Your Turn, Mr. Moto Read online

  “All right,” I said, “I’ll try to get your message.”

  I saw Driscoll smile with artificial heartiness. “That’s the boy,” he said. And then his expression changed. I moved closer to him and he must have seen something in my face.

  “But not that way,” I said. “Listen to me, Driscoll. I’m talking to you now. I came here of my own free will to tell you something, and in return you’ve made a proposal which I do not like. You don’t know this girl.”

  I did not know why I was so angry until I made that speech. It was not on account of myself, but because of her.

  “Wait a minute!” Jim Driscoll’s face grew red. “You don’t understand this game.”

  “No,” I said, “and I don’t want to understand it. You may be an officer, but you’re only a gentleman by act of Congress. If that message is in existence, I’m willing to try to get it my own way, and when I get it, Driscoll, you can have it—and to hell with the whole lot of you! I’m not a gigolo—not yet.”

  Driscoll opened his mouth and closed it. “Don’t be a damn fool,” he said. “What are you going to do—make a noble speech?”

  Then something snapped, and I lost my self-control.

  “I’ll show you what I’m going to do,” I answered. “That girl’s worth any ten of you, Driscoll. At any rate, she saved my life, and you can keep your hands off her.”

  I drew back my own hand almost without consciousness and brought my palm across his face.

  It is amazing sometimes how an act like that will clear the air. I had never intended to take such an action; and the thing which impelled me was entirely beyond my own control. Now that it was over, I think that I was more surprised than Jim Driscoll. His lips, by some sort of reflex, drew back in a stupid grin.

  “You don’t think I’m going to stand here and take that?” he said.

  “Have it your own way,” I answered. “You got what was coming to you, and you know what to do if you want some more.”

  Driscoll rubbed his hand across his cheek. It was interesting to see the effort he made to control his anger.

  “We can’t go on with this here,” he said, “and you probably know it. We’ll have to wait till this is over, Casey. I told you—you and I don’t matter in this business and maybe this will prove it to you.”

  It did prove it in a way. I even found myself admiring Driscoll for his self-control.

  “Just the same,” I answered, “what I said goes and you’d better know it.”

  “You’ve been damned obvious,” said Driscoll.

  “I hope so,” I answered. It is useless to speculate where this might have led us, since, fortunately perhaps, a tap on the door interrupted us and Driscoll’s anger left him.

  “That’s Wu,” he whispered. “Straighten yourself out and snap into it!” And he opened the hall door.

  It was Mr. Wu, right enough. He still wore his black silk gown and he was holding a brown felt hat in his hands, bowing humbly.

  “The honor is so great that it makes me afraid,” he said. “You have summoned me, Commander Driscoll?”

  Driscoll nodded. “Do you mind if we don’t go through all the courtesies?” he inquired. “And come straight to the point?”

  Mr. Wu set his hat down on the table, thrust his hands inside his sleeves and nodded.

  “If you do not care for the amenities, we need not have them,” he said. “I can be as direct as you. So you’ve seen this countryman of yours.” His eyes moved toward me thoughtfully. “That is very good. It was my belief that he would come here.”

  “Was it?” said Driscoll. “You were very astute, Mr. Wu.”

  “Oh, no,” said Mr. Wu and shook his head. “It is only that my people are an old people living in a land so crowded that it has made us familiar with personal relationships. I guess that you are bothered about a certain message. This man has naturally told you of it. Do you think it perhaps has to do with the matter we have spoken of?”

  Driscoll looked at him earnestly. “I know it has, Wu,” he said, “and I know that you can help me if you want. You came to me a while ago to open negotiations, so I hope we are still working together. What do you know about this message?”

  Mr. Wu’s expression was studiously blank, but there was a sardonic glint in his eye; and then his lips twisted superciliously. “Yes,” he said, “it is true that I did come to you, a while ago—but only as an agent. I am sorry that I cannot help you any longer, Commander Driscoll. I have myself to think of, and now I have decided to take the matter into my own hands. There are so many others interested who may pay better. England perhaps, or Russia perhaps.”

  “Look here,” Driscoll’s face grew red, “you came around to me.”

  Mr. Wu’s hands moved out of his sleeves, thin placating hands.

  “I did,” he answered, “but if you have thought that I was exclusively your servant in this, that was a misunderstanding. I find it better to be by myself just now.”

  For a second time Driscoll seemed to find it difficult to keep his temper. “By God,” he said, “you’ve double-crossed me, Wu!”

  Mr. Wu looked amused. “You put it very crudely,” he said. “I simply approached you some time ago. I have given you my word about nothing.”

  Then I began to laugh. Without knowing exactly what was passing, it was clear enough that Mr. Wu had been a match for Jim Driscoll, and in some way he had extracted something from him and then had left him flat.

  “I was afraid you wouldn’t be any good, Jim,” I told him, “and now I know it. Mr. Wu has got you in a hole, hasn’t he? Good-by, Jim. You must excuse him, Mr. Wu. He isn’t very bright.” I clapped on my hat and had started for the door before I had another thought. “I don’t know China or the Chinese, Mr. Wu,” I added, “but I know one thing that probably works here the same as it does anywhere. You’re too pleased with yourself. Even if you are, it never pays to show it.” It seemed to me that Mr. Wu’s expression grew sharper, and he might have replied if I had given him a chance to answer, but I did not. Instead, I walked into the hall, leaving Mr. Wu and Driscoll to talk as they pleased.

  In spite of Mr. Wu’s skill at dissembling, I was more sure than ever that there had been a change in him. That change had occurred when I was talking to him at his house. Mr. Wu knew something which none of us knew and he was very much pleased by his knowledge.

  CHAPTER X

  I went and sat a while in my own hotel room because I wished to be alone and to think. The room, completely European in its furnishings, looked over the tramcars and automobiles and crowds and turbaned policeman of Nanking Road. But all those foreign sights and sounds are blurred in my memory, only forming a hazy disturbing background which simply served to make my thoughts unpleasant. In my heart, I knew that the words I used to Driscoll could not be backed up by any action of mine. On the contrary, everything which Driscoll had said of me was true. What was going to happen to me when my money ran out, I wondered. Now that I had broken with Mr. Moto, there would be no Pacific flight, if he ever really meant it. There was some hope that Sam Bloom might find me something on some flying field, but this hope was vague enough. As far as finding anything about the message, it was entirely beyond me. I knew I was as close to being finished as I had ever been in my life. I knew it better when I went up to the dining room for lunch. It was a large ambitious dining room with snow-white tables and crystal chandeliers and an orchestra.

  There was a superficial gaiety in that place which had a feverish quality of unreality. All the Europeans in Shanghai seemed to be gathered at lunch, each trying to forget something—thick-set business men from their offices and banks, a majority with the heavy faces of confirmed drinkers; naval officers and business men’s wives and officers’ wives, who all probably knew too much about the private lives of everyone else. There was a furtive undercurrent of gossip and intrigue, combined with an exiled loneliness, resulting from a thousand longing thoughts of home. I could believe that no one there was happy, that no one was
entirely at ease. At any rate, the atmosphere served to intensify my own restlessness. I was glad to go back to my own room again, in spite of my having no real reason to go there. I had no reason to do anything, and it occurred to me that I had never had much for anything I did.

  This mood of mine probably intensified the surprise I felt to find that a letter for me had been pushed under my door during the interval I had been away. It was a square blue envelope, which carried my name in a bold, woman’s handwriting. There was a scent of gardenia from the page when I opened it that seemed to me needlessly strong. The note read:

  Casey dear, I cannot leave you the way we left. I am so worried as to what may happen to you because I think you know my deep interest. I must see you—I must—about something which will help you very much. Something about you and me. Will you come please to the Gaiety Club tonight? At half-past nine o’clock? Ask the manager to show you to my table. I need you, Casey dear. You mustn’t fail me—please. And bring your flask. The liquor is not good there. That’s a darling.

  Sonya.

  I put the note down and lighted a cigarette. My first impression was that its contents were too tawdry and banal to be in keeping with what I had understood of Sonya’s character. It was more like a streetwalker’s effusion than a note which she might have written. There was no subtlety or restraint in its appeal. It was the sort of note—I paused and extinguished my cigarette—exactly the sort which might have been written to bait a trap. It was no compliment to me that she should have paid so little respect to my intelligence; or Mr. Moto, for I suspected that Mr. Moto’s hand was in it. The whole composition exhibited the clumsiness of someone trying to appeal to the psychology of another race.

  It made me ashamed that I had stood up for Sonya, because the writing was an indication that Driscoll had been right; that chivalry did not count. Mr. Moto must still believe that I knew something, and Driscoll believed that Sonya knew something.

  It may have been a strange occasion on which to have felt grateful, but nevertheless my sensation was one of deep gratitude, because I had been given a chance, at last, a definite chance for positive action. Slender as that chance might be, and I was under no illusions on that score, now that I had the invitation, I was in a position to make a decision of my own, instead of following, as I had until then, the drift of events. If I answered that invitation, I had the possibility of finding what lay at the bottom of this business. It was my only opportunity. If I could once reach Sonya, I would not leave her until I knew. What? I could not guess what. I could not even decide upon a course of action, but I did not have much to live for.

  I had my hands on something tangible at last, something which could be played to the limit. I would show them that I was better than they thought I was. I had been in tight places before that. If it cost me my life, as it probably would, I was determined to go to the Gaiety Club, wherever it might be, and see the game out to the finish. I did not care if I was completely alone; I had been alone before.

  For a little while I played with the idea of telling Driscoll, but I did not tell him. In some way, I knew that my vindication lay in doing this alone.

  It was half-past two in the afternoon by then. In seven hours I would be in a place called the Gaiety Club. In eight hours I might be dead. In the meanwhile I needed rest, so I took off my coat and lay down and tried to sleep.

  At about five o’clock my room telephone rang. There was a Mr. Bloom, I was told, who wished to see me and I said to send him up. I was glad to see Sam Bloom, simply from a desire to see a friendly face, but I had no wish to have Sam Bloom know or become involved in anything I proposed.

  “Listen, boy,” said Sam Bloom, “what happened to you today? What happened on that ship? You needn’t tell me—there was something wrong, I’ve been looking for you everywhere. Say, I began to think—what happened? You can tell me.”

  “Never mind,” I said.

  Sam Bloom sat down heavily and scowled. “I’m a friend of yours,” he told me, “and I know more about this place than you do. I know you’re mixed up in something. You’d better tell me what’s the matter.”

  But I told him that I couldn’t.

  “None of my business, what?” said Sam. “Is it as bad as that? You don’t want any help?”

  I thanked him and told him I didn’t and Sam Bloom flicked a card over to me.

  “I’m not butting in,” he said, “but in case you want anything, here’s where I’m staying. All right, I’m not inquisitive; but is there anything you want to know? I know this town.”

  “Do you know a place called the Gaiety Club?” I asked.

  Sam Bloom whistled. “A tough joint,” he said, “in the Chinese City; a dancing place. You don’t want to go there, Casey.”

  “Thanks,” I said. “Do you know a man named Wu Lai-fu?”

  Sam Bloom whistled again. “Are you mixed up with that baby? Everyone knows Wu. He wouldn’t seem real anywhere else in the world. He’s in secret brotherhoods. He’s got a finger in politics. He’s mixed up in everything. I don’t believe any white man alive can make him out. He started out as a boy on a junk and then he was a houseboy in a missionary family. And then some Chinese official became interested in him. Don’t you have anything to do with that baby! You don’t think I’m butting in, do you?”

  “No,” I said. “I’m obliged. Have you got a gun you could give me?”

  He reached inside his coat and unstrapped a shoulder holster. “It’s a nice gun,” he said. “If you use it remember it throws a little high.” He looked at me and held out his hand. “You and I have been around. You know your business, Casey. If you don’t want to tell anything more, don’t. If you want me later, there I am. Good luck!”

  “Thanks, Sam,” I said again. I was more moved by his impersonality than I could have been by any warmer interest. Sam and I had been too long in a world where anything might happen.

  “Maybe it wouldn’t be healthy for you if I were hanging around,” he suggested.

  “Same to you,” I answered.

  “I’m not backing down,” said Sam. “Do you want company at the Gaiety Club? I’m pretty good at dancing.”

  “No, thanks, Sam,” I said.

  “Well,” he said, “so long!”

  “So long, Sam,” I said. I think both of us were quite sure that we would not meet again.

  A Chinese city even as Europeanized as Shanghai is a peculiar place at night. It is filled with sounds strange to a foreigner—of street crowds, falsetto voices, and of high stringed music that strikes a rhythm different from our own. Even above the blowing of the motor horns—and every Chinese driver seems to keep his hand on the horn unceasingly—there is the padding of feet of rickshaw runners. This background of sound confuses itself with my recollection of the Gaiety Club. I think of running slippered feet and of unfamiliar enunciation; of lights and banners before shops which display unfamiliar wares—the goods of old China mingling with Japanese and English and American novelties. I think of a China meeting the impact of the West and somehow absorbing and changing the West to conform to its ancient culture. At any rate, until the hired motor set me down in front of the Gaiety Club, everything was unfamiliar.

  It was left for the Gaiety Club to demonstrate how amazingly American taste and culture have penetrated the East. The club was on the second floor of a semi-Europeanized building, and, in spite of its distance from its prototypes, it might have been a second-rate Sixth Avenue cabaret, except for the Asiatic faces of the dancers. There was the same dance floor in the center of a dimly lighted room. There were the same circles of tables about it, clustered too closely together for comfort. In the same mingled auras of perfume, liquor and cigarettes the orchestra was playing the same jazz music. A crooner, even, was rendering through a megaphone a ridiculous imitation of a negro voice. The men, nearly all of them Orientals, were in European clothes. The Chinese girls wore beautiful long gowns which fitted their figures closely and seductively. A Chinese, boy took my hat,
and a man, evidently the manager, a fat heavy Chinese, met me at the head of the stairs, bowing and smiling as though he were on the lookout for me.

  “Miss Sonya’s table,” I said.

  “Yes, please,” he answered courteously. “Miss Sonya, oh, yes, she is waiting.”

  I stood a second on the threshold of the room, pulling at my tie, in order that my hand might be near the shoulder holster, for I suspected that anything could happen at any time. The music continued, waiters moved from table to table with drinks.

  “This way, please,” said the fat Chinese, and we walked into the vitiated air of the Gaiety Club, threading our way between the tables.

  Then I saw Sonya seated by the edge of the dance floor at a small round table for two. I had never seen her looking so beautiful. Her evening dress was violet, like her eyes. Her bag lay on the table before her. She looked surprisingly young. Her figure beneath the festoons of paper flowers was that of a girl in her teens. When she saw me, she waved and smiled.

  “Casey dear,” she said. “How prompt you are!”

  “Always prompt for you, Sonya,” I said.

  “Come,” she said, “come sit close beside me. That is, unless you want to dance.”

  The orchestra was playing “The Last Roundup,” old, to be sure, to anyone from the States, but perhaps still a novelty in Shanghai. I listened to the artificial syncopation and thought how far a roundup was from there.