And Mr. Kingman sat down, resting his rifle across his knees. He raised his cup, but Bob noticed that his other hand still held the rifle.
“Very pleasant wine,” Mr. Moto said. “I have always admired all things German.”
“Germany used to be a very restful place,” Mr. Kingman said. “Here’s looking at you, Mr. Policeman. I’m sorry you can’t have a drink of it too,” and Mr. Kingman laughed. “Odd, isn’t it, all of us sitting here at cross-purposes—Mr. Moto with his hand in his pocket, me watching him, and Bob there, wishing he could break my neck? By—by Jove, it’s rather jolly, isn’t it? Here comes the coffee. Have some, Moto?”
“Yes,” said Mr. Moto and he made a gentle belching sound. “Thank you very much.”
“Yes,” said Mr. Kingman, “all together and all at cross-purposes, all ready to fly apart at a moment’s notice. It will be quite a while before I can come back here again, I think. Yes, this is the—the life, isn’t it? Helen, my dear, I’m glad you’re taking it so well.”
She looked at him across the stones.
“It’s the only way there is to take it, Mac,” she said.
“After all, that man Durant was just another of us. He was nothing serious to you, was he, my dear?”
“Just another of us,” Mrs. Kingman said. “That’s all.”
“By Jove,” Mr. Kingman went on, “here’s our little snack of luncheon over and I doing all the talking—the—the life of the party, what? There’s just one thing we’ve got to think about—some way of getting off this island—and, Bob, you’re going to do the thinking for us.” Mr. Kingman got to his feet. “Helen, my dear, if I may talk to you outside for a minute, we must think of some way for Bob to get that schooner of his back here. Will you excuse us, please?”
Mr. and Mrs. Kingman walked out on the terrace, and Mr. Moto and Bob Bolles were alone except for Oscar, who sat some distance away watching them. Mr. Moto glanced toward Inspector Jameson and then took a noisy sip of his coffee. His face was devoid of any expression. The events of the morning did not appear to have disturbed him in the least.
“If you have some signal to call back your boat I think it would be so much nicer if you told,” Mr. Moto said; “so much nicer—because Mr. Kingman will make you tell. There are so many ways.”
“To hell with all that,” Bob Bolles said. “I can take anything that you boys dish out.”
Mr. Moto laughed politely.
“You are very nice, Mr. Bolles,” he said, “very, very nice. I only suggested, please—soon it will be difficult for all of us.”
Bob Bolles looked at him curiously.
“That thing on the plane—” Bob Bolles asked him suddenly. “What’s your game? Are you going to get it for yourself, or are you going to play in with Kingman? Not that it’s any of my business, I suppose.”
Mr. Moto set down his cup.
“So very pleased you asked,” he said. “I think in the end I shall have it for myself, yes, when the time comes.”
“Suppose Kingman’s a Nazi?” Bob asked. “You’re playing in with those boys, aren’t you?”
Mr. Moto looked interested.
“Oh,” he said, “do you think he is a Nazi? Why, please?”
“Well, you take Oscar,” Bob said. “First he pretended he was a Swede and now he’s developed a German accent. And take Mr. Kingman’s accent.”
Mr. Moto’s gold teeth glittered in a friendly smile.
“So clever of you, I think,” he said. “Mr. Kingman has suggested the same himself. I am so sorry I do not trust him—a very bad man, I do not like Mr. Kingman.”
“I don’t blame you,” Bob Bolles said fervently. “I hate his guts.”
“So happy to hear your thoughts,” Mr. Moto said. “But I beg you, please, Mr. Bolles, to take care of yourself. I am so glad you understand airplanes, Mr. Bolles. But take care of yourself.” Mr. Moto’s narrow, dark eyes darted a glance in the direction of the terrace. “So sorry there should be trouble between America and Japan—two such very nice nations. It is all a cultural misunderstanding.”
Bob tried to make his voice sound careless. Mr. Moto was leading up to something, he was very sure. The slender bonds of expediency which were holding them together were shifting and wearing very thin.
“You and I,” Bob said, “might reach a temporary cultural understanding.”
Mr. Moto sucked in his breath noisily between his teeth.
“Please,” he said, “no understanding now.”
Bob had nearly forgotten Oscar. Oscar had risen from the stone where he had been sitting close to Inspector Jameson. Now he stepped across the space to the stone table, scowling.
“By damn,” Oscar said, “you shut your mouth or I shut it for you.”
“Please,” Mr. Moto began, “I think—”
He stopped. Mr. Kingman had walked in from the terrace with Mrs. Kingman just behind him.
“Here,” Mr. Kingman asked. “What’s the trouble here?”
Oscar was still scowling.
“By damn,” Oscar said, and he stabbed the muzzle of his rifle at Bob Bolles. “He talked to the Yap.”
Mr. Kingman laughed.
“All right, Oscar, let him talk,” Mr. Kingman said. “Perhaps you can have your fun with him later. Bob, I’m leaving Helen here to reason with you. She’s a very sensible girl and a nice girl, isn’t she? We’ve got to find some way of getting that boat back. I’d like a painless way. She wants to try to help you, Bob, don’t you, my dear? And, Moto, you and I’d better start looking for that plane. We’ll go down and try that sugar factory. Are you ready?”
Mr. Moto bowed.
“It has been so pleasant. We have stayed so long,” he said. “Yes, all ready.”
“Well,” Mr. Kingman said, “then everything is hunky—hunky-dory, isn’t it? Oscar, keep an eye on Mr. Bolles. If he makes a jump for it, you know what to do. And if you get a chance give that policeman a little water. We may need him later. You never can tell. Come on, Moto.”
Mr. Kingman and Mr. Moto walked out on the terrace.
“Heigh-ho,” Mr. Kingman was humming, “heigh-ho!”
Bob Bolles stood listening to their footsteps and then he said:—
“It’s nice to be rid of him for a while. I wish I had a gun.”
Mrs. Kingman was holding her sun glasses delicately between her thumb and forefinger.
“Don’t talk that way,” she said. “You see, he knows I care about you. He’s awfully, awfully clever.”
“Care about me?” Bob Bolles repeated. He was utterly surprised. It was all so strange, given the time and place.
“Let’s go out on the terrace,” Mrs. Kingman said. “I don’t like it here, and be careful. Oscar’s watching.”
They walked across the terrace and sat on the stone railing, while Oscar sat in the shadow of the gaping window, holding his rifle. Bob could see Mr. Moto and Mr. Kingman, like two old friends, walking down the old avenue in the direction of the sugar factory—a logical place to look, since there had been nothing in the house—and he watched them disappear beneath the trees. When he looked at the blue of the sea and the waves on the reefs, when he saw the blackish green contours of the island and its red volcanic earth, he could almost believe that he had been asleep, that Inspector Jameson had never appeared, that there had been no talk of sudden death. But parts of it were still with him, and last of all, that amazing speech of hers. It came so suddenly that he could hardly believe it.
“Do you mean that?” he asked.
She was sitting on the rail beside him, looking not at him but straight ahead of her at nothing.
“Oh, God,” she said, “of course I mean it! It happened somewhere on the boat, I suppose, or somewhere in Kingston. How do those things happen? I don’t know. On the beach this morning—I don’t know. But he knew. He can see through everything. There isn’t even time to be nice about it. He’ll use it if he can. And he says you care for me. Do you?”
He heard her quest
ion, but he did not answer immediately. Somehow he had never thought of it that way. He thought that he had been puzzled by her and sorry for her, but there had been something else. All at once he seemed to see it perfectly clearly.
“Why, yes, I do,” he said, “now you mention it, but I don’t know why.”
“Nobody knows why,” she said. “You were probably lonely, and I was sorry for you at first. Nobody knows why. But that’s why he left us here.”
“It’s funny,” Bob said. “I’ve never told you anything I’ve thought about you, and this doesn’t seem to be the time or place, but listen—”
He was still surprised by it. He still found it hard to believe.
“Yes?” she asked. “What is it?”
“If I can get Oscar’s rifle away from him—go up and talk to him and let me get behind him—we can get out of this yet.”
His instinct had always been for direct action. In his present mood nothing would have made him more completely happy than to get his hands on Oscar. If he could get near enough, he was strong enough to handle it. Perhaps because she was sitting beside him he felt a complete confidence in his strength. Once he was through with Oscar, he could untie Inspector Jameson. Jameson was stupid, but he was a good stout man. If he was not armed, and probably he was not, at least they would have Oscar’s rifle between them.
“Come on. What do you say?” Bob asked. “Get me near enough so I can jump him and we’ll bust this thing wide open.”
From the way she looked he might have been telling her that she was beautiful, and she was almost unbelievably pretty—her slacks, her shirt with the little sailboats, her broad-brimmed straw hat. In spite of everything she still looked like a girl who was on a pleasant picnic. She seemed to be smiling at her own thoughts, staring straight ahead at nothing.
“No, dear,” she said. “We might—but I’m not sure. I have to be sure. I’m going to play it another way. It’s Mac I’m interested in. It’s Mac—and that part on the plane.” She looked down at her dark glasses. “You see, that’s what I’m here for. I want that part of the plane.”
“But you can’t get it,” Bob began. “When he gets back—”
“You’re wrong there, dear,” she answered quietly. “I think I can. At least I’m going to try. That’s what I’m here for. Wait. We’ll both wait and see.”
He knew then what it was he had always seen in her. It was something which had nothing to do with him, something which he’d never be able to touch. She had warned him of it down there on the beach.
“Nothing’s going to stop you, is it?” he asked. “I can see that. I guess I’ve always seen it.”
“That’s true, dear,” she said. “Nothing’s going to stop me.”
“Well,” he answered, “I guess that’s why I love you. I said I didn’t know, but that’s why.”
“It’s sweet of you to say it,” she answered, “because it’s so impossible, and we can’t think about ourselves now, not at all. And I’d give anything, almost anything—” And then her voice broke. “It’s sad, it’s awfully sad. Don’t say you love me again.”
“We’ll get out of this,” Bob said. “I’ll tell you later.”
“Don’t,” she said, “please don’t. Of course you ought to tell me now. We ought to tell each other all about each other, because it’s so beautiful here. I wish that time could stop. I wish we could be here always.”
“With that low-lived gangster sitting in the window with a gun?” Bob asked.
“No,” she said. “But suppose we owned this island. Suppose we built a house here. Look at the color on the sea.”
The harbor below them was sapphire blue and the water by the reefs was emerald and out by the horizon there were streaks of purple on it. Somehow it was important, although he could not tell why, and he never forgot that moment, sitting beside her and looking at the sea.
“But we can’t talk about it now,” she said. “Perhaps not ever, not any of it. You must listen to me, dear.”
“Yes,” he said, “I’m listening.”
“You’ve never seen a man like Mac, but you know a little what he’s like now, and he’s going to be worse. He’s got to get off this island or he’ll be hanged. That was a mistake he made in Kingston. He’s desperate, I think.”
“All right,” Bob said simply. “I hope to God he is. I’m pretty desperate myself.”
“Listen, please,” she said. “When you sent Tom away you must have arranged some signal to call him back. Mac knows it. Everybody knows it.”
“Suppose he does,” Bob asked. “Then what?”
“He’s going to ask you and you’ve got to tell him.”
“Oh, no, I won’t,” Bob said.
“You’ve got to, dear, or he’ll make you. You don’t believe it, but you’ll tell him in the end. I know. I’ve seen it. Please—No, wait. I’ll tell you something else.”
“What?” Bob asked.
The insistence in her voice changed into a note of grimness.
“It won’t change what’s going to happen. It won’t do any good.”
“What’s going to happen?” Bob asked.
She shook her head.
“I can’t tell you that yet. Don’t you see? I can’t bear to have him hurt you. It’s so unnecessary. Please, tell him.”
Bob looked down at the gray stone of the terrace.
“You’re not just trying this on me? Saying that you care about me to make me tell?” he asked.
“No,” she answered quickly. “Please, please, don’t think that. It makes me sick. I hate all of it. I wouldn’t do that, dear.”
“All right,” he answered. “I didn’t think you would. I’m glad you wouldn’t. Let’s get this straight. You’re working for what you believe in and I’m not trying to stop you. Well, I told you before—I don’t know what it is you want on that plane, but I guess I’ve got the ace card. None of you are going to get it off this island. Either I get it or the British will. That’s flat, isn’t it?”
She was silent for a moment and their eyes met. Hers were deep and dark, like the colors on the sea, and she was not hurt or angry with him.
“I thought you’d say that,” she said. “You’re too honest not to.”
“Then, let’s forget it,” Bob told her. “It doesn’t do any good—that side of you or me—and the rest of it—Why, the rest of it is as out of place as the way Jameson looked. But let’s talk about the rest of it. Suppose we did live here.”
“Yes,” she said, “let’s talk about the rest of it. I knew I couldn’t make you do anything else. That’s why I love you, dear. There isn’t anything left but to talk about something else, but it’s awfully sad.”
But she never told him why it was sad. Instead she was gay again, and they seemed to be entirely by themselves, although Oscar sat there watching them. She was asking him about the island and about the trees, and he told her about how he had bought the Thistlewood. He never remembered how long they sat there talking, seemingly alone together—until she said:—
“It’s over now.”
Oscar was on his feet listening. A voice was calling in the distance. It was Mr. Kingman’s voice and Mrs. Kingman slipped down from the stone railing.
“Oscar!” Mr. Kingman was calling.
“I think they’ve found the plane.” Mrs. Kingman sounded breathless and unsteady. “It’s all over. He’ll want the suitcase with the tools. Yes, they’ve found the plane.”
CHAPTER XIV
Oscar signaled Bob Bolles with the muzzle of his rifle and Bob walked along the terrace to the front of the house with Helen Kingman beside him. When he stood by the stone staircase that led from the front door and looked across the open space he saw that Mr. Kingman and Mr. Moto were far down the drive. When Mr. Kingman saw them he waved his hand and shouted again.
“Come on,” he called. “Everybody come. The tools in the suitcase, Oscar. We’ve found it!” The case was where Oscar had put it when they had first ascended the steps, a heav
y practical piece of luggage with Mr. Moto’s cardboard suitcase and his raincoat just beside it.
“You pick it up,” Oscar said, and Bob picked it up. Its weight told him that it was certainly full of metal. Then they walked across the open space toward Mr. Moto and Mr. Kingman. For a moment he wondered why Mr. Moto and Mr. Kingman were both there, when it would have been as easy for one of them to have gone to the house, but almost at once he understood the reason. Neither one of them could have left the other. They had evidently been scrambling through the undergrowth, for their clothes were stained with mud and grass and they both looked hot and weary. Mr. Kingman was paler and his face was drawn and thin. Mr. Moto’s jaw was thrust a trifle forward and his eyes were beady and restless.
Mr. Kingman pushed back his sun helmet and rubbed his sleeve across his forehead.
“By Jove, it’s hot work,” he said, “as—as hot as hell. It’s in that sugar factory—in a cellar on the end of it, under the old chimney arch. We’ve been crawling through those confounded vines. It is very annoying to think we had a full equipment, axes and everything, on the boat.”
“Is it all there?” Mrs. Kingman asked. Mr. Kingman nodded.
“All there. Not crated. They must have broke her out to cut down on the weight when they carried her—one of the newer convoy pursuits—BCS–38–B. That is right, isn’t it, Helen?”
“Yes,” Mrs. Kingman said.
“All right,” said Mr. Kingman briskly. “Then let’s get going. You first, Bob. Let Oscar follow Bob, my dear. You’ll see the path by the ruin, Bob. You’ll see where we went through.”
Then Mr. Moto raised his hand.
“Excuse me,” Mr. Moto said. “May I ask a question, please? From the house where you left there was nothing on the sea?”
“Nein,” Oscar said, “it was all clear.”
Mr. Moto glanced at his wrist-watch and looked happier.
“I think that is very nice,” he said. “There should have been at least smoke by now. At least I do not think the American ship is coming.” The gold in Mr. Moto’s front teeth glistened. “Does it puzzle you, Mr. Bolles?”
Last Laugh, Mr. Moto Page 14