Right You Are, Mr. Moto

by John P. Marquand

  He restrained his impatience. After all, he represented the Service.

  “Back to the hotel,” he said. “It’s the place to start from, isn’t it?”

  He still did not like the inquisitive, measuring look in Mr. Moto’s eyes. The Japanese was waiting to see how he would behave.

  “Yes, that will be the proper procedure,” Mr. Moto said. “I shall go with you. They have won this game. He was brighter than we thought him.”

  It was accepted practice on any battlefield to draw opponents to one spot, and then to strike in another. There were four of them in the car, two Japanese in front and he and Mr. Moto behind. They sat in rigid silence until they were slowed by the traffic at the Shinbashi station.

  “I’m so very sorry,” Mr. Moto said.

  The remark jangled against the raw edges of Jack’s nerves. The Japanese were always expressing sorrow which they did not mean.

  “To hell with it,” he said.

  “I did not mean so sorry for you,” Mr. Moto said, “as much as so sorry we both were mistaken. I am not being personal, Mr. Rhyce.”

  “Do you think they got her in the room or outside?” Mr. Rhyce asked.

  “It would be the room, I think,” Mr. Moto answered. “It would have been worked carefully.”

  He was relieved by that opinion because, if true, his asking her to join them was not responsible for what had happened. The car turned in the drive of the Imperial Hotel, and the lotus pool and the low building looked as ugly as his thoughts.

  “Let us not appear too worried,” Mr. Moto said. “I shall ask a question of two and join you in your room. I think we had better set up the telephone again.”

  “Why the telephone?” Jack Rhyce asked.

  Mr. Moto gave him another inquiring look.

  “Because they will be making contact with you,” he said, “allowing only time for your return from the Cimaroon. Why else would they have caught her, Mr. Rhyce?”

  What had come over him, he wondered, not to have thought of it before? He should at least have conceived of the possibility and have taken suitable precautions. Instead, he had been drawn off as easily as though he had been the third team. What had happened that had made them able to outguess him? At some point something had occurred to give away the show. It might have been something that night in the place called the Main Bar, or it might have been something that morning in the office of Mr. Harry Pender. Some detail had gone wrong somewhere, and now it was futile to guess what it might have been. Play as safe as possible all across the board was another maxim of the business, and he had disobeyed it by not having her room guarded.

  He had certainly acted like the third team. Neither his mind nor hers had been on their work. They had been thinking about the outside.

  He never forgot the appearance of her room. What engraved it so vividly on his memory was that everything was exactly as he had anticipated. The lock of the door had been forced by someone who had examined the lock before, with an instrument that had made it give immediately. The only sign of struggle was an overturned suitcase that had fallen from the bed to the floor. Her handbag was gone from the table. They must have taken it with them when they left, but they had not bothered with any further search. Even with her gone, her personality was left. There was the faint scent of the Guerlain perfume she used, and the bottle was still on her dressing table beside her gold-backed comb and brush. He picked up the brush and gazed at the initials on the back, R. B. She had started packing, just as he had suggested, and her dresses and her lingerie that had fallen from the overturned suitcase still showed signs of careful folding. Mr. Moto came in while he was holding one of her dresses. Jack Rhyce laid it down gently.

  “They were not seen to leave,” Mr. Moto said; “but then, no one was watching. We should have thought of this and taken measures, but the conversation on the telephone sounded so very true. I am so sorry. I am also very much ashamed.”

  “You and me both,” Jack Rhyce said. “Sorry and ashamed. What are you doing now?”

  Mr. Moto, having adjusted the broken lock so that the door would close, had opened his briefcase.

  “The telephone,” he said. “We must both listen, I think.”

  “I don’t see why you’re so damn sure they’ll call,” Jack said.

  “Please, it is inevitable,” Mr. Moto answered. “They would not have taken her otherwise. They will call quickly before you go elsewhere. I have already taken steps to have the call traced, but I fear it will not help. They are so very clever. Excuse. They know you are in love with her, Mr. Rhyce.”

  The words came out brutally in the ravaged room, and Jack felt his face grow brick-red, but he knew he had no right to be angry. His rights to be particular about anything had gone because of his stupidity.

  “It was a mistake,” he said. “We both knew we were damn fools—not that it does any good.”

  “Please, I am not criticizing,” Mr. Moto said. “It may be a mistake, but sometimes one cannot help them, Mr. Rhyce.”

  “Unless it is necessary,” Jack Rhyce said, “I’d just as soon not bring this subject up again.”

  It was infuriating to have something which should have belonged only to him and her tossed out in the open to be used as a point in a game. Mr. Moto’s manner was considerate; his voice silkily smooth when he answered.

  “I do not wish to offend,” he said. “I only speak because I think you should be ready. I think they will be prepared to make you an interesting proposal, Mr. Rhyce.”

  Jack gave a start. He had been staring at the overturned suitcase, and his thoughts had wandered from what Mr. Moto was saying.

  “What sort?” he asked.

  “I do not know,” Mr. Moto said. “So much of our work is always in the dark, but I think you have come close to finding something that worries them, Mr. Rhyce.”

  It was true about working in the dark. Even when a hand was half-played you never could be wholly sure where the other cards lay, but already Mr. Moto’s words had aroused a suspicion in Jack Rhyce that gripped him with icy fingers. Bill Gibson’s cynical statement about safety in sex flashed across his memory. He cleared his throat.

  “Do you think they’re going to propose a swap?” he asked.

  When Mr. Moto answered, his voice was soft and measured.

  “Yes, Mr. Rhyce,” he said. “I believe they will offer to bring Miss Bogart safely back if you will agree to leave here. You see, I think they are afraid you know too much.”

  Jack Rhyce felt a spasm in the pit of his stomach and his heart was beating faster, but still he could notice that Mr. Moto was watching him very carefully. He was even able to resent the detached critical manner and the air of academic curiosity. Mr. Moto was weighing him in an Oriental, not a European, balance.

  “You will have to make a decision as to whether to leave or whether to stay,” he said; “and I am so very much afraid I cannot help you, Mr. Rhyce.”

  Of course he had to make up his mind, and he had the training to do it.

  “Damn you”—he said, and the sound of his voice warned him that he must compose himself—“you don’t have to help me.”

  Mr. Moto was still watching him very carefully.

  “So sorry for you, Mr. Rhyce,” he said. “Will you have a cigarette?”

  “No, thanks,” Jack Rhyce said. “I told you I didn’t smoke.”

  “Oh, I remember. Excuse, please,” Mr. Moto said. “When I was a younger man I, too, was abstemious, in that and in other regards—”

  Jack felt his face redden again. He took a quick stride across the room.

  “That’s about all I’m going to take from you,” he said.

  Mr. Moto watched him without moving a muscle.

  “You do not allow me to finish,” he said. “I was about to add that, even so, one cannot give up everything.”

  Just then the telephone rang. The small bell had a laughing, mocking sound, and he was not prepared for the sound because he had not been wholly convince
d that they would call. Mr. Moto slipped the earphones over his head.

  “Answer quickly, please,” he whispered. “Seem to be anxious, please.”

  When Jack picked up the telephone he was steadier. He even felt a spasm of annoyance that Mr. Moto should tell him how to act. He had had it bad before—as bad as the small man who was listening had ever had.

  “Hello,” he said. His voice was even and agreeable. He had learned long ago to give nothing away by voice. He was playing the old game of wits, and the fact that the telephone had rung at all confirmed Mr. Moto’s assertion that he had something they wanted.

  “Hello.” He recognized the voice on the other end of the line immediately. “That’s you, isn’t it, Jack?”

  “Indeed it is,” he said.

  His response was affable and easy. He had control of himself again.

  “This is Harry Pender, Jack. You recognize my voice, don’t you?”

  “Well, well, Harry,” Jack Rhyce said. “It’s nice of you to give me a ring. I sure do recognize your voice. I’d know it anywhere.”

  “Okay, Jack,” Harry Pender said, “then let’s cut out the monkey business. You and I won’t have to do our clowning from now on in.”

  “Thanks,” Jack Rhyce said. “That’s a big relief. Okay. What’s on your mind?”

  “We’ve got Ruth Bogart here. I thought you’d like to know.”

  Though he had anticipated it, he found it hard to control himself, and the instant while he struggled for calmness could not have been lost on Mr. Pender.

  “Thanks for letting me know,” he said. “I was beginning to be worried about her.”

  There was a good-natured laugh on the other end of the wire.

  “We thought you might be. Well, take it easy, Jack. She’s right here, and we wish you were, too. And she’s happy and comfortable as of now, Jack. I’ll let you speak to her in a minute.”

  “Why, thanks,” Jack Rhyce said, “thanks a lot.”

  He heard Harry Pender laugh again.

  “You know who I am, don’t you, Jack? I mean you’ve got me taped by now?”

  “Yes,” Jack Rhyce said, “I’ve got a pretty good working idea, but I’m quite a ways away from the files.”

  Harry Pender’s laugh had a corroding effect. He was too brisk and too excited, obviously on edge.

  “I may as well admit,” he said, “that I was pretty dumb regarding you. All of us were. In fact, we never got wise to you until just before lunchtime today. Nice going and congratulations, Jack.”

  At least it bolstered his ego to know that he had seen right in believing that he had been in the clear over the week end.

  “Thanks for the compliment,” he said. “Anybody in our line of work appreciates a kind word, Harry.”

  “No reason why we shouldn’t all be friends in this thing, Jack,” Harry Pender said, “even if we are on different sides of the fence. That’s the thought I want you to hold for the next minute or two if you can manage, Jack. As I was saying, we have been sort of dumb around here, but you haven’t operated in the East much, have you?”

  “Why, no, Harry,” Jack Rhyce answered. “This is my first time out here on a job, in case the fact is useful.”

  “Well, that’s what threw me, Jack,” Harry Pender said. “And you did look damn good for what you were, and the boys had cleared you in ’Frisco. When we heard you’d been looking at the bookshops, I admit, I should have taken the news more seriously, instead of discounting it. Maybe you’d still be fooling me, if it hadn’t been for a very nice guy who just blew in here, by the name of Skirov. Remember him, Jack?”

  “The name’s familiar,” Jack Rhyce said, “but I can’t say that I remember him exactly. I don’t think I ever saw him, but I’m sure I’d recognize him.”

  “Well, he remembers you, boy,” Harry Pender said. “He saw you in Moscow back in ’46. He was a waiter at one of those big parties, and passed you caviar. Just as soon as I described you he clicked. You were talking to Molotov back in ’46. You were saying all men are brothers.”

  Jack exchanged a glance with Mr. Moto. The Chief had said it was a damn fool thing to say, and the Chief had been, as usual, correct. Never try to be conspicuous, the Chief had said.

  “Now we’re on the subject,” Jack Rhyce said, “I was kind of slow in locating you myself, although I had you down for a phony the first time you came in. It’s nice to know that Skirov’s safe in town, and thank you for the information, because we’re interested in Skirov.”

  A pause followed and Jack Rhyce, who had never listened harder, was conscious of faint sounds of others listening on the far end of the line.

  “You’ve been real busy during your stay here, haven’t you, Jack?” Harry Pender said.

  “Yes,” Jack Rhyce said, “busy as a bird dog.

  “And dogs have their day. Ever hear that one, Jack?”

  He fought down the frustration that was growing on him, and spoke with patience.

  “Let’s cut out the hamming, Harry,” he said, “and get down to the point.”

  “All right, Jack,” Harry Pender spoke soothingly. “We’re busy here, too, as you may have gathered—busy enough so we didn’t want Bill Gibson around, and we don’t want you, either. Jack. Do you get my drift?”

  “I get some vague idea,” Jack said. “Is it a threat or a promise, Harry?”

  There was another silence on the line, longer than the one that proceeded it.

  “It’s neither, Jack,” he heard Harry Pender answer. “It’s a firm offer that we’re making.”

  His eyes encountered Mr. Moto’s half-inquisitive, half-blank stare. He felt as though a cord were being drawn open mind.”

  “Well,” he said. “go ahead and make it. I’ve got an told what was coming.

  He had been standing all that time. Now he would have reached for a chair and sat down if the Japanese had not been watching.

  “I thought you’d have an open mind, Jack.” Harry Pender said, and his voice was placatingly gentle. “That’s why I’m going to such trouble to have this little chat—because now that we’ve pooled our notes here, we know you’ve a real reputation. Skirov, for instance, knows about that job you pulled at Istanbul, and that other one in Athens. We know you’re a pro, Jack, and not someone off an analytic couch.”

  “Go ahead,” Jack said. “It could be, if I’m a pro, that I’m tracing this call. Harry.”

  “It could be,” Harry Pender said, “but it takes time, and we’re moving out of here when I hang up.”

  “Then let’s cut out the hamming,” Jack Rhyce said. “I’m waiting for that offer, Harry.”

  It came in mild, insinuating tones.

  “You’re fond of Ruth, here, aren’t you, Jack? You wouldn’t want to have her taken to the mainland, for instance, or go through any kind of drill? She wouldn’t be much fun to see afterwards, would she? And you know, they do keep alive—surprisingly often—don’t you, Jack?”

  Jack Rhyce tried to laugh. It would have been shame-tight about his head. Anybody in the business could have ful if he had betrayed his pain.

  “I understand your build-up. Why don’t you get to the point?” he said.

  “Don’t get mad,” Harry Pender said. “The point is, we’re busy here, and we don’t want you monkeying around. We want you the hell out of here. How does that one sound, Jack?”

  He felt his heart beat faster. Mr. Moto had been right. They thought he might know something that was dangerous.

  “If you want it straight, Harry,” he said, “I don’t like this town much, or the folks in it, including you.”

  “Now you’re talking,” Harry Pender said. “I had an idea we could get together, Jack. You’d like to have Ruth Bogart back at the hotel tonight, safe and sound, wouldn’t you, and you know what I mean by safe and sound, don’t you? If not, there’s a pal of yours named Big Ben here who might explain it. Would you like to talk with Ben, Jack?”

  He could hear Big Ben singing at the other end of
the wire. He was singing “Every Day Is Ladies’ Day with Me.” Jack Rhyce put his hand to his forehead. His face had grown damp, but he kept his voice steady.

  “Let’s cut out the technique,” he said. “Consider you’ve scared hell out of me. Yes, I’d like Ruth back safe and sound. So what’s the proposition?”

  “It’s easy.” Harry Pender’s voice was as warm and as enthusiastic as a radio announcer’s advertising a commercial. “Half an hour from now Ruth here will be knocking at your door. There’s a night flight leaving for Honolulu at eleven, and we have two tickets for you free. Merely pack your bags, and shut up and go to the airport. How do you like that, Jack?”

  “It sounds wonderful,” he said, and he noticed that there was genuine relief in Harry Pender’s voice. He was thankful that, under the circumstances, he could still put two and two together.

  “I thought you’d get the point, Jack,” Harry Pender said. “There’s nothing like being reasonable.”

  “That’s right,” Jack answered carefully. “And how do I know we’ll ever get to the airport, Harry?”

  “You’ve got to trust us for that, Jack,” Harry Pender said, “just the way we’re going to trust you. Give me your word—you communicate with no one from the minute you set down that telephone, and Ruth here will be back with you in half an hour, with a nice boy from our office to expedite your passage. And you have my word, you’ll get that plane, Jack. How does it sound to you? Would you like to speak to Ruth?”

  “Yes, I’d like to speak to her,” he said. There was a pause, and he was glad that it was not a long one. He was trying to think of some palliation—some way out. Then he heard her voice, and it was excruciating agony to hear it. Her voice was faint and level.

  “Hello, Jack.”

  “Ruth,” he asked, “are you all right?”

  “I’m all right, Jack,” she said, “but don’t do it. Don’t—” Her voice was choked off in a stifled gasp that ended in a scream.

  Mr. Moto was watching him, and Mr. Moto’s expression had changed when their glances met. Jack could not tell whether the expression was one of sympathy or surprise. He only knew that his own expression had revealed his pain. It was over in an instant because Harry Pender’s voice was back on the wire.