Right You Are, Mr. Moto

by John P. Marquand

There was sense in everything that was said. Political assassination, like public suicide, had often been an instrument of Japanese policy. One only had to turn the clock back as far as 1936 to recall the killings by the army clique.

  “Who’s going to get murdered?” Jack Rhyce asked.

  “We hope to find out,” Mr. Moto said. “It would be a murder, if I may venture to guess, that would be ascribed to United States imperialism; one of a liberal politician; but we do not know whom. But we do think we know the date—three days from now.”

  Bill Gibson must have known the date as well. Jack Rhyce was trying to put together again the details of that hurried call on the day of their arrival, the battered Chevrolet with the Beretta in the glove compartment, and to connect them with his visit to the Asia Friendship League.

  “Do you know a man named Mr. Harry Pender,” Jack Rhyce said, “who is heading the Asia Friendship League now? He was transferred recently from Cambodia, I think.”

  Mr. Moto raised his eyebrows.

  “I know,” he said. “You spent the day with Mr. Pender before you drove here, Mr. Rhyce.”

  “That’s right,” Jack Rhyce said. “Have you any information on him?”

  “He is a very naughty man,” Mr. Moto said. “His alias is Harry Wise. Hank is his cover name in the apparatus. Does that mean anything to you, Mr. Rhyce?”

  Jack Rhyce nodded. The truth was that the name meant quite a lot.

  “Washington must know him,” Mr. Moto said, “if even our little Bureau knows him. What is it you say in the United States? They have been moving their first teams in here, in the last two weeks. But now I wish to hear from you. Where is Big Ben, Mr. Rhyce?”

  “Haven’t you guessed?” Jack Rhyce said. “You said I was singing that Red Mill song in the bar. He was right there with me, and you saw us do that dance together.

  Mr. Moto was on his feet before Jack Rhyce had finished.

  “Back at the hotel?” he spoke almost in a whisper. “Describe him, please.”

  “Flight engineer on an American airline. You saw us dancing side by side,” Jack Rhyce said. “Six feet four. Weight about two-thirty, sandy hair, bushy eyebrows. Expression affable. In theater business I think, and loves to sing. Favorite tune, The Red Mill.”

  “Mr. Moto slapped his hand against his forehead. “Oh, dear me,” he said. “Oh, yes, I saw you.”

  “Well, that’s the thumbnail sketch,” Jack Rhyce said. “Does he ring any bell with you, Mr. Moto?”

  “Oh, dear me,” Mr. Moto said. “Excuse me, I’m so sorry, Mr. Rhyce. This is very serious. I’ve been so very stupid. We must leave here right away.”

  “Well,” Jack Rhyce said, “I’m glad it rings a bell with you.”

  “Ha-ha,” Mr. Moto said, “yes, it rings a bell. Yes, I shall recognize him. Mr. Rhyce, because he was the one who fingered you, as they say in the United States.”

  “How’s that again?” Jack Rhyce asked, and he was also on his feet.

  “Ha-ha!” Mr. Moto said. “It would be funny if I were not so ashamed. He said he was United States Intelligence, last night, after you sang the song, and he was so very, very nice. He told me you were Big Ben, Mr. Rhyce.”

  Momentarily Jack Rhyce must have looked as surprised as Mr. Moto had, but he regained his composure immediately.

  “But when you saw us both together,” he said, “and when he spoke to you afterwards, it must at least have crossed your mind, didn’t it, that he could have been Big Ben? He answered the description too, didn’t he?”

  Mr. Moto eyes him solemnly and nodded in slow agreement.

  “Yes,” he said. “Oh, yes, it crossed my mind. I can make no good excuse for my very great carelessness, except that I was so sure of you already; but I might say one thing more—if you will excuse it, Mr. Rhyce.”

  “I’ll excuse it; I’m still curious,” Jack Rhyce said.

  Mr. Moto hesitated as though he did not like what he was about to say.

  “Excuse me, please,” he said. “When in the bar I only felt the more sure I was right in selecting you. You were so much more intelligent, so much more of a trained agent, Mr. Rhyce, so much more dangerous—while he, if you will excuse me, was so immature, so harmless, so like so many of your government officials, Mr. Rhyce, I believed there was no doubt, but please believe I was astute enough to recognize my error when you took my man’s gun away. You would have begun shooting, not have waited to talk, if you had been Big Ben.”

  Jack Rhyce laughed shortly. There was no time to continue with post-mortems.

  “That shows he’s smarter than I am,” he said.

  Never to underestimate the methods of an adversary was a motto of the business. Never to think with pain of what he had done to you, but to try immediately to figure what you could do to him in return. The best way to achieve this last result was to put yourself in his place, and to think like him and not like yourself. Although everyone was fallible, Jack Rhyce could not believe that he had been wrong in his more basic ideas. Big Ben’s move had been inordinately clever, but it was not the time to dwell on the measure of his cleverness. It was time to put oneself inside Big Ben’s mind to see why he had done it, and to estimate what he had won and lost.

  Had he learned through some fluke who the couple in Cozy Nook were, and had he taken that method to knock them out of the game? This was still unbelieveable in Jack Rhyce’s judgment. The nature of the murder disputed the possibility and so did all of Big Ben’s subsequent behavior. Life had made Jack Rhyce enough of a cynic so that he was positive that he could detect sincerity. Big Ben had shown no professional interest in them while they had been in the bar, but something had occurred later to cause a change, and Jack Rhyce believed he knew exactly what the circumstance had been. Mr. Moto must have entered the bar while they were singing, and Big Ben’s glance must have picked out the face in the crowd and instantly have identified it. Mr. Moto had been the one who spelled danger, and the improvisation that Big Ben had conceived, though brilliant, also had a touch of desperation in it. It was the red herring across the trail, the smoke screen that permitted escape. The idea must have come to Big Ben while each was following the other in that ludicrous softshoe dance.

  The truth was that the sight of Mr. Moto must have come to Big Ben as a stunning shock. He knew who Mr. Moto was. He also must have known that the Japanese were on the lookout for him and had doubtless obtained some sort of description. In face, Big Ben’s mind probably had moved further. He must have suspected that Mr. Moto had come to the hotel to make contact with Bill Gibson, the American agent. While they were still doing that soft-shoe dance Big Ben must have been fairly certain that Mr. Moto would visit Chrysanthemum Rest, if he had not done so already. Mr. Moto, as a secret agent, would know that it was murder. Already, in fact, Mr. Moto might be looking for the murderer. It was no wonder that Big Ben had been obliged to mope quickly.

  “I think we’d better leave,” Mr. Moto said. “You can continue thinking while we’re moving, Mr. Rhyce.”

  “All right,” Jack Rhyce said; “but let’s get our lines straight first. You saw us go into that cottage. You were watching us all evening. Right?”

  “Yes,” Mr. Moto said, “watching carefully.”

  “Then you went into the cottage yourself,” Jack Rhyce said. “Right?”

  “Yes,” Mr. Moto said, “so very right.”

  “When did you get to the bar?”

  “When you and he were dancing,” Mr. Moto said.

  “And after I left, what happened?”

  “He walked over to me,” Mr. Moto said. “He asked me if I were looking for Big Ben.”

  “So he knew who you were,” Jack Rhyce said. “He’ll be halfway to Tokyo by now. He was frightened when he saw you or he wouldn’t have thought so fast. Frightened people are the ones who think the fastest. Have you ever noticed that?”

  “Yes,” Mr. Moto said. “I am thinking you are unusually intelligent, Mr. Rhyce.”

  “Thanks,” Jack Rh
yce said, “but let’s remember one thing more. He was startled when he saw you. That means he hadn’t seen you earlier. Do you agree?”

  A shadow of doubt crossed Mr. Moto’s face, and he shook his head.

  “I don’t agree,” he said. “It might also be he knew I was following you all the time. Both you and he are such very clever men.”

  It occurred to Jack that ironically enough both their lines of thinking were academically correct, even though one must be right and the other wrong.

  “I think you presuppose too much,” Jack Rhyce said. “He’s good, but everyone has failings. Don’t forget, he had a lot on his mind last night. I don’t believe he saw you until you were in the bar, because of one thing my thoughts keep coming back to.”

  “You are interesting,” Mr. Moto said. “To what do your thoughts go back?”

  “If he had known that Miss Bogart and I were up there to meet Bill Gibson, he wouldn’t have killed him that way. Don’t forget he knew who you were. If he had seen you tailing us he would have made some guesses as to who we were, too. He didn’t know. He saw you the first time in the bar.”

  Mr. Moto nodded, and at least he looked half-convinced.

  “He’s going to be tougher to catch now, because he knows you’re after him,” Jack Rhyce said. “I suggest that we drive straight back in the morning, and I’ll see Pender first thing Monday, just as though nothing had happened. The name is Ben Bushman. You can check on him at the hotel and you can find his airline, but you had better let me try Pender.”

  “Yes,” Mr. Moto said. “And what is it that Mr. Gibson knew that makes him dead tonight? Fortunately we have people working. I hope in another day to have the full details.”

  “And you’ll let me know?” Jack Rhyce said.

  “Yes,” Mr. Moto said, “with pleasure, Mr. Rhyce.”

  “I’ll appreciate it,” Jack Rhyce said. “I know you’ve got a lot to keep you busy, but maybe you wouldn’t mind walking back with me until you can point out the hotel.”

  “Yes,” Mr. Moto said, “we should be moving before it grows too light. There is only one thing more I have to say. If you’ll excuse me, there may be much trouble.”

  “Yes,” Jack Rhyce answered. “We’ll have to be ready for it.”

  Mr. Moto hesitated. He seemed to be considering the happiest way of phrasing an embarrassing suggestion.

  “Then it might be just as well,” Mr. Moto said, and his words were measured, “if you did not tell Miss Bogart what we have been saying.”

  “I agree with you,” Jack Rhyce said. “She won’t be useful here any longer. Suppose we send her home on Monday?”

  Mr. Moto nodded.

  “With so much pleasure,” he said. “She is a very lovely lady. And now we should start back.”

  It was still dark outside when they passed through the gate to the road, but a refreshing coolness in the air told the hour almost as accurately as a watch. In half an hour the sky would begin to lighten and the stars would disappear.

  XVI

  “A very lovely dawn,” Mr. Moto said. “In a few moments I shall let you proceed alone. A lovely time for a walk if one has difficulty with sleeping. That is what I should say to the hall-boy if you should see him. Say it in Japanese. He will be so interested to see you returning. He also is in what you call the business, Mr. Rhyce.”

  The hotel was dark, except for the lights in the corridors and along the drive. A path with steps to break the steepest portion of its ascent led, through a garden of ponds and tiny cascades bordered with dwarf pines and maple, to the upper terrace. He walked up the path carelessly, as though he had been out for a stroll because of inability to sleep. The terrace with its chairs and wicker tables was dark, except for a light shining over the ell marked Cozy Nook. He was halfway across the terrace when he saw Ruth Bogart, and he knew she had been standing in a shadow watching as he walked up the drive.

  “Jack,” she whispered, but he was only a hotel guest again.

  “Why, sweetness,” he said, “were you out looking for me? I only went out for a little stroll. I thought you were sound asleep.”

  She tapped her foot petulantly.

  “I wish you’d told me, dear,” she answered. “It did make me frightened to wake up all alone, and I couldn’t find you. Are you all right?”

  “Oh, yes, dear,” Jack Rhyce said, “and I’m pretty sleepy now. It’s only that I do wake up in the middle of the night sometimes, and I don’t believe in these sleeping pills after what I’ve read about them. Instead, I go out for a walk.”

  “But where have you been?” she said. “I couldn’t find you anywhere.”

  “Oh, just down the road a piece,” he said. “It’s lovely country here, and such a clear starlight night.”

  “You honestly should have told me,” she said. “It was mean of you to make me frightened, dear.”

  “I’m sorry,” he said. “But let’s forget about it now, and sneak upstairs to old Cozy Nook, or else people will think we’ve had a quarrel or something.”

  “We really will have a quarrel,” she said, “if you walk out on me again.”

  They had said enough to explain themselves to anyone who might have been listening, and now they walked carefully up the stairs of the Cozy Nook ell without another word until they were back inside their room. From the way she clung to him he knew she had been afraid for him. It all went to show how unwise it was for two people in the business to become emotionally involved. Instead of planning objectively, his concern for her threatened to throw other factors out of balance, but there was nothing he could do about it, except to feel more convinced than ever that she must be kept free from involvement. It was no place for her, and the Chief should never have sent her out. Although they were talking in whispers, they might as well have been speaking out loud.

  “What’s the matter, Jack?” she asked.

  It was a woman’s question. They always knew when something was the matter.

  “It’s all right,” he answered. “There wasn’t any trouble.”

  “You made them believe you?” she asked.

  “Oh, yes,” he answered.

  “Did you have to tell them who we were?”

  “Oh, I had to tell them this and that,” he said.

  “But exactly what did you tell them?”

  “Oh, this and that,” he answered.

  “Jack,” she said, “did you find out what Bill Gibson knew?”

  “No,” he answered, “not exactly.”

  “Jack,” she whispered, “you’re not being fair. Why aren’t you telling me the truth?”

  “You ought to know why,” he answered: “Because from now on it’s safer to keep you in the dark.”

  “I don’t care whether it’s safe or not,” she said. “I want to stay in this with you.”

  It was bad soap opera, but although he was intellectually aware of it, he was moved by her wish. That was the trouble with being emotionally involved.

  “Thanks,” he answered, “but the thing’s moved far enough so that you’re not necessary on the job here any more. I want you to be back in Washington ready to meet me at the airport when I get there. It would be common sense even if I had not lost my head about you, Ruth.”

  Yet he could not be sure that he was right. If he had not cared about her, it was possible that he might have still thought of her as useful. Anyone as attractive as she, and as good an operator, always did have uses.

  “This shouldn’t have happened with you and me,” he said. “It was all a great mistake—professionally speaking, Ruth.”

  “I don’t know,” she said, “and I don’t care. Anyway, I’m not going back. You’re going to want me around when you know what I know.”

  “It’s got to be awfully good,” he said.

  “It is,” she answered. “I know how to get Big Ben, and it’s got to be me, and nobody else. You were right. He’s fallen for me, flat on his face. Now what do you think of that?”

  In the re
alm of Intelligence the first rule was never to underestimate any individual, but as events developed, another rule crept in—never to overestimate him, either. Everyone had his weaknesses. The Red Mill was a weakness, and in Intelligence a woman always—or almost always—made her appearance eventually. That was the reason for the Mata Haris. They were always there for some useful, though seldom proper, purpose. They were the ones who finally caught the best ones out. At any time any man might become a fool about a woman.

  “You mean you’ve seen our boy again?” he asked.

  It was dark, and they were whispering, but still she was able to giggle in that annoying way that she used so well as cover.

  “Am I going home on the first plane out?” she asked.

  “Go ahead,” he answered, “and tell me about our boy.”

  “My boy,” she answered. “And he’s pretty cute in some ways, too—wistful. You’re not mad at me, are you? It was all done in a business way, and you’ve been pretty businesslike, yourself.”

  “I’ve had to be,” he said. “I’m not able to move from one thing to another indefinitely.”

  She giggled noiselessly again.

  “That’s why you need a girl along,” she said. “You must be awful in a man’s world, Jack, thinking clearly and cutting down everybody by the numbers.”

  “Go ahead and tell me about our boy—I mean your boy,” he said.

  “Well, he was kind of sweet,” she answered. “You see it was this way. After you left with those people I didn’t know exactly what to do. I know you told me to stay right here, but I couldn’t help being upset, considering. We shouldn’t let our emotions get involved, should we?”

  “No,” he said, “we shouldn’t.”

  “Anyway,” she said, “I felt I had to do something, and so I went downstairs, and outdoors and out to the driveway, and who do you think I saw?”

  “All right,” he said. “You got out on the driveway and you saw Big Ben. What was he doing?”

  “He had come out of the hotel with one of those big army Val-paks,” she said. “He was putting it in the back of a car.”

  “It was a dark green Chevrolet coupé with a dented fender, wasn’t it?” he asked.