“Oh, I do,” Jack Rhyce said, “maybe quite a little.”
There was not much more to say.
“From now on,” Mr. Moto said, “there will be a car and driver in your name, outside of your hotel. He will take you to me at any hour, I am so sorry that I am so busy.”
“Are you sure you wouldn’t like me to go out with you and help?” Jack Rhyce asked.
“So very sure,” Mr. Moto answered quickly. “You would only be conspicuous, Mr. Rhyce. And please take care of Miss Bogart. She may be so very useful tomorrow. You understand?”
Jack Rhyce nodded. It was easy enough to understand when everything was lapsing into ordinary routine. Emotion had no value in the business. He and Mr. Moto and Big Ben were all expendable pieces on the squares of Intelligence. Jack Rhyce was glad to discover that his momentary desire for vengeance on Big Ben had almost evaporated. As matters had turned out, Big Ben was common property now, and after hearing Mr. Moto speak it was difficult to be under much illusion regarding Big Ben’s future. The net was around him, and a European was too conspicuous in the Orient to hide for very long. The number of Big Ben was nearly up. Ben was paying the price of stupidity. That was the only way Jack could assess Ben’s having given the telephone number to Ruth Bogart.
She was sitting quietly in her room when he returned, and the adjoining door was open.
“Is everything all right?” he asked.
“Yes,” she answered. “Everything’s very dull. Have they picked up Big Ben?”
“No, not yet,” he told her.
She smiled at him.
“Isn’t it lucky that I’m here?” she said. “Do you want me to try that number?”
“No,” he said, “not yet.”
“Then suppose I put on an evening dress and we go out for dinner,” she said.
“Only in the hotel,” he answered. “I don’t want us to be buzzing around too much right now.”
He arrived at the Asia Friendship League offices at half-past ten next morning to find that Mr. Harry Pender was already seated in his private office wearing a fresh Aloha shirt. The light from the window glinted cheerfully on his spectacles as he waved a welcoming hand.
“Come in, Jack,” he said. “Come in. Are you ready to pick my brains?”
“I’m all set and raring to go, Harry,” Jack Rhyce said, “if you honestly have time to give me some more fill-in on the League picture.”
“Why, all the time in the world, Jack,” Mr. Pender said. “Sit down. Have a cigarette?”
“No thanks. I never use them, Harry,” Jack Rhyce said, and he seated himself in a comfortable modernistic chair.
He was embarrassed that he had not placed Harry Pender until Mr. Moto had explained him, but after all, he had only seen the face in a group photograph, and never in the flesh. Very little doubt remained with Jack Rhyce now. The man before him was certainly the individual who was known as Harry Wise and who had recently been placed on the doubtful list at the office, a former American college instructor who had been holding a Communist card since late 1930’s, but with no definite record of activity. He looked older than his photograph as Jack recalled it, and since he had not been heard from, he must have been behind the Curtain for some time. Conceivably he had been one of the Americans in Chinese prison camps who had been mentioned by American war prisoners; conceivably he had been one of the Europeans who had been mentioned in connection with the germ warfare accusations. It was a pity to be so far away from source material.
“It sure is nice to see you safe back from that place,” Harry Pender said. “I see in the Japan Times that one of our fellow countrymen took too many sleeping pills up there. I hope it didn’t spoil your fun.”
“Oh, there was a little mix-up with the Japanese authorities,” Jack Rhyce said, “but it didn’t amount to anything. You see, we left yesterday morning and drove around seeing the sights. I sort of wanted to get oriented a little—you know, get the feel of the country.”
“That’s a very wise thing to do,” Harry Pender said. “A first impression has a lot of value. You know what people say—either spend ten days or ten years. By the way, where’s our girl friend? Ruth Bogart, I mean.”
“She’s back at the hotel,” Jack Rhyce answered. The question had indicated an unnecessary curiosity. “She wasn’t feeling so well this morning, a little Japanese stomach, but nothing serious.”
“To bad,” Mr. Pender said. “I hope you’ve given her something for it. Do you want me to send one of my girls over?”
“Oh, no,” Jack answered. “She’s going to be all right. I just told her to take it easy. Well, let’s get down to business. I hope I told you emphatically enough the other day, Harry, how impressed I was with your whole layout here, and all the fine things you’re doing. I want to read up on all the social studies you’re making every one of them.”
Harry Pender took off his horn-rimmed spectacles and held them between his thumb and middle finger.
“Don’t read too much, Jack,” he said, “or you won’t see the forest for the trees.”
“I know exactly what you mean, Harry,” Jack Rhyce said. “But gosh, I’ve got to begin somewhere. Everything can’t be as smooth sailing as it looks around here, Harry. You must have some pretty big policy problems.”
Mr. Pender allowed his glasses to swing like a pendulum between his fingers. He raised his eyebrows inquiringly.
“I mean, for instance,” Jack Rhyce said, “problems of personnel. You were mentioning this on Friday, I think.”
“Oh,” Harry Pender said, “of course every office has its turnover. It takes time making selections, but on the whole, we have a fine team all the way down the line.”
“Oh, I never meant to say you didn’t,” Jack said quickly. “I was just wondering, well, whether you had any trouble with Communists or anything like that.” He had intended to bring out the subject with flat-footed innocence, and from the tolerant way Mr. Pender laughed, he was rather sure he had.
“Excuse me for laughing, Jack,” Harry Pender said, “but that question of yours is completely characteristic of the point of view that everyone brings here from the States. Rumors become grossly exaggerated. Why, there’s hardly a Communist in Japan, in the sinister sense of the word—but you will find varieties of liberals. From my observation, democracy has a permanent foothold in Japan.”
“Well, it’s mighty nice to hear you say so, Harry,” Jack Rhyce said. “It’s the sort of reaction I hope to fit in my report. I’m glad, too, if there’s a healthy liberal party here. I hope they’re interested in putting social welfare on a sensible scientific basis.”
He watched the horn-rimmed spectacles moving in a slow, thoughtful arc, and he was happy to notice that Mr. Pender was giving him his smiling, friendly approval.
“You’ll find liberalism here in the best sense of the word,” he said, “and the leaders are highly dedicated people. I want you to get to know some, Jack, I want you to get this Communism bias thoroughly washed out of your hair.”
“It’s curious,” Jack Rhyce said, “how distance distorts facts. Back in the States we hardly hear about Japanese Progressives, let alone learning their names. Who are some of them, Harry?”
He hoped that his interest appeared fatuously genuine. Mr. Pender’s thoughtful eyes were fixed on him, but he could not detect a glint of suspicion or any diminution in the current rapport between them.
“I think we can help you there,” Mr. Pender said, “because the League is just doing a pamphlet on the subject, with thumbnail biographies of eight or ten of the top-flight liberal politicians. There’s Hata, for instance and there’s Iwara, and Yamashita and Nichiwara. I’ll be delighted to show you the copy we’re preparing.”
“Gosh, Harry,” Jack Rhyce said, “I’d sure like to see it. Who’s the best of them, would you say?”
“Oh,” Harry Pender said, and as far as Jack Rhyce could see, he was taking the question casually, “every one of them has quite a following, but
Hata is head and shoulders above the rest. Noshimura Hata. I’ll see that you meet him sometime.”
“Can you arrange it?” Jack Rhyce asked. “It would be a real pleasure if you could, provided he lives around here.”
“He does, as a matter of fact,” Harry Pender said, “in an attractive house with a beautiful garden. His collection of dwarf trees is very widely known.”
“I didn’t know liberal intellectuals had large homes and gardens,” Jack said.
“Hata is an educated liberal,” Harry Pender answered. The swing of the spectacles in his fingers accelerated slightly. “An Oxford graduate, a member of a wealthy family, and a philanthropist.”
“Oh,” Jack Rhyce said, “then he can speak English, can’t he?”
Granted that he had picked up the information he had wanted, had the cost been to great? Perhaps he should not have pursued the subject so long after the name of Noshimura Hata had been mentioned, and yet there had been the danger of dropping the thing too suddenly.
His attention was now riveted on the swinging glasses in the right hand of Mr. Pender. There was no doubt that the motion had been accelerated, and there was always betrayal in unconscious gesture. Instinct was delivering its message to Jack Rhyce, telling him that a crucial stage had been reached, the outcome of which depended on the next few words. It was time to drop all show of interest, to move on to something else.
“All you say,” Jack Rhyce said, “goes to prove that preconceived opinions are always off the beam, aren’t they? I have no idea that the Japanese would be so enthusisatic about sports, for instance. Now, if you’ve got the time, I’d love to hear whether you’re dovetailing a good sports program in with your other projects.”
“Sports had a leading priority with us,” Harry Pender answered. “Nothing pulls people together so much as meeting on a playing field. In fact, I should put sports ahead of any other cultural interchange when it comes to the promotion of good will …”
At least they were away from liberalism, and embarked on a sea of verbiage which, to keep the cover right, ought to demand most of the morning for a crossing. It was necessary to sit there for an hour or more mouthing idealistic platitudes, being, as the Chief would say, a do-gooder in every sense of the word. Talking with Harry Pender was both real and unreal. It was ironic to think that they were each talking only for the other’s benefit. Did Mr. Pender believe he was impressing him? And did his own artificial guilelessness seem real to Mr. Pender? He only knew that they both were artists, each concealing any impatience or boredom he may have felt while they discussed the Asia Friendship League.
It was quarter of twelve when he ventured to push back his chair.
“Harry,” he said, “it’s been swell of you to give me so much of your time. I have as many ideas packed in my mind as I have reading matter in my briefcase now. I guess I’d better take the rest of the day just sitting in the hotel room boning up on the material.”
“It’s been a good morning for me, too, Jack,” Mr. Pender answered. “How about a bite of lunch before you start reading reports? Not more than five minutes away from here is the best beef sukiyaki restaurant in the world.”
Jack Rhyce picked up his briefcase and endeavored to straighten out the wrinkles in his seersucker coat.
“There’s nothing I’d like better, Harry. And please give me a raincheck on that offer,” he said. “But right now I’d honestly better go back to the hotel and see how Ruth is. How would lunch tomorrow be, instead? Because I’ll be right back here tomorrow morning, making a nuisance of myself with another batch of questions.”
She was in her room, reading Terry’s Japanese Empire. She looked up inquiringly when he came in.
“Has anything happened here?” he asked.
“Yes,” she said. “One thing, Big Ben telephoned.”
He tried to forget about her as a person, when she told that news. Nothing must interfere with the business, and she must have felt the same way, from the excitement in her eyes.
“What did he want?” he asked.
“He wanted to make a date for five this afternoon,” she said. “I told him I wasn’t sure that I could get away. I said I’d call back at three.”
“That’s my girl,” Jack Rhyce said. “I think the time has come to pick him up, Ruth. It’s a good thing you’re along, all right.”
“Thank you, sir,” she answered. “How did you get on with Pender?”
“I wish I knew,” he said. “He worries me a little. He’s in the business all right. I think I’d better see the Japs again, right off. I’ll be back in about an hour.”
“Aren’t you going to cut me in on anything?” she asked.
“Only about Big Ben,” he said. “Don’t ask for any more.”
“I won’t,” she told him; “but, Jack—be careful. Don’t be too sure of yourself.”
Frankly, he wished he felt more assured.
He had not been under the hotel porte-cochere for half a minute before the car and the driver that Mr. Moto had indicated the day before appeared. The meeting place was the back room of a curio shop. Mr. Moto, still in his blue suit, sat at a table with a telephone in front of him, drinking a cup of tea.
“No more news than yesterday,” he said. “So sorry.”
“I’m sorry, too,” Jack answered.
“And how is Mr. Pender? Did you see him?” Mr. Moto asked.
Jack Rhyce nodded. “You were right about him,” he said. “We have his photograph, but he looks ten years older. He knows a lot about liberal politicians. I’ve been doing some thinking this morning.”
“I am so glad to hear it,” Mr. Moto said, “and I hope so much that you will tell me the results.”
“We don’t seem to know what’s going to happen, do we?” Jack Rhyce said. “You only know that they’re making plans for an organized demonstration, and you guess that there’s going to be a political killing. We had the same word in Washington. But it’s only a guess, isn’t it?”
“That is true,” Mr. Moto said. “Our people are working, but they have come on nothing new.”
“Then I think we’d better pick up Big Ben,” Jack Rhyce said. I’m sorry, I hate to break up an apparatus.”
“No one has seen him,” he said. “He is hiding very carefully.”
It was time to tell the news, and time to lay the lines.
“Not so carefully.” he said. “I think maybe we’re overrating our boy. He called up Miss Bogart this morning. He wants to make a date with her for this afternoon. She said she wasn’t sure that she could do it. She’ll call him back at three.”
Mr. Moto stared at the teacup, and his forehead wrinkled and he shook his head.
“I do not like it,” he said. “It does not sound correct.”
“Meaning it doesn’t sound like the first team?” Jack said.
Mr. Moto’s gold teeth flashed when he answered.
“I am so glad you use the expression,” he said. “I wish that Miss Bogart would give us the telephone number. We could have traced it by this time.”
“I told you she wouldn’t,” Jack Rhyce said, “and I decided not to put further pressure on her. The fact is she may be highly useful in picking up Big Ben, and she was sent over here to be useful. She’ll call him any time we want.”
“She does not want to leave you,” Mr. Moto said. “That is very proper, Mr. Rhyce, but I do not like it. I do not like it.”
“I agree,” Jack Rhyce said. “A lot of angles in this situation worry me. You can trace the number when she calls him. We may need it if anything goes wrong, but I don’t believe much in tracing numbers.”
“May I ask why?” Mr. Moto said.
“Because it’s too obvious,” Jack Rhyce said. “They always use a public telephone in some public place—a bar or a railroad station.”
“If we knew the telephone,” Mr. Moto said, “we could be watching and take him when he makes the call.”
“Yes,” Jack Rhyce said, “but I don’t think our
chances would be good. He’s a professional—he would be on the lookout for strangers. We’re safer to let Miss Bogart call him. It’s better not to be too busy when we’re closing in.”
Mr. Moto was silent for a moment. Then he nodded slowly.
“I think I am inclined to agree with you, Mr. Rhyce,” Mr. Moto said. “I realize that Miss Bogart is a very intelligent girl who has had training in handling these matters. I shall call on you at the hotel at a quarter before three.”
“And I’ll go along with you later,” Jack Rhyce said. “Trace the call, then, if you want, but let’s catch him where he’s waiting for Miss Bogart. It will be safer and surer that way. And I want to be along when you pick him up—just out of interest, Mr. Moto.”
XVIII
Jack Rhyce had played a part in several similar actions in America and Europe, the details of which seldom varied. Find your man and keep him at a given spot. Get the group distributed. Have the car ready. Close in simultaneously from all sides. This was the one maneuver that required expert coordination and experience. If properly executed, there would hardly be a ripple of a struggle. Often pedestrians ten feet away did not notice the group around the victim, trussed and pinioned in the approved style, being half pushed, half carried to the waiting car. Even if things did not move quite as planned, a well-placed blow at the back of the skull could solve the difficulty. Big Ben was a big man, but he could be handled, given the proper group. Jack Rhyce was certain that there would be no trouble if he were in the party.
“Oh,” Mr. Moto said, “you do not trust us, Mr. Rhyce? You will think differently, I am sure, when you see my people. Poor men. They are not well paid, but they are as neat as your FBI.”
The obviousness of the operation was a sufficient explanation as to why Mr. Moto did not like it, since the use of a woman to lure a man was among the most shopworn in the sordid bag of tricks which everyone knew backwards in the business. Yet it was a trick that worked the most frequently of them all. Jack only had to remind himself that he too had fallen in love with Ruth Bogart freely to accept the motives of Big Ben. The repugnance that he felt at having to use her in this venerable trick only convinced him further of Big Ben’s infatuation and besides, he had seen them on the dance floor.
Right You Are, Mr. Moto Page 23