Mr. Moto Is So Sorry (12 page)

The train swayed from side to side on the rough roadbed and the dark outside was like a door that shut him into his compartment while he was moving all the time farther from anything he knew. The compartment was a garish little place in the dim yellow electric light, without beauty or elaboration or extra comfort. The door leading to the Captain's sleeping place was closed. He pulled open his door to the passage and peered out into a dim smoky emptiness. When he closed the door again he found that there was no way to fasten it except by a sort of flat brass hook. He put the hook down carefully, glanced at Captain Hamby's closed door, and thrust his hand into the inside pocket of his coat. His fingers touched the cigarette case and he brought it out and laid it on his knee.

As far as he could see there was nothing extraordinary, either in its appearance or manufacture, that differed from dozens he had seen in jewelers' windows in Tokyo. The work upon it, though delicate and beautiful, was not unusual in a land where minute skilled workmanship cost almost nothing. The silver had been cut straight through and black metal had been inlaid so that the design appeared both inside and outside the cover in a delicate silhouette. The result was a scene, familiar enough in Japanese and Chinese art, of small birds which rested, walked and flew among tufts of tall grasses, both black and delicate against the silver. He could see nothing more significant, look as he might inside and out, no sign of marks or scratching, and the metal was absolutely solid. The design was all that could mean anything. He remembered Mr. Moto's interest in the number of the birds, and now he counted six of them, three of them in the air, two perched upon the grasses, and one upon the ground.

He put the case back and reached into the side pocket of his coat. It was a thirty-eight caliber automatic which had been given him, of American make. He took out the clip and found that it was fully loaded, a dangerous thing to be carrying about in a land where he was a stranger. He finally took off his coat and rolled it up carefully, lay down on his berth and put the coat beneath his head. Then he switched off the light. The empty glasses on the little table rattled with the swaying of the car. The last thing he remembered was the rattling of the glasses.

It was also the first sound which came to his consciousness when he woke up, but he knew that such a harmless sound had not wakened him. He lay for a moment listening and then he slipped softly from his berth. The faint dusky light which filtered from the corridor outside showed him the compartment was empty. The train swayed and the glasses rattled and then there was another sound which came from the passageway outside—a dull metallic click. Someone was working quietly and expertly upon the lock of his door. Someone outside had thrust a knife blade through the crack and was lifting the brass catch, probably a simple enough matter for anyone who knew his business. His coat was still lying on the berth, and for a moment he thought of reaching for it before common sense stopped him and told him that the noise of a shot would arouse every passenger in the train. He stood hesitating, and then it was too late. The door was slid open gently, and the light in the passage revealed a squat, stocky figure which stood poised in the doorway for an instant. Then the figure moved and Calvin Gates moved also. The head of the intruder was turned away from him toward the empty berth when Calvin threw himself forward and landed square on the intruder's back. The impact threw the other off his balance and they both fell crashing against the table. At the same instant the man beneath him turned and Calvin could hear the sharp intake of his breath. A hand pulled at his collar and he saw that someone had turned on the light.

“Steady,” he heard a voice saying, “steady.” Someone was pulling at his shoulders and Calvin scrambled to his feet. His mind worked slowly and his ears were ringing. For a moment the whole place was hazy and then he saw a figure half sprawled across his berth. A hand was on his shoulder, shaking him, and it was Captain Hamby speaking.

“Steady,” Captain Hamby said. “It's right as rain.”

CHAPTER XI

Calvin Gates spoke with difficulty and his voice sounded like a stranger speaking.

“I must have struck my head,” he said.

“Steady,” said Captain Hamby. “You'll be better in a minute.”

“Someone came in here,” said Calvin Gates.

“Yes,” said Captain Hamby, “somebody came in. I hit him when you grabbed him. Everything's all right.”

Calvin Gates shook his head and the haze was lifting, leaving the whole scene clear. A stocky, heavy man in cheap dark clothes lay sprawled half upon the floor and half upon the berth. His face was like a yellowish stupid mask with the lips and eyes half open. It was a brutal, ugly face and suddenly Calvin remembered. It was the man who had stepped through his hotel window at Mukden. Captain Hamby in his shirt sleeves was bending over holding a short riding crop. Calvin Gates looked behind him; the door to the passageway was closed.

“Pack up your troubles in your old kit bag,” Captain Hamby was humming. “Smile boys, that's the style.”

“You say you hit him?” Calvin asked.

Captain Hamby looked around with no emotion in his pale gray eyes and held up his riding crop.

“Hit him with three pounds of lead,” he said. “Didn't know you were awake until you grabbed him. Handsome-looking johnny, ain't he?
Ronin
.”

“What?” said Calvin Gates.

“
Ronin
.” Hamby's gray eyes studied him impersonally. “That means strong-arm Japanese—the gunman type. Ugly-looking fellow, what?”

“Is he dead?” asked Calvin Gates.

“No,” said Captain Hamby, “not quite. I hit him hard enough. Ugly fellow, isn't he? Not a nice chap to be dropping in at night.” Captain Hamby laid his crop on the berth and rubbed his hands.

“Help me open the window, Gates.”

“What for?” Calvin asked.

Captain Hamby's red face wrinkled into a grin.

“Because we don't want trouble,” he said. “You follow me, don't you, Gates?”

“But you can't do that,” Calvin Gates began, and Captain Hamby stopped smiling. “Stow it, Gates,” he said. “You know what he came in here for. It was either him or you, Gates. Maybe you didn't notice this. Look down there on the floor.”

Calvin Gates looked down. A pistol with a silencer was lying at his feet.

“You see,” said Captain Hamby, “it was either him or you. It don't pay to be fussy sometimes, Gates. Open the window. You take his head, I'll take his feet.”

Calvin Gates opened the window. His mouth felt dry and his hands were shaking.

“While you've a lucifer to light your fag,” Captain Hamby hummed, “smile boys, that's the style. Keep smiling. Heave him, Gates.”

Captain Hamby turned away from the window and rubbed his hands.

“Well,” he said, “nothing more to think about. Feeling all right, Gates?”

“Yes,” said Calvin, “better, thank you.”

“That's fine,” said Captain Hamby, “fine. You didn't do so badly either. But you take my advice. Don't you try to wrestle with 'em. Hit 'em on the head.” The Captain put his own head to one side and smiled.

“Anything you want to tell me, Gates?”

It was more of a request than a question, and Calvin Gates was puzzled. He still did not like the Captain, even when he had every reason to be grateful. The Captain's cool gray eyes stared at him and beyond him without warmth or interest, and they left Calvin Gates under no illusions that he would have been the one to go out the window if it had suited Captain Hamby.

Calvin reached for his coat where it lay on the berth and put it on and put his hand in his pocket.

“Hamby,” he said, “I'm going to ask you something. Just where do you fit in?”

Captain Hamby picked up his riding crop and balanced it in his hand.

“Now we're talking sense,” he said. “White men ought to stick together in this country, and we're going to stick together. You've been looking at me sideways, haven't you? I don't mind telling you I came down here to meet a Russian whose first name was Boris, who was acting as a guide for a lady named Miss Dillaway. Boris was planning to hand me a little personal favor in the shape of a silver cigarette case. What happened to Boris, Gates?”

“He's dead,” said Calvin Gates.

Captain Hamby played absent-mindedly with his riding crop.

“I guessed it,” he said. “The Japs popped him off, I suppose. I guessed it when I didn't see him. It couldn't be—excuse me if I seem impertinent—it couldn't be that he gave you a silver cigarette case, Gates? That couldn't be why you had a caller tonight?”

Calvin Gates nodded without speaking.

“That's fine,” said Captain Hamby, “fine. So the Japs are on your tail, eh? And you and I are in the same boat. That's fine. I guess we better have a little talk.”

Captain Hamby seated himself on the edge of the berth and rested his riding crop across his knees while his short, stubby fingers caressed it abstractedly.

“I don't like to be impertinent,” Captain Hamby continued. “I've learned tolerance from the Chinese, Gates. They are the most civilized, tolerant people in the world. Anything goes within limits. The last thing I am is nosy; but I answered your question, now you answer one. Where do you fit in?”

It would have been a reasonable question—if there had not been a sort of personal offense in the Captain's voice which was a challenge to his instinct. He experienced an unreasoning antipathy for the cold-blooded self-assurance of that compact red-faced man, and at the same time something warned him to be careful—that Captain Hamby would use him so far only as he might be useful. Suddenly, Calvin knew that it was not accident but the deliberate action of part of his nature which had led him where he was. There was no use fooling himself. He had been happy in those ugly hours back in Mukden, and he was almost happy now. In spite of the blow on his head his mind was working smoothly.

“All right,” he said, “I'll tell you. It takes a while to tell.”

“That's fine,” said Captain Hamby, “fine. Sit down, Gates. Let's talk like pals.”

Calvin Gates sat down beside the Captain with his hand still in his coat pocket.

“It's this way,” he began. “That Russian who was with Miss Dillaway on the boat—I didn't know either of them then—and then there was a Japanese named Mr. Moto—”

It seemed to him that the wrinkles about the Captain's eyes grew deeper and that his whole expression grew more intent.

“You know him?” Calvin asked.

“Brother,” said Captain Hamby, “I know everybody. And Boris saw him, did he? Go ahead.”

Calvin went on, drawing on a concise and accurate memory. He told of Mukden; he left out almost nothing, except the incident of the automatic pistol. Captain Hamby fingered the riding crop across his knees and listened without comment. He listened as though the whole story were natural.

“What's the use of worrying,” he hummed softly, “it never was worth while … That was fine work, fine. So you have the cigarette case, Gates?”

“Yes,” said Calvin Gates.

“That's fine,” said Captain Hamby. “Now you can hand it over.”

Calvin sat up straighter. There was no mistaking Captain Hamby's urgency and eagerness. A light in Captain Hamby's gray eyes sent a quiver up Calvin's spine. Captain Hamby had no further use for him. Once Captain Hamby had the cigarette case Calvin knew that he would never get to Ghuru Nor. He would be disposed of like an empty bottle. The cigarette case had become a passport, as long as he kept it in his pocket.

“Not just yet,” Calvin said.

Captain Hamby's expression was quizzical; he shifted his feet and coughed.

“Just why not, Gates?” he asked.

“Because I don't like the way you look,” Calvin answered. “I'm not going to be tossed out that window too. You can have that case when you get us safely up to Ghuru Nor.”

The Captain leaned a trifle farther forward. “Is that a fact?” he began, and then he stopped, dead still. Calvin Gates had pulled the pistol from his pocket. Captain Hamby raised his eyebrows and gazed at it thoughtfully.

“While you've a lucifer to light your fag,” he hummed, “smile, boys, that's the style.… No reason for getting jumpy, Gates; my word, no reason at all. I was going to take you up to Ghuru Nor at any rate. There'll be fewer questions asked. Hand me over the case. I can keep it better—really.”

“You'll get it when we get there,” said Calvin Gates.

Captain Hamby shrugged his shoulders.

“Don't trust me, do you, Gates?” he asked.

“I trust you as long as I've got that case in my pocket,” said Calvin Gates.

Captain Hamby's face wrinkled into a smile. “All right,” he said, “all right. No hard feeling, Gates.”

“No,” said Calvin, “none at all.”

“Mind you do what I tell you then,” the Captain said. “We've got to travel quick.”

“That's all right,” said Calvin.

“That's fine,” Captain Hamby said, “fine.”

“Anything else you want to tell me?” asked Calvin Gates.

“No,” said Captain Hamby, “nothing else, I think.”

“Then perhaps you'll go where you belong,” said Calvin Gates, “and if you'll excuse me I'm going to lock my door.”

Captain Hamby rose from his seat on the edge of the berth, and Calvin followed his example.

“What's the use of worrying,” Captain Hamby hummed. “No need to be jumpy, old man. I'll take care of you, never fear.”

“I'm sure you will,” Calvin answered.

“We'll get on fine when we understand each other.” The Captain's tone was placating and smooth. “So put away the sidearm, Gates, and how about shaking hands on it? We'll have to be pals, you know.”