Last Laugh, Mr. Moto

by John P. Marquand

  “All right,” he said. “Give me a hand, Oscar.”

  The turbo was heavy. He and Oscar carried it down between them and set it carefully on the ground, a chunky, unimpressive object, which no one unfamiliar with engines could have identified. They stood in a little group looking at it, while Bob Bolles wiped the grease from his face and hands. He thought they would know, but apparently they did not, for both Mr. Moto and Mr. Kingman seemed entirely satisfied, and all their attention was focused upon the thing on the ground.

  “Very nice,” said Mr. Moto. “Thank you so much, Mr. Bolles.”

  “Yes,” said Mr. Kingman, “most ingenious, entirely a new design. Well, there’s no use waiting any longer.”

  “No,” said Mr. Moto, “none at all.”

  Then Bob’s eyes met Mrs. Kingman’s. It occurred to him that he must be looking very badly—his shirt nothing more than a wet rag, his face a smear of grease.

  “Oscar,” Mr. Kingman said, “cut up the tarpaulin and swing that thing in it. Mr. Bolles can carry it.” And a minute or two later Bob had the thing, in a rude sack over his shoulder.

  “It is so necessary to get back,” Mr. Moto said. “I should like to see if the horizon is clear.”

  “All right,” said Mr. Kingman. “We can leave the tools. Come ahead, Bob.”

  But Mr. Moto still hesitated as though something careless in their haste disturbed his conscientious sense of order and his hesitation seemed to annoy Mr. Kingman.

  “What is it now?” Mr. Kingman asked impatiently. “You said we ought to hurry.”

  “So sorry,” Mr. Moto said. “Are you so very sure we have everything?”

  Mr. Kingman’s voice was hearty and positive.

  “There isn’t another damned thing here,” he said, “that isn’t on any other ship. That’s so, isn’t it, Helen?”

  “Do you think we’d come away out here and leave what we want?” Mrs. Kingman asked Mr. Moto. “Of course we have everything.”

  “But the controls, please,” Mr. Moto said, “the instruments.”

  “Really, Mr. Moto,” Mrs. Kingman told him, “you’re not being very sensible. Our Intelligence has been over every specification.”

  “It was only a question,” Mr. Moto said. “So glad to take your word. Do you agree with them, Mr. Bolles?”

  “Yes,” Bob Bolles said, “absolutely. There’s nothing novel about the design or the equipment. And now I’d like to ask, since you’ve got the supercharger, what else do you want with me?”

  His question appeared to make them forget the plane. It met with a moment’s embarrassed sort of silence.

  “Keep—keep your shirt on,” Mr. Kingman said. “You’re going back with us to the house. We’ll take up the matter of the boat next.”

  It was the beginning of sunset when they reached the old avenue again. They walked back in the same order as before, except that Mrs. Kingman walked beside him. Bob Bolles glanced over his shoulder. Oscar was just behind them, his rifle ready, and some paces farther back came Mr. Kingman and Mr. Moto. The sky was growing red with the setting sun and there were purple colors in the hills, now that the bright glare of the day was going.

  “Look at the sky,” Mrs. Kingman said. “It’s growing pink like wine and water. When I was a little girl—”

  “You lived on Park Avenue, didn’t you?” Bob Bolles said.

  “No,” Mrs. Kingman answered, “perhaps I’ll tell you sometime. When I was a little girl my father would put a spoonful of wine in my water glass. The color was just like the sky. Bob—”

  “What?” Bob Bolles said, because she seemed to be waiting for him to say something.

  “You should learn to live in the present, always in the present, like the rest of us. Just the moment—nothing more.”

  “I’ve got a good deal to think about,” Bob Bolles said.

  “Don’t,” she told him. “Think about the sky.”

  He was trying to hear what Mr. Kingman and Mr. Moto were saying.

  “Heigh-ho,” he heard Mr. Kingman humming, “… home from work we go.”

  They were nearly at the top of the rising ground. The walls of the ruined manor house, stark against the sky in front of them, were also changing color with the sunset, and then the sea and the harbor lay below them. There was nothing in the harbor, nothing on the horizon.

  “Very well,” Mr. Moto said. “I am so very much relieved. I do not think that we will be disturbed until tomorrow.”

  “Yes,” said Mr. Kingman slowly, “it looks all—hunky-dory. It’s about time that we—we simplified matters, isn’t it, Moto?”

  “Yes,” said Mr. Moto softly, “I agree to that.”

  CHAPTER XV

  “All right,” Mr. Kingman said. “Oscar, light up a little fire inside there and put some coffee on. We’ll all do better with a little wine and coffee and chicken.”

  Oscar looked at Mr. Kingman questioningly and Mr. Kingman nodded.

  “It’s all right, Oscar,” he said. “Bob, you can set that thing down now, gently, very gently. It’s too heavy to be stolen. It will be safe right here.”

  Oscar crossed the terrace and disappeared through one of the gaping windows inside the house and Bob Bolles set down the canvas bundle he had been carrying. Although the weight was off his shoulders, his muscles still ached and his back was still bent and all at once he felt deathly tired. He could see that the sun was dropping fast. There would be a few minutes of twilight and then it would be dark.

  “Now,” Mr. Kingman said, and Mr. Kingman did not look tired at all, “it looks as though we must begin to simplify matters. You had your chance to talk to Bob, Helen. Did you get any satisfaction out of him?”

  There was no doubt what Mr. Kingman meant, although his voice did not show it; and there was no doubt that Mrs. Kingman understood, because she looked deathly ill.

  “Answer me, Helen,” Mr. Kingman said. “Can he get the boat back?”

  But Mr. Moto answered before she could speak and his voice was as smooth as silk.

  “There is no need for Mrs. Kingman to answer, please,” he said. “We no longer have necessity for Mr. Bolles, I am so very much afraid. So sorry, when he has been so helpful. Yes, the boat will come back, when a fire has been built upon the beach.”

  Something seemed to catch Bob Bolles by the throat. He never thought that it was fear as much as blank astonishment that Mr. Moto seemed to know almost everything. He could not imagine how Mr. Moto could have guessed it.

  “What the devil!” Mr. Kingman said. “Did he tell you, Moto?”

  Mr. Moto looked childishly pleased and he gave one of his short artificial laughs.

  “Oh, no, please,” he said. “When your little boat came in I was so interested to watch. I saw a black man slide from her into the water and swim to land. It did not seem to me correct. When he came to shore I stopped him. That was all. It was not necessary to be rough. He was so very much afraid. He told me that he was to take the boat away. Oh, yes, he told me everything.”

  “Why the devil didn’t you tell us sooner?” Mr. Kingman asked.

  Mr. Moto’s whole face broke into a happy smile.

  “So many things, Mr. Kingman,” he said, “that I do not tell until necessary. Please, I wish so much to make use of Mr. Bolles as long as possible.”

  “Well,” said Mr. Kingman, “that’s about all we need of him, isn’t it?”

  “Yes,” Mr. Moto answered, “I am so afraid I really think so.”

  Mr. Kingman looked troubled and Bob could almost believe that Mr. Kingman did not like any of it.

  “It’s a little—tough,” he said. “You—know too much. Anything you want to say, Bob?”

  When Bob Bolles thought of it, there seemed to be absolutely nothing. He was thinking of the plane by the sugar mill. He would have liked to have a chance of getting to the plane again, but there was no chance. They had used him. They had driven him like a horse, until they were finished with him.

  “No,” he said
; “to hell with the whole lot of you!”

  But Mr. Kingman still was troubled. His whole manner was kindly, almost apologetic.

  “It is only that there are too many of us here, Bob,” he said. “It’s only you’ve got yourself into a damned dirty game, and you’re in the way. I do hope you see it, Bob. Oh, well, let’s have some coffee and a bite to eat.” Mr. Kingman slapped his hand on Bob Bolles’s shoulder. “There’s nothing personal, you know, old man. Everybody draws—his number sometime. You’ll feel better with a good hot cup of coffee.”

  But there was something personal, and Bob Bolles knew it. All Mr. Kingman’s solicitude was a slimy sort of mockery. He knew that Mr. Kingman was enjoying himself. He remembered Mr. Kingman’s look when he had driven the butt of his rifle into Inspector Jameson.

  “I’d feel better if you’d put that rifle down,” Bob said. “Maybe we could talk a few personalities.”

  Mr. Kingman moved a step nearer to him and looked him up and down appraisingly.

  “I’m not—not yellow,” Mr. Kingman said. “That’s the word, isn’t it? I’d like to oblige you really, old man, if I didn’t have any other business. I’m sorry I can’t use you on your boat. We have to make the best of that black boy of yours. You’ll sail her, won’t you, Moto?”

  “Yes,” Mr. Moto said, “oh, yes. So sorry we can manage without Mr. Bolles.”

  “Yes, Bob,” said Mr. Kingman, “everybody’s sorry—and Helen will be particularly, won’t you, my dear?”

  Mrs. Kingman did not answer.

  “Yes, Helen will be particularly sorry,” Mr. Kingman said. “Now come inside. Some coffee will do you good. You’ll need it for what’s coming, won’t he, Oscar?”

  Mr. Moto coughed behind his hand.

  “Excuse, please,” he said. “I think, ah, Mr. Kingman, that you are not being polite. I ask you to be polite. Mr. Bolles behaves like a Japanese gentleman.”

  “Polite?” Mr. Kingman answered. “Why, damn your eyes, don’t you hear me telling him I’m sorry? Walk ahead, Bob. Gentlemen first. Oscar’s boiling up the coffee.”

  They walked inside the roofless house. Oscar had already kindled a fire in a corner and had piled stones around it and had placed the coffeepot on the stones. Inspector Jameson was propped against a pile of rubbish, almost exactly where they had left him.

  “Ah,” said Mr. Kingman, “not able to break loose, were you? Take his gag out, Oscar. Let’s hear the latest news from the British Empire. How is it with you, my dear fellow?”

  Anyone could see that it was not well at all with Inspector Jameson. He made an effort to speak, but he could only make a few inarticulate sounds. Mr. Kingman shook his finger at him.

  “Careful,” he said. “Don’t forget anything you say may be used against you. How about a little water, old chap? Oscar, give me a cup of water.”

  Mr. Kingman held the cup in front of Inspector Jameson and the big man leaned toward it.

  “Thirsty, yes?” said Mr. Kingman. “There you are,” and he tossed the contents into Inspector Jameson’s face. “Put the gag back, Oscar,” he went on.

  Mr. Moto coughed again.

  “Please,” he said, “I think that is enough.”

  “Why,” said Mr. Kingman, “that’s pretty. I thought you Japs were all—all hard-boiled. Well, here comes the coffee. Let’s sit down again,” and Mr. Kingman waved toward the improvised stone table. “Open up the wine, Oscar. Just a farewell toast for Bob here. You see, after supper, Bob, I’m going to ask you to go.”

  “Where?” Bob asked.

  “Just out,” said Mr. Kingman, “anywhere, if—if you can make it.”

  “Mac,” Mrs. Kingman began, and she stopped.

  “It’s no good speaking about it, my dear,” Mr. Kingman said. “You know as well as I do that the—the party must break up. A little more coffee, Bob?”

  “No, thanks,” Bob Bolles answered.

  “Mac,” Mrs. Kingman began again, “I can’t sit here—”

  “My dear,” said Mr. Kingman, “you don’t have to. You can walk outside for a while. The wind is rising, isn’t it?”

  Mr. Kingman looked up through the gaping roof. The wind was sighing about the walls and all the light was out of the sky by then and the stars were coming out. The darkness was closing around them, except for the circle of light from the little fire where Oscar had boiled the coffee, so that all their faces were in shadow.

  “Oscar,” said Mr. Kingman, “did you bring candles?”

  “Ja,” Oscar said, “I have light.”

  Oscar pulled a folding candle lantern from the picnic hamper and lighted it and set it on the stone around which they were sitting.

  “Very pretty,” Mr. Moto said. “The wind does not blow it. Candlelight is so very interesting.”

  “Do you know,” Mr. Kingman said, “we’ve all had quite—quite a day? Oscar, have you any cards?”

  “Ja,” Oscar said, from the shadows near the fire, “I have brought a pack.”

  “How about a hand of bridge?” Mr. Kingman said. “Bob’s an—an A 1 player.”

  “That would be very nice,” Mr. Moto said. “There should be time for one hand, I think.” Oscar handed Mr. Kingman the cards.

  “As long as there are four of us,” Mr. Kingman said, “the stone is a little rough, but it will do. Shall we cut for deal?”

  Suddenly Mrs. Kingman’s voice was harsh and broken.

  “You coward,” she cried.

  “Why, my dear,” Mr. Kingman said, “this isn’t like you!”

  “Making him play bridge!” Mrs. Kingman said.

  “Helen,” Mr. Kingman said, “please sit down and pick up your cards. It isn’t like you.”

  Mr. Moto picked up his cards. “I should like to say, please,” Mr. Moto said, “that Mr. Bolles is very nice.”

  “He is,” Mr. Kingman said heartily, “a—a jolly good fellow.”

  Bob Bolles looked across at him. Mr. Kingman was his partner. Mr. Kingman still kept one hand on his rifle.

  “One diamond, please,” Mr. Moto said.

  When the bidding came to Bob Bolles he made it a spade. Then he looked up and saw that Oscar had gone. They passed when Bob Bolles bid four spades. Mr. Kingman laid down the dummy and Bob Bolles began to play the hand. It was difficult to keep his mind on the cards, but he played them. He made four spades and one over.

  “Well,” he said, “that’s that,” and he stood up and everyone else stood up. Mr. Moto had dropped his right hand into his pocket.

  “Bob,” Mr. Kingman said, “your sense of cards is excellent.”

  “Such a nice hand,” Mr. Moto said, “and to make the three of diamonds good—so very nice.”

  “Hélène,” Mr. Kingman said, “you must be tired. Perhaps a little walk in the air—”

  She did not look at any of them. She brushed by Bob Bolles without looking at him and half walked, half ran out into the darkness.

  “Well, Bob,” Mr. Kingman said after a moment, but his eyes never left Mr. Moto. “Well, the party’s over. I guess you’d better be going.”

  “You mean, you’re going to let me out of here?” Bob Bolles asked. “Why?”

  “Never mind why,” Mr. Kingman answered. “You’re free to go anywhere now.”

  “And what are you two boys going to do?” Bob Bolles asked.

  “Oh, Mr. Bolles,” said Mr. Moto, “he will talk. I am happy to have met you, Mr. Bolles.”

  “All right,” Bob Bolles answered. “Well, so long.” That old desire came over him, that they must not think he was afraid. “Maybe I’ll be seeing you.”

  The tall window that opened out on the terrace was just in front of them. It framed the blackness of the world outside, a darkness that was accentuated by the candle lantern and the flickering little fire in the space where Mr. Moto and Mr. Kingman were standing. When Bob stepped through that window out to the terrace, whether he moved fast or slow, his whole figure would be outlined by the light behind him, and Oscar was out t
here on the terrace. Mr. Kingman had said that he was free to go anywhere, but Bob Bolles did not believe it. He knew too much for them to permit him to walk away. Yet he had to move, and the prospect of the black night outside was worse than anything he had imagined, because for a certain space of time he would be absolutely helpless. As he stepped slowly toward the window, he must have been weighing all the facts and his perceptions were very clear. If he could get out of the circumference of light he might have a chance. He might be able to dart around a corner, but Oscar would not be such a fool as to let him have that chance—he would get him while he was in the light.

  CHAPTER XVI

  Bob Bolles took another step. One more and he would be outside. His instinct was to bend double and to make a dash for it, and it was all he could do to control that instinct. He did so, because his common sense told him that the only difference would be that he would be killed running instead of walking. He felt a cold spasm of unadulterated fear, but if he was to be finished anyway, there was no use having them realize that he had been afraid. He did not even want to hesitate. He shrugged his shoulders and stepped from the light into the dark. His whole body was braced and waiting. His eyes were unaccustomed to the dark, so for a second everything seemed pitch-black, but nothing happened. Mechanically he took another step, and nothing happened. He could feel himself breathing in sharp, hard breaths. The sea breeze struck his face and he could hear the wind in the treetops on the slope below the clearing. He could see the outline of the stone railing of the terrace. All the shapes and shadows were illuminated by the stars—a fantastic, monotonous world of light and shade. He had stepped out of the light of the house and he was in the shadow and free from it.

  His first sensation was an utter incredulity and then his knees were shaking and then he was filled with panic-stricken desire—to get out of there, to get as far away as possible. The terrace railing was not thirty feet in front of him, dimly white in the starlight. His one desire was to get to the railing and to leap over it and go. He must have covered half the distance to it in that sort of cloudy progress which one connects with a bad dream, with all his thought focused on reaching the railing, when he saw Mrs. Kingman. She must have stepped from the shadow of the house, but he was not sure. At any rate, she was in front of him, diagonally to his left. She was waving her arm at him, gesturing to him to turn. He had half turned his head when he heard a soft thudding footfall behind him and saw Oscar, a whitish crouching shape. He even had time to see that Oscar was holding a rope in his hands, but he did not have time to turn. He hardly had time to brace himself before Oscar had sprung at him and had landed with all his force upon his back. Yet even in that instant he understood—he was to be garroted, strangled with the rope. He would have been done for, if he had not turned his head. As it was, his body was thrown forward beneath the impact of Oscar’s momentum, but he kept his feet. He had raised his hand, he had grasped Oscar by the arm. His right hand was holding the back of Oscar’s neck, and then with a spasmodic lunge he had thrown Oscar from him. Oscar was catapulting through space, and then he landed head first, crash, against the stone railing.