Last Laugh, Mr. Moto

by John P. Marquand

  The wrinkles on Mr. Kingman’s face deepened. He did not speak for a moment, and Bob had never been so conscious of every personality. He heard Mrs. Kingman draw a choking breath that was almost like a sob.

  “Hein,” he heard Oscar mutter, “hein!”

  “Mac,” he heard Mrs. Kingman say, and Mr. Kingman shook his head at her and Bob saw Mr. Kingman’s fingers move toward the lock of his rifle.

  “Please,” Mrs. Kingman said, “please, Mac.”

  “Helen,” Mr. Kingman’s voice was still genial and pleasant, “you know me well enough not to say ‘please.’ You are quite right, Mr. Moto. You’re a nice guy, Bob, but it’s the—the game, isn’t it? You today, Mr. Moto or me tomorrow. Helen, go down to the beach. We will call you in a few minutes. Who shall it be, Mr. Moto, you or me?”

  Mr. Moto pulled out his purple handkerchief again.

  “Since it was your oversight, please,” he said, “it would be so much nicer for you, Mr. Kingman, unless of course you are too friendly.”

  “Oh, well,” said Mr. Kingman, “I was damned stupid. Go down to the beach, Helen. You wanted to pick up shells.”

  But Mrs. Kingman still waited. When she spoke again Bob had a feeling of gratitude which shook him, but it made him for the first time really believe in what was happening.

  “But both of you were wrong,” she said. “Only look at him. He isn’t one of us.”

  “Oh,” Mr. Kingman asked, “what makes you say that, Helen?”

  Even then, when all sorts of thoughts were running through his mind, Bob Bolles was impressed by a discordant quality in her voice, by a sort of bitterness which he had never heard in it before.

  “How can one explain a matter like that?” she said, and even her accent was different. “One can tell if one has been in the profession. Why, one can pick out the others like us in a crowded street. I saw it in your face even before I met you. Why, anyone can read it on this Japanese.”

  “Madame has so very much intuition,” Mr. Moto said.

  “It’s the everlasting lying,” she went on as though she had not heard, “the everlasting trying to laugh and to smile when you’re afraid, the watching and the danger. I have talked to Mr. Bolles and he hasn’t it in him, not the personality nor the capacity.”

  Then Bob Bolles spoke for the first time. He must have been afraid—he was certainly afraid—but he still could not get it through his mind that he was the person who was standing there.

  “That’s right about my personality. The experts say there’s something wrong with it.”

  Mr. Kingman smiled sympathetically. He seemed politely, mildly interested.

  “So very nice to talk so,” Mr. Moto said. “It shows your personality is very nice.”

  “No,” said Mrs. Kingman, “it isn’t that. Can’t you see he’s too honest?”

  “My dear,” Mr. Kingman said, “this isn’t like you, Helen, to give way to emotion. Or are you emotionally interested in Mr. Bolles?”

  Her face became a dull red. “No,” she answered, “of course not.”

  “Then you had better go down to the beach,” Mr. Kingman said, “unless, of course, you want to stay.”

  “No,” she said, “I don’t want to stay,” and she turned quickly, as though she did not want to look at any of them, particularly at Bob Bolles, and walked past the palm-leaf huts toward the beach. They stood there waiting until she was out of sight.

  “Too much emotion,” Mr. Kingman said. “She is very good, but it is the difficulty with women. You are to be congratulated, Bob. You seem to have got further with her than I have.”

  It was only when he saw her walking away from him that Bob Bolles felt his first wave of panic. He had a sudden choking desire to run, to take the chance and to plunge into the bushes, and perhaps they hoped he would. He always thought that he would have run for it, if Mr. Moto had not spoken.

  “If you have any messages, please,” Mr. Moto said, “we should be so very glad. So customary with all of us.”

  Mr. Moto’s voice steadied him. He put his hands in his pockets so that no one could see that they were shaking and he cleared his throat. He had the most absurd desire that no matter what happened he wanted Mr. Kingman and Mr. Moto to think that he had done it well.

  “There’s just one thing,” he began.

  Mr. Kingman looked sympathetic and kindly.

  “Yes,” he said, “go ahead, Bob. We don’t want to hurry you.”

  It might not work, but if he could make them understand that they needed him, he might get out of it. He tried to keep his mind on that single point, although it was very hard to do, because his thoughts seemed to dart in all directions.

  “This is all rather new to me,” he said. “I guess everyone’s been doing a lot of thinking. But have you thought who’s going to sail that boat? You and Oscar can’t do it, Mr. Kingman. You’ll need a navigator to get out of here.”

  Bob Bolles felt his heart beating in his throat. There was no way of telling from watching them whether the idea was new or not. Mr. Kingman glanced at Mr. Moto. Mr. Moto’s eyes grew narrow.

  “So fortunate that I know navigation,” Mr. Moto said.

  “Perhaps you do,” said Mr. Kingman. “That changes it a little. Perhaps you won’t be going with us, Mr. Moto.”

  Suddenly Mr. Moto began to laugh.

  “It is funny,” he said, and Mr. Moto laughed again. It was the perfunctory laughter of his race, which did not have much humor in it. It appeared to annoy Mr. Kingman.

  “What in—in hell is funny?” Mr. Kingman asked.

  “So amusing,” Mr. Moto said, “how all life hangs on little threads, so very, very delicate. Let us put it this way, please,” Mr. Moto raised one finger. “I did not kill you, Mr. Kingman, because you understand the airplane. You did not eliminate me, because there is as yet no chance. Besides if the Americans are coming we must all work together.”

  “If they were coming,” Mr. Kingman said, “they would have been here before now. How about it, Bob?”

  Bob Bolles shook his head. He had not the least idea where the Smedley was, but he could tell that things were looking better.

  “I’m not telling, of course,” he said, “even if I knew.”

  Mr. Moto raised another finger.

  “So serious,” he said, “so very serious.”

  “Oh,” Mr. Kingman said, “damn—damnation! I’m trying to think!”

  “Yes,” Mr. Moto said, “it is time to think. I am so sorry that I do not need him.”

  “Wait a minute,” Bob Bolles said.

  “Yes,” said Mr. Moto, “yes?” And Bob Bolles grinned at him.

  “Do you know the Caribbean well enough to get away if you’re chased? I know nearly every harbor, Mr. Moto, in these waters. I know where to hide.”

  Mr. Moto expelled his breath softly between his teeth.

  “No,” he said. “I had not thought of that—if the destroyer is on its way—”

  Mr. Kingman moved impatiently.

  “Moto,” he said, “maybe you and I’d better talk for a few minutes in private.”

  “Oh, yes,” Mr. Moto said, “yes, I think it would be very nice.”

  Mr. Kingman beckoned to Oscar.

  “Take Mr. Bolles down to the beach with Mrs. Kingman, Oscar, and keep an eye on him.” And then he smiled. “Good-by. I’ll see you later, Bob.”

  “Please,” Mr. Moto said, “just a moment, Mr. Bolles. If this man with you should try to leave you, perhaps to shoot at me, will you call me, please?”

  “With pleasure,” Bob Bolles said, and Mr. Kingman began to laugh.

  “By—by jingo, Mr. Moto!” Mr. Kingman said. “You really do think of everything.”

  Once several years before Bob Bolles had been piloting a training plane when the motor inexplicably had gone dead. The ship had gone out of control and was falling fast when, equally inexplicably, the motor had picked up again and he had been able to level off; but those few moments never wholly left him.
His half mechanical, half pathetic efforts at the controls—while the certainty had grown on him that it was all over—always came back to him. When he heard the roar of the motor again, there had been a sort of nauseous, giddy weakness which in its way had been worse than that sense that he was through; and now the same feeling was with him. When he walked across the clearing toward the beach, with Oscar a pace or two behind him, Bob Bolles thought for a moment that he might be physically ill. The trees and the little bay—everything was blurred. He felt a sharp prod in the small of his back. It was Oscar poking him with the muzzle of his rifle.

  “Get on, you,” Oscar said, and Bob Bolles realized that he had stopped walking without knowing it. His vision cleared and Mercator Island and the bay were back, lonely, warm and beautiful. He heard the faint breeze in the palms again and the humming of insects and the chattering of birds.

  “All right,” he said, “all right, Oscar,” and he began to walk again, and the sea and the air, everything, had a new beauty. The Thistlewood was still anchored in the harbor. He had never thought until then of human life as a factor in an intellectual problem which could be eliminated as easily as you crossed out a mathematical symbol with a pencil. He had never associated before with individuals who considered life in just those terms.

  “You today,” Mr. Kingman had said, “and Mr. Moto or me tomorrow.” They were spies, the secret agents he had read about, but he had never seen a spy before. He had never considered before that he had led an immature, protected life; and now life was like walking on a tightrope across a chasm. Mr. Kingman and Mr. Moto had been so trained to it that they could move as easily as gymnasts in a circus, but he had not been trained to it, and now he was out on a wire balanced somewhere over the gap of infinity. Halfway across the clearing he stopped again and faced Oscar.

  “Say, Oscar,” he said, “how about rowing out to the boat and getting a drink? I need a drink.”

  “We go out to no boat,” Oscar said, “and we get no drink.”

  “Oh, all right,” Bob said, “but don’t be so gloomy, Oscar.”

  He would not have lasted for a single minute if he had not known how to sail the Thistlewood. If Tom took the Thistlewood away, there would be no reason for him at all.

  CHAPTER XI

  “Go on,” Oscar said. “Keep walking.”

  “All right,” Bob said. “I was just thinking about something, Oscar.”

  He was thinking that Tom was within earshot, watching them from somewhere. He had only to shout for Tom and Tom would come. He only had to tell Tom to forget what he had told him to do, and there was no reason why he shouldn’t, for none of this business was his funeral. Yet he knew he would do no such thing. He would have to go ahead and take what was coming to him.

  Mrs. Kingman was sitting on a log with her back toward them, looking at the sea. She did not move when she heard their footsteps. She did not move until he spoke.

  “Hello,” Bob Bolles said. Then she jumped up very quickly. She made a queer sort of picture in her gaily colored slacks and shirt, because the colors only emphasized the deadly whiteness of her face.

  “It’s all right,” Bob said. “They haven’t got me yet.”

  “Why—” she began. “Why—”

  “Because someone had to sail the Thistlewood,” Bob said. “Oscar’s down here to watch me so I won’t get away, and Mr. Moto’s having me watch Oscar so he won’t get away.”

  She reached out her hand to him and he took it and her fingers gripped his very tight.

  “Oh,” she said, “I’ve been so—so sick! I’d have done anything, but there wasn’t anything to do.” When he thought of Mr. Kingman’s eyes, he knew that she was right.

  “Why, you did everything you could,” he said. “I guess I’m in a bad way, but I’m glad you’re not married to him.”

  “You behaved so well,” she said. “I knew you would. Of course I’m not married to a man like that—or to anyone else. Are you still glad?”

  “Yes,” Bob said, “I am.”

  “If I’d been armed—” she began. “Where are they now?”

  “Talking,” he told her.

  “Oh,” she said, and she dropped his hand and turned to Oscar.

  “Go and sit over by the bank,” she said. “It’s all right, Oscar.”

  “Yes, ma’m,” Oscar answered, and he walked to the edge of the beach and sat down with his rifle across his knees.

  “We can talk,” she said. “His English is very bad. I don’t know where Mac picked him up. He’s faithful and that’s about all.”

  She had been shaken when he first appeared but now she was entirely different. It was as though she had cut herself away from any sentiment. She was beautiful, tranquilly beautiful, but now she had a new intensity, some purpose which he was sure had nothing to do with him. She was looking toward the ruined pier, where he had left Mr. Moto and Mr. Kingman, and her lips were twisted into an enigmatic little smile.

  “He’d better take care,” she said. She was not speaking to him—she was speaking to herself. Bob Bolles put his thumbs in his belt. He had not yet lost that sudden sense of gratitude that he was still alive and his new appreciation of everything around him included her. Somehow her disregard of him made him more completely conscious of her than he had ever been before.

  “Who are you?” he asked. His question appeared to interrupt her train of thought and first she looked almost impatient at his interruption. Then she looked straight at him, as though she wanted him to have the truth whether he liked it or not.

  “That’s rather stupid of you,” she answered. “You must know who I am, of course, and it doesn’t hurt for you to know now. I’m a French national agent, under a special government bureau in Vichy. Now you don’t like me any more, do you? Well, it doesn’t make much difference.”

  “I don’t know whether I like you or not,” Bob said. “I don’t know whether I’ve ever known one.”

  She laughed as though he had said something amusing, but her voice was kinder.

  “You know one now,” she said. “I’m not a nice girl for you to play with, because, you see—” She stopped and her voice grew harder. “You might as well know I’m the same as the rest of them.”

  “How do you mean?” Bob asked her.

  “I mean,” she answered, “I’d kill you, just as surely as Mac would, if it would help. In case you don’t, I think you ought to know.”

  “I don’t mind that,” Bob said. She shook her head.

  “My dear,” she said, “I just wanted you to understand it. It seems fairer. You said you loved your country. I love mine. My mother was American, but my father was French.”

  “And Mr. Kingman?” Bob asked her. “Is he French?” He thought that her expression changed when he mentioned Mr. Kingman’s name.

  “I don’t know what he is. Partly English, partly Austrian, I think. He’s a free lance, but he’s been employed for this by our bureau. He’s working with us now. At least,” she hesitated, “as far as I can tell.”

  Bob Bolles did not answer and she went right on, confidentially, as though she were glad to speak to someone.

  “There’s a part of this plane which belongs to us, you know. There isn’t any reason not to tell you. We need everything we can get for bargaining purposes now. We had definite word where the plane was left three weeks ago. I was sent to New York to meet someone,” she hesitated, “a great friend of mine, and then word came that Mr. Kingman was to go here with me instead.” She stopped and dug her toe in the white sand. She was watching him, but her dark sun glasses concealed her eyes. “I was surprised. I did not like it very much, but it was orders. I didn’t like it then and I don’t like it now.”

  “You mean, you don’t trust him?” Bob asked. “You’re afraid he may take it for himself? Well, I don’t blame you much.”

  “Yes,” she said slowly, “that’s just what I mean.”

  “That’s why you wanted me to take you here alone?” Bob asked.


  “Yes,” she said. “And now I’m going to ask you something.” She paused and her voice had become insistent.

  “Go ahead,” Bob told her.

  “Will you help me? Quickly. They’ll be coming back.”

  Her words were slow, but they were perfectly distinct. Oscar was watching them, but he was nearly out of earshot.

  “I guess you’re right not to trust him,” Bob said slowly.

  “I shall get it anyway,” she said. “But it would be easier if you helped. Will you?”

  Bob Bolles drew a deep breath.

  “I guess you’re quite a girl,” he said, “if you want to tackle Kingman. I’d like to help you, but I can’t.”

  “Why not?” she asked.

  “It isn’t anything personal,” Bob said.

  “Hurry!” she said sharply. “I hear them.” But he did not hurry. He was making up his own mind as much as speaking to her.

  “You’ve been fair to me and I’ll be fair to you. I don’t know what this thing is, but my people want it—America wants it—and I’m going to try to get it—that’s all.” It was not all. It seemed strange for his mind to go back to it. He was thinking of Captain Burke on the Smedley and of his fitness report.

  “I thought you’d say that,” she said.

  “All right,” he answered. “I’m glad you thought so.”

  “But you can’t,” she said. “You mustn’t. You don’t know—”

  “You’re right there,” he answered. “There’s a lot I don’t know.” But he was learning more and more. He had learned a lot in the last hour.

  “Be quiet,” she said. “Here they come.”

  Her whole attention was centered on the path near the pier and she seemed to have forgotten him entirely. Mr. Moto and Mr. Kingman were walking across the sand toward them, side by side, like old friends. Then he heard her speaking to him again.

  “Don’t do anything. Don’t try. People like us are only alive because we think of everything. Don’t try, my dear. There’s no chance for you at all.” Then she called to them and waved her hand and Bob Bolles could almost believe that it was a pleasant party and that everyone was having a lovely time. Mr. Kingman and Mr. Moto were both smiling.