Last Laugh, Mr. Moto

by John P. Marquand

  When he analyzed it afterwards, Bob could see that some hideous coincidence had made every factor right—Oscar’s momentum, his own forward lunge, the instinctive backward grasping of his arms—everything had fitted into that result; but Bob Bolles did not think of it then. All he saw was Oscar’s bulk, crumpled against the railing. He heard Oscar breathing in long snoring gasps, and then he heard Mr. Kingman’s voice from the house behind him.

  “There it goes,” he heard Mr. Kingman say. “Oscar’s very handy. Good-by, Mr. Bolles.”

  At least he thought that he had heard Mr. Kingman say it, but he was never wholly sure, for Mrs. Kingman had snatched his hand. She was pulling him after her across the terrace down the broad stone steps. They were running and he saw that she was holding a long knife in her other hand.

  “Hurry,” she gasped, “over to the trees!” And she ran beside him across the clearing from the house.

  He seemed to feel no reaction and no reality until they were beneath the shadow of the trees. He stopped there and she leaned against him, clinging to him, fighting for her breath.

  “His head—” she gasped.

  “Yes,” Bob said, “I know.” The pulses in his ears and throat were pounding, but he could still hear that crash of Oscar’s head against the stones and the snoring sound of Oscar’s breathing.

  “I was going to help you,” he heard her say. “The knife—I did not need to help.”

  He stared dully at the knife in her hand. He could see the blade glitter in the dark.

  “Thank God!” she said. “Kiss me. I love you so.”

  It still was like a dream, but it did not seem strange when he kissed her. Then she drew away from him and looked back at the house. He could see the black walls against the sky and the light of the candle lantern, and as he looked, he heard Mr. Kingman’s voice.

  “Oscar,” he heard Mr. Kingman call, “Oscar!”

  “They will shoot,” Mrs. Kingman whispered. “Wait! Where are you going?” She snatched at his arm and held him. Her hand was very strong.

  “I’m getting to that plane,” he said. “It wasn’t that turbo and you know it, and I’ll bet Mac knew it too. Let go of me!” But she leaned against him again, still holding fast to his wrist. He heard the sharp intake of her breath and then she was speaking very quickly.

  “Oh, God,” she said, “don’t do that, please! Because I can’t let you, my dear. Don’t you see I really can’t? Of course Mac knew it. But the Japanese, he doesn’t know.”

  He tried to push her away from him gently, but she still clung to him.

  “No, my dear,” she was saying, “not that. Please, not that! You mustn’t. It’s what I came here for. It’s mine—Bob, please! I love you so.”

  Then a sound from the house made him start, although he must have been ready for it. It was the sharp crack of a rifle shot, and a second shot followed it almost simultaneously, and then before he could speak, another.

  “You see,” he heard her say, “the Japanese—he’s killed him! Bob, dear, he doesn’t know. It’s mine!”

  Then he wrenched his arm away from her.

  “Oh, no, it isn’t,” he said. “I’m getting back to that plane!”

  “Bob,” she said, “Bob, please!” And her voice choked in a sob, and then she thrust the knife at him. He saw it coming in a sickening, leaden instant, and even in that instant he must have been ready. He must have known that she would do it, for he beat her arm aside with his open palm, snatched at her wrist and wrenched the knife from her hand.

  “By God,” he said, “you’re quite a girl!” And then he turned and ran.

  Yes, she was quite a girl. Just as he began to run he heard Mr. Moto’s voice, thin and clear, calling from the house.

  “Oh, Mrs. Kingman, it is quite all right,” he heard Mr. Moto calling. “But where is Mr. Bolles?”

  He looked over his shoulder once as he ran down the grassy avenue and he could see the faint flicker of light through the gaping windows of the ruined house. It was faint enough to be as feeble and ghostlike as the lights of the will-o’-the-wisp in some folk tale. His eyes were accustomed to the starlight so that he saw the walls of the sugar house against the sky at the left and he was even able to distinguish the gap in the brush where they had beaten the path toward it that afternoon. He ran along it, stumbling, falling and picking himself up again.

  “By God,” he heard himself saying again, “you’re quite a girl!”

  But it was like them, like the whole crew of them. It was ugly, but a part of it was clear. That work on the plane had been for Mr. Moto’s benefit, for neither she nor Kingman could want him to know what it was they wanted. They had worked together, but she had been waiting all the time. He remembered when she had asked to take Oscar’s rifle. She must have been ready to finish it off right then and to give Mr. Moto the supercharger and to let him go. Yes, she was quite a girl, and she had said again she loved him—

  He paused in the clearing by the sugar mill and listened, but he knew it was no time for listening. Then his foot struck against the case of tools. Of course Mr. Kingman had left them there, because at his convenience he was coming back. Then Bob was on his knees, fumbling for a hammer. Then he was scrambling into the cockpit. He knew where it was, even in the dark, but even when he smashed it he was thinking. He was thinking that they had been too kind to him—or perhaps too clever. It would have been better for the lot of them if they had shot him that morning near the beach.

  It was over, but it was not entirely finished. He left the plane and walked back toward the house. He had smashed the mechanism in the cockpit beyond any conceivable possibility of reconstruction. They were washed up, they were through.

  CHAPTER XVII

  He was never able to judge the actual time it had taken him to reach the plane and to return, but it must have been shorter than he had thought, for when he arrived at the head of the avenue the light was still inside the house. But when he walked into the opening the light moved. Someone was carrying the lantern out to the terrace. He heard voices and he saw two figures walking forward to the steps, and then they must have seen him, for he heard Mrs. Kingman say:—

  “There he is now. He was out there in the trees.” And then he heard Mr. Moto’s voice calling to him:—

  “Come toward us, Mr. Bolles. No fear of anything any longer, please.”

  Then as he came nearer, he saw that Mrs. Kingman was coming down the steps, carrying the lantern, and that Mr. Moto was beside her. His Panama hat was pulled over his eyes and his left arm was in a sling, made from one of the picnic napkins, and his right hand was in his pocket.

  “It’s all right,” Mrs. Kingman said. “You don’t have to hide any longer.”

  She looked ill and very tired, but she was smiling at him and there was no trace of resentment in her voice. Instead there was a definite ring to it, as though she wanted to make something clear to him, and he understood it. She was telling him as plainly as though she had spoken that she did not want Mr. Moto to know where he had been. He saw Mr. Moto’s eyes beneath the shadow of his hat brim, fixed upon him steadily.

  “You were hiding, Mr. Bolles?” Mr. Moto asked.

  “What else do you think I’d be doing?” Bob asked back. “Running around in the woods for exercise? All I wanted was to get out from under.”

  “Get out from under,” Mr. Moto said. “So nice the way you say things, Mr. Bolles.”

  “Where is Kingman?” Bob Bolles asked.

  There was a second’s silence and Bob Bolles heard the wind sigh past the corners of the house and he heard Mr. Moto clear his throat.

  “So sorry,” Mr. Moto said. “Mr. Kingman is not with us any more.”

  Mr. Moto’s delicacy made it sound more gruesome and when Bob Bolles did not answer, Mr. Moto continued still more delicately.

  “So sorry that it was of course so necessary. He was so nice and so much quicker with his rifle than I thought. So quick, my first—ah—shot I am sorry was a little
wild. He felt nothing after the second, I am so very, very sure. Yes, for what he was, he was very, very nice. So nice the way he laughed, did you not think so, Mrs. Kingman?”

  “No,” Mrs. Kingman said, and her voice sounded harsh and strained. “I hated it.”

  Bob Bolles started to speak and stopped.

  “Oscar,” he began, “is Oscar—”

  Mr. Moto’s voice cut his own voice off, as he hesitated. It sounded serene and final, devoid of passion or regret.

  “He is not with us any more.”

  “You mean,” Bob said, and it made him feel sick, “you mean I killed him?”

  “Yes,” said Mr. Moto gently. “His skull was broken, Mr. Bolles. It saved me so much trouble.”

  “My God—” Bob Bolles began, and he stopped again. He did not like to admit it, but as he watched Mrs. Kingman and Mr. Moto he felt himself shiver.

  “You may see them if you like,” Mr. Moto said. “They are both up there. Please, it was not bad for either of them.”

  “Of course he does not want to see them,” Mrs. Kingman said sharply. “Let’s leave here now.” But Bob Bolles still stood facing them.

  “But what about Jameson?” he asked. “He isn’t—”

  Mr. Moto shook his head.

  “No, the Englishman is well. Still at the house. So uncomfortable for him, I am afraid. A little sick, but he is well.” Mr. Moto did not appear conscious of the contradiction, and perhaps it was not a contradiction either.

  “Where I come from human life is not held so dear perhaps. So many worse things than dying. But I do not like to hurt people, Mr. Bolles, unless it is so very necessary. I hope so very much you will believe me. That is why the Englishman is so very well, and you too, Mr. Bolles.”

  “Don’t make me laugh,” Bob said harshly. “You were going to kill me like a dog this morning by the beach.”

  “Yes,” said Mr. Moto gravely, “that was true. So happy it is different now.”

  “And you didn’t lift a finger this evening,” Bob said. “Don’t make me laugh.”

  “So sorry,” Mr. Moto answered and he sounded almost hurt. “You do not understand me, please. Mrs. Kingman knows me so much better. I try so hard to be honorable. This evening I arranged myself to help you. I gave the knife to Mrs. Kingman. She was so very anxious for you. You were not an obstacle to me any more. I like you very much. I wish we might be friends.”

  “We’re not going to be friends,” Bob said, “if you leave Jameson up there. I’ll untie him if you won’t.”

  “Wait.” Mr. Moto moved his pistol urgently. “He will stay up there, please.”

  “Yes, Bob,” said Mrs. Kingman. “Listen to Mr. Moto. He’s very sensible and it’s all arranged.”

  “He will stay, please,” Mr. Moto said, “because it is the best place for him. He understands because he is reasonable and, for an Englishman, he is quite polite. We have even tried to make him comfortable. He has sent you his regards. He says it will be all right for you in Kingston. His people will find him tomorrow. This is no pleasure for any of us, please. Mrs. Kingman and I have reached an understanding and arrangement. I am so very glad. We began to understand each other down on the beach this morning.”

  “How did you do that?” Bob asked. “You never spoke to her.” Mr. Moto’s gold teeth glistened in the candlelight.

  “So very simple,” he said. “A gesture and a glance. This morning when I appeared the look was so plain on Mrs. Kingman’s face. She hoped so very much that I would eliminate Mr. Kingman. It was more simple after that.”

  Mrs. Kingman stood holding the lantern and Bob saw that she was looking at him, half defiantly, half beseechingly.

  “Of course it’s hard for you to understand, my dear,” she said, “because you will never be like any of us. So much of this must have seemed to you aimless and you could never see behind the curtain. We can be truthful now because there is nothing left to hide. I could not get away from Mac—not from the moment he met me in New York. I could not trust him. I always thought that he would turn on me when he found out what I knew and use it for himself, and I was right, you know.”

  “Then, why did you work with him?” Bob asked.

  “Because he was completely logical,” she answered. “Even Charles Durant in New York, and he was one of our best men, went over Mac’s credentials and advised that it was all right. But something must have turned up later. Charles must have suspected something. I knew that Mac was out for himself when I heard that Charles had come to Kingston. You told me—you remember.”

  She stopped, but her eyes were telling him that she was speaking the truth. Both she and Mr. Moto seemed anxious to explain. He could imagine them at some later time sitting together composedly and talking it all over.

  “Poor Charles,” she said. “All of us must go sometime, but Charles was very kind to me. He was one of our best men.”

  “Oh, a very nice man,” Mr. Moto said helpfully. “We once exchanged shots in Saigon in the dark, but he was very nice. It was so careless of Mr. Kingman not to make it surely look like suicide. And, please, Mr. Bolles, I wish that you would like us. Mrs. Kingman has been very brave. I have so very much respect.”

  “Yes,” Bob said, “I know she’s brave.”

  “This evening at sunset I gave her the knife,” Mr. Moto went on. “When Oscar attacked you it was the opportunity we both were looking for. She was to—ah—deal with Oscar when he was dealing with you, Mr. Bolles, and Mr. Kingman—that was my responsibility.”

  “Bob,” she said, “I wouldn’t have let him kill you.”

  Mr. Moto laughed in that polite nervous way of his. There was no humor in it, but it was his way of making matters easier.

  “And now it is all arranged. No more little unpleasantness. Mrs. Kingman has been sensible enough to surrender the piece of machinery to me. It still lies by the house, but will be collected in the morning. No need to stand here longer. I am going with you and Mrs. Kingman to the beach. We shall light a fire and I shall be so happy to permit you and Mrs. Kingman to go. Your schooner will be in by dawn, I hope. Just you and Mrs. Kingman, please. I shall not go with you.”

  And then Bob understood why it was better not to mention his visit to the plane.

  “You’re not going with us?” Bob asked. “What are you going to do?”

  “I have already made arrangements, thank you,” Mr. Moto said. “There is a wireless in my suitcase—a message to friends on the mainland. They will be coming in the morning in a plane. I would prefer you not to be here. It might be so embarrassing. We shall go to the beach now and I think you are very lucky, Mr. Bolles.”

  “Yes,” Bob said, and he spoke with deep conviction, “I’m mighty lucky.”

  CHAPTER XVIII

  Mrs. Kingman was speaking.

  “Look,” she said, “the moon is coming up! It will be moonlight on the beach. I love it in the moonlight.”

  And Bob Bolles could almost believe that she had put it all away from her and that it was all forgotten. It was monstrous, but there was nothing monstrous in what she said. She looked different again—young again and beautiful.

  Bob Bolles had admired moonlight often enough himself, but when the moon was up that night its light had an uncanny, revealing quality which brought out all sorts of facts which had been hidden by the sun. He had often thought that the moon on tropical waters signified peace and good will and coolness after the heat of the day, but that night the moonlight only made him restless and wide-awake. He kept thinking, as they walked to the beach in silence, that the house behind them would be bathed in a sort of deadly whiteness. Ghosts would already be walking up there by the house. The path in front of them was a sort of shadowy black and white and the moon was drawing all the warmth from the earth, making the shadows dank and cold. The moon made Mr. Moto’s face icily serene. He was wounded, but he smiled politely, so genially that Bob believed his shoulder was giving him pain.

  “Oh, yes,” said Mr. Moto, “I always
think the moon is very, very nice.”

  It made Bob Bolles wonder what he was really thinking, whether everything in Mr. Moto’s world was either very nice or very serious and whether Mr. Moto was ever anything but very glad or very sorry. Mr. Moto’s reactions could not always be as simple as that, but he was completely sure of himself, and sure of what he wished to do. He must have learned it from his way of life, and suddenly Bob Bolles realized that he had learned it too. Everything was in a new perspective. His whole sense of values was different, so changed that he was like a different person.

  “Mr. Bolles,” Mr. Moto said, “you must not mind it, please.”

  “Mind what?” Bob Bolles asked him.

  “That you are so unfortunate as to have killed that man,” Mr. Moto said. “When it is over, so unpleasant.”

  “You mean,” Bob asked him, “that you mind a thing like that?”