Mr. Moto Omnibus

by John P. Marquand

  “Not so carefully,” he said. “I think maybe we’re overrating our boy. He called up Miss Bogart this morning. He wants to make a date with her for this afternoon. She said she wasn’t sure that she could do it. She’ll call him back at three.”

  Mr. Moto stared at the teacup, and his forehead wrinkled and he shook his head.

  “I do not like it,” he said. “It does not sound correct.”

  “Meaning it doesn’t sound like the first team?” Jack said.

  Mr. Moto’s gold teeth flashed when he answered.

  “I am so glad you use the expression,” he said. “I wish that Miss Bogart would give us the telephone number. We could have traced it by this time.”

  “I told you she wouldn’t,” Jack Rhyce said, “and I decided not to put further pressure on her. The fact is she may be highly useful in picking up Big Ben, and she was sent over here to be useful. She’ll call him any time we want.”

  “She does not want to leave you,” Mr. Moto said. “That is very proper, Mr. Rhyce, but I do not like it. I do not like it.”

  “I agree,” Jack Rhyce said. “A lot of angles in this situation worry me. You can trace the number when she calls him. We may need it if anything goes wrong, but I don’t believe much in tracing numbers.”

  “May I ask why?” Mr. Moto said.

  “Because it’s too obvious,” Jack Rhyce said. “They always use a public telephone in some public place—a bar or a railroad station.”

  “If we knew the telephone,” Mr. Moto said, “we could be watching and take him when he makes the call.”

  “Yes,” Jack Rhyce said, “but I don’t think our chances would be good. He’s a professional—he would be on the lookout for strangers. We’re safer to let Miss Bogart call him. It’s better not to be too busy when we’re closing in.”

  Mr. Moto was silent for a moment. Then he nodded slowly.

  “I think I am inclined to agree with you, Mr. Rhyce,” Mr. Moto said. “I realize that Miss Bogart is a very intelligent girl who has had training in handling these matters. I shall call on you at the hotel at a quarter before three.”

  “And I’ll go along with you later,” Jack Rhyce said. “Trace the call, then, if you want, but let’s catch him where he’s waiting for Miss Bogart. It will be safer and surer that way. And I want to be along when you pick him up—just out of interest, Mr. Moto.”

  18

  JACK RHYCE had played a part in several similar actions in America and Europe, the details of which seldom varied. Find your man and keep him at a given spot. Get the group distributed. Have the car ready. Close in simultaneously from all sides. This was the one maneuver that required expert coordination and experience. If properly executed, there would hardly be a ripple of a struggle. Often pedestrians ten feet away did not notice the group around the victim, trussed and pinioned in the approved style, being half pushed, half carried to the waiting car. Even if things did not move quite as planned, a well-placed blow at the back of the skull could solve the difficulty. Big Ben was a big man, but he could be handled, given the proper group. Jack Rhyce was certain that there would be no trouble if he were in the party.

  “Oh,” Mr. Moto said, “you do not trust us, Mr. Rhyce? You will think differently, I am sure, when you see my people. Poor men. They are not well paid, but they are as neat as your FBI.”

  The obviousness of the operation was a sufficient explanation as to why Mr. Moto did not like it, since the use of a woman to lure a man was among the most shopworn in the sordid bags of tricks which everyone knew backwards in the business. Yet it was a trick that worked the most frequently of them all. Jack only had to remind himself that he too had fallen in love with Ruth Bogart freely to accept the motives of Big Ben. The repugnance that he felt at having to use her in this venerable trick only convinced him further of Big Ben’s infatuation and, besides, he had seen them on the dance floor.

  By the time he and Mr. Moto reached the hotel, the preliminary preparations were all in hand: the equipment immediately necessary was packed in Mr. Moto’s briefcase. When Ruth Bogart saw the briefcase she smiled a thin, Mona Lisa smile, Jack had never seen her looking prettier. The excitement and the exacting demands which would be made of her in the next few minutes had added to the delicacy of her features and the luster of her hair. Even her voice had a new seductive quality.

  “So you boys need me, do you?” she said. “All right, rig up the telephone.”

  When Mr. Moto took out of his briefcase and methodically arranged the instruments, Jack watched him with approval. There were right and wrong procedures in wire tapping, and Mr. Moto knew all the proper ones.

  “I suggest that we both listen, Mr. Rhyce,” he said as he handed Jack Rhyce a pair of earphones of Japanese manufacture. The Japanese were able to make anything.

  “Are you sure this won’t be too big a load?” Jack Rhyce asked.

  “Don’t be silly. Jack.” Ruth Bogart said. “He knows his stuff.” She smiled her brightest smile. “I couldn’t have set this up better myself, and now it is three o’clock, I think. Perhaps—if you are ready—I’d better make the call?”

  “No,” Jack Rhyce said. “Let him wonder. Let him sweat it out for ten minutes.”

  He never forgot the interval of waiting, or how happy Ruth Bogart looked.

  “Jack,” she said, “you’re glad I’m along now, aren’t you?”

  “Yes,” he answered, “at the moment, Ruth.”

  “It’s nice to know I’m useful, under the proper circumstances,” she said. “Maybe that’s all any woman wants.”

  They did not speak for another minute or two, and then Mr. Moto broke the silence.

  “Excuse the question,” Mr. Moto said. “Do you carry a blackjack with you, Mr. Rhyce?”

  “Funny you should ask that,” Jack Rhyce answered, “because I was thinking of it myself. No, I haven’t one with me.”

  Mr. Moto reached inside his briefcase.

  “If you will permit, it will be a pleasure to present you with this one,” he said. “It may be useful, and ha-ha, it will be easier for you to reach him, if needed.”

  Jack balanced the instrument expertly in his hand before he slipped it into his back pocket.

  “Thanks,” he said. “I’ll do my best to be neat and clean if necessary.”

  “I’m sure,” Mr. Moto said. “So very sure you will be. And now perhaps Miss Bogart should make the call. Let us not have the gentleman too discouraged.”

  They sat silent while Ruth Bogart gave the number, and there followed, of course, a moment of suspense until they heard the answering voice. The connection was very clear. There was no doubt in the world that it was Big Ben.

  “Gosh, honey,” he said, and his voice was plaintive, “I’ve been settin’ here. I mighty near thought it was a brush-off.”

  “Oh, Ben,” she said, “I’m sorry, but I couldn’t call until I was alone.”

  “You mean he’s back with you?” Big Ben asked. “Why honey, I kind of got the idea he might have left you for good back there in the mountains. When did he come back?”

  “He said he wasn’t able to sleep,” Ruth Bogart answered. “He just said he went out with some Japanese friends and drank some sake.”

  “And he’s hanging around you now, is he?”

  “Ben, don’t be that way,” she said. “I told you I was tired of him, and he’s gone now.”

  “Well, don’t forget you’re my girl now, honey. How about say around six tonight?”

  She first glanced questioningly at Mr. Moto.

  “Why that would be lovely, Ben,” she then said. “Will you call for me at the hotel?”

  There was a silence on the other end of the wire.

  “Why, honey,” he said. “I had some trouble there, last time I was in Tokyo, and the folks there maybe don’t like me too much. How about going down to the Ginza and meeting me outside the Cimaroon beer hall? It’s a GI place, honey, with good food and singing and everything. I’ll be waiting by the fr
ont entrance, come six o’clock.”

  “But, Ben, dear, I don’t know this town.”

  “I’m going to see personally that you’re going to know it and love it before you’re through, honey,” he said. “It’s no trouble to get there. Just you tell the hotel doorman. Any taxi driver can take you to the Cimaroon.”

  “Well, then you be right outside,” she said. “It’s spooky alone in a place where you don’t know the language or anything. Are you sure you’ll be there, Ben dear?”

  “Sure as hell isn’t freezing. Just you don’t worry. Take a cab,” he said.

  “All right,” she said, “but it makes me a little frightened, Ben.”

  “Aw, now,” he said, “there’s nothing to be scared of, honey. Wear something cute and fluffy. I only wish it was six already. Don’t forget—the Cimaroon. You got it, honey?”

  They all had it—the Cimaroon—and the conversation was over, and they each sat for a moment in a questioning sort of silence.

  “How did I do?” she asked.

  Jack had been analyzing every pause and change of tone in the speeches. A voice over the telephone without features or personalities to support it was a disembodied thing. Although he had no doubt that the voice belonged to Big Ben, there was a doubt as to whether it had been wholly credulous. In the end, everyone speaking on the telephone always assumed a new and peculiar personality. Even Ruth Bogart’s voice had exhibited strain, and the same had been true with Big Ben, but there had been so little deviation that he could safely attribute it to the medium of communication.

  “You did fine, I think,” he said. “Don’t you think so, Moto?”

  Mr. Moto was dismantling the wire-tapping device.

  “It is not for me to analyze the European mind, but on the whole he gave me the impression that he wanted so very greatly to see Miss Bogart.”

  Mr. Moto snapped his briefcase shut.

  “The Cimaroon is a beer hall and night club, frequented by American soldiers and sailors, a suitable place for him to select,” he said. “It should not be difficult to take him quickly if he is waiting on the sidewalk. I must be leaving now to make arrangements. The car and driver will be waiting to take you there, Mr. Rhyce. May I ask you to arrive in front of the Cimaroon at half-past five?”

  “Let’s make it 5:15, if it’s all the same with you,” Jack said. “Those Joes have second thoughts, and get careful and early sometimes. Once I had to do a snatch in Paris—one of the first I ever was mixed with—but never mind it now.”

  “Thank you,” Mr. Moto said. “I quite agree with 5:15.”

  “And what about me?” Ruth Bogart asked. “Am I going with you, or not?”

  “Certainly not,” Jack Rhyce said quickly. “There won’t be any need, Ruth.”

  “If he doesn’t see me, he may not show,” she said. “I’ve known it to happen, Jack.”

  As things stood then it seemed safe to discount that possibility. Jack was actually experiencing a feeling which was almost one of peace. As far as he could see, the Japan assignment was drawing to a close. If the ending was not wholly satisfactory, it was effective, and with the way things were going, they could not beat about the bush forever. His main mission had been Big Ben. He took the blackjack from his hip pocket, tossed it in the air and caught it, with the same carelessness he would have caught a baseball on the outside. It was very nicely constructed. The Japanese were always good at detail.

  “No, it won’t be necessary,” Ruth,” he said. “You’ll only be in the way if there’s any kind of hassle. He’s a big boy, and he may muss things up.”

  “I think Mr. Rhyce is correct,” Mr. Moto said. “I am most grateful to you, Miss Bogart, and it would be so nice if I could pay you my respects when this is over. Perhaps a Japanese supper tonight; but—ha-ha—not at the Cimaroon, and just with me and Mr. Rhyce. But—ha-ha—not with Mr. Ben. At 5:15, then, Mr. Rhyce, and thank you very much.”

  The feeling that everything was over still persisted after Moto had gone. It resembled the easing of tensions he had experienced before when a job was almost finished, and everything was in the groove. But this time elation was added to his relief, which he tried to check because he always distrusted elation. Finally his conscience troubled him with a nagging suspicion that he was ending things too quickly, not following them as far as he might to an ultimate conclusion. It was true that he was hedging his bets, but it was better to hedge than lose, and they were winning enough. At least they were crippling the apparatus by taking out Big Ben.

  “You know, I feel pretty good on the whole,” he said to her. “When we get him, we can move the hell out of here and head for home.”

  Her expression had brightened, too.

  “It can’t be soon enough for me,” she said. “And why can’t we start being ourselves when we get on that plane?”

  “I don’t see why we can’t from there on in,” he answered.

  “What do you mean?” she asked. “From there on in?”

  “A lot of things,” he said, “and we ought to be able to start discussing them as soon as I get back here.”

  “Do you mean you still love me?” she asked.

  “It’s unprofessional, but I do,” he said, “and a lot of other things. Come to think of it, I wouldn’t have missed any of this.”

  “Even being unprofessional?” she asked.

  “Yes,” he said, “even being unprofessional.”

  “Jack,” she said, “what’s going to happen to him?”

  “He’s not our problem,” he said. “The Japs will take him over. But it’s the best we could do under the circumstances, Ruth.” He turned and strode across the room and back. “We might have gone further into this if Bill Gibson hadn’t died, but I think it’s time now to stop this show, I really do.”

  “It’s sticky, letting the Japs take him,” she said. “I wish you and I weren’t in it.”

  “We’re in it all right,” he said.

  “You’re too nice for it,” she said, “and maybe I am, too.”

  “I wouldn’t be surprised,” he told her, “but let’s put our minds on pulling out of here tomorrow, Ruth.”

  The interval before his departure for the Cimaroon always remained in his memory as a domestic sort of scene.

  “I don’t suppose we’d better inquire about plane reservations yet,” he said. “No reason for anyone to know that we’re checking out, but if you want something to do while I’m out you might start packing your suitcases. There might be space on something tomorrow.”

  “Jack,” she said, “don’t you think you ought to wear something heavier and darker than that seersucker coat?”

  “Oh, I don’t think so,” he answered. “This won’t be night work, and it’s awfully hot outside.”

  “I wish you were carrying a gun,” she said, “just in case. Wouldn’t you like to borrow my fountain pen gadget? It doesn’t look as though I’m going to need it.”

  “I can do fine with this jack,” he said. He was feeling almost jovial now that everything was set. “I’m really pretty good at controlling one of these.”

  “I think you ought not to wear crepe-soled shoes,” she said. “You might slip in them. I don’t know whether you ever knew Bobby Burke, who used to work in Paris. He slipped making a swing at Oscar Ertz—you know, the Czech—just outside the Gare du Nord. He skidded on the pavement and had a shiv in him before he could recover.”

  “These shoes are skid-proof,” he told her. “No, I never did know Bob, but I’ve heard plenty about him. Ought I to be jealous?”

  “Darling,” she said, “I never knew about you, dear, and you never knew about me. You won’t ever need to be jealous. Now let me take a look at you. You look awfully handsome.”

  “So do you,” he said. It was time to be going, but he did not want to leave her.

  “Jack,” she said, “if you do hit him, follow through. Let him have it all. He’s an awfully big man, you know. Now you’d better kiss me good-by. I don’t want
you to be late.”

  “Don’t forget Moto’s coming to take us out to dinner when we get back,” he said. “I wish we were going alone. We haven’t had much fun here, what with one thing and another.”

  “Oh,” she said, “there’ll be lots of other times. Take care, Jack, please take care.”

  He remembered those last words most distinctly. In fact, they echoed in his memory all the way out of the hotel. He had a final glimpse of her before he closed the door. She was standing smiling, very straight and neat, and looking very happy.

  The taste of the American GI was responsible for most of the innovations along the Ginza, and it was worth remembering that they reflected the immaturities of youth—naturally enough, since the age average was low in the American armed forces. Thus it was not wholly fair to be overcritical of the garish beer halls and night clubs, as full of gay plastic color and light as the jukeboxes at home, for they filled very adequately an intense demand for release. In fact, Jack Rhyce thought the Cimaroon offered everything that he would have wanted when he was an undergraduate at Oberlin—air-conditioning, cold beer on draught, an enormous gaudy bar, a jazz orchestra, a Japanese torch singer, and dozens of tables with pretty, smiling Japanese hostesses. He half wished he were back in the army. It had been different in the paratroops in Burma.

  Although it was only 5:15, the Cimaroon was already full. The brash notes of the orchestra, the high voice of the singer, and the chatter of the patrons over their drinks rose to such an intensity that his transient wish that he were a boy again vanished. Instead, it occurred to him that the noise would be an excellent background for a shot, and it could easily be minutes before anyone would know just what had happened. You had to consider seriously such contingencies in a place like the Cimaroon, as well as check the entrances and exits. These were limited, as far as he could observe, to a wide entrance on the street, and to two doors in back leading to service quarters. He stopped making these mental notes only when he reminded himself that he was not running the party and that instead he was in the guise of a foreign attaché.