Last Laugh, Mr. Moto

by John P. Marquand

  “You’re wrong there,” she said. “I’m never very much afraid. There was a moment in Kingston, when I screamed, but never mind about that.”

  “I’ve got eyes, you know,” Bob said. “There’s Mr. Kingman.”

  “Are you jealous of him?” she asked him. “You don’t have to be.”

  “I didn’t mean that,” Bob answered. “You’re afraid of Mr. Kingman, aren’t you?”

  She gave him a strange, quick look and shook her head.

  “Don’t say that,” she said. “I hate it. I’m not afraid for myself, only for you.”

  “Never mind about me,” Bob answered. “I can look out for myself, I guess. If you’re not afraid of him, you don’t trust him, do you? This isn’t just a vacation on a boat, is it? I’m not a fool. There’s something else.”

  “Yes,” she said softly, “there’s something else.”

  “Then, you’d better tell me,” Bob said. “I’d be glad to help you.”

  He thought that she hesitated for a moment. She seemed to be weighing his offer very carefully, and then she shook her head and smiled at him.

  “No, my dear,” she said. “I’ve thought of it. It isn’t your cup of tea.” He started to speak, but she stopped him.

  “No,” she said, “don’t interrupt me. You must understand this. You must. No matter what happens, it isn’t for you. You’re not the kind. That’s why I like you. It may be very dangerous and I can’t say too much. He—he won’t stop at anything. I wish you’d understand.”

  “Then, you are afraid of him,” Bob said. “Who is he? What are you doing here anyway?”

  “Please don’t ask,” she answered quickly. “You mustn’t ask. Perhaps I can tell you sometime, but not now. I suppose I’m a fool. I want to try to help you.” She stopped, but she went on before he could speak.

  “It’s awful to be a woman. To be lonely—always lonely. You may hate me before this is over, but please, please, don’t do anything. You can’t understand. You’re an American. I’m French. What—” She stopped again. “What are you looking at?”

  “I can’t make you out,” Bob said. “I wish—” And then he glanced astern and rubbed the back of his hand across his eyes. “I wish I knew what you’re talking about.”

  “What are you looking at?” she asked.

  “I thought I saw a light,” Bob said. “Yes, there it is.”

  Her hand fell on his arm and gripped it tight.

  “I don’t see anything,” she told him. “Where?”

  It was away off in the dark. It would bob up and disappear again, but he saw it distinctly a moment later.

  “It looks like the light on the mast of a motor cruiser,” he said. “What do you suppose she’s doing out here? She’s on our course. She’s coming nearer.”

  “Are you sure?” she asked him.

  “Reasonably sure,” he said. “Why, what’s the matter now?”

  Something was the matter, because she ran away from him and yanked open the cabin door.

  “Mac,” she called, “Mac! There’s a boat coming up behind us.”

  There was a scuffling noise in the cabin and then Mr. Kingman came running up the steps.

  “Oscar,” he called, “come on, Oscar! You say there’s a boat? Where is it, Bob?”

  “Look out,” Bob said. “Don’t barge into me like that.”

  But Oscar did not answer. He and Mr. Kingman were staring at the light.

  It was easier to see now. It was clearly a motor cruiser, coming fast. He could see the light on the mast and the green and red running lights. Mr. Kingman was standing absolutely motionless.

  “By God,” he said, “it is coming! Oscar, go down and fetch the Brenn gun. No, wait a minute. Go forward and put out our lights.”

  “Here,” Bob Bolles said. “You and Oscar can leave my lights alone.”

  It was just as though he had not spoken.

  “Go ahead, Oscar,” Mr. Kingman said, and Oscar jumped into the cockpit. Bob Bolles dropped the wheel and stepped in front of him. He was angry, perhaps unreasonably angry.

  “You stay where you are,” he said, and he saw Oscar, a vague white shape, lunge toward him.

  “All right,” he heard Mr. Kingman say. “Go on, Oscar.”

  Oscar was close enough so that he could see him more clearly by then. Bob took a quick step backwards, found his balance and drove his right fist with all his weight behind it straight to Oscar’s face. He heard Oscar give a grunt and he knew that he had hurt him and he knew that it was better not to stop with that, now that he had started. He stepped in with his left, and then he sent in his right again, and he was lucky, because he must have caught Oscar on the jaw. Oscar sank down on his knees and put his hands in front of him, sprawling on all fours just above the hatch that housed the auxiliary engine. The Thistlewood had come into the wind and the boom bounced just above his head and the sails were making a roaring, snapping sound. Mr. Kingman was standing just in front of him. Mr. Kingman’s voice was very steady. All the excitement seemed to have left it.

  “You should not have done that,” he said. “I think—”

  “Mac,” he heard Mrs. Kingman say sharply, “Mac! If we can see their lights they can see ours.”

  Mr. Kingman turned his head slowly.

  “Helen,” he said, “perhaps you’d better go into the cabin.”

  “No,” she said, and her voice was quiet and very urgent. “Mac, stop that—and remember—Suppose what we want isn’t there.”

  “Oh,” Mr. Kingman said, “oh, yes. Awfully sorry, Bob.” His voice had changed suddenly. It was warm and friendly. “Of course you are quite right, Skipper.” He leaned down and slapped Oscar hard on the back. “All right, Oscar. Forget it.”

  “I don’t know what the devil’s the matter with you,” Bob said. “But this is my ship. See?”

  He had to speak loudly because of the slatting of the sails.

  “Can you stop that noise, please?” Mr. Kingman said. “It’s all right, Oscar. Go and fetch the Brenn.”

  Bob took the wheel again. The sails filled. The Thistlewood was back on her course. Oscar was on his feet, shaking his head.

  “Fetch it up here. You—do you hear me?” Mr. Kingman said, and Oscar moved toward the cabin.

  “Do you think that boat’s going to come aboard us?” Bob Bolles asked. “Is that your trouble, Kingman?”

  He was over being angry. He could even feel the contagion of Mr. Kingman’s excitement, now that the lights were coming nearer.

  “Yes,” Mr. Kingman said, “exactly that.”

  “Well, she isn’t,” Bob said. “She’s a half mile to starboard of us and she’s keeping on her course.”

  “Oh,” Mr. Kingman said. “Yes, I see.” And he raised his voice: “Never mind, Oscar.”

  From the lights she was a big cabin cruiser and she passed them as though they were standing still. It was a long while before Mr. Kingman looked away from the lights.

  “Well,” he said, “she cannot be looking for us. What’s she doing here, do you think, Bob? Is she on her way to Mercator?”

  “No,” Bob answered, and he meant it. “Nothing goes to Mercator. She’ll be going south—Trinidad, perhaps.”

  Mr. Kingman stood silently thinking and no one said a word until he spoke again.

  “If she stops at Mercator, of course we shall see her in the harbor.”

  “That will be the only place for her,” Bob said, “but nothing stops at Mercator.”

  “We must be ready,” Mr. Kingman said, “just in case. Call me if you see her lights again.”

  “Maybe it would be easier,” Bob told him, “if you’d tell me what your trouble is—not that I give a damn.”

  Mr. Kingman laughed. Everything seemed better, now that the boat was gone.

  “I don’t wonder you ask,” he said, “not a bit. I’ll tell you how it is, Bob. You don’t mind my calling you Bob, do you? I wish you’d call me Mac. I keep asking you.”

  “All righ
t. Go ahead, Mac,” Bob said.

  “You certainly could handle Oscar,” Mr. Kingman said. “That was quite a sight!”

  “Go ahead, Mac,” Bob Bolles said again.

  “All right,” Mr. Kingman said. “Let’s put it this way. It isn’t really anything that need bother you at all. I’m representing a—a shipping company. There was some freight left on—on one of those islands.” Bob Bolles felt his hands grip the wheel more tightly, but he did not speak.

  “Let’s let it go at that,” Mr. Kingman said. “I guess you’ve been around a—a bit, haven’t you, Bob?”

  “Yes,” Bob Bolles said, “quite a bit.”

  “You’re a very—very nice guy,” Mr. Kingman said. “How about a drink before we turn in? Oscar, bring us up some whisky.”

  CHAPTER VIII

  A half hour later Bob Bolles lashed the wheel and went quietly forward, climbed down the hatch and closed the cover behind him, and lighted the lantern.

  “Tom,” he whispered, “Tom! Where are my guns?”

  Tom pulled himself out of his bunk.

  “On the upper berth, sar,” Tom said. “Under the blanket yonder, sar.”

  Bob Bolles ripped the blanket away from the upper berth. There was nothing beneath it—not his rifle, not his shotgun, not his automatic pistol.

  “What’s the matter, sar?” Tom asked.

  Bob Bolles’s mouth felt as dry as flannel. A tingling sort of shiver moved up and down his spine, as though something unpleasant were just behind him, but he tried to tell himself that he was not afraid. He had always hated people who got rattled, but still the absence of those firearms of his was an inescapable shock, and all sorts of other impressions of the last days began drifting through his mind.

  “Shut up,” Bob whispered. “I want to think.”

  It was no longer a matter of suspicion, for everything in his mind came together—the first glimpse of the Kingmans, what Captain Burke had told him, even the way that Mr. Kingman tripped and hesitated over slang and colloquialisms. He was as convinced as though he had read it on a printed page in daylight that Kingman was looking for the same thing that the Smedley was after. Mr. Kingman had found out somehow that it was on Mercator or on one of the Winderly Islands. Mrs. Kingman was in it too, but she was not his wife. She was in that relationship only from expediency. There was nothing that would seem more harmless than a man traveling with his wife.

  “Sar,” Tom whispered.

  “Shut up,” Bob Bolles whispered back. “Take it easy, Tom.”

  He was still trying to work it out. They were traveling together for some purpose of their own, and she had said that she was afraid for him—not for herself. He should have read long ago in Mr. Kingman’s eyes that Kingman was a man whom it would be dangerous to run up against—as dangerous as hell. He could see why she had warned him now.

  “Mac,” Mrs. Kingman had said, “suppose it isn’t there.”

  That had torn it. They were looking for the same thing as the Smedley, but they still weren’t quite sure where it was. That was what had stopped Kingman—they would need him if what they wanted was not there.

  Once—it seemed like a long while ago, although it had not been so long—he had been used to thinking and acting very quickly, for there had been a time when a second’s delay might be much too long. He had been taught to estimate a situation and to act. He had been taught that it was better to do something, even if it might be wrong, than to do nothing. After the first shock of surprise the outside circumstances did not particularly disturb him. In fact, he knew already almost instinctively what he was going to do.

  What made all his reactions slow was the conflict inside himself. He had been used so long to thinking that nothing mattered—and now he felt alive, so completely alive that he could not believe it. Something was back in him that he had thought had gone out of him for good.

  “Please, God,” he said softly, “don’t let me be wrong. Don’t let it all wash out.”

  He did not realize that he had spoken aloud, until he saw the startled expression on Tom’s face. He scowled at Tom and shook his head. He wanted a minute more to think. It was like walking in the dark. As matters stood, both he and Mr. Kingman were walking in the dark. Mr. Kingman didn’t know how much he knew and, for himself, Bob didn’t know what it was Kingman was after, exactly.

  “Listen to me, boy,” he whispered to Tom. “You can read, can’t you?”

  He reached in his bunk for the logbook of the Thistlewood, found a pencil and began printing very carefully on one of the back pages.

  “Don’t talk,” he wrote. “When we get into harbor slip overboard and swim to the beach. Go hide in the bush. When everyone is ashore and out of sight swim back and slip the cable. Start the engine and take her offshore. Keep her there until you see a fire on the beach. That’s all.”

  He tore the page from the logbook, handed it to Tom and watched him read it very slowly. Tom was a good boy. He knew that Tom would do it if he could.

  “All right,” he whispered. “Remember,” and he took the paper out of Tom’s hand and lighted a match to it.

  “I’ll take your watch,” he said. “That’s all.”

  He had done the best he could. It might not work, and again it might. He went aft again and climbed into the cockpit and took the wheel. The cabin door was closed, but the Kingmans were not asleep. He could hear the low, insistent murmur of their voices. Even through the thickness of the cabin door their voices sounded troubled. Probably no one on the Thistlewood would sleep any more that night, and he was not surprised when Mr. Kingman came out of the cabin.

  “Hello,” he said. “Is that you, Bob? I thought your colored boy was taking over.”

  “No,” Bob said. “Tom’s acting sort of queer.”

  “What’s the matter with him?” Mr. Kingman asked.

  It was like the beginning of a game between him and Mr. Kingman. They would know each other a good deal better before they each got through.

  “You can’t ever tell what’s going to be the matter with a Negro,” Bob said. “That’s boy’s just gotten moody and he acts scared. Never mind about it. It’s going to be light soon. He’ll be all right.”

  “Well, that’s fine,” Mr. Kingman said. “I’ve been thinking, Bob, the best thing for us to do—”

  Bob Bolles did not answer. In the faint light from the binnacle he could see Mr. Kingman trying to read his face.

  “When you went forward after you had that drink what did you go to look for?” Mr. Kingman asked.

  Bob Bolles hesitated, and then he told the truth. He was quite sure that Mr. Kingman had known what he had gone to look for.

  “My gun,” he answered, “but I guess you knew it wasn’t there.”

  Mr. Kingman gave a short good-natured laugh.

  “I thought you’d be looking for it. Bob, you and I aren’t going to need guns. We can get on hunky—hunky-dory without guns.”

  “I’m not looking for any trouble,” Bob Bolles said.

  “I know you’re not.” Mr. Kingman’s voice was warm and cordial. “And there’s no reason why there should be any. Of course you know by this time I have a piece of business to do on this island.”

  “Yes,” Bob said, “of course.”

  “But it needn’t make any difference to you,” Mr. Kingman said. “If I tell you it’s legitimate you’ll believe me, won’t you?”

  “Yes,” Bob answered, “that’s all right.”

  “And then suppose,” Mr. Kingman said, and his voice was slow and careless, “we just go along the way we have been going, and suppose I give you five thousand dollars, so you won’t talk afterwards—one thousand now, four when we get to Kingston. How would you like that, Bob?”

  “Fine,” Bob Bolles said, “Mr. Kingman.”

  “Call me Mac,” Mr. Kingman said. “I really wish you would. Here—” He pulled a billfold from his pocket. “Here you are. We don’t need guns,” and he laughed. “We’re all clear now, aren’t we, a
ll hunky-dory?”

  Bob took the bill and put it in his pocket.

  “That’s mighty nice of you, Mac,” he said. “Don’t worry about it.”

  “I’m not,” Mr. Kingman said, “not at all. We’ll just be one big happy family, won’t we, and we’ll see land by morning, won’t we?”

  “Yes, Mac,” Bob Bolles said.

  “Call me when it’s light, will you?” Mr. Kingman asked. “Good night.”

  Bob Bolles sat down on the transom beside the wheel. Now that Mr. Kingman had gone, he felt very much relieved. He was sure now that Mr. Kingman wanted things to be quiet and he was sure that Mr. Kingman did not know or guess how much he knew.

  “Quite a boy,” he whispered beneath his breath, “quite a boy.”

  Light had come quickly on that sea, so quickly that you could almost see it travel across the water. That morning was like the lifting of a curtain and the dawn was so clear and definite that the night seemed hardly possible. In the first gray of dawn Bob Bolles saw that there was land ahead, and the landfall gave him solid satisfaction. First there had been clouds on the horizon and then a darker mass that was black and unsubstantial beneath the clouds. Then as the first shafts of sunlight came over the sea the dark land became faintly green, a small island floating in a misty haze, and the land rose sharply to a hill whose torn, serrated edges, even in the misty sky, showed its volcanic origin. It was like a thousand other islands in that sea, a half-forgotten place, over which the history of the Caribbean would have passed. There would have been the Carib Indians first, and then perhaps a stray Spaniard, and then the buccaneers. After that there would have been the English sugar planters and the slave gangs. He had nearly memorized its nautical description:—

  Mercator Island, largest of the Winderly Group, rough and hilly, four miles long and one mile wide, may be distinguished by large V-shaped cleft in long ridge on the center of the island. Volcanic, coral reefs two miles offshore. This island is now inhabited only by two or three Negro fishing families which move to other islands of the group. Harbor only for small vessels, eight feet mean low water. Anchorage in so-called Westerly Bay near remains of coral stone dock. Channel through reef very narrow.…