Read Online Mr. Moto Is So Sorry by John P. Marquand - Free Book Online

hall.
    â€œDoesn’t anyone hear my bell?” she was calling. “Can’t someone come up here? Help!”
    Calvin Gates lay still and listened. Doors were opening and a murmur of voices grew louder, but Miss Dillaway’s voice rose above them angrily.
    â€œWhat sort of a place do you call this?” he heard Miss Dillaway saying. “He came into my room. He snatched my purse and ran. Isn’t there anybody here who can understand English? Aren’t you going to do anything?”
    The murmur of voices continued as Calvin Gates got slowly out of bed and put on his trench coat and opened his door. At the far end of the long corridor half a dozen people had gathered. The gray-haired hotel manager was there, still in his frock coat, some hotel boys, and Mr. Moto, and some Japanese men in kimonos.
    â€œPlease, madam,” the hotel manager was saying, “please be calm.”
    â€œCalm!” Miss Dillaway snapped at him. “He came right into my room. I want my passport and my letters of credit and my traveler’s checks.” Then she noticed Calvin Gates.
    â€œHello,” she said, “it’s time you woke up. You’re an American, aren’t you? Aren’t you going to help me? Someone stole my purse.”
    â€œYour purse?” said Calvin Gates. “I’m sorry.”
    â€œSorry!” Miss Dillaway said. “Everybody says he’s sorry. Aren’t you going to do something? You’re a man, aren’t you? I’ve lost my purse.”
    â€œNow wait a minute,” said Calvin Gates, “I don’t see how—” But Mr. Moto interrupted him.
    â€œPlease,” said Mr. Moto, and he looked disturbed and puzzled. “Everyone is looking. When did it happen, please?”
    â€œHe was in here just three minutes ago,” Miss Dillaway cried. “I began calling as soon as he ran out. He ran down the stairs—down there.”
    â€œDownstairs?” Mr. Moto said soothingly. “Make no doubt he will be found. Did you not lock your door, please?”
    â€œDon’t ask idiotic questions,” Miss Dillaway said. “Of course I locked my door. But any fool could pick a lock like that, and there wasn’t any bolt. He woke me up when he was reaching under the pillow.”
    â€œOh yes,” said Mr. Moto. “So sorry to ask stupid questions. What did he look like, please?”
    â€œLook like?” Miss Dillaway repeated. “I can’t see in the dark.”
    â€œSo silly of me,” Mr. Moto murmured; “so you did not see.” Before she could answer, he turned and looked at Calvin Gates.
    â€œHe wasn’t tall, and he wasn’t Japanese. He spoke to me,” Miss Dillaway said.
    â€œAh, he spoke to you?” Mr. Moto brightened. “Oh? What did he tell you, please?”
    â€œWhat do you think?” Miss Dillaway answered. “Do you think we talked about the weather? He told me he’d kill me if I cried out.”
    â€œOh,” said Mr. Moto, “so interesting. Thank you. Not a large man—and how did his voice sound, please?”
    Miss Dillaway’s answer was prompt and incisive.
    â€œLike someone who has learned English out of a book,” she said. “He wasn’t English. His voice was in his throat. He might have been German, or Russian perhaps.”
    â€œAh,” said Mr. Moto, “Russian? Was there anything more, please?”
    â€œYes, one thing more.” Calvin Gates drew in his breath, waiting for her to go on. “He had perfume on him.”
    Calvin Gates exhaled softly. Miss Dillaway had done better than he’d thought. Mr. Moto’s eyes were bright and still and he rubbed his hands together gently.
    â€œThank you,” he said. “What sort of perfume, please?”
    â€œHow should I know?” Miss Dillaway said. “It had musk in it, that’s all.”
    â€œAh,” said Mr. Moto, “musk. Thank