Mr. Moto Is So Sorry (17 page)

“You know something about it,” he said, “because you told me I was wanted by the police. It surprised me very much. I don't know why it should have, except that one does not expect such a gesture from one's family. You said I was wanted for theft, but there's another word for it. It's forgery they want to see me about. I confessed to it before I went away. It's that scientific expedition, Mr. Moto. Dr. Gilbreth was given a forged check of ten thousand dollars. It was honored by the bank.”

“Oh yes,” said Mr. Moto softly, “yes. I do not understand—you forged the check?”

“I didn't.” Calvin choked on his words and cleared his throat. “I took the blame. Someone else did. I'm afraid I'm not being clear.”

“So sorry for you,” said Mr. Moto. “Why must you see Dr. Gilbreth, please? To prove your innocence perhaps? Surely a communication could have reached him just as well.”

Never in his life had he felt so wretched as when he stood there meeting Mr. Moto's glance. In some way his pride was hurt, not that he was ashamed. It was rather that his story had a ridiculous ring when it was put into words.

“He's the only one in the world who will know who forged it,” Calvin said. “I've come out here to ask him not to tell. You believe me, don't you?”

“So sorry,” said Mr. Moto. “People do such strange things. Will you finish please.”

“Oh hell,” said Calvin. Mr. Moto's quiet voice seemed to be pulling the words from him. “Maybe I was crazy, I don't know. A girl wrote that check. My uncle's daughter, if you want to know. She was crazy about this Dr. Gilbreth. She was sure to be caught with it. It's a family matter. I didn't do it for her, I did it for the old man. I knew he'd like it better that way. He's always looked out for me and I haven't been such a help. Wild, Mr. Moto, always wild. Never seemed able to settle down, that's the story, Mr. Moto, and you wouldn't have dragged it out of me if you'd cut me to pieces, except that I want to keep on traveling. I don't want to stay here, Mr. Moto.”

He felt tired when he had finished, as though he had been through some violent physical effort. Yet he felt better when he had spoken, relieved because he had broken some repression inside his mind. It had not occurred to him before that there might be gentlemen in Japan with feelings like his own until Mr. Moto spoke again. Mr. Moto stood up, clasped his hands in front of him.

“So honored,” Mr. Moto said, “so very deeply honored that you should have told me. Gentlemen do such very strange things, even in Japan. So honored, but still I do not understand.”

“Understand what?” Calvin asked.

“Why you cannot wait,” Mr. Moto said. “In three days—in four days I think, you might see Dr. Gilbreth much more easily.”

Calvin Gates stammered and felt his face grow red.

“I can't leave Miss Dillaway up there,” he said. “I don't know what's going to happen to her and you won't tell me. I can't leave her like that. I've got to go on. I've got to be starting now.”

Mr. Moto placed the tips of his fingers together and hissed respectfully.

“I cannot understand,” he said, “which it is you desire the most—to see Miss Dillaway or to see Dr. Gilbreth.”

“Does it make any difference?” Calvin asked him.

“Please,” said Mr. Moto, “excuse me. It would make a difference to yourself. You would be so much happier if you could make up your mind. It seems to me you are confused. You are willing to add difficulty for yourself because a lady is in difficulty—not a logical reason I am afraid—so much nicer if we know just what we want.”

“Logical enough for me,” said Calvin Gates.

Mr. Moto glanced up at the painted beams of the ceiling.

“So often,” he said, “I have seen such gracious ladies disrupt political combinations.” He sighed and still stared at the ceiling seemingly lost in memory. “Such a lovely girl in Washington—I was so much younger then. She sold me the navy plans of a submarine. The price was thirty thousand yen. When the blue prints came, they were of a tugboat. Such a lovely lady. Such a lovely lady in Tokyo. She took me to see the goldfish in her garden, and there were the assassins behind the little trees. Not her fault but theirs that I am still alive—they were such poor shots. I do not understand lovely ladies, but still I trust them sometimes. First you quarrel with Miss Dillaway and then you wish to find her. I have done the same thing myself, but now I like to think I have learned better. Excuse me, Mr. Gates, you must like Miss Dillaway so very, very much.”

Mr. Moto's manner had grown friendly as he confided those details of an earlier life. Perhaps he was telling more about himself than he thought. Calvin saw him for the first time as a lonely sentimental man, moving in a garish world of intrigue and sudden death.

“Yes,” he said, “I still trust them sometimes. I hope so very much that this is worth your while.”

Mr. Moto's voice seemed to draw speech from Calvin Gates against his will.

“Suppose I do like her very much or suppose I don't,” he said, “it would be the same thing. I should want to go away.”

Mr. Moto's expression brightened.

“Oh,” he said, “I understand so perfectly. It is a code of chivalry. Oh yes, we have a code in Japan, a very careful code. It makes us do so many things we do not have to do. It is why Major Ahara thought that he must kill himself.” Mr. Moto sighed. “I am so very sorry that he decided not to kill himself.” Mr. Moto's quick bright eyes moved again toward the ceiling. “He is such a very vigorous man, so powerful politically. He represents the extreme military clique and he wants so very much to get that cigarette case. I have been sent by the Government to estimate the situation here and with authority to investigate and direct a certain military operation, and now he is so cross with me because I am conservative.”

Mr. Moto smiled deprecatingly and rustled the papers on his desk.

“So nice to have a little talk with you, Mr. Gates. So funny that I should be saying so much to a stranger. I suppose you wonder why.”

“I don't believe you do anything without a reason,” Calvin said, and Mr. Moto looked very pleased.

“Please,” said Mr. Moto, “it was because you expressed a wish to go with me. You might be useful, but it is so necessary for you to understand that everything is so very serious. A human being counts for so very little. I hope you understand.”

“I'll do anything you say,” Calvin said, “as long as I go on. I don't care what happens after that.”

“What happens after that,” Mr. Moto repeated. “You mean—there will not be so very much for you after that? It is as though I offered you employment—oh excuse me, please.”

A voice at the doorway had interrupted him. It was one of the white-clad Japanese servants, no longer obsequious and polite. The boy had been running and now he spoke with sharp intakes of breath, and the news, whatever it was, could not have been pleasant, for Mr. Moto walked hastily around the desk. He spoke sharply and the boy turned and darted out the door. Mr. Moto's eyes had a sharp beady glint and all expression had left his face.

“Well,” Mr. Moto said. “This is not very nice.”

“What's the matter?” Calvin asked.

Mr. Moto spoke rapidly, but his voice was still low and soft.

“There are soldiers in the courtyard,” Mr. Moto said. “They are coming with the General of Intelligence.”

Calvin's hand moved toward his coat pocket and Mr. Moto seized his arm.

“Please,” he whispered, “be very careful please. I am so very uncertain—I am not sure whether they want you or whether it is to be a liquidation.”

“A liquidation?” Calvin repeated after him.

“It may be that they decide to liquidate me.” Mr. Moto's voice was softly insistent. “Sit down where you were, Mr. Gates, and pour yourself some whisky please. You have your pistol in your pocket? That is very nice. A man is coming in, a general. He will not bring soldiers in here with him yet. I shall talk to the general, but give me your attention. If I rub my hands together like this, will you be so kind as to shoot the general very quickly, please.”

“Shoot the general?” Calvin repeated.

“Yes,” said Mr. Moto, “please. If I rub my hands together—so. It may be so very necessary, and do not hesitate. Do not rise when he comes in. The general is so very nice. If I rub my hands together—so.”

Calvin Gates sat down. Mr. Moto was calm enough, but Mr. Moto's calmness set Calvin's heart to beating crazily when he heard the precise click of boot heels on the pavement of the courtyard.

The general was a small man. He paused at the open door and the sun glinted on his spectacles and his belt and riding boots shone brightly. He was in a khaki field uniform which fitted him so loosely that he looked more like a professor than a general, a very serious man whose narrow, receding chin and heavy lips were framed by a little black moustache.

He began speaking in a thin high voice as he stepped over the threshold and Mr. Moto advanced, bowing, with his hands clasped in front of him.

“So very nice to see you, my dear sir,” Mr. Moto said, “so very, very nice.”

Those English words answering the general's native speech puzzled Calvin Gates and they must have puzzled the general also.

“Please,” Mr. Moto answered, “we will speak in English. This other gentleman does not understand Japanese, I am so very sorry, and your English, General, is so very, very good.”

The general looked at Calvin Gates through his heavy spectacles.

“There is no reason for this,” he said. “I came to have a private talk. Why have you brought this man here?”

“Excellency,” said Mr. Moto, “this man is here for my own reasons, please.”

The general turned toward Mr. Moto and frowned.

“This is not correct,” he said. “He has insulted the army.”

Mr. Moto clasped his hands together.

“So sorry for you, my dear sir,” he answered. “You understand my position here. You have seen the orders please?”

The general's frown grew deeper. There was something venomous in the way he looked at Mr. Moto, as though he were repressing a thousand things which he wished to say and do. He drew in his breath with a sharp, sputtering sound and spoke again in Japanese. His words snapped like little whips and he struck his hands together, while Mr. Moto stood listening.

“So sorry,” Mr. Moto answered in English. “So sorry for you, my dear General.”

The general swallowed over a word and continued speaking. His narrow face had grown livid. Mr. Moto clasped his hands again.

“So sorry for you, my dear General,” he said. “You cannot arrest this man because I have my reasons. So sorry for Major Ahara.”

The general drew in his breath again and Mr. Moto pulled a paper from his inside coat pocket. There was a heavy seal upon the corner which Mr. Moto indicated respectfully.

“So sorry for you,” said Mr. Moto softly. “I should be so very sad to report that you saw this and disobeyed. I have full control, my dear sir. There can be no doubt about it.”

Mr. Moto replaced the paper but the sight of it had changed the general's tone. He appeared to be expostulating when he spoke again. He walked to the table that held the map and began pointing at the pins. Mr. Moto followed him and leaned above the map, but once while the general continued speaking, Mr. Moto glanced toward Calvin Gates and smiled.

“So sorry,” Mr. Moto said. “Nothing must move. I understand so well that you are anxious, my dear General. The staff had full directions just last night. So sorry that no troops must move.”

The general burst into another torrent of words and emphasized them by beating his fist on the table while Mr. Moto listened.

“So sorry,” Mr. Moto said, “that we have different ways of thinking. I understand about the Russian dispositions. Yes. Nothing must move. My humblest regrets. So very sorry.”

The general did not speak again. He backed away from the table and glared at Mr. Moto. Then he turned on his heel and walked toward the door. Mr. Moto bowed and stood at the doorway watching while the click of the general's boot heels grew fainter. When he turned back to Calvin his face was wreathed in one of those determined smiles which hid some other feeling.

“The army extremists are so very sensitive,” Mr. Moto said. “First it was Major Ahara, and now it is the general. He feels so very much disgraced to have been corrected. I am so very much afraid that he may dispose of himself.” Calvin repressed a desire to laugh, because a wild sort of humor was in the situation which combined that bloodthirsty politeness, that composure and petulance.

“If everybody wants to kill himself,” Calvin said, “there won't be any army left.”

“Yes,” said Mr. Moto, “that is very, very true. So many of our most useful people have killed themselves for honor. You think it is funny, and yet you have indicated that you are so very glad to lose your good name.”

“I hadn't thought of that,” said Calvin Gates.

“Excuse me please,” said Mr. Moto, “for calling it to your attention. I am so afraid it will be necessary for you to go with me now. I am so afraid I cannot leave you here, even if I wished. The general might forget himself. I must use you, Mr. Gates.”

Mr. Moto's eyes were no longer opaque but deep and calculating. He walked back to the table with its map.

“We must leave here very quickly,” he said. “It will not be safe to stay much longer. There is a plane waiting at the flying field. May I ask you to glance at this map? It will interest you I think. Thank you so very much.”

Calvin did not know whether to be surprised or alarmed at Mr. Moto's new confiding quality. As far as he could see Mr. Moto had entirely forgotten the confidential nature of his mission, and instead appeared anxious to tell everything, both anxious and insistent.