Mr. Moto Omnibus

by John P. Marquand

  It disturbed him that he had not seen her.

  “You were so busy looking at those Russians,” she said, “that I thought you almost wanted to speak to them.”

  “Well,” he said, “I guess I forgot to look for pretty girls, or anything, being so close to Molotov. He was quite a character, wasn’t he?”

  “I thought he was cute,” she said. “I was surprised. I thought he was just an old Teddy bear, didn’t you?”

  “Well,” Jack Rhyce said, “not exactly a Teddy bear.”

  He kept wishing he could place her, so that he could be more at ease. The business with the compact mirror still disturbed him.

  As he sat down beside her in the taxi, she took out her compact again, and Jack Rhyce’s shoulders stiffened slightly because there was really no valid reason for doing so a second time. Then she snapped her bag shut, and put her hand over his, where it rested on the seat beside him. Jack Rhyce was startled because her gesture did not fit correctly with the picture at the moment.

  “It is so romantic, isn’t it?” she said, “to see the sun setting over the Golden Gate? I never thought I’d have the opportunity.”

  “Yes,” Jack Rhyce said, “I agree with you. It is going to be a lovely sunset.”

  But he was no longer listening to his words or hers. Her fingers were pressing on the back of his hand, first long, and then short, the Continental Code.

  “Being followed,” he read: “Orange-and-black taxi.”

  He was not disturbed by the news that she had given him, but on the contrary, rather relieved. What did disturb him was his inability to place the girl.

  “Okay,” he signaled back. “So what?”

  “Have message from Chief,” she signaled back.

  There was a happy smile on his face, and he drew his hand away. There were plenty of people in the outfit whom he did not know, since the cardinal principle in conducting such an operation was to have an individual know as few others as possible. What bothered him was that he still could not be sure of her.

  “Driver,” he asked, “what is the best place for sea food at Fisherman’s Wharf?”

  “I will never recommend one over another,” the driver said, “but a lot of newcomers here sort of go for Fisherman’s Grotto, maybe on account of the name.”

  Jack Rhyce studied the back of the driver’s head carefully, thinking that he had talked more than was necessary, but then taxi drivers were apt to be verbose. He turned to the girl beside him.

  “That’s quite a name—the Fisherman’s Grotto,” he said. “Do you think we’d better try it?”

  “Why, yes,” she said. “I think it would be lovely.” She sounded very happy, just the way a girl should who is being taken to dine at a place like the Fisherman’s Grotto. “I always love to dine in new places, don’t you? And we have so much to talk about, so many notes to compare.”

  “Yes,” Jack Rhyce said, “and I can’t tell you how pleased I am that we will be traveling together.”

  “That’s why they hurried things up back East—just so we could,” she said. “Mr. Tremaine said that so long as you were going, I might as well go with you, since you’ve traveled so much and this is all a new experience for me. He’s a lovely old man, isn’t he? I mean Mr. Tremaine—just a regular old Teddy bear.”

  “I never thought of him in that category, exactly,” Jack Rhyce answered.

  “It seems to me,” she said, “that you don’t seem to think of anybody as Teddy bears.”

  “Well, frankly, no, I haven’t—not for a good many years,” Jack Rhyce said. “And maybe it’s just as well.”

  “Oh, dear,” she said, “I hope you’re not going to be a dim-view artist. I didn’t think you would be, from what I heard of you at Goucher.”

  “Where?” he asked.

  “Why, Goucher College, of course,” she said. “Helena and I are both in the Department of Sociology, and we room together. In fact, frequently we’re mistaken for each other.”

  “Now that you mention it,” Jack Rhyce said, “I can see you look like Helena.”

  “I’ve heard so much about you,” she said, “that I almost called you Jackie. What’s the latest news of your mother?”

  There was no time to answer because the taxi had stopped at the Fisherman’s Wharf. Jack Rhyce was out and beside the driver as quickly as he could manage it. An orange-and-black cab had stopped behind them, and a slender man in his sixties got out of it. It was a calm, still day, and close to sunset, but there was plenty of light. He noticed that the Fisherman’s Wharf was well equipped with artificial illumination. It was not the sort of place to finger anyone. The elderly man from the orange-and-black cab lingered outside the Fisherman’s Grotto, examining some abalone shells. Jack Rhyce pulled his thoughts together abruptly. Granted there was no immediate danger, he would have felt safer if he had not met the Russians. There still remained the possibility that he had been spotted standing in the crowd, and the present reaction still might be more than a routine checkup.

  “Helena says you always call your mother ‘Mumsie,’” the girl beside him said.

  “Oh, yes,” he said, and he laughed in an embarrassed way, “but it’s only a holdover from childhood.”

  Her last few words filled him with relief because it would have been difficult, at least in his judgment, for anyone outside of the office to have strung so many facts so consistently together. He was reasonably sure by now that she was the girl at Goucher College who had handwritten the “Dear Jackie” letter. For a second his mind moved from immediate necessities long enough for him to wonder how the Chief had ever found her, but it was none of his business, and the Chief would never tell. Still, he needed to make a further check before he finally accepted her.

  “Well,” he said, “so here we are at the Fisherman’s Grotto,” and he smiled and nodded to the headwaiter. There was still a choice of tables because the hour was early.

  “I believe it’s the season for Dungeness crabs,” he said to her, “and if you’ve never tried one, they are a most rewarding experience.”

  Her smile was exaggeratedly gay and provocative, and he was naturally quick about playing by ear. She was telling him, as clearly as though she were speaking, that they both should be absorbed in each other’s words and glances, and oblivious to what went on around them.

  “Why, I never heard of them, Jackie,” she said. “That’s what Helena calls you, isn’t it? Jackie?”

  “Let’s not go on any more about Helena,” he said. “She’s quite a distance away—already.”

  “Oh, dear,” she said, and her smile grew reproachful. “I’m afraid you’re mad at Helena because of what she said about your mother. You can’t blame her for being a little tiny bit jealous, can you?”

  “Well, it does get me a little miffed,” he said, “and after all, as I repeat, Helena isn’t here.”

  “Well, I think you’re being rather naughty, Jackie,” she said. “Do you think I’d make a better mother substitute than Helena?”

  “I have an idea you’ll be much better,” he said. “In fact, I’ll be glad to experiment. And may I call you Ruth?”

  “Why, yes,” she said, “only I hope you don’t think I’m being forward, or susceptible, or anything like that, because that isn’t really the case at all. I just believe in being myself, Jack. Don’t you?”

  It was one of the worst conversations in which he had indulged since he was sixteen, but as he threw himself into the make-believe, the thing assumed a quality that was almost genuine, particularly in the boy-meets-girl scene. The bored look of the waiter as he handed the menu proved, at any rate, that the audience believed.

  “I think this occasion calls for a Martini or something like that, don’t you?” he asked.

  “I don’t know that I care for a Martini,” she said, “and I don’t know that it would be any too good for you, either, now that I’m a mother substitute.” Their glances met, and they both smiled fatuously at her little joke. “But I would lik
e a nice bottle of that lovely California wine that is made by those priests, or something.”

  He was somewhat embarrassed that she had been smarter than he. Admittedly, it was conceivable that you might not know what went into a cocktail, but he wanted to tell her that you could also doctor a bottle of wine just as easily. In the end it might not have looked well if neither of them had taken a drink.

  “We’ll have both Martinis and the wine,” he said, in a big-brotherly, reproving voice.

  The most harmless thing in the world, the Chief was accustomed to say in one of his best lectures on cover, was a young couple falling in love. It was clear from the way she looked at him that she, too, could have heard that lecture of the Chief’s. If things went right, he decided, no one would be surprised, if, after dinner, they stood for a while gazing across the bay at the lights of Alcatraz and if he put his arm around her and whispered in her ear, or if she whispered back.

  It was a problem to appear, completely engrossed in her, and at the same time to examine the man two tables behind. He looked like a bank clerk about to reach retirement age, and he made no apparent effort to hear what they were saying, showing that his job, obviously, was only to keep them both in sight.

  “You can’t blame me for being surprised when you called,” Rhyce said. “No one gave me the least inkling that you’d be coming along, too.”

  “I know,” she said. “It was Mr. Tremaine. He’s impulsive, the way, I suppose, all rich people are.”

  Jack Rhyce laughed in an embarrassed way.

  “I hope this doesn’t mean they’re losing faith in me, or anything like that,” he said.

  “Oh, no,” she answered quickly, “it was only that it suddenly occurred to Mr. Tremaine that your job might be bigger than he thought, and that you might need some help. A girl with a typewriter, and things like that, you know.”

  “Are you good with a typewriter?” he asked.

  “Yes,” she said, and she laughed. “Any sort of typewriter.”

  “I hope we’ll only have to use a standard brand,” he said.

  They looked at each other exactly as though they were falling in love.

  “I didn’t know the job was getting bigger,” he said. “I’m very glad you’re coming.”

  “So am I,” she said, “because I love to travel. You know, just after I graduated from secretarial school I worked for a while for a man named Mr. Jackson, in Washington. He used to joke and say I had an itching foot, and it’s awfully hard for a girl to travel alone.”

  “Well, where did you go to after you worked for Mr. Jackson, if you had an itching foot?”

  “Oh, I went to Europe as soon as I could,” she said. “I had a divine time traveling around there, seeing monuments and things like that, but I was with an insurance firm in London, mostly.”

  “Who was your boss in London?” Jack Rhyce asked.

  “His name was Mr. Billings. It was a pretty big company in London,” she said, “and it was a group of lovely people. I love London, don’t you?”

  “Yes,” he said, “the few glimpses I’ve had of it. From my point of view, London is a man’s town.”

  “But a girl can have a good time in a man’s town, sometimes,” she said. “I love everything about London. I always feel at home when I can hear Big Ben.”

  Jack raised his wineglass carefully. It reflected the old man eating two tables behind him. He was not listening, but it was still better to go on with the double talk.

  “I wonder how Big Ben’s striking these days?” he said. “It seemed to me his timing was erratic the last time I was in London. You know, I’ve been told you can hear Big Ben right in Tokyo, over the BBC—that is, when Radio Moscow doesn’t interfere. I wonder if we’ll hear Big Ben when we get to Tokyo?”

  “I think we will,” she said, “almost right away.”

  “Well,” he said, “we’ll have to remember to tune in.”

  She had told him almost everything, but she was still talking brightly, as though she were completely unconscious of it.

  “I love to be in strange places and see strange people, don’t you?” she asked.

  “Yes,” he answered. “Strange faces always fascinate me, too. I often play a little game with myself wondering who people are, and what they’re thinking about; but maybe it’s a bad habit and a waste of time.”

  “You can’t ever tell though, can you?” she said. “Now there’s a little old man, all sort of worn and threadbare just directly behind you, two tables away, and he keeps looking at us now and then, as if he were lonely. I wonder what he’s been doing all his life.”

  Jack Rhyce laughed as though she had said something highly amusing.

  “Whatever he’d done, he’s kept alive,” he said.

  “They say, don’t they,” she said, “that San Francisco is the gateway to the Orient? And it’s true, isn’t it? Because I see there’s an Oriental here. I can’t tell whether he’s Chinese or Japanese. Can you?”

  “Where?” Jack Rhyce asked, and without intending it, his voice had an edge to it.

  “Over there near that case with the queer fish on ice,” she said.

  A young Japanese, whom he had not noticed, had entered the Fisherman’s Grotto.

  “Oh,” he said, “yes. I’d put him down for Japanese, and Nisei from his build. It’s funny. I didn’t see him come in.”

  She laughed again as though he said something highly amusing.

  “Well,” she said, “maybe we’d better go back to the hotel before we get into any trouble, because I didn’t see him come in either.”

  “The only trouble we’ll have here is to get the attention of the waiter,” Jack Rhyce said. It was safe, in his opinion, to discount the Japanese.

  The old man behind them must have paid his check already, because he rose when Jack Rhyce signaled to the waiter, sauntered slowly out of the restaurant—pausing, just as he passed their table, to light a thin black cigar, and to glance down at his wrist watch. The waiter arrived with the check just as the stranger went out the door. Jack Rhyce had a bill ready.

  “Thanks,” he said, “and keep the change.”

  He pushed back his chair. Miss Bogart raised her eyebrows. The lights were on outside and there was still daylight in the sky. Their shadow called a taxicab. The tension that had built up inside Jack Rhyce subsided slowly.

  “He was a dear old man, wasn’t he?” Ruth Bogart said. “I wonder where he’s going now?”

  “Home,” Jack Rhyce said. “He’s finished work, I think,” and he linked his arm through hers affectionately, partly for relief, and partly because of cover. “The whole thing was only a check on our baggage,” he told her softly.

  This could be the only possible explanation of the shadow’s actions. His glance at the watch and the lighting of the cigar confirmed the theory. They were only to be watched for a definite time, so that a warning could be given, in case they returned too soon—and now the time was up. He could light a cigar now.

  “I think there’s light enough,” he said, “if you should care to look at Alcatraz through the telescope.”

  “That would be lovely,” she said—and then she giggled—“as long as we don’t get any nearer.”

  “That’s one place where we probably won’t end up,” he said. Then, when he put a coin in the slot of the telescope, he added in a lower voice, “We can talk at the hotel. I think we’re in the clear now.”

  “Why, it’s fascinating,” she said. “Hurry and take a look, before we have to spend another dime.”

  He had been careless, because he thought they were in the clear. Otherwise, he would not have kept his attention so long on Alcatraz. Consequently, when he heard a step behind him, he almost whirled around in a guilty way, instead of turning slowly.

  “Sir,” a voice said before he saw the speaker, “I beg your pardon, but would you like to see Chinatown?”

  It was the young Japanese from the restaurant, the one whom he had thought might be American.
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  “No, thanks,” Jack Rhyce said, “not tonight.”

  The Japanese, he saw, was at most in his early twenties. His neat, dark suit, his shirt open at the neck, and his hair done in a crew cut, gave him the appearance of a college student.

  “There are many interesting things to see in Chinatown,” the boy said. He was not persistent, but he was still there.

  “I know,” Jack Rhyce said, “but not tonight, thanks.”

  He had not seriously thought until then that there might be something wrong with the picture. The young man’s hands were at his sides. There was no indication of a forward motion, and nothing in the face, or eyes, or shoulders, or in the set of the feet indicated trouble. Nevertheless, the Japanese had not moved.

  “Excuse me, sir?” he said. “Would you mind if I ask you another question?”

  “Why no, not at all,” Jack Rhyce answered heartily. “Go ahead and ask it, son.”

  After all, he was a liberal-minded educator who liked kids. He smiled encouragingly at the Japanese.

  “I was so near enough your table at the Fisherman’s Grotto, sir,” the young man said, “that I overheard some words you said to the young lady.” He smiled back at Jack Rhyce. His face looked thin, sensitive, and handsome. “It was only accident—I did not mean to be intrusive.”

  Jack Rhyce laughed like a good-natured schoolteacher. After all, he had nothing to conceal, but, even so, he felt a slight tingling at the base of his skull.

  “Why, that’s all right son,” he said, “perfectly all right. There’s nothing I should mind having you overhear at all. The lady and I are strangers from the East, eating a fish dinner. What was it that we said that interested you?”

  Jack Rhyce watched the young man move his fingers slowly across his palms before he spoke.

  “Well, you see, I’m Japanese, sir,” he said.

  “Why, of course you are,” Jack Rhyce said heartily, “and I can see that you’re American, too. My guess is you were born right here in California. A lovely state, California.”

  “That is so, sir,” the boy answered. “I was born here, and I’m a graduate of Cal. Tech.”