Mr. Moto Is So Sorry (5 page)

“Hello,” Calvin said to him. “What do you want?”

He found himself growing indignant as he spoke. It was exactly as Miss Dillaway had said: the man was like the White Rabbit in
Alice in Wonderland
. He was smiling placatingly; his forehead was moist with perspiration.

“I beg your pardon, sir,” he said. “I wonder if I might come in.”

“What's the matter with you?” began Calvin. He might have gone further, but something in the other's expression stopped him more than any explanation could have. The man in front of him was fighting against some sort of fear, and he was controlling that fear with a visible effort.

“I beg your pardon, sir,” he said again. “I appreciate your irritation, quite. I shall only be a minute. It is just one matter that is important.”

Calvin Gates felt a strange, tingling sensation at the base of his spine. It did not require any explanation for him to realize that there was something wrong. Some ugly, unseen thing was coming to him out of the dullness of that journey. Some implication was being conveyed by that stranger's anguish.

“Come inside,” Calvin said. “What's the matter with you, Boris?”

Boris came inside and closed the door behind him.

“Thank you, sir,” he said. “I shall only be a moment. I do not think there is any danger.”

“Danger,” said Calvin, “what danger?”

The Russian blinked his blue eyes and smiled.

“It is just a manner of speaking, sir,” he said. “I—have been distressed by something—a little detail about Miss Dillaway.”

“What about Miss Dillaway?” Calvin asked him. “What's the matter?”

“Nothing,” said Boris, “nothing really. It is only a simple detail—but I fear I have not been gentlemanly. I gave her a cigarette case. If you are traveling with her, sir, it might be better if you took it. A friend of mine may ask for it. I promised it to him—and if you will give it—” His voice was very low, almost expressionless.

“Who?” Calvin said. “What are you talking about?”

Boris moistened his lips before he answered, and he seemed to find the answer difficult.

“That is all, sir,” he said. “It was intended for a friend of mine. I did not think at the time.” His voice trailed off almost into a whisper, and Calvin stared at him grimly.

“You're going to do some thinking now,” he said. “You've run into the wrong person this time. You're going to tell me what this is about before you get out of here.”

Boris moistened his lips again and shrugged his shoulders.

“It is nothing,” he began. “I was foolish to speak of it, perhaps. But a friend of mine will ask for it. Miss Dillaway might not understand. She is so—determined. I do not want her to be hurt. You see—a friend of mine—”

He paused, seemingly searching for a word, and his mouth had fallen open. He was staring beyond Calvin Gates in the direction of the French window, just as a creaking sound and a fresh gust of air made Calvin turn in the direction of Boris's startled glance.

The window had been pushed open quickly, and a small and stocky man stepped from the balcony halfway into the room. When he thought of it afterward, Calvin Gates had only an indefinite impression of him—of a broad, flat-nosed face, tightly closed lips and steady dark eyes, and dark somber European clothes. It was not the face but the action that Calvin Gates recalled, and the action was completely smooth and steady, giving no impression of haste. The man was holding a pistol, leveling it with the almost gentle motion of an expert marksman. In that fraction of a second, while Calvin gazed unbelievingly, he could see that the weapon was equipped with a silencing device—he could even recognize the model. Then, before anyone moved or spoke, there was a single shot, which came with a sound not much louder than that of an air-rifle. There was no word, nothing but the breeze from the open window and that sudden sound. The eyes of Boris grew wide and staring; his knees buckled beneath him. Calvin reached toward him instinctively, but Boris was a dead weight, sinking to the floor. He was sinking to the floor with a bullet hole drilled through the center of his forehead, just above his eyes, a perfect shot both merciful and merciless. He had died without a word. When Calvin Gates looked up the window and the balcony were empty. It had all been as perfect and as inevitable and as accurately rehearsed as a moment in the theater. It had been cold-blooded murder done by an expert in the art, and so completely done that there was nothing left but silence.

Calvin Gates had never seen a dead man, but no experience was necessary to make the signs familiar. The mark on the forehead with the few drops of blood that oozed from it made him stand paralyzed, incapable of consecutive thought.

The night breeze still waved the dingy window curtains and the room was so quiet that he could hear the curtains scrape against the panes and sashes. That gentle and insignificant noise reminded him that everything had been discreet. Whoever it was who had fired the shot must have been standing on the balcony listening by the window, and he must have moved from some other room which opened on that balcony. Whoever it was had desired secrecy and silence. Calvin Gates drew a deep breath and the color came back to his freckled face.

His thoughts went no further because of a sound outside the door of his room. There was a click and the knob was turning. At the same instant he realized that the door was no longer locked.

There was no time to make a move, if he had wished to make one, before Mr. Moto had opened the door and closed it softly behind him.

“Oh,” Mr. Moto said very gently. “He is—liquidated?”

CHAPTER V

Calvin stared back without answering and there seemed to be no adequate answer. Mr. Moto had changed from his sport suit into a modest suit of black. He stood beside the closed door examining the dead man without a trace of surprise. Not a line of his delicate features moved, but his eyes were lively and very bright. Finally Mr. Moto drew in his breath with a soft, sibilant hiss.

“So sorry for you,” Mr. Moto said, “so very very sorry. You did not kill him I think.” Calvin had intended to be impersonal and calm, but Mr. Moto's question broke down his resolution.

“No,” Calvin said. “I guess you know I didn't.”

“Please,” Mr. Moto's voice was hardly more than a whisper. “Do not speak so loudly. I am so sorry for you, Mr. Gates. I could not help but hear the sound.”

“What did you hear?” Calvin asked him. “You were listening, were you? Why? What are you sneaking around me for?”

Mr. Moto raised a fragile, coffee-colored hand.

“Please,” he said. “It will be very nice if you will please be reasonable. You were here in this room alone with this man who is now dead. I saw him enter, Mr. Gates.”

“And what business was it of yours if he did?” Calvin said.

“Please,” said Mr. Moto again. “It would be so very nice if you were calmer, Mr. Gates. Do not concern yourself with who I am, please. I must ask you to sit in that chair by the writing table, please.”

Before he spoke, Calvin took a careful step toward him.

“You go to the devil,” he said, “unless you're going to try to kill me first.”

“No,” said Mr. Moto, “no, please. It would not help. It would be so very nice if you would sit down—in the chair by the writing table, please. Do you not think it would be very, very nice?”

Mr. Moto smiled as he asked his question. There was a moment's silence and Calvin drew his trench coat around him and scowled.

“All right,” he said. “I'm sitting down.”

“So sorry for you,” Mr. Moto said. “If you will excuse me, please.”

Mr. Moto was displaying the sprightly impersonality of an undertaker, and it was apparent that he had dealt with similar situations. All his movements were adroit and unhurried like those of a hunter who finally moves to the point where the game has fallen.

“So too bad,” Mr. Moto said, “so very, very clumsy.”

First he knelt beside the body and touched it delicately. Then his hands moved flutteringly through the dead man's pockets, but it was evident to Calvin that Mr. Moto did not find what he wanted.

“So too bad,” he murmured again, “so very, very clumsy.”

Finally he rose from his knees, dusted his trousers carefully, clasped his hands together and bowed.

“And now I must ask a favor,” Mr. Moto said. “It would be so much nicer for me and for you if you will grant this favor. Do not be angry, please.”

Calvin Gates understood at once that Mr. Moto was not asking a favor—he was making a definite request.

“What do you want?” Calvin asked.

The answer was hesitant, but the hesitation was only make-believe; every intonation and every gesture of Mr. Moto's was coldly precise.

“So sorry,” Mr. Moto said. “It is all such a very bad mistake. We are so happy to die for our Emperor—sometimes we do too much.”

“What do you want?” Calvin repeated.

“That you will allow me to search your person,” Mr. Moto said. “I shall do so with the greatest respect. It is simply a matter of passing my hands over the pockets of your coat and over your pajamas. Such a simple matter.”

“Suppose I don't agree?” Calvin asked.

“Then,” Mr. Moto said, “someone else would do it.”

“You've been through all my baggage,” Calvin said. “Isn't that enough?”

“I am so sorry,” Mr. Moto said. “Nothing was taken. Will you please stand up?”

Calvin stood up and Mr. Moto's hands touched him gently.

“So kind of you,” said Mr. Moto, “so very, very kind. I suppose you are thinking of so many things. You are wondering what we are going to do. If you will help, everything will be so nice.”

“It would be a whole lot easier,” Calvin said, “if you didn't talk about things being nice. There doesn't seem to be much for me to do, does there? A man comes in here, a stranger, and he's killed in front of me.”

Mr. Moto lighted a cigarette and perched himself carefully on the edge of the bed.

“It was all so very clumsy,” Mr. Moto said. “He should not have been killed. It was all such a very bad mistake.” Mr. Moto smiled brightly. “The best we can do is to forget. Do you not think it would be nicer, Mr. Gates?”

“Forget?” repeated Calvin.

Mr. Moto nodded and smiled.

“It has all been so bad,” he repeated. “So much better to say nothing about mistakes. Will you listen to me for a moment, please?”

Calvin did not answer and Mr. Moto continued as though he had hit upon a happy social stratagem.

“You must not mind so much about so little. You are on a journey, and I hope so much that you will have a very happy journey.”

Mr. Moto paused. The words were charmingly soft, but Calvin could feel an insistence behind them which resembled a threat.

“Go ahead, Mr. Moto, I am not a fool,” he answered.

“Oh no. You are not a fool, Mr. Gates,” Mr. Moto agreed cordially. “Because you are not a fool, I make a suggestion, a humble, nice suggestion.”

“Go ahead,” said Calvin.

“If you agree,” said Mr. Moto, “I shall speak to my friend, the manager. He is so very nice to tourists. He will give you another room and your baggage will be brought there. This will only be a little secret, and I hope so much that you will say nothing, particularly to that young lady, Miss Dillaway. She would be very much disturbed. I hope so much that you understand me. If you do not you will not have a happy journey.”

“Is that a threat?” asked Calvin.

“Please,” said Mr. Moto. “That is not a nice word. I am trying so very hard. It is not a threat, but a request, I am so afraid. I am so sorry for you. You are suspected by the police.”

Calvin felt his face change color, while Mr. Moto sat there watching him.

“You better tell me what you mean,” he said.

“Oh yes,” said Mr. Moto, “I shall be so very glad. You are going to such a strange place, Mongolia. My country is so interested in Mongolia. You say you are a scientist. That is not so, Mr. Gates. Do not interrupt me, please. We have means of information. You did very badly at Yale University. You have been in businesses since, but not successful. You have won some prizes at shooting with the rifle and the revolver. It is so funny you should be traveling, please—There are so many funny people in Asia, Mr. Gates. So many are here to get away from their police.”

Mr. Moto leaned forward slightly and his glance was fixed steadily on the other's face.

“I'm afraid you are a dangerous man, Mr. Gates, although I cannot be quite sure. I think perhaps that you might like to kill me. Do not try it, if you please.”

Calvin Gates put his hands in the pockets of his trench coat.

“I might try if I had the chance,” he said. “I don't like you, Mr. Moto.”

“So sorry,” Mr. Moto answered. “But you will listen please. I received a telegram about you tonight. The police in your country are looking for you, Mr. Gates.”

Calvin Gates hesitated before he answered. He tried to keep his face composed and to hide whatever it was he felt, and he could understand at last the reason for all of Mr. Moto's interest. He was in something that was very close to danger.

“The police?” he said. “You must be crazy.”

“No,” said Mr. Moto. “So sorry to be rude. There are so many people in Asia wanted by the police. It will be so much nicer in Mongolia. There are no police in Mongolia.”

Calvin passed his hand across his forehead.

“That can't be so,” he said. “There must be something wrong somewhere. They wouldn't do that. He wouldn't. It was a family matter, Mr. Moto. I can explain it to you, if you want. There must be some mistake.”

But Mr. Moto's face showed him that there was no mistake.

“Please,” Mr. Moto said, “there is no reason to explain. You can help me, so very much. If you will travel quickly, everything will be so nice.”