.”

Miss Dillaway sat listening.

“Don't ask the Captain questions, Gates,” she said. “I've never been there, Captain Hamby, but I guess it's about the same as any other place that's off the map. I've been in Persia and Mesopotamia and Central Africa. Is there typhus?”

“Yes,” said Captain Hamby, “sometimes, Miss Dillaway.”

“How's the water? Is there dysentery?”

“The water isn't bad,” Captain Hamby said. “Not enough people to spoil it.”

Miss Dillaway rose. “Well,” she said, “I'm glad to hear it. I think I'll go to sleep. I'll see you in the morning, Captain.”

Captain Hamby bowed.

“I knew you were all right just as soon as I saw you, Miss Dillaway,” he said. “I guess I won't need to tell you anything, you know the ropes.”

“Thanks,” said Miss Dillaway. “I won't be any trouble.”

The Captain sat down again when Miss Dillaway was gone and reached for the bottle.

“What a girl,” he said. “What a girl.”

“Yes,” said Calvin Gates, “Miss Dillaway is very nice.”

“That isn't what I meant,” the Captain answered. “I meant she knows her way around. I meant she hasn't got any silly ideas, and what's more she's beautiful.” Captain Hamby sighed and took a sip of his whisky. “Yes, beautiful, and no wrong ideas.”

Calvin Gates did not answer.

Captain Hamby disappeared through the narrow communicating door into his own compartment and came back in his shirt sleeves.

“What's the use of worrying,” he was humming, “it never was worth while. How about another drink?”

“I don't mind,” said Calvin Gates. Captain Hamby jerked his thumb toward the rear of the train.

“Everything all right back there?”

“Where?” asked Calvin Gates.

“Manchukuo. Were the Japanese all right? No trouble with the police?” The Captain's voice became lower and more confidential. “Nothing you want to tell me? Nothing on your mind?”

Calvin Gates put his hands in his pockets.

“No,” he answered. “Why should there be?”

The Captain's gray eyes watched him steadily.

“No reason,” he said, “except the Japanese are pretty officious these days. They're crawling around like flies at Ghuru Nor, dropping in all the time. Funny little fellows, nervous, always nervous.”

“Yes,” said Calvin Gates, “they're nervous.”

The Captain jerked his thumb toward the rear of the train again.

“You're sure everything was all right back there?”

“Yes,” said Calvin, “everything was perfectly all right.”

“That's fine,” the Captain said, “that's fine. You look pretty fit, Gates—as though you could take care of yourself. Be sure to lock your door to the passage and I'll leave the one between us open. You're sure there's nothing you want to tell me?”

They looked at each other for a moment in silence; Captain Hamby smiled invitingly.

“Only to thank you for the whisky,” Calvin said.

“That's fine.” Captain Hamby's smile grew broader. “That's the way it ought to be. Just keep your door locked, Gates.”

When he was alone Calvin realized that he was as tired as a swimmer who had been battered by waves into an acquiescent sort of weariness. His thin freckled face showed the strain of the last twenty-four hours, but the strain was more than physical. First there had been Mr. Moto and now there was Captain Hamby, both appearing out of nowhere. Logical as the explanation may have been, he knew that Captain Hamby was not there only to help Miss Dillaway. The Captain was made for more important tasks, and there was no mistaking those last remarks.

It was strange to think that Captain Hamby was just the sort of man he should have liked and that he represented all the things that Calvin Gates had wished to be, and yet, in spite of it, Calvin did not like him. Hamby had been a soldier for he had the stamp of the profession, which could never be described or entirely concealed. He had seen the world and had lived on danger and on change. Was he going on the same road as Captain Hamby, Calvin wondered?