Mr. Moto laughed in a pleasant social way.
“Sometimes yes and sometimes no. Mr. Kingman really was very, very nice. I hope you are not disturbed.”
“No,” Bob Bolles said, “not at the bottom of me. I guess I’m getting tough.”
“Oh, no,” said Mr. Moto. “You are developing, please. If this lasted longer I should be afraid of you, I think,” and Mr. Moto laughed.
“I don’t believe it,” Bob said, “but it makes me feel better to hear you say it, a whole lot better.”
And it was true. He felt better about himself than he had for a long while. The palm-leaf huts by the old pier were black and deserted in the moonlight. The people must have run into the bush again when they had heard their steps and voices; and they walked past the huts without speaking and down to the beach. The water was silvery in the moonlight and by the breakers there was a fiery phosphorescent glow.
“So very nice, the moon and water,” Mr. Moto said. “Now we will build a fire, please. Here are some matches, Mr. Bolles.”
There was enough small wood on the beach to build a fire. In five minutes it was burning brightly and all their faces were clear in the firelight.
“If Tom’s out there,” Bob said, “he won’t be able to get through the reef until morning.”
“I have a suggestion, please,” Mr. Moto said. “I should like so much to be able to close my eyes. It will be so nice if you and Mrs. Kingman will give me your word not to leave the beach. I trust you, Mr. Bolles. Please, I treat you like one of us.”
“Don’t say that,” said Mrs. Kingman. “He isn’t one of us.”
Mr. Moto sat down and placed his arms across his knees and rested his head upon them. Bob Bolles wanted to ask him if his shoulder hurt, but he did not. Instead he walked with Mrs. Kingman a little distance from the fire.
“Do you think he’s all right?” Bob Bolles asked her.
“Yes,” Mrs. Kingman answered. “It was in the shoulder. I helped him fix it. It hurts of course, but it’s all right. Why, what are you laughing at?”
“I was just thinking,” Bob said.
“What were you thinking about?”
“I was just thinking,” Bob told her, “what I’m going to tell the boys on the Smedley if I see them.”
“Don’t,” she whispered, and she looked at Mr. Moto sitting near the fire. “Don’t talk about it now.”
Then they sat down on the sand with their faces toward the sea. They just sat there not speaking for a long while.
“You’re not angry with me,” she asked, “because I …?” She stopped. “The knife—I had to do it.” And he knew what she meant.
“No,” he said, “you had to. I can see a lot of things more clearly than I ever did before. I never realized before that there are some things more important than any two people or the way they feel. I’ve always been pretty egotistical, I guess. It’s knowing you that’s changed me.”
“Why!” Her whole face lighted up. Her eyes were sparkling in the moonlight. “I was so afraid you wouldn’t see. Why, it’s been worth while if I’ve done that. No matter what happens, it’s something to remember.”
“I thought you never liked remembering,” he told her.
“Not often,” she answered slowly; “but there’ll be a sort of a past with you. No one can stop that. I can always think how it would be if you were there and how it would have been if I were not just what I am. Yes, I’ll love to think about it always.”
“I’m sorry,” he said, “about what I did—spoiling everything for you. It was just the same with me—I had to.”
Her hand closed over his and her grasp was strong and steady.
“Of course,” she said. “It’s just the same. And no matter where you are, it’s something to be proud of, something to remember. If things go bad with you you must always think—promise me you will—that you did something splendid once. Why, you beat us all, my dear—some very dangerous people. I’m sorry for myself, but not as sorry as I’m proud of you. I’m all mixed up in my mind, because I’m a woman. Women ought to be at home looking after men.”
“Everything you say is new,” he said, “and everything you say I like.”
“You like it, dear,” she said, “because it’s dangerous to know me. You’ll take me back tomorrow.”
“Yes,” he answered, “if Tom comes, anywhere you say.”
“It will be Kingston,” she said. “No, there will be no trouble for me there. It will be arranged and you needn’t ask me how. It will take a little while to get to Kingston, won’t it?”
“Yes,” he said, “and that cutter may pick us up.”
“Oh, no,” she shook her head. “They’ll have other things to think about, once they see the plane. We will have a little while on the way to Kingston. It’s something, after all. You won’t see me again after that. You must not even know my name. You mustn’t—ever.”
It had come. Perhaps he had always known it would, but when he heard her say it incisively there in the moonlight he felt the injustice of it very keenly.
“Look here,” he began. “Why won’t I see you?” And then he found himself believing all sorts of things which seemed true at the moment. He was begging her to leave it all. He was begging her to stay with him, but she knew better, and she was hardly listening to him.
“Under the trees,” she said, “when you were going to the plane, I should have waited until your back was turned, but I couldn’t. Now, do you understand?”
“That has nothing to do with you and me,” he told her.
“Oh, yes,” she answered, “everything. You see what I was planning?” She nodded toward the fire, but her voice was very low. “He thinks we have what we all wanted. I was planning to get it later. That would have been more important than you. I can’t be different from what I am, and you can’t either. Don’t you see? You’ll be going back to your country and I’ll be going back to mine.”
“We can chuck it all,” he told her.
“Oh, no, we can’t,” she said. “You’ll never mean that again—not after what you did tonight. You can look anyone in the eye and you can just remember.… But there’s still a little while. We’re not back yet.”
“No,” he said, “not yet.” He hesitated. “When this war is over—and it will be over sometime—I’ll be looking for you. I couldn’t help it.”
The moonlight struck her face as she turned toward him, just as though she had moved nearer to him from the dark.
“You’ll wait,” she asked him, “will you?”
And he told her he would wait, and she looked surprised at first, and then she smiled.
“It’s queer,” she said, “I never thought of that—I mean about sometime when there might not be war—when the lights might be lit again. I live in the present—all of us have to. Perhaps it’s better not to look too far ahead.”
“I’ll be looking for you,” Bob Bolles said again.
“Will you?” she asked him again. “Well, I’ll be very glad and I’ll be looking for you too.”
CHAPTER XIX
He wanted to get away, to leave there, and he was deathly afraid that Tom would not come back, but Bob Bolles saw the Thistlewood just a few minutes after he saw the first streaks of light on the horizon. He must have made the island in the dark and have been standing outside waiting for the morning, for almost as soon as Bob saw the silhouette, just beyond the reef, she started under power and began heading for the narrow channel. He was afraid at first that Tom might get into trouble, but Tom remembered the bearings. Tom was a good sailor. By the time the anchor splashed, the beach and the water beyond it were faintly pink in the sunrise and all three of them walked down to the water’s edge. Although Mr. Moto was most polite, it was clear that he was very anxious to see the last of them. His face was several shades paler and Bob could tell that Mr. Moto’s shoulder pained him.
“Come aboard and have something to eat,” Bob said.
“No, thank you very much, please,�
� Mr. Moto answered. “It is so very important for you, I think, that you should go before my friends arrive. We want no more difficulties, do we?” And Mr. Moto laughed. “Please call your boatman now. Tell him to come ashore at once, please.” And Bob Bolles called to Tom across the water.
“Come on, Tom,” he called. And they stood watching the dinghy come toward them. They did not speak until the bottom of the little rowboat scraped against the sand and until Tom stepped into the water and pulled the bow up on the beach.
“Well,” Bob said, “I guess this is good-by. It’s nice to have seen you, Mr. Moto.” Then he was aware of a change in Mr. Moto’s manner. Mr. Moto’s smile had grown more mechanical. His eyes had grown more watchful and Bob knew there was something else. He knew it was not finished yet.
“So nice to have met you,” Mr. Moto said. “Some other time again, when it is pleasanter, I hope. You must step aboard at once, please. The farther you are away so much the better for you, I think.”
“All right,” Bob said, and he turned to help Mrs. Kingman. “You’d better sit in the stern,” he said. “Tom and I can push her off.” And then Mrs. Kingman gave a sharp surprised little cry. Mr. Moto had backed away from them. He had jerked his automatic pistol from his pocket.
“Here,” Bob said. “What’s that for?”
Mr. Moto stood with his feet carefully braced in the sand and the clean fresh light glittered on the gold of his front teeth.
“No,” he said quickly, “it is all right. Just a precaution, please, in case you should be angry at what I have to say.”
“Why,” said Mrs. Kingman, “why—what’s that? Haven’t we said everything?”
Mr. Moto shook his head at her and his voice sounded less polite.
“Mrs. Kingman, please,” he said, “I kept it for the last. I hope so very much you know what I mean.”
“Why, no,” said Mrs. Kingman. “What do you mean?”
Mr. Moto looked down at his pistol and back at her.
“Excuse me, please,” he said. “I think you have been so very nice and clever, Mrs. Kingman, through it all. I should be so sorry if you should leave thinking I was so stupid, please.”
“But, Mr. Moto, I don’t think you’re stupid,” Mrs. Kingman said.
“Oh,” said Mr. Moto and he laughed, “so sorry I must be so impolite as to disagree when everyone has been so nice. You and Mr. Kingman both thought I didn’t know.”
“Why, Mr. Moto,” Mrs. Kingman said, “know what?”
The gold in Mr. Moto’s teeth glistened and he laughed, but not politely.
“It was so clever about the turbo supercharger, Mrs. Kingman,” he said. “I know so very well it was not the turbo. Please do not bother to come back to get the rest of what is in the plane. I only want to say my friends and I shall get it, please. The Nipponese Intelligence is not as bad as that. It is Beam 21 A Night Combat please, Mrs. Kingman.”
“Oh—” Mrs. Kingman began, but Mr. Moto stopped her.
“So sorry to distress you,” Mr. Moto said, and he took a short step toward them. “That is all, I think, please. Into the boat at once. You too, Mr. Bolles. Boy san, push it off. Good-by.”
The bottom of the dinghy grated on the sand as Tom pushed off, wading beside it. Then he stepped in and picked up the oars and began to row. From the center thwart where he was sitting Bob Bolles could see Mr. Moto still standing close to the water. Mrs. Kingman sat in the stern with her back turned toward the beach. She did not speak, but her face was lighted by a faint malicious smile and Bob could see that she was very happy.
“Good-by,” Mr. Moto called. “So sorry for you, but good luck.”
“Tom,” Bob whispered, “put your back in it! Row like hell!”
“No,” Mrs. Kingman said softly, “don’t hurry. It’s better he shouldn’t know.” Then she smiled at Bob and she seemed to have forgotten all about the island.
“Look at the color of the sea,” she said.
About the Author
John P. Marquand (1893–1960) was a Pulitzer Prize–winning author, proclaimed “the most successful novelist in the United States” by Life magazine in 1944. A descendant of governors of the Massachusetts Bay Colony, shipping magnates Daniel Marquand and Samuel Curzon, and famed nineteenth-century writer Margaret Fuller, Marquand always had one foot inside the blue-blooded New England establishment, the focus of his social satire. But he grew up on the outside, sent to live with maiden aunts in Newburyport, Massachusetts, the setting of many of his novels, after his father lost the once-considerable family fortune in the crash of 1907. From this dual perspective, Marquand crafted stories and novels that were applauded for their keen observation of cultural detail and social mores.
By the 1930s, Marquand was a regular contributor to the Saturday Evening Post, where he debuted the character of Mr. Moto, a Japanese secret agent. No Hero, the first in a series of bestselling spy novels featuring Mr. Moto, was published in 1935. Three years later, Marquand won the Pulitzer Prize for Fiction for The Late George Apley, a subtle lampoon of Boston’s upper classes. The novels that followed, including H.M. Pulham, Esquire (1941), So Little Time (1943), B.F.’s Daughter (1946), Point of No Return (1949), Melvin Goodwin, USA (1952), Sincerely, Willis Wayde (1955), and Women and Thomas Harrow (1959), cemented his reputation as the preeminent chronicler of contemporary New England society and one of America’s finest writers.
All rights reserved, including without limitation the right to reproduce this ebook or any portion thereof in any form or by any means, whether electronic or mechanical, now known or hereinafter invented, without the express written permission of the publisher.
This is a work of fiction. Names, characters, places, events, and incidents either are the product of the author’s imagination or are used fictitiously. Any resemblance to actual persons, living or dead, businesses, companies, events, or locales is entirely coincidental.
Copyright © 1941, 1942 by John P. Marquand
Copyright renewed © 1969, 1970 by John P. Marquand, Jr., Christina M. Welch, Mrs. Donald A. Young, Elon H. H. Marquand, and Timothy Marquand
Cover design by Andy Ross
ISBN: 978-1-5040-1637-7
This edition published in 2015 by Open Road Integrated Media, Inc.
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Last Laugh, Mr. Moto Page 18