Thank You, Mr. Moto

by John P. Marquand

  “I saw Miss Joyce this afternoon,” I said.

  “Ah?” The Major raised his eyebrows. “Yes? But let’s not mind her now.”

  I looked at the Major steadily. “I’m broad-minded, Best,” I said.

  “Ah!” said the Major. “Quite! You and I have been around a bit, eh what?”

  I had been around a bit, perhaps not exactly as Best’s tone suggested, but I did not tell him so. Instead I made a tactful effort to find why I was there.

  “Best,” I said. “You act as though you had something on your mind. Not a guilty conscience?”

  His eyes met mine frankly and accurately as though he were looking at me over the barrel of one of his rifles.

  “I haven’t much conscience,” he said. “Lost it somewhere I fancy. Don’t remember when.”

  I laughed and set down my glass. “Major,” I said, “you’ll be a bad hat some day.”

  Major Best stepped toward me so quickly that I thought he was angry, but his intention was only to refill my glass. His voice was coldly jovial, over the swish of the soda water.

  “Was a bad hat when I left the army, young fella,” he said. “Some while ago, too—that.”

  It occurred to me that there is nothing in the world as bad as a well-bred Englishman but I did not explain my thought. I only wanted to find out what he wanted. Nothing more. “Well,” I said, “it doesn’t matter, does it?”

  Then I knew that the amenities were over. Best sat down close beside me. He looked toward the door and back at me.

  “Nelson,” he said. “There is something I want to talk about—an unpleasing sort of subject. I’ve marked you out. You don’t mind my doing that.”

  “You flatter me,” I said. “I wonder why you’ve picked on me?”

  The Major rested his fingers on my arm again, strong, steely fingers. Who was he, I wondered? What had his past been? Why should we two be sitting here? I remember exactly what he said because his answer was characteristic of the place and of the life we led.

  “I’ll tell you why,” he said. “Because of a phrase you use. ‘It doesn’t matter, does it?’ And it don’t matter, not a thinker’s damn. You’ve never asked me what I’m doing here. Though you’re the quiet sort, I rather believe you know your way about. You’re respected in certain quarters, more than most men. You’ve got a way with the Chinese Johnnys. You understand them better than most white men. They like you because you mind your own business. You’ve never tried to get anything from them, either their souls or their money, and that is rare, damned rare.”

  “You may be right,” I said. “Miss Joyce told me I’d gone native just this afternoon.”

  “Young fella,” said Major Best, “we’re talking about Chinese now. Did you ever hear,” he lowered his voice to such a soft pitch that it startled me, “of a Johnny called Wu Lo Feng?”

  I searched back in my memory through a gallery of names and faces, through bits of talk I had heard of the chaotic whirl of China, where war lords and politicians had appeared and disappeared.

  “I only recall him vaguely,” I said. “He’s a bandit, isn’t he? He was mentioned as being connected with the communist uprisings. He headed an outfit three years ago called the Ragged Army.”

  Major Best nodded. “Quite,” he said. “This Wu is interestin’. A nice interesting history. He got swept out of a village at the tail end of Honan when he was twelve years old, into the army, and he’s been fighting ever since. The Chinese army is a toughening experience—if you live to be successful. You know his kind. One of his tricks is to blow his prisoners up.”

  I lighted a cigarette. “He wouldn’t waste powder for that,” I said obtusely. The Major set me right at once.

  “Not powder,” said Best softly. “Not powder. He simply sets a straw beneath his subject’s epidermis. Then everybody interested takes a blow on the straw and the prisoner blows up—quite like a balloon. You’ve heard tell of it? I didn’t believe it possible but it is. It’s very painful—and not uninteresting. I saw Wu do it myself in the mountains outside of Kalgan. The subject, Nelson, blows up like a balloon and then he bursts—my word for it. Wu blew up one of my donkey boys. Very interesting.”

  “Yes?” I said. “Since you’re here I take it they didn’t operate on you, Major.”

  “No,” he said. “It was only an exhibition put on for my benefit for purposes of ransom. One gets used to that sort of thing, given time to live. But this Wu is able. Away above the average, without much of the racial indirectness. Chatty—nice and chatty—but devilishly logical. I’d put him above the old Marshal of Manchuria for brains, which is in the nature of a compliment. Have another spot?”

  “Thanks,” I said. “Tell me some more about Wu.” I knew that he was leading up to something. Major Best smiled and his voice made me understand that he respected Wu.

  “He’s a Johnny who knows what he wants,” the Major said, “and where his bread is buttered. I know—because Wu and I did a little business once.”

  “What sort of business?” I asked.

  “Curio business,” said Major Best, “in a tomb. But that doesn’t matter, does it? Wu, he’s game for anything—provided it means money. And now, right now, this Wu is in Peking.” There was a forced levity in the Major’s voice, but his casual words concealed something which was unmistakably ugly.

  “So he’s the one you saw?” I asked.

  Major Best moved and the wicker in his chair creaked. “Righto,” he said. “I won’t forget Wu’s free. Oh no! I saw him in Brass Street this afternoon, in blue coolie clothes. He looked up as I went by. Thin, high North China face, flat nose and a little amusin’ mouth. The sort you might call a rosebud mouth, if he was white. A kissable mouth on a face like paste, not prepossessin’. Wouldn’t like it if he thought I knew him. We know too much about each other to be exactly friends.”

  “What’s he doing here?” I asked. The other’s earnestness had made me interested.

  “Young fella,” said Major Best, “I don’t know, but I don’t like his being here, and if you knew me better you’d know that I’m broad-minded, as a rule. I’ll know what he’s doing to-morrow. I’ve got ways of knowing.”

  “Have you?” I asked.

  “Laddy,” said Major Best. “Don’t ask questions. If he’s doing what I think he is, there’s where you come in.”

  “Suppose I don’t want to come in,” I suggested.

  Major Best smiled. “You won’t come in far,” he answered. “All I ask of you is this. Come here to see me at nine o’clock to-morrow morning. If he’s doing what I think he is, I want you to take me to Prince Tung. It might be that your friend the Prince and I could do a little business.”

  Major Best was watching me with those unflickering eyes, so accurately, so intently, that I knew he was deadly serious, even if I were not able to understand the cause. Nevertheless, he had laid a number of cards frankly on the table, rather skillfully too, and I gave him credit for that. I looked at the Major; his eyes were still on me; his face was still set in those rugged conventional lines. He had confessed that he was no better than he should be, not a damaging or astonishing confession perhaps. He had tacitly confessed that he was a grave robber and he had been on the verge of confessing something else. He had spoken of means of gaining information and then he had checked himself. I looked about his room again; it was comfortable, almost luxuriously comfortable for the room of a cashiered British army officer, and I knew that Best had been cashiered because he had as good as told me so. It had seemed none of my business until then, but now I wondered how the Major made his money. He and Mr. Wu made a pretty pair; they were perfect examples of my theory that men appeared from circumstance. They were perfect patterns of characters that might be expected to rise out of the turmoil of the East, both clever, as the Major had said. Each knowing exactly what he wanted.

  “Best,” I said, “I came out here to be quiet. I came out here because I didn’t do so well at home, but not because I had to. I quarrelled
with a number of people, but I could go back to-morrow and be received. I tell you this in case you think I couldn’t. I have never dabbled in any transactions out here. If a Chinese bandit wants to come to Peking it’s none of my business. Let him come. If you have anything against him why don’t you go to the Chief of Police? Are you afraid of this man Wu?” Major Best shook his head slowly.

  “No,” he answered. “I can look out for myself in a tight corner, thanks. You know Chinese officials. They’re as slippery as eels. I don’t want to see officials, I should want to see Prince Tung.”

  “Prince Tung is a friend of mine,” I said. “I shouldn’t think of taking you there unless I know exactly what you want and you won’t tell me and that’s that, Best.”

  “Quite,” the Major said. “That’s fair and square. I’ll tell you everything or nothing at nine o’clock to-morrow morning and you can make up your own mind then. I’m asking you something and giving nothing back, but I’m a sort who doesn’t forget. Will you come at nine to-morrow?”

  “Yes,” I said.

  The Major smiled and the watchfulness left his eyes. “Shake hands,” he said. “You’re a decent sort. Now dinner’s ready. I mustn’t keep you here too late.”

  Chapter 5

  My own cook could not have prepared a better dinner. We sat at a table, beneath the glass candle lanterns, with pictures painted on the glass, and talked in a more friendly way than we have ever talked. Best raised a glass of champagne, he was doing me very well. He seemed anxious to repay me by his hospitality for something he did not care definitely to express.

  “I give you the East, young fella—the Far East,” he said. “And you know what that means because you and I have lived in it—the only place in the world where a man can stand on his own two feet—the only place where things are moving. Who was it who called it ‘The Tinder Box of Asia?’ I’ve got a better name for it, the Powder Magazine of the World. One spark and it goes bang. We’re sitting on a powder keg now.”

  “I’ve heard all that before, but don’t you think the powder’s rather wet?” I asked. “It sputters but it never quite goes off.”

  The Major refilled my glass. His face was redder and his cold eyes were dancing. He was not particularly attractive now that he had finished his whiskey and a half bottle of champagne. He called for another bottle to be placed on the table.

  “I’ll wager you it will,” he said. “Take our friends, the Japanese. Jolly active, serious little Johnnys—the Japanese. They know what they want. They want a ring around China. You’ve seen them start. They haven’t finished yet. They’ve snapped their fingers at Europe and have jolly well gobbled up Manchuria, and now they’re reaching for North China. You’ve seen what’s happened in the last few months. They’ve made the Chinese army move out of Peking. North China’s as good as Japan, right now, and their agents are moving into Mongolia and into Turkestan.”

  There was so little new in Major Best’s observations that I could not understand why he was reminding me of a state of affairs quite obvious to everyone who has taken the trouble to read newspaper reports with a Chinese date line. It has always seemed to me a piece of manifest destiny, or whatever one might choose to call it, that the Japanese Empire should control China and I told Best as much.

  “Furthermore,” I told him, “imperialism is not a new or even an interesting phenomenon. My country has practised it and certainly yours has. If Japan wishes to expand she is only following every other nation from the time of Babylon; furthermore, I cannot see why outsiders should be so greatly worried. I think it would be better if everyone were to recognize what is an actual fact—Japan’s ability to control the mainland of Asia. I have never seen how anything is to be gained by diplomatic quibble. Japan is a world power and a growing power; we may as well admit it.”

  Major Best nodded. I remember now that he followed my remarks with a greater attention than I thought they deserved.

  “Quite,” he said. “Oh, quite. You and I are realists, young fella, but this method of expansion—there are two schools of thought. Those are what worry me to-night. There is the school of peaceful and the school of militant expansion—the ronin school shall we call it? The disciples of both these schools are rather clashing just now over policy. That clash might make a difference here to-night.”

  He stopped and stirred at the champagne in his glass, watching the bubbles rush up to the surface; then he looked over the glass at me, so sharply that I was uncomfortable, with those icy, humorless eyes of his.

  “Have you ever heard of a man named Takahara?” he inquired. “No? Well, Mr. Takahara is a militant Japanese. There is always some sort of an incident when this Takahara Johnny is around. He’s here in Peking to-night.”

  “I hope he is comfortable,” I said.

  “Do you?” asked Major Best. “Do you really now? Well, have you thought of this, young fella? There’s not a Chinese soldier in Peking to-night, but Mr. Takahara is here. The city is practically defenseless now that the army has been withdrawn. Anyone could take Peking. You and I could take it if we had a couple of thousand men.”

  I could not tell whether he was serious or not. I could not tell whether he was trying to convey a thought to me or simply endeavoring to make polite conversation. At any rate, he sounded fantastic enough. It was the whiskey, I decided, mixed with the champagne. It sounded like club conversations at the cocktail hour, when certain impulsive Europeans wished to hear themselves talk.

  “Don’t frighten me, Best,” I told him. “Peking has been taken and retaken.”

  “Yes, young fella,” said Major Best, “but it hasn’t been looted for quite a while.”

  “Well,” I said, “It won’t be. The Japanese will look out for that while they as good as own it.”

  There was a silence when I finished. The Major had half-turned his head, as though he were listening for some noise outside, and there was no trace of champagne in his voice when he answered:

  “It doesn’t matter, does it?” he said in a drawling tone which I recognized as an imitation of my own speech. “Suppose someone were to take Peking to-night?”

  “That’s rubbish,” I said, “and you know it, Best. Why not talk about something possible?”

  “Quite,” said the Major, “oh quite, young fella. Nothing much has happened to Peking since that Yung Lo Johnny took it.” He paused and looked at his watch. “Quite. Let’s talk about something possible. Are you interested in Chinese painting, Nelson? I am just about to lay hands on some rather fine paintings, I fancy. Perhaps we’ll talk of them to-morrow morning.”

  The watchfulness had left his eyes again. He talked for a while about Chinese art as intelligently as a connoisseur. It was a side of him which surprised me until I remembered his allusion to tomb robbing. I began to wonder if perhaps his knowledge of the money value of art might not be behind some of the mysteries of Major Best. While I was still wondering, he looked at his watch again.

  “By Jove!” he said. “I didn’t know it was so late. We’ll have coffee in the study. I mustn’t keep you too long.” It was Major Best, the ladies’ man, who was speaking. His maneuvre was almost transparently amusing. Now that dinner was over, it was quite clear that Major Best wished to be rid of me. The atmosphere had changed, giving me a definite conviction that Major Best was politely and rather impatiently waiting for me to go, that he had other things to do that night, now he had obtained what he wished from me. He no longer looked at me curiously, his restlessness was growing. I had an impression that everything he had said up to then had a plan behind it, but now his conversation was desultory and careless. Even his servants seemed to share that wish to be rid of me. The whole place was waiting for me to finish my coffee and to go. It was so clear that I took a malicious pleasure in delaying my departure for a while. I lighted my cigar and brought the conversation back again to pictures. Where had the Major picked up this love for painting? Did he have any pictures to show me? Did he have any pictures to sell?


  The Major was inattentive, almost discourteous, in his answers. I could hear the crickets calling. The whole place was coolly and impersonally waiting.

  “Perhaps I’d better go,” I said at length. “Are you expecting a caller?”

  “Oh, no!” said the Major. “Jolly well not, but it is getting latish, isn’t it? To-morrow morning at nine then? Good night, young fella!”

  A servant had appeared with my hat. The Major walked with me to the study door. The stars were dim above the small courtyard making the trees and the roofs beyond the courtyard wall faint shadows against the sky.

  “What’s that?” said the Major sharply. He nodded toward the courtyard wall. There had been a rustling in the trees, but very faint.

  “The wind,” I said. “No need to be so restless. I’m going, Major.”

  The Major did not answer me directly. He was staring at the tree beyond the courtyard wall. His right hand had reached inside his coat. He stared for a moment, then withdrew his hand.

  “The wind,” he said. “Yes. Quite! Good night, young fella. If, you’ll excuse me, I won’t stand on ceremony as we Chinese hosts say, eh? The boy will see you across the other court. Nine o’clock to-morrow morning then? Good night!”

  As I turned I left the Major standing white in the light of the doorway, still examining the trees across the court. I shall never forget the impression I had of him then. It was an exterior impression. I may have suspected but I never could be sure of what went on behind that exterior. The pleasing impersonality of the well-bred Englishman enabled him to remain a complete stranger, an impossibility for an American after a few hours’ acquaintance. I was glad on the whole because I did not like the man.