Think Fast, Mr. Moto by John P. Marquand

Author:John P. Marquand
Language: eng
Format: epub
Publisher: Open Road Integrated Media

CHAPTER VII

He was awakened by the ringing of his telephone. His sleep must have been very light, because the sound of the jangling bell ran through him like a shock of electricity that aroused him to complete and instant consciousness. Yet, in spite of his awareness of everything around him, he had that sensation, that everyone must have experienced at sometime or other, of a temporary lack of memory, of not knowing exactly where he was. The room was full of sunlight, the breeze was blowing the curtain of his open window and he heard that restless perpetual sound of the sea. He almost believed that he was at home on a June morning until he saw his dressing-case on his bureau and heard the sea. He was still trying to gather his thoughts together when he picked up the telephone. A girl’s voice was speaking in a mechanical, impersonal way—peculiar to the switchboard operator of a large office or hotel.

“Mr. Hitchings,” the operator was saying, “there’s a man downstairs who wants to see you. His name is Mr. Maddock.”

“Mr.—who?” said Wilson.

“Mr. Maddock,” the operator said. “Shall I tell him to go up?”

Then everything came back to Wilson Hitchings. The telephone had awakened his body and now the name had awakened everything in his mind. He remembered Mr. Maddock very clearly and not very pleasantly. He looked at his watch and found it was after ten o’clock.

“Send him up,” said Wilson, “and send up a waiter, please. I want some breakfast.” He shoved his bare feet into his slippers and put on a silk dressing-gown and looked at himself carefully in the mirror, as he brushed his straight, brown hair. He was pleased to see that his face looked serene, although he felt very much disturbed. He sat down with his back to the open window, with an empty chair opposite him, waiting.

“You must be very careful,” he said to himself. “You must try to use your mind.” He tried to use his mind while he waited. He tried to recall everything he had observed about Mr. Maddock, none of which was particularly reassuring, but he did not have long to wait. Mr. Maddock rapped on the door. When Wilson told him to come in, his visitor edged himself sideways through the half-open door and closed it softly behind him. There was a smoothness and a caution about Mr. Maddock’s entrance which made Wilson wonder whether the action was instinctive or assumed. Mr. Maddock’s yellowish eyes focused themselves studiously upon the details of the room before he spoke.

“Hi,” said Mr. Maddock and he waved a skinny arm in a genial, loose-jointed gesture. His Adam’s apple moved convulsively and he smiled, a swift, confidential smile.

“Hi,” said Wilson Hitchings, and examined Mr. Maddock, as Mr. Maddock continued to examine the room. Mr. Maddock looked as stringy as ever, but he was beautifully turned out in a fresh light-tan Palm Beach suit which fitted closely around his narrow waist. His shoes were white

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