Mr. Moto Omnibus

by John P. Marquand

  “You can take either room you like,” he said. “I don’t really see much difference.”

  “Neither do I,” she said. “I’ll take this one.” And then he saw that she had noticed the connecting door. He did not wish to discuss it then, while he was busy giving orders about the baggage.

  “I’d go to sleep if I were you,” he said. “Knock on the door if you want anything.”

  Before he decided on any course of action, he had to make a routine examination of his room. The draperies, the carpet, and the bed covering were all worn, and gave him again a melancholy feeling of creeping age. The bathtub was also too small. He had to bend his knees to reach the washbasin. He went carefully through the wardrobe and every drawer, looked behind the mirror and over every inch of the wall. He finally took off his coat and shoes and opened the door for a glance at the corridor, but there was no one there. The ubiquitous servants that he had remembered in the Occupation—the smiling maids in obis and getas, and the boys in white uniforms—had disappeared somewhere into the past. On the whole he approved of the selection of the rooms. They each looked over the fantastic porte-cochere and the hotel driveway, were all thick, so that it would be possible to talk freely if voices were kept low and all the locks were sound.

  He knew the number he was to call, but he did not give it to the operator.

  “I want to speak to Mr. William Gibson,” he said, and he spelled the name out slowly, “at the Osaka Importing Company. If he asks who’s calling, say it is Mr. John Rhyce,” and he spelled the name carefully again, and put down the telephone.

  It was half past one in the afternoon, but he did not feel hungry because of all the elapsed hours of the ocean flight. The sun of late June shone hot and strong on the lotus pool in front of the porte-cochere, and he stood at the room’s small window looking at the pink and yellow lotus flowers while he waited for his call. He did not turn when he heard the door connecting the two rooms open, because he knew the sound of her step by then.

  “Is everything all right in your place?” he asked.

  “Yes,” she said. “Everything’s okay. So you knew this door was unlocked?”

  “Yes,” he said, “and the latch has been oiled, I think. Gibson must have wanted it that way.”

  “Well, let’s keep it open for a while,” she said. “It’s awfully far away from everything here, isn’t it? Do you like the way things are going?”

  “No,” he said, “not with that Jap meeting us at the plane. He looked to me as though he were in the business. When he reached into his pocket to take his wallet out, I almost thought he was going for a rod. You don’t move that way without training. You just don’t.”

  “So you’re feeling jumpy, too, are you?”

  “It’s the trip,” he answered. “I’ll feel clearer just as soon as I get a little shut-eye. I’m just contacting Gibson. They ought to call back any minute now. How would you like some tea?”

  She shook her head.

  “How about a drink? I’ve a flask of bourbon in my bag.”

  “You sure it won’t take the razor edge off your mind?” she said.

  “It isn’t kind to kid me,” he said, and he pulled a flask from the bottom of his bag. Just then the telephone rang.

  “Here,” he said, “mix two stiff ones while I’m talking.”

  6

  THERE WAS no mistaking the harsh quality of Bill Gibson’s voice. Jack Rhyce was tired, but he had to go into an act again.

  “Say, Bill,” he said, “guess who this is? Jack Rhyce.”

  “Why, Jack,” Bill Gibson answered. There was no one who could throw himself into a game better than Bill. “Where did you ever drop from, you old buzzard, and what are you doing in Tokyo?”

  “I thought you’d be surprised,” Jack Rhyce said. “I’m over here to write a report for the Asia Friendship League. And who do you think I’ve got with me, to help out? Ruth Bogart. You remember Ruth, don’t you? She’s right up in the room here now, mixing us both a good stiff drink of bourbon. Why don’t you drop everything, and come on up, Bill?”

  “There’s nothing, I’d rather do in the world,” Bill Gibson said, “but right at the minute things are pretty busy in the office.”

  “Oh, now Bill,” Jack Rhyce said, “can’t you let things drop for just half an hour? It’s been a long time no see, and—”

  Bill Gibson’s laugh interrupted him. It had just the right warmth, and the proper tolerant affection.

  “Oh, all right,” he said, “all right. You always did have a bad influence on me, Jack. Sure, I’ll break away. What’s your room number?”

  Now that the point of urgency was made, the conversation was as good as over, but Bill Gibson’s final remark struck Jack Rhyce as disconcerting.

  “Leave your door unlocked,” he said, “and save me some of that bourbon.”

  Ruth Bogart was standing close beside him, and Gibson’s voice was loud enough so that she must have heard the conversation.

  “Are you sure that was Gibson on the wire?” she asked.

  He was sure it was Gibson’s voice and he told her so. Besides there had been enough material in that conversation, innocuous though it had seemed, to afford a double-check.

  “Why did he ask to leave the door unlocked?” she asked.

  “I guess because he wants to get in in a hurry,” he said. “Did you hear him say that things were pretty busy at the office?”

  “Maybe I’m not going to have a nap after all,” she said.

  “It could be possible,” he told her, “but how about that drink?”

  The worst thing in the world for anyone in the business was to develop any dependence on alcohol, but he was sure that the whisky was good for both of them, under the circumstances. It was one of those few opportunities afforded them to be natural. They sat smiling at each other when they were not watching the unlocked door to the hall.

  “Here’s looking at you,” she said. “I’d really like to have a hot bath and go to sleep.”

  “In a miniature tub?” he asked.

  “Anything at all,” she said. “Jack, are you carrying a rod?”

  “Absolutely not,” he said. “Are you?”

  “I have one of those fountain pens,” she said, “in my handbag.”

  “Well, never mind it now,” he said. “I suppose you’ve been told that you’re a very pretty girl.”

  “Yes,” she said, and she looked prettier when she answered. “I’ve been told, but I’m glad you brought the subject up. And now do you mind if I make a remark about you, as long as we’re being personal?”

  “Why, no,” he said, “anything at all.”

  But she hesitated before she answered, and the bright, efficient gaze left her face, making her look almost sad.

  “I keep wondering what sort of a person you really are. I mean, what you’re like when you’re being yourself, what your tastes are, what you want most and everything like that.”

  He felt depressed after she had finished speaking. He could think of a number of things he had lost in the course of time. Besides, he had to tell the truth, and the truth was something that had been bothering him lately.

  “You know,” he said, “I’m really beginning to forget what I used to be. That’s the trouble with this business, isn’t it?”

  “Yes,” she said. “It’s beginning to be the same way with me. I keep forgetting. I wish we could have met on the outside. Have you ever thought of getting out of all of this?”

  “I have thought along those lines,” he said. “The trouble is, I don’t know whether you ever can get outside, after you’ve been inside. Inside leaves a mark on you, and gives you disagreeable habits. I wouldn’t know what I could do outside to earn my living any more. I was planning to be a lawyer before the war came—but that’s all too late now.”

  “You could be a trustee,” she said, “out front, in a bank with a marble floor. You wouldn’t look half bad in a Brooks Brothers suit.”

  “Yes,” he s
aid, “or I could be a football coach; I used to play football. Or I could teach languages on the side, or maybe judo. I can drive a car pretty well—but I wouldn’t want to do any of those things. If I ever were to get outside—”

  He stopped because he had learned long ago that talking about one’s self never added up to much.

  “Go ahead,” she said. “What would you do if you ever got outside?”

  When he took another swallow of whisky, he felt more like himself than he had since Honolulu.

  “Frankly, I wouldn’t want to do anything immediately,” he said. “I’d like to get a canoe and some canned goods and a tent. I’d paddle up through the lakes in Ontario until I got about a hundred miles from anywhere, and then I’d pitch the tent. And when I wasn’t asleep I’d sit in the sun, doing absolutely nothing, just realizing that nobody could find me. But the main thing would be doing absolutely nothing—”

  Just then the door opened. His mind was jerked from northern Ontario, and he realized he never should have been thinking of it. He was not surprised at the manner in which Bill Gibson entered the room, having seen Bill Gibson move fast before, on several occasions, although he had never understood how it could be done with excess weight and a sagging waistline. Bill Gibson was in a hurry, just as Jack Rhyce had said he might be. But even in a hurry, Bill Gibson looked the part he had played for years in Tokyo—a middle-aged American businessman who drank too much before lunch, who fell asleep at the club bridge table in the evening, who talked too much, and who had amorous proclivities which he could never suppress when he should. He was wearing a washable business suit. His jowls were heavy, with a blackish tinge, no matter how clean-shaven he might be. His black hair was brushed back in a pompadour, and he wore horn-rimmed spectacles. Although he had been in a hurry, he was not out of breath, and he had moved so silently that there had been no sound until the door opened.

  “Hi,” he said gently, and he nodded to Ruth. “Lock that door now, kid. I’m sorry to barge in this way, but I’ve had a hunch for the last few days that I’m hot as a pistol, and I don’t want to be seen coming up here. There’s no better place to play cops and robbers than the Imperial Hotel.” He spoke easily and confidently, as he always did. “I’ll take my weight off my feet and have a drink,” he said, sitting down on the edge of the bed. “These rooms are all right to talk in. I’ve used them before. Well, what’s the damn emergency, Buster? I thought I was to call you, and not you me.”

  Jack Rhyce nodded. He realized that he was being rebuked, and he knew Bill Gibson well enough to see that the situation was tense.

  “That’s right,” he said. “I took the liberty, Bill. It’s about Big Ben.”

  “All right,” Bill Gibson said, “go ahead, and make it snappy if you don’t mind.”

  “It’s just a hunch,” Jack Rhyce said, “but I have a feeling we’ve seen Big Ben.”

  He started with San Francisco and with the steps outside the door, and the singing of the tune, and then the other tune at Wake just as light was coming in the sky. He knew Bill Gibson well enough to make an interpolation.

  “I’ve never been psychic,” he said. “I never could tip tables, or write messages on a Ouija board, but when I heard that voice, it linked right up with that song in the hall. It wouldn’t have given me a jolt if it had not been from the same show. The song in San Francisco was ‘Every Day Is Ladies’ Day with Me,’ and it was ‘The Streets of New York’ on Wake, but they’re both out of The Red Mill.”

  “Did you sneak up on him?” Bill Gibson asked.

  “I didn’t want to try, on that terrain,” Jack Rhyce said. “No, we just stood there, and I sang the same song back.”

  Bill Gibson took a generous drink of his bourbon.

  “If I’m seen here it won’t hurt to have the smell of American hooch on my breath,” he said. “Well, describe him.”

  “He was in khaki trunks, old army-issue,” Jack Rhyce said. “Hair was wet, yellow to ginger-colored after his dip in the lagoon. Bushy eyebrows; wide forehead; big mobile mouth, and talking with a drawl, more Tidewater than Texas; and he was damn big, and a beautiful build—all big, especially his hands.”

  “Bigger than you?” Bill Gibson asked.

  “Yes,” Jack Rhyce said, “some. I’d hate to tangle with him. He has beautiful co-ordination.”

  “How did he react?” Bill Gibson asked.

  “Friendly. Maybe a little too God-awful friendly. He thought maybe Ruth and I were new airline personnel, and then he asked if we were passengers on a world cruise. He indicated he had read about the world cruise group on Operations teletype. That’s the one wrong move he made. I don’t think the fact would come through Operations. My hunch would be that he picked it up in San Francisco the night he was singing ‘Every Day Is Ladies’ Day with Me.’”

  Bill Gibson took another swallow of his whisky.

  “Ruth dear,” he said, “would you look out the window in a nice careful way and see if there’s an old beat-up Chevrolet out there—dark, green, ’51 model? Coupé, left front fender pretty well mashed in, a big dent on the left-hand door, and the door missing a handle. Let me know if you see it, will you, dear? . . . So your hunch is he’s on a plane crew—what?”

  Jack Rhyce nodded.

  “And I’ll bet he’s only a few hours out of here right now,” he said.

  “There isn’t any Chevrolet outside yet,” Ruth said.

  “Well, thanks, sweetie,” Bill Gibson said. “Keep on looking, will you? That Chevvy’s been like Mary’s little lamb to me the last few days. . . . Did you check up on him at Wake?”

  “No,” Jack Rhyce said. “It was a big temptation, but it might have been a giveaway, and you’ll have to be careful how you handle it here—not that I want to give advice, Bill. He looked very impressive to me—an able, thoughtful character.”

  Bill Gibson whistled softly.

  “Maybe you’ve got something, Buster,” he said. “It’s the first good lead on him I’ve seen for quite a while. I hadn’t been thinking much about plane crews.”

  “If you don’t mind,” Jack said, “if you’ve got the time I’d like to add a little more.”

  “All the time in the world,” Bill Gibson said, “so long as that Chewy isn’t there. Keep looking, will you, darling? And I can do with another drink.”

  Sometimes it was hard for Jack Rhyce to realize that Bill Gibson’s mind and techniques were among the best in the office. While Bill listened, he took off his horn-rimmed glasses, and his face looked bloated without them, and his eyes rheumy and dull, but he was not missing anything. He was listening to the encounter with the Russians, about the old bank clerk at the table, and then about the Japanese who mentioned the words Big Ben.

  “Cripes, Jack,” he said, “this thing is closing in.”

  “And that isn’t all,” Jack Rhyce said. “There was this other one at the airport.”

  “Let’s see his card.” Bill Gibson held out his hand. “Come on, Buster.”

  He held the card and squinted at it, and put back his glasses.

  “It’s a phony, as far as I know,” he said. “Moto isn’t a Japanese name, it’s only a suffix to a name, like Yamamoto, or Mikimoto, who puts pearls in the oysters—and maybe there’ll be some Mikimoto pearls for you, Ruth dear, if you happen to see that Chevrolet.” He finished his drink in a single gulp. “Well, well, kids,” he said, “it looks as if we’re going to get some action pretty quick out of this one. Would you guess this Moto boy was in touch with Wake?”

  “I couldn’t guess,” Jack said, “but the thought has crossed my mind, Bill.”

  Bill Gibson cleared his throat and looked at the empty glass on the floor beside him.

  “No,” he said, “no, I won’t have another, thanks. Well, this has been very interesting to me, kids, because it ties up with some other stuff that’s just come in. We have a few people ourselves who get around, you know. Big Ben is around, all right. I’ve a hell of a lot of things I’ve got to do, and I
can’t brief you now. It could spill everything if I were seen up here, but we’ve got to get together somewhere. Now here’s what I want—”

  He stood up. It was amazing how quickly he could pull himself off the bed, fat abdomen, jowls and everything.

  “Now get this.” He looked very much like a sales manager addressing a convention, or a coach, exhorting a team between the halves. “I want you two to take all tomorrow to get your cover sweetened with this Asia Friendship League. I also want you two to make damn fools of yourselves about each other. I’m glad to see you have the connecting door open already—not because I believe in sex, but because, under the circumstances, sex is the safest thing for you. That’s why, the day after tomorrow, you’re going on a shack-up job to a resort hotel up in the mountains. It’s a real off-the-record honeymoon retreat, and no one will notice you, if you just keep interested in each other. I’ll be up there Saturday night. You’ll see me at the bar at six o’clock, but don’t pay any attention to me. Go to the big dance that night and have a good time. My room will be in a cottage called Chrysanthemum Rest. It’s near the ballroom. At ten o’clock, leave the ballroom as if you were going out in the dark to smooch. There’ll be so much noise and music, no one will hear us talking, or care, but I don’t want us to be seen together in Tokyo. I’m too damn hot. Have you got it, Jack?”

  Jack was aware again that his mind was not working as accurately as it should. Bill Gibson had asked if he had got it, and the truth was that he had been getting too much in the last few hours. Granted that he had been trained until most of his actions were instinctive, a craving for rest was beginning to keep his mind from facts.

  “Well, Bill,” he said, “you’ve handed me quite a lot since you’ve been here.”

  “I’ve been concise,” Bill Gibson answered, “but I’m in a hell of a hurry, Jack.”

  “This hotel,” Jack Rhyce said. He was trying to get things into order, but if he could not get some rest, as sure as fate he would slip up on something, and once you made a slip, with circumstances the way they looked you seldom were given a chance to recover. “Where is it, and how do I get there?”