Last Laugh, Mr. Moto

by John P. Marquand

  Except for Mr. Kingman’s rifle—and for the familiar way he handled it—and for that occasional hardly noticeable hesitation over words and phrases—Mr. Kingman might still have been an intelligent, good-natured tourist, anxious to get the most out of an unusual and expensive vacation. He was genially at ease while they waited for Oscar to come back from the Thistlewood, at ease and in very high spirits. He called Mrs. Kingman’s attention to a flight of parrots and he asked Bob Bolles quick and intelligent questions.

  “The red earth is volcanic, is it not? And you can see the black, basaltic formation in the mountain. By Jove, think of living here, with bananas right by your door—those are bananas on those great green-leafed trees, aren’t they?—and every day like a day in June—‘What is so rare as a day in June?’ as Longfellow said. Wasn’t it Longfellow, dear?”

  “Yes,” Mrs. Kingman said, “at least I think so, Mac.”

  “I can always ask Helen for a quotation when I am wrong,” Mr. Kingman said. “It was Longfellow, wasn’t it, Bob?”

  “No, sir,” Bob Bolles said, “it was James Russell Lowell—‘What is so rare as a day in June? Then if ever come perfect days.’”

  “Of course,” said Mr. Kingman. “Yes, by Jove, Lowell, not Longfellow—Lowell, the—the good gray poet.”

  Bob could not help being amused, and he could imagine that this was exactly as Mr. Kingman wanted it.

  “That was Whitman,” Bob said. “He was the good gray poet.”

  “Why, of course,” Mr. Kingman said. “Helen, isn’t it—A I, that we brought Bob along with us? Why, he knows navigation and poetry and about the—the wild flowers. ‘Then if ever come perfect days,’ and it is a perfect day, although it’s November, not June.”

  “Yes, Mac,” Mrs. Kingman said, “it is a perfect day. ‘Captain, oh, my captain, the fearful trip is done.’”

  “Now, who wrote that one?” Mr. Kingman asked. “Whitman—Robert Louis Stevenson—Swinburne—but never mind it now. You know this is all new to me, and to Helen too. By Jove, it gives you a creepy feeling, doesn’t it? The sea, the jungle over everything, and we on the edge of the lost world. What a place it must have been when the plantation was going!”

  His voice trailed into silence and he looked around him with a bright, happy smile.

  “And now,” Mr. Kingman said, “here comes good old Oscar. Help him with the picnic hamper, will you, Bob?”

  Oscar was coming up the path from the beach, grunting and puffing beneath a heavy load. He carried a canvas packsack on his back, filled with canned goods and bottles. There was a rifle slung over his shoulder, in one hand he had a heavy suitcase and in the other a picnic hamper.

  “Why,” Mrs. Kingman said, “Oscar looks like Santa Claus.”

  “Good old Oscar,” said Mr. Kingman, “just like Santa Claus. Not that bag, Bob, the other—the picnic hamper. We’ll try the house first.” Mr. Kingman peered at Oscar’s canvas packsack. “Ah, three bottles of Rüdesheimer. We can cool them in some spring. They may make us sleepy after lunch, but then ‘What is so rare as a day in June?’”

  They were all in a little group in that clearing near the pier, and Bob Bolles remembered later, when he tried to reconstruct the scene, that Mr. Kingman’s eyes had been fixed on the tangled vines and bushes in front of him, until he examined the wine that Oscar was carrying. When he turned to look at the wine bottles his head had moved sideways away from the beginning of the old road which led from the dock. The road was nothing but a grassy trail that wound beneath a gigantic candlewood whose heavy roots ran through the grass like enormous hands. Suddenly Bob Bolles saw Oscar’s body stiffen.

  “Achtung,” Oscar said sharply. “Ach—” and Bob remembered later that Oscar had never spoken a German word before. Suddenly Oscar was not a Swede but a German. Mr. Kingman whirled about before Oscar could finish and Bob Bolles turned too, moved by that sudden urgency in Oscar’s voice. A moment before there had been nothing on the path; but now beneath the cool black shadow of the candlewood, not twenty feet away, a small man in a grass-stained white suit was standing, holding a short blunt automatic pistol.

  “Please,” he said sharply. “Mr. Kingman, please.” His last word ended in a gentle persuasive hiss, and before he spoke Bob Bolles recognized him. It was the Japanese from Kingston—Mr. Moto.

  CHAPTER X

  There was a silence—a strange, shocked, stony silence—and for some reason the opening line of that poem still ran through Bob Bolles’s mind: “What is so rare as a day in June?” He was standing just a pace behind Mr. Kingman, so that Mr. Kingman’s silk coat, his pith helmet and his shoulders were like the foreground in a picture beyond which were the glade and the candlewood and Mr. Moto. He could see Mr. Kingman’s muscles beneath the coat taut and absolutely motionless. Mr. Kingman was holding his rifle ready at his hip, but the line of its slender dark barrel was a little off the mark, although an instantaneous flick of Mr. Kingman’s wrist would bring it bearing straight on Mr. Moto’s body. An almost imperceptible motion, a pressure on the trigger—and there you were.

  Yet Mr. Kingman waited and Bob Bolles knew what he was thinking, as he watched the back of Mr. Kingman’s head. He saw a little bead of perspiration roll down Mr. Kingman’s neck. He could not see Mr. Kingman’s eyes, but he knew that they were boring into Mr. Moto’s eyes and Bob knew that any moment something might break that perfect equilibrium of time. Mr. Kingman was standing there, figuring it to a hair’s breadth. He was estimating his chances if he moved and fired and Bob Bolles was completely sure that no consideration was disturbing Mr. Kingman, except the possibility of success.

  There was no doubt any longer who Mr. Moto was. Mr. Moto was no longer wearing glasses, and somehow he no longer looked like a small man, although he was very small. His delicate body, held so motionless, seemed to be made of springs that might snap at any instant, but his face was almost placid—high cheekbones, narrow jaw and narrow dark eyes which were absolutely still. There was no doubt who any of them were. There was an absolute coldness in their attitude such as Bob Bolles had never seen. They were there to do a piece of work, and nothing would stop them—no scruples, no thought of personal injury. They were carefully trained graduates of the most dangerous school in the world, so well-trained that they could keep their tempers and their wits, so well-trained that they could control every tremor of fear and nervousness. The thing that Bob Bolles remembered best of that moment later was a curious quality of icy calm politeness. He was never able to forget the respect that he felt for all of them, a sort of respect that was almost admiration. Mr. Moto’s eyes never moved, but there was no indication from his voice that his life and Mr. Kingman’s were both hanging from a single thread.

  “Please,” Mr. Moto said, “no reason for this now. Later perhaps, but not now, please,” and suddenly he smiled. “If we start it will be so very, very difficult. So few of us will be left.”

  “Oh,” Mr. Kingman said, “do you think so?” His voice was unshaken, almost unchanged.

  “Oh, yes,” Mr. Moto said, “I think so. It is so nice when No. I people meet on missions. You and I, we are first-class. We are thinking of the end. I was so relieved when I knew it was you, Mr. Kingman. Please, it is better to wait, for now so few of us might be left that nothing could succeed for any of us.”

  “Oh,” Mr. Kingman asked, “what makes you so sure?”

  The gold in Mr. Moto’s teeth glittered again.

  “There was a combination so very like this in Singapore,” he said, “an associate of mine was so impetuous. He shot before he thought. So much better to think.”

  Mr. Moto paused, but he had not moved his dark narrow eyes from Mr. Kingman’s face.

  “I have been waiting for some minutes for this chance to talk. I could so very, very easily have shot you from cover, Mr. Kingman; but I think this way is better.”

  “Oh,” Mr. Kingman said, “why is it?”

  “I am not an airplane mechanic, Mr. Kingman, and you are,” Mr
. Moto said. “So much better that we work together.”

  “Oh,” Mr. Kingman said, “so that’s it, is it?” But neither of them moved.

  “Yes, please,” Mr. Moto said. “I should be so sorry. If you move now I think that I should kill you before you have your rifle pointed. In the meanwhile the other man with the bags, he would have a shot at me of course. It is so very dangerous. Do you see? We might be so very much hurt that there might be no result for any of us. So too bad, Mr. Kingman, after so much trouble.”

  The tension about Mr. Kingman’s shoulders relaxed.

  “I can see your reasoning,” he said. “What do you suggest?”

  “That is so nice,” Mr. Moto said. “I was so sure it would all be so happy. It would be so much nicer if we could make some arrangement for a little while. I should be so honored to take your word—to do nothing for ten minutes.”

  “Well,” Mr. Kingman said, “all right. There isn’t any hurry.”

  “So nice to be working with nice people,” Mr. Moto said.

  Mr. Moto put his pistol in his pocket and Mr. Kingman put his rifle in the crook of his arm.

  “It was careless of me,” Mr. Kingman said. “I should have seen you. I thought I was better in the bush.… All right, Oscar.… So that was you on the boat last night? She wasn’t anchored here.”

  Mr. Moto took a purple handkerchief from his breast pocket, took off his Panama hat and wiped the band.

  “Excuse, please,” he said. “So very hot, I think.”

  Mr. Kingman also took off his sun helmet and mopped his forehead. His eyes were coldly blue, but his voice was unruffled and agreeable.

  “I was looking for that confounded motorboat,” he said. “You did it very well. I’m not generally so easy to—to get a drop on. I knew you were on the job, of course. You Japs get nearly everywhere these days, don’t you? You almost picked Mrs. Kingman off in Kingston too, didn’t you? I wasn’t quite ready for that either.”

  Mr. Moto put on his hat again and gave the crown a gentle pat.

  “It was an effort, please,” he said. “You were recognized when you got off the boat. The English police were quite stupid, I think. But, please, it was not to pick Mrs. Kingman off. Simply to extract the location. We knew she had it, please.”

  “I see,” Mr. Kingman said. “I wonder if you tried the factory in the States.”

  Mr. Moto nodded.

  “Just as you did, Mr. Kingman. It was too well guarded, was it not?”

  And then the tenseness was gone, just as though Mr. Moto had flicked it aside with his handkerchief, and Bob Bolles felt his own body relax. Now that it was over, it seemed unbelievable, and yet when it had been happening it had seemed perfectly right and logical. You could not believe such a thing unless you had seen it, and now Mr. Moto was smiling and Mr. Kingman looked frank and guileless. They seemed drawn together in a companionship in which Bob Bolles had no part. Oscar set down the suitcase and hamper. Mrs. Kingman looked pale around the lips, but she did not look surprised.

  “Mac,” she spoke in a low sharp voice and Mr. Kingman nodded to her.

  “It is all right,” he said. “Leave this to me.”

  Mr. Moto walked toward them, fanning himself with his Panama.

  “May I introduce myself, please?” Mr. Moto asked. “So much nicer,” but Mr. Kingman looked puzzled.

  “Have I ever seen you anywhere before?” he asked.

  “So sorry,” Mr. Moto said, “only for so little time. Ha-ha, the Japanese they look so much alike—Vladivostok, in 1934, and then in ’38 in Berlin.”

  Then Mrs. Kingman spoke again.

  “Why, Mac,” she said, “that year—what were you doing in Berlin?”

  “My dear,” Mr. Kingman said gently, “never mind it now.” And Mr. Moto bobbed his head.

  “I am Mr. Moto,” he said. “So very honored to represent the interests of my Government, so glad to be acquainted, Mr. Kingman, and the lady—she is German? So sorry she is here.”

  “German?” said Mrs. Kingman sharply. “We’re French, from the Vichy Government.”

  “Oh,” Mr. Moto said, “I understand. I had always heard that Mr. Kingman worked for himself—not for any government—and then sold. So very businesslike—” and he bowed again, and Bob Bolles found himself wishing that he would not keep bowing. “I am sorry, very, very sorry you are here, Miss—” Mr. Moto paused and waited. “So much better if you had stopped in the silk shop.” Mr. Kingman shrugged his shoulders.

  “She is Mrs. Kingman—just at present,” he said, “and that’s my man Oscar working with me, and this is the skipper from my boat,” he jerked his head sideways toward Bob Bolles. “Now you’ve got us straight, if you hadn’t before.”

  Mr. Moto was still smiling, but there was no humor in his eyes when he looked at Bob Bolles.

  “An American,” he said. “Yes, we’ve met. So very sorry he is here. We are searching for the same thing, of course.”

  Mr. Kingman’s voice was suddenly sharp.

  “You haven’t found it yet?”

  “Not yet,” said Mr. Moto gently, “but I am very sure it is here.”

  “Look here,” said Mr. Kingman, “would you mind telling me how you found this island? I thought our information was exclusive.”

  “Yes,” said Mr. Moto, “no reason why I should not tell you. I was sent to watch for you in Kingston after we tried the factory—so unpleasant at the factory. When I saw you take your boat I took a plane and watched your course. When I saw where you were pointed, I was so sure, please, where you were going. There was no plane to charter for the distance, without disturbing the police. I hired a motor cruiser in Kingston. It took me two days. The English are so very suspicious. We landed here early this morning.”

  Mr. Kingman drummed his fingers softly on his rifle stock.

  “Where is the crew now?” he asked.

  The smile died out of Mr. Moto’s face.

  “So sorry,” he said. “It was better to send the boat back. I wanted no inside interference, please. I am a scientist searching for butterflies.”

  “All right,” said Mr. Kingman. “How are you planning to get back?” Mr. Moto looked across the clearing to where the Thistlewood lay anchored in the clear blue water and his voice grew more gentle and very patient.

  “Please,” he said, and his right hand dropped carelessly into the pocket of his soiled, grass-stained white coat. “I shall arrange it later.”

  Mr. Kingman laughed.

  “You don’t think I’m going to take you, do you?”

  Mr. Moto sighed and shook his head.

  “It is what I say,” he answered, “this is so very serious. My trouble is that I am not a mechanic, Mr. Kingman. I am hoping so very much that we can work together to find an airplane which the French vessel, the Aquitane, left here. Mrs. Kingman, I think, brought you the information it is here. I hope to take from it the important new appliance, and to find from you or Mrs. Kingman exactly what it is.”

  Bob Bolles rubbed the palms of his hands carefully on the sides of his duck trousers and he felt his heart beating in his throat.

  “I see,” Mr. Kingman said, “there is only one trouble, Mr.—Mr. Moto.”

  “Yes,” said Mr. Moto, “what is that?”

  “I want it myself. I’m on a specialist job—you see.”

  Mr. Moto shook his head sadly.

  “So sorry,” he said. “But one of us will have it, Mr. Kingman, in the end.”

  “And you’re here all alone?” Mr. Kingman said. “You—you think you can tackle the whole lot of us?”

  “So nice,” said Mr. Moto softly, “so nice you understand.”

  “Well, thanks for telling me,” said Mr. Kingman heartily. “You’re a damned—damned cool customer.” Mr. Moto looked slowly at the four of them, and then his eyes rested on Bob Bolles again.

  “I can see,” he said to Mr. Kingman, “why you brought the lady, for she no doubt has special information, but for this man who sail
ed the boat—I do not think it was wise of you. I am surprised to see him here, very much surprised.”

  They were all looking at him and never in his life had Bob felt so entirely alone. Mr. Kingman was half smiling, half frowning as though the remark annoyed him. Oscar licked his lips as though they were dry, but what alarmed Bob most was Mrs. Kingman. For the first time that morning Mrs. Kingman looked afraid.

  “Mac,” she said quickly, “you promised me. There isn’t any need.”

  “Of course there isn’t,” Mr. Kingman said heartily. “Bob here is as right as—as rain, and Bob will back me up. It’s four against you, Moto.”

  Mr. Moto’s face was wooden and expressionless. His voice was monotonously precise.

  “So sorry,” he said. “I think the lady might walk away for a moment. It would be nicer, I think.”

  “What do you mean?” Mr. Kingman asked. “No need to go, Helen.”

  “I say again, so sorry,” Mr. Moto said. “Do you not know this man is formerly a lieutenant commander in the Navy of the United States?”

  “Of course he was,” Mr. Kingman said. “I know that, Mr. Moto. And he was—was busted out of it. He’s a—a harmless drunk, excuse me, Bob. He’s being paid enough so he’ll be happy for two years. It’s all hunky—hunky-dory.”

  “What is that word, please?” Mr. Moto asked.

  “Hunky-dory,” Mr. Kingman said. “American slang. It means everything’s all right.”

  “Thank you,” said Mr. Moto. “Your English is so very good, Mr. Kingman. I have studied at an American university and I do not speak so well. I am so sorry.”

  “For God’s sake,” said Mr. Kingman, “don’t keep on saying you’re sorry. You’re sorry for what?”

  “So sorry for Mr. Bolles,” Mr. Moto said. “Excuse me, you were not very careful. Do you know where Mr. Bolles went after you saw him, Mr. Kingman? It is why I am sure it will be so much nicer for us to work together for a little while.”

  “No,” Mr. Kingman said. “Where did he go?”

  Mr. Moto rubbed his hands together softly.

  “He went,” Mr. Moto said, “straight to the hotel. So sorry for you, Mr. Bolles. And there he called on the officer of the United States destroyer the Smedley, and that is not all, please. The Smedley is inquiring for the French vessel the Aquitane. So sorry.”