Thank You, Mr. Moto

by John P. Marquand

  There is a time for action and a time for thought. There is a time when it is better to do something, even if it is wrong, than to hesitate and think. Although I knew we were on the verge of such an occasion, I found myself unready for it. The sounds outside indicated that a number of Wu Lo Feng’s men were moving away in accordance with his orders. Yet I knew there would be others left. The desire to get out of that place alive was overwhelming enough to make my thoughts illogical; my mind leaped at possibilities vainly, like an animal leaping at the bars of a cage. The situation of my holding a pistol against Wu Lo Feng’s neck was growing ridiculous.

  “We must get out of here,” my mind was saying. “We must all get out. But how.”

  Wu Lo Feng must have understood what was passing through my mind because he was probably wrestling with exactly the same problem. I think this is the only thing that he and I ever had in common, except perhaps a mutual and increasing dislike. At any rate, Wu Lo Feng added an idea to the maze of ideas which surrounded me.

  “You are getting nowhere,” he said, “and you can get nowhere. This whole matter grows ridiculous.”

  “Perhaps,” I said, “but then neither are you getting anywhere.” As it happened I was to see that I was mistaken. I should have known that the element of time was playing in Wu Lo Feng’s favor. I should have known that he would be thinking and I should not have given him time to think. I had sense enough to know that there were too many prisoners in the room and that the mesmerism of the pistol at Wu Lo Feng’s head would not affect them all indefinitely.

  Over by the mud figures in a distant corner, I could see the two raggedy guards crouching on their heels, with the sleek but venerable Prince Tung standing near them holding one of their rifles and placing his velvet slippered foot upon the other weapon. I was relieved to see that the guards seemed moronically, apathetically stupid, but already they were shifting doubtfully and restlessly upon their heels. In the centre of the room, where it was lighter, Mr. Pu still knelt, undecided, by his pictures. I had an idea that Mr. Pu was simply thinking which side to take, but in the meanwhile he was being careful not to be a disturbing element. Mr. Moto was holding Mr. Takahara, who sat relaxed and motionless, too motionless I thought, but that was Mr. Moto’s business. Eleanor Joyce was standing near the ruined altar. She was stooping, picking up something. She was picking up one of the ropes with which we had been tied.

  “That’s right,” I said. “Bring some of those ropes to Mr. Moto. Take some others to Prince Tung and start tying those men by their hands and feet. Don’t mind if you hurt them. Quick about it now. And you, Mr. Pu, roll up those pictures. I’ll see that you are made rich to-night if you help me, Mr. Pu.”

  Mr. Pu looked at me carefully.

  “Yes,” he answered softly, “yes, my master.”

  Things were going very well for the next half minute, better than I could have hoped, and I believe it was that half minute which saved us. At any rate, it took that length of time for Wu Lo Feng to think of something. Eleanor Joyce was as efficient as a trained nurse in an operating room. She had tossed two lengths of rope to Mr. Moto and Mr. Moto was securing Mr. Takahara’s arms to the back of his chair. He worked swiftly, with an expertness which I should have expected in a man of Mr. Moto’s broad experience. Without a single waste motion, Mr. Takahara’s arms were pinioned to the chair. The bloody handkerchief from Mr. Moto’s head was tied securely over Mr. Takahara’s mouth. There is a conscientious thoroughness and neatness about Japanese handcraft which was pleasingly apparent in Mr. Moto’s work.

  “And now,” Mr. Moto said, seizing another length of rope and skipping across the room, “permit me to help if you please, Miss. Joyce.” I watched him almost complacently. He was like an expressman strapping up a trunk.

  “On your faces,” snapped Mr. Moto to the guards. “Hands behind you.” The guards were very obedient. They must have known very well that they were pawns in a game of chance. They sprawled upon their faces. Mr. Moto had just finished with the wrists and ankles of one of them, hissing briskly through his teeth, when an interruption came. There was a banging on the temple door. For a second I think the sound made everyone motionless.

  “Excellency,” a hoarse voice was saying outside, “Excellency.” I spoke softly to Wu Lo Feng.

  “Say you’re busy,” I whispered, “say that you do not wish to be disturbed.”

  Wu Lo Feng drew in his breath and I thought he was going to say it, but it was there I was mistaken. Wu Lo Feng’s breath came out of him in a shout that made me start.

  “Help!” he bellowed, “Murder!”

  Chapter 21

  The audacity of it was like a blow but my reflexes were instinctive. I remember thinking that I should keep my promise.

  “All right,” I thought, and perhaps I said it out loud, “you’ll take what’s coming,” and I gave the trigger of Wu Lo Feng’s weapon a sharp, convulsive squeeze. I was prepared for the shock of a report but nothing happened. That anti-climax was one of the worst experiences I have ever known. I heard my voice ring out helplessly:

  “The damned thing doesn’t work,” and I heard Mr. Moto shrieking in a ludicrous agony across the room.

  “Oh!” Mr. Moto was shrieking. “Please, please throw a cartridge into the chamber.”

  I do not suppose I could have managed to do that, even if I had had a half a minute to examine the mechanics of that Luger automatic. As it was, I did not have an instant. The world was falling down. Wu Lo Feng must have realized the condition of his weapon. It must have come to him belatedly that I had done nothing about it.

  The door had burst open and a man in blue denims was standing there. I recognized him in that sickening, shameful moment. It was the man with the pockmarked face who had invaded the reception room at Prince Tung’s. His face, in that second, was long with stunned surprise and unbelief as he gazed at the astonishing spectacle which confronted him. His hand was sweeping to his pistol holster; his mouth was opened soundlessly. I realized that he was hesitating to fire at me because Wu Lo Feng was half rising to his feet, affording me a momentary shield. The man did not fire. Instead, he sprang with a shout at Wu Lo Feng and me. There was a crash as the table tipped over; the gasoline lantern was a puddle of exploding flame. I saw Mr. Takahara hopping, with the chair tied to him, toward the open door. I had a glimpse of Eleanor Joyce running and slamming the door shut. I heard a rifle shot. It must have come from Prince Tung. Then Wu Lo Feng, the pockmarked man, and I were tangled together. I have a recollection of striking Wu Lo Feng’s head with the butt of that unfortunate automatic. It could not have had much effect on his skull, however, because I heard him shouting presumably to his pockmarked officer:

  “I can manage this one. Keep off of us, you fool. The others! Watch the others!”

  I was down on the floor, kicking, clawing in a reek of unwashed bodies. Wu Lo Feng’s thumb was groping expertly for my eyeball. My right hand was struggling at his uniform collar to get hold of his windpipe. I believe now that the thing which decided the issue was a purely unintentional thrust of my knee into the pit of his stomach. I remember thinking that I could not be capable of such crude actions. The breath went out of him like the air from an inflated balloon. I heard him gasping, gurgling for his breath, and then I shook him off me and struggled to my knees. As I reached to get my balance I felt the Luger pistol beneath my hand.

  The oil lantern by the door was still burning; the gasoline lantern was still a puddle of flame on the floor, which danced as dizzily as my head. General Wu, fighting for his breath, was struggling to roll over. Mr. Moto was leaning over him with another piece of rope. The pockmarked man was lying on the floor, breathing stertorously, with one of the guard’s rifles beside him. It occurred to me that Mr. Moto had struck him with the rifle butt and I found out later that I was right.

  “Please,” Mr. Moto was saying, “I have him, please. That pistol, lend it to me for an instant.” He snatched it out of my hand, gave it a jerk and handed it b
ack to me.

  “Now it will fire, I think,” he said. “Would you be so kind as to see that Mr. Takahara is quiet by the door. It might be well to shoot him if it is necessary.”

  I was on my feet by that time. I remember even then being favorably impressed by Mr. Moto’s calm politeness in the midst of that turbulent nightmare. For myself, I was far from being calm. In spite of the battering I had taken, I felt an exhilaration such as I have never known, a drunken, crazy exhilaration. I was a part of that vortex of motion. I was completely attuned with its speed. I should have been delighted to have killed anybody. I should have been overjoyed to have faced another physical encounter, and I believed that there would be ample opportunity in the next few seconds. Eleanor Joyce was standing, pushing against the door. I had a glimpse of a guard, lying bound and of another lying dead. Prince Tung, in his plum colored vest, holding a rifle, was bending over Mr. Pu.

  “Do not be clumsy,” Prince Tung was saying. “Pick up my pictures and be ready to carry them or I shall most certainly kill you. Mr. Nelson, I think we had better make our way out of here.”

  I agreed with him that it was time to get out if we ever were. I could hear them outside beating against the door, but Mr. Takahara is the one I remember best. His hands were still bound to the chair. He was still moving toward the door, half walking and half sitting, a hideous farcical figure, weak, emaciated, struggling with his gag. I should have felt sorry for Mr. Takahara if I had not remembered that he proposed sending me to be tortured in the hills. As it was, Mr. Takahara evidently expected no pity. When I approached him he tried to throw himself on me, chair and all, and I picked him up, chair and all, kicking, groaning, and tossed him backward out of the way.

  “Moto,” I called, “we’d better run for it.”

  “Yes,” Mr. Moto called back, “I think that would be very nice. If you shout that the police are here I think that it might help. Yes, you must be going.”

  Then Mr. Moto was beside me, holding the other rifle. I had snatched Eleanor Joyce away from the door, Mr. Moto was pulling it open, his voice had risen to a high treble:

  “The police!” Mr. Moto was shouting, “we have been betrayed. His Excellency is taken. Save yourselves! Police!” Then he lowered his voice: “Quickly,” he said. “You first, Mr. Nelson:”

  At another time I should have thought my act was suicide. It was probably close to suicide then, although I was not in a fit state to weigh the chances. I was out of the temple door into the warm night, firing the Luger automatic. The darkness was not too heavy to obscure a line of roofs and buildings. I was on a raised terrace, with a marble balustrade, and a flight of steps before me led down a dark, conventional, temple avenue, past the black and shattered eaves of a bell tower and a drum tower to a gate. There were some men, not more than five or six, halfway down the steps. I fired at them and they turned and ran. I suppose they were as confused as I was. When a leader is eliminated, Chinese are apt to run. What alarmed me most was the thought that they might be back in a minute, cutting loose Mr. Takahara and Wu Lo Feng. Eleanor Joyce was just behind me. I took her hand and ran down the temple steps. We did not have a very long distance to go because the temple, in spite of its conventional design, must have been a small one. We did not require much more than fifty steps to reach the main gate. There was a small doorway inside the great gates themselves.

  “It will be bolted,” I heard Prince Tung’s voice say behind me. “Allow me, please,” Prince Tung pushed past me. There was a grating of metal and the small door creaked open and we were out in the street. An automobile was standing without the gate. When I saw it I remembered that Wu Lo Feng had asked for his car to be ready. We had moved so quickly that the driver of the car could not have understood what had happened.

  “Quiet,” I told him. “Stay where you are.” Then I told Eleanor Joyce to get in. Mr. Pu, with the roll of pictures, followed us and then Prince Tung. At this point I realized that Mr. Moto was not there.

  “Moto!” I shouted, “Moto!” But there was no answer.

  “Come,” said Prince Tung, “we must leave him. This is very dangerous and I wish my pictures safe.”

  “No,” I said. “I’m going back to get him.”

  I meant it, because Mr. Moto had been a good companion.

  “Tom!” cried Eleanor Joyce, “you can’t.”

  Then I heard someone running. Mr. Moto was jumping over the high threshold of the gate.

  “Excuse me,” he said. “I am so very, very sorry. There were some notes in Mr. Takahara’s pocket. I am very, very sorry to be delayed, but I have the notes and they are very nice. Quickly. Tell that man to drive on.” And he pushed into the driver’s seat beside me.

  “Yes, the notes are very, very nice,” Mr. Moto said. “They tell me what I wish to know. I think we can arrange everything now. I think it might be well to drive towards your house. If you will be so kind as to drop me at a point I designate I shall be very, very grateful. Then I shall rejoin you at your own house if you will be so kind as to let me use your telephone.”

  “Certainly, Mr. Moto,” I said, “it will be very, very nice.”

  Mr. Moto laughed nervously:

  “Thank you so much,” he said. “Yes, on the whole it has been very, very nice.” And he tapped a little notebook he was holding in his hand.

  I have never known exactly what Mr. Moto did, because it seemed a wiser policy not to ask. It was not hard to conclude that the intricacies of secret service and of police were much better without my curiosity. I had seen enough of them at any rate that night. The only thing I am certain of is that Mr. Moto knew exactly what to do.

  The thing which impressed me most was the quietness of the streets that early morning, although the quietness may have been a simple contrast that was only rendered emphatic by what had gone before. It seemed incredible that there was no stir upon the streets, or the slightest echo of the imminence of trouble. Yet there I was sitting beside a frightened driver with a pistol in my hand, while Mr. Moto gave an occasional curt direction.

  Once he said: “There is ample time I think.” But this was the only indication he gave of having anything on his mind.

  There was no daylight; warm darkness covered a city that was moving lightly and lazily in its sleep, for Peking is always moving even in its dreams. The occasional electric street lamps on the broader ways picked out the fronts of shops, shuttered except occasionally where an eating house was open. A few shadowy figures moved silently around the city walls. The night soil carriers were already beginning to stir. There was the clatter of a watchman’s rattle down some invisible back alley, warning draw-latches and thieves that the law was awake and alert. We turned into the square known as the square of the four Peilos because of four carved wooden arches which spanned four converging ways. Their decorated posts rose up from the street lights around them into the warm black of the sky.

  “We will stop here please,” Mr. Moto said. “I shall get out here, please.”

  I told the driver to stop and the car stopped.

  “Moto,” I asked him, “do you want any help?”

  Mr. Moto stood by the running board; the gold fillings of his teeth glittered in the rays of the street lights. I wondered if I looked as badly as Mr. Moto did. His collar was torn, his necktie was askew, one side of his coat had been ripped, one side of his face was swollen and the whole of his face was grimy from his wounded scalp.

  “Oh no,” said Mr. Moto, “no, thank you very much. I had discovered nearly everything before I was so unfortunately caught to-night. I shall know exactly what to do, thank you. Now if you please, I must give you some directions. The City will be under martial law in a very few minutes I think. Then no one will be allowed upon the streets without a pass. That is why I suggest you go home at once. You may leave the driver and the car outside. He will be taken care of. There is nothing for you to think about.… Nothing. But may I come to you as soon as a few small affairs are arranged? It would be so very nice. An
d then perhaps we may have some whiskey. Ha! Ha! Good whiskey for good friends. Thank you very much.”

  “Thank you,” I answered, “thank you, Mr. Moto.”

  It occurred to me that I did not know exactly what I was thanking him for, although I felt very grateful. My main feeling just then was one of amazed respect, and I was convinced that he was one of the most remarkable men that I have ever known and certainly one of the most capable. Eleanor Joyce held out her hand to him and Mr. Moto drew his breath politely through his teeth.

  “Thank you, Mr. Moto,” she said.

  “It has been a pleasure,” Mr. Moto answered. “Now will you hurry please?”

  Chapter 22

  We rode a long while without speaking; no one spoke again until the car had reached my house. A dull lassitude of reaction was coming over me so that I did not wish to speak. I was content to keep an eye on the driver and to examine the dark streets, while my mind juggled idly with a series of unrelated thoughts. I thought of all the other times when I had travelled home through Peking in the small hours of the morning, in motors or in rickshas. I though of the gayety I had known in those small hours and of the kindliness and the tolerance; Peking is perhaps too tolerant and gay. I thought that it was strange that this homecoming had many of the aspects of those others. I was lulled by the same sense of security and well-being, although I knew that it was false. That side of China which lulls every foreigner into carelessness until he becomes soft and useless was caressing me again. I was lapsing back already into something which I had been before that night. Already my activity in the last few hours was assuming an undignified and an unprepossessing aspect, until I thought with a sudden twinge that Mr. Takahara and Wu Lo Feng were not so far away. They would be untied by now. They were not the type of person to forget. I was glad that Mr. Moto had promised to come back when his business should be over.

  We were coming into the narrow alley where my house stood and I had just told the driver to stop, when I had concrete evidence that Mr. Moto had been busy already. Just as the car stopped beneath an old willow tree that stood beside my door, two men moved out from under its shadows who wore the khaki uniforms and the white belts of the Peking police.