Mr. Moto Is So Sorry (14 page)

The facts conveyed nothing until he got off the train, and then he saw the massive wall of slate-colored brick, a huge curtain of defense towering above the train shed—a last remnant of the barbaric magnificence of Peiping, when it had been the center of the greatest empire in the world.

He stood with his trench coat over his arm momentarily forgotten by everyone while the Chinese porters, their breaths heavy with garlic and their shaven heads and faces dripping with perspiration, piled the baggage out of the car and strapped it across their shoulders. Captain Hamby must have sent word ahead, because it was evident that they had been expected. A tall gaunt Chinese in a black silk robe had come running on slippered feet to the Captain the moment they were off the train, and Captain Hamby had moved a yard or so away with him, and now the Captain was talking volubly and earnestly in Chinese, occasionally moving his hand in a quick gesture. Calvin knew that he and Miss Dillaway formed a part of the conversation, for he saw that black solemn man glance towards them once or twice.

Again Calvin Gates had a helpless feeling. The startling brilliance of the sun, the round, well-fed faces of the khaki-clad Chinese police, the blue and black Chinese gowns, the chatter of the porters and hotel runners while the passengers descended in a steady stream and moved toward the station gate—all had a menacing aspect.

Those strange sights and the aching of his head and the bright sunlight must have made him stupid, for he did not realize that anything was wrong until Captain Hamby had left him standing on the station platform with Miss Dillaway. Then he saw that something had upset her. She had been happy enough that morning, but now her face was pale and drawn.

“Gates,” she began, and stopped, and her voice as much as her face startled him. She was looking at him strangely, no longer as a friend might look, but curiously and with a sort of compassion. Something surely had happened in those last minutes on the train, but he could think of nothing which had been unusual.

“Dillaway,” he said, “what is it?” And he took her by the arm, but she wrenched her arm away.

“Look here,” said Calvin Gates. “What is it?”

Her eyes looked back at him in that startled, curious way.

“Don't touch me,” she said. “Don't you ever dare to touch me. Captain Hamby's told me, Gates.”

“What did he tell you?” Calvin stammered. “Look here, Dillaway, what's the matter?”

“Do you mean to stand here and ask me that?” Her voice was low and vibrant. “After what you've done?”

All he could do was to stare at her in blank amazement. Her attack had been so sudden, and he had thought that they were friends. His surprise was changing into a sort of desperation. Now that it had gone so mysteriously, he valued that friendship.

“Dillaway,” he stammered, “I haven't done anything to you. I hope to die if I've ever—”

She interrupted him in a low, choked voice.

“It makes me so ashamed,” she said, “ashamed that I ever spoke to you. You haven't done anything? My God, Gates, but I've been an idiot about you! Captain Hamby's told me. Now do you understand?”

His own expression must have frightened her, because she drew back from him.

“Hamby?” Calvin said. “So he was talking to you when he fixed your bag, was he? Well, what did he say? I don't understand.”

“Don't,” said Miss Dillaway sharply. “That only makes it worse.” And her voice trembled. “God knows why I'm giving you a chance. I suppose because I liked you. I suppose I should have known it myself, after seeing you with that Japanese at the hotel and after seeing you drinking tea with that other Japanese at the station. There isn't any doubt about it, Gates. It only makes it worse if you try to lie. You've used me as something to hide behind. You're working for the Japanese, Gates, and Captain Hamby knows it.”

Her words were as dazzlingly blinding as the sunlight.

“Dillaway—” said Calvin Gates, and he found that he was pleading with her. He was pleading and struggling against that suspicion in her mind because it was taking her away from him, and yet he could see the logic of the suspicion. He was struggling with fantastic shadows.

“Dillaway,” he pleaded. “Won't you please listen, Dillaway? Don't look at me like that. Don't you know me well enough to know that I couldn't be mixed up in such a thing? I told you about Mr. Moto, Dillaway. I care about your good opinion more than anything. I'd rather die than have you think that I'd made use of you.”

Miss Dillaway shook her head.

“I'm giving you your chance, Gates,” she said. “You'd better give me that cigarette case and get away while you can. I'm not blaming you, but it's a sort of a surprise. I thought I liked you, Gates.”

An ugly look came over Calvin's face.

“Did Hamby suggest that?” he asked.

“No,” she answered in that same tired voice. “I suggested it to him. I don't want you to be hurt, Gates.”

Calvin felt his fingernails bite into the palms of his hands.

“That's kind of you,” he said. “And you believe that blackleg and you don't believe me?”

“But what are you?” she answered. “Why should I believe you, Gates?”

He was calm again. Life had clamped upon him with an icy finality.

“Well,” he said, “that's that. There's no reason why you should if you don't want to. You'd rather keep on with Captain Hamby than go along with me?”

“Dr. Gilbreth sent him,” she said.

“All right,” Calvin answered. “If you think Hamby's more honest than I am, go ahead, I'm through. Did he tell you whom he was working for? Probably not, because he's willing to work for anyone if he gets the money. I was going to make the best of his society on account of you. Lord knows what he'll do when he gets this, but here it is. Take your cigarette case and go along with Hamby, Dillaway. It may help you more than me right now—as long as you look at things this way.” And he took the cigarette case from his pocket and put it in her hand. Miss Dillaway fumbled with her pocketbook, dropped the cigarette case inside it and closed it with a snap.

“Gates,” she said, “I want you to know I'm not angry. I couldn't be angry with anyone like you, but I never want to see you again.”

“Well,” Calvin said, “that's plain enough.” He turned on his heel and the station platform was unsteady beneath his feet, and he did not turn to look back. He did not care even to stop for his baggage. He was through.

“Here,” Hamby called to him. “Where are you going, Gates?”

He was able to answer carelessly.

“Just to the end of the platform,” he said, “I'm just going to stretch my legs.”

He was going to stretch his legs a good long way, but he strolled along carelessly because Hamby was watching him. He felt better with every step he took.

“Well,” he said to himself, “that's that.”

He surrendered his ticket at the gate and walked quickly through the station. He was through with it, just as he had said.

CHAPTER XIII

He realized with a sense of shock how angry he had been only when he reached the sunlit square outside the station. The anger and the indignation which he felt had been like a touch of sun which had burned away his wits, leaving him standing pale and abstracted, like the survivor of some great disaster. Although she had sent him away, he knew that he should not have gone, but now everything they had both said seemed irreparable.

Then a single definite thought came into his mind. There had been another disaster which had brought him to that place. He must go ahead by himself to that other railroad station and take that other train. He had crossed the ocean to see a man named Dr. Gilbreth at a place called Ghuru Nor. Voices came to him through his thoughts, and brought his mind back to the present. Hands were twitching at his sleeves, and he saw that he stood before the station in the middle of a crowd of perspiring Chinese.

“Rickshaw,” they were shouting at him, “rickshaw, marster?”

It was that insistent clamor that made him realize that he had no idea of where to go; but there was one person in the crowd who seemed to understand his desire. A large Chinese in a visor cap kicked his way through the ring of rickshaw coolies and touched Calvin's arm. His face was as round and benign as a harvest moon. He was wearing a shabby chauffeur's uniform.

“Taxicab,” he said in a liquid, bell-like voice. “Nice taxicab. This way, marster.”

“Yes,” said Calvin.

“Quick all time,” came the answer. “This way, marster.”

Later Calvin remembered that he never said where he wished to go. Smilingly the driver pointed to a closed black automobile of an antiquated type.

“Nice car, marster,” the Chinese said, “nice clean. Get in, marster,” and he opened the door with one hand and supported Calvin's arm with the other.

Calvin's foot was on the running board, when a hand against his back sent him inside sprawling and the door of the car slammed shut. Something hard was prodded into Calvin's back.

“Get up on the sit,” a voice said.

Still on his hands and knees, Calvin glanced sideways. The voice had told him already that a Japanese was speaking and there he was, a small man like the rest of his race, with a square jaw and a blunt nose. His dark eyes were narrow and ugly. He was jabbing a small blunt pistol repeatedly at Calvin's side, and he spoke slowly and distinctly.

“Get up on the sit. You come with me,” he said.

Then Calvin understood what had happened; it was the cigarette case again, and they thought he had the case. He got up from his hands and knees and sat down and turned his head to look at his captor. There he was in shoddy European clothes like a million of his countrymen, and he evidently knew his business. He held the pistol close to Calvin's side.

“What are you going to do?” Calvin asked. It was a foolish question. The Japanese pushed his ribs with the pistol and spoke carefully with a pause between each word.

“You sit still,” he said, “and shut up your damn mouth.”

Calvin Gates leaned back and folded his hands across his knee with no further desire for conversation. Yet even in that stunned moment of his surprise he remembered thinking that the words with which he had been addressed were the first words of rudeness or insolence that he had heard from anyone of the Japanese or Chinese race. It was not a pleasant omen. It meant that he was as good as finished and no longer worth consideration. It would have been different if they had not thought that the cigarette case was in his pocket, and then he thought of something else. The same thing might happen to Miss Dillaway when they found it was not there. No matter what the provocation had been, he should not have left her. He moved uneasily and the pistol prodded back into his ribs.

His resentment and his pride disappeared when the pistol prodded into his ribs, but it was too late. Given the opportunity, his own strength was greater than that of the square-jawed man beside him; and the desire to use his strength almost overcame any prudence until the pressure on his side reminded him that he might as well have been tied hand and foot. He could see the thick neck of the Chinese chauffeur in the seat in front, and the car was already moving. It moved along a broad street past a pink stucco wall with yellow tiles on top. He had a glimpse of a moat with white marble bridges arching over it, and next they were threading their way through broad thoroughfares with blank gray walls and red doorways, past rickshaws whose occupants carried sunshades above their heads, past Chinese who stood on the corners cooling themselves with brightly colored fans, past old men carrying bird cages, past carts being drawn by sweating men. The ride was not a long one. The car finally swerved out of one of those broad streets into a narrow alley so suddenly that he was thrown against the man beside him. The Japanese struck him hard on the side of his face and jabbed the pistol into his ribs again.

“You sit still,” he said.

Calvin spoke for the second time.

“I won't forget that,” he answered, and the Japanese struck him again.

“You shut your mouth,” he said.

They were in a narrow, unpaved alley with high blank walls on either side of it, and the car had stopped in front of a broad red gate. They waited only for the driver to blow his horn before the gate swung open, allowing them to drive into a broad courtyard where they stopped again. The Chinese driver, still bland and smiling, opened the car door.

“Get out. You follow him,” his captor said.

They were in a large dusty enclosure bounded by high walls with long narrow buildings erected against them, the roofs of which shimmered from the heat of the sun. The courtyard was paved with gray mud brick, and had been swept scrupulously clean. The cleanliness was what he remembered best, and the fresh red paint on the doors and the latticed windows. Calvin knew that he was in the outer courtyard of a large establishment which might have been a native hostelry or perhaps a palace, and the walls shut him in as securely as the entrance to a prison, away from any sort of help and away from any possibility of escape. He felt the pistol in the small of his back, as he followed the Chinese driver. The sound of their feet as they clattered on the gray stone tiles made him wonder if he would ever walk back that way alive and the chances of doing so seemed slight. A weight in his right-hand jacket pocket reminded him that he was still armed. Apparently no one had given the possibility of his carrying a weapon serious attention. Even so it did not help with a pistol leveled at his back.

He followed obediently to one of the buildings by the wall, halting while the driver opened a door and stood aside. A further prod of the pistol on his back was his order to walk ahead.

Whatever was going to happen to him would happen soon, and the thought caused him no great fear. His only desire was not to die unless the man behind him died with him. He knew it was not a proper thought for such a time, but it stopped him from being afraid.