“Sorry for the interruption,” he said. “Will you take the proposition, or won’t you?”
“Suppose I don’t?” Jack Rhyce said.
“We’ll handle you anyway,” Harry Pender said. “Give us twenty minutes and Ruth will tell us what you know. Won’t you, Ruth?”
Jack Rhyce felt a new wave of nausea sweep over him, and he set down the telephone. There was one thing certain—she did not know enough. He sank down in a chair, drew out a handkerchief and mopped his forehead. Then the telephone rang again.
“Let it ring,” he said. “To hell with it. Let it ring.” For a moment he felt as though he were going to be sick to his stomach. For a moment he could not speak.
“Take those goddam earphones off,” he said. “Excuse me. I’ll be all right in a minute.” He felt his shoulders move convulsively and he hid his face in his hands for a second.
“Excuse me,” he said.
“That is quite all right,” Mr. Moto said. “Would you like a little whisky, Mr. Rhyce?”
Jack Rhyce shook his head.
“You didn’t think I’d do it, did you?” Jack Rhyce said.
“No, I did not,” Mr. Moto said. “You are a very nice man. But please be easier in your mind, for you did what you should have, Mr. Rhyce.”
“How in hell can I be easy in my mind,” he said, “when we should have put a guard here?”
Mr. Moto raised his hand and let it fall abruptly to his side.
“It is something that we’ll regret always—you more than I, I am so very much afraid,” he said. “But in life we cannot relive regrets.”
“That’s right,” Jack said. “Excuse me again, I’m all right now.”
He was far from all right. He knew that he would never be the man he had been an hour or so before. There was certain things that could haunt one always—things that time itself could never solve. But he had to go on with it. He had to keep moving straight ahead, and all he could do was to try to make what was happening to Ruth Bogart to some extent worth while.
His training had not left him. He had learned long ago not to forget words or pauses on a telephone.
“Pender said a boy from the office, didn’t he?” Jack Rhyce said. “That was a slip, I think.”
“I’m not quite sure that I follow you,” Mr. Moto answered.
Jack Rhyce was not impatient. He actually did not care whether Mr. Moto followed him. His mind was moving forward to another fact.
“We know right from the horse’s mouth that Skirov is in town,” he said. It was Skirov who would be calling the plays, now that he was in town. It was necessary to give thought to this other personality. “That’s another mistake of Pender’s. Maybe we can connect with him now. Anyway, there’s no use hanging around here any longer.”
“No,” Mr. Moto answered. “We must go to where the call came from. They will have gone, but there may be traces.”
“I wouldn’t do that,” Jack said. At least his mind was moving forward again out of the nightmare of self-incrimination that had entangled it. Mr. Moto’s statement was still true, that they would not have attempted what they had if they had not been afraid that he knew something, and Harry Pender had said himself that they had not guessed his identity until just before lunch. He remembered the accelerated swing of the glasses in Mr. Pender’s hand that morning when he had pursued the subject of liberal politicians, and he recalled the exact point in their conversation when the swing had changed.
All that Intelligence finally consisted of was finding facts, evaluating them and fitting them together until they formed a larger fact. A lot of it was choice and chance. You often could not tell whether you were right until the very end, and there were many times when you had to leave the path of painfully accumulated evidence to play a hunch. All he had left was a hunch—not a good one, but one which at least could fit the circumstances as he knew them. He was prepared to play it because it was all that was left, and it was better to move than to do nothing.
“I wouldn’t go chasing down that call,” he said again, “and if you do, I won’t go with you. Did you ever hear of a man named Noshimura Hata?”
“Oh, yes,” Mr. Moto said. “I know Mr. Hata.”
“He’s a very important liberal, isn’t he?” Jack Rhyce asked.
“Yes,” Mr. Moto said. “Where did you hear of him, please?”
“In Mr. Pender’s office, this morning,” Jack Rhyce said. “Pender said he was head and shoulders above any other politician in the liberal party, and afterwards I think he was sorry that he had said it.”
Mr. Moto’s gold teeth gleamed, but he was not smiling.
“So—” Mr. Moto said, “so—”
“It’s only a guess,” Jack Rhyce said, “but maybe it’s worth a gamble. I can only tell you what I think.”
“Yes,” Mr. Moto said. “Thank you, and tell me what you think.”
“I think they were going to kill this Mr. Hata tomorrow—but now I think they will do it tonight, now that I didn’t take their offer. I’d get him out of his house, if I were you. I’d be delighted to wait there for whoever is coming to do the job, and I’ll bet it will be Big Ben.”
Mr. Moto was on his feet.
“I think that is a very nice suggestion, Mr. Rhyce,” he said, “and I think you are a very nice man. Let me have the telephone. We must arrange to move at once.”
“It’s only a guess, you know,” Jack Rhyce said.
“Yes, but one must always guess,” Mr. Moto answered. “I shall be there with you, Mr. Rhyce, to wait for whoever may be coming.”
Jack Rhyce had a friendlier feeling for Mr. Moto than any he had previously experienced.
“I don’t know whether you are a very nice man or not,” he said, “but anyway, you’re willing to take a chance.”
“Thank you so very much,” Mr. Moto said. “And now if you will move, please, I shall use the telephone, Mr. Rhyce.”
Mr. Moto spoke in Japanese. His voice was not strident like that of most men in authority; instead it was gentle, musical and melodious. Jack Rhyce stood for a moment listening. It was a matter of logistics, men, motors and distance. As he listened, his own anguish, which had been dulled for the last few minutes, returned to him again. He could control it now, but he knew that it would be with him always. He walked to the overturned suitcase and replaced the tumbled-out clothing very carefully in an order of which he hoped she would have approved. He walked to the dressing table, picked up the comb and brush and perfume bottle, and put all three in the suitcase. He touched his lips to the back of the brush, and he did not care in the least whether Mr. Moto saw him or not. He closed the suitcase and snapped the lock, and, as he did so, he knew in his heart that he was doing all he ever could for Ruth Bogart.
XIX
He must have been on fifty similar cases since he had been connected with the business, although in this one the setting was more interesting than in many. Again it was the old matter of waiting. Again, it was the trap or ambush or whatever technical name you might choose to give it. But this time, from the very beginning, there had been a feeling of promise in the air. Since so much of Intelligence consisted of moving tentatively into the unknown and never knowing exactly when you would finally collide with a stone wall or step upon the deadfall, it was never wise to leave premonition out of any calculation. Again and again in his professional career Jack Rhyce had experienced the gambler’s conviction that the right numbers were coming up, and if you had it, it was surprisingly apt to be correct. You could call it nonsense, or fourth dimension, but it was there—whatever name you gave it. He knew as sure as fate that things were going to work that night. If you sacrificed enough, he sometimes thought, you were bound to get something in return, and the only thing that we wanted just then was to see the job through, and meet Big Ben in the process. He had paid down enough for the privilege. For the rest of his natural life he had given up peace of mind. Even though she had told him to go ahead—and her voice and her scream would
echo in his memory always—he would wonder whether duty had been worth it. Ever afterwards his ingenuity would work on belated plans that might have saved her and still have achieved what they were there for. Undoubtedly, given time, he would figure out a way.
The actual plan for assassination was conventional and safe. As it turned out later, the prognosis was correct that it would look like an American job. A stolen American army car was in the picture, and the only thing that gave Jack Rhyce a shock was that wallet subsequently discovered on the premises—purported to be his, with excellently forged identity papers considering the short space of time allowed for their preparation. They had said that they would handle him, and they had meant it either way.
The house and grounds stood in one of Tokyo’s most comfortable and desirable districts on land not far from the palace grounds themselves. In the old days the great Tokugawa fortress had been surrounded by concentric ramparts. Beyond these had been a further ring of houses occupied by the Shoguns’ most trusted retainers. Further back the houses of the minor officials had stood, including the land of the Hata family which had been subdivided toward the end of the last century. The house of Mr. Noshimura Hata still occupied part of it. Actually, as it happened, Jack Rhyce never set eyes on the liberal politician, because Mr. Hata had been carried to a safer spot before Mr. Moto and he made their appearance. So also had the servants, who had been replaced by operators. The operation had run with a smoothness that had impressed Jack Rhyce professionally.
The lights were on by the gate in the small front garden, and the larger garden with the lawn in back was also lighted by stone lanterns.
“It is fortunate,” Mr. Moto said, “that Mr. Hata likes to leave many of his ground lights on at night. He is afraid of burglars, which is amusing I think, when he is such a very liberal man.”
After what had happened earlier, rigorous precautions were taken in case the house was watched; a schedule had been made of the household routine. This had all taken time, but it was worth it. It was half-past eight o’clock once they were inside the house, and Mr. Hata’s retiring hour was ten.
“First he walks through the garden,” Mr. Moto said, “Having put on the kimono and recited Buddhist prayers. I shall be Mr. Hata, and you may watch me from the house. We must all be very careful, but I do not think the killing will be in the garden.”
The austere charm of that house formed a violent contrast to Jack Rhyce’s thoughts. The sparseness of its furnishings, the bare space of its walls, gave a balanced beauty to its interior that was a rebuke to the overcluttered houses back at home. Space had a more eloquent appeal in an overcrowded country like Japan. It was prized more than material possessions, and Jack Rhyce had never been more conscious of its beauty than he had been when he stood on the resilient floor matting in the sleeping room of Mr. Hata’s house. It was a room intended solely for rest. Aside from the bedding prepared for the night and a black lacquer head rest, there were no other furnishings except a low table and a scroll painting of flowers in a niche sunk into the inside wall with an arrangement of flowers beneath it. The outer wall was formed entirely of sliding glass panels that opened on Mr. Hata’s garden, and on that warm evening the panels had been pushed back so that the garden with its stone laterns was a projection of the room itself. Although his thoughts were still in turmoil, Jack Rhyce was not immune to the garden’s beauty. He was vaguely aware of a way of life different from his own, more serene and more peaceful, and one deriving pleasure from a few small things rather than from ostentatious masses of larger ones. The garden from the standpoint of area was a very small affair, but assiduous art gave the illusion of its being a Japanese countryside. The lawn was a plain, the carefully twisted and trained pines and the small deciduous trees that bordered it became in imagination wind-swept forests. The eccentrically eroded stones that had been placed in relationship to each other only after hours of study were mountains and wild country. The miniature chain of ponds magnified themselves to lakes. While watching this miniature achievement, one could think with sorrow how fast the world was changing, and how a little time might be left, tomorrow, even in Japan, for a garden like Mr. Hata’s. The garden spelled peace, but it did not give him peace of mind that night.
Nevertheless, he had not been outwardly restless. The business had taught him long ago the patience of a fisherman or a hunter, who could be alerted at any second—but there was more to it than that. Patience in the business demanded an endurance that raised the watcher beyond self, to a realm where personal consideration meant nothing. It resembled an artist’s dedication, although it could hardly be said that the business was an art. He had not been restless, because of training; but his thoughts were beyond control. He was back again looking at the suitcase that had tumbled on the floor. He tortured himself again with what might have been if she had not been left alone, with how she had looked on that long drive to the mountains, with what she had said when they were alone at Wake, and finally with the knowledge that everything was ended and all contact had been cut forever. He could not think what was happening to her now, or speculate on whether she was alive or dead. It was best to know that it was absolutely ended.
He was waiting in a corner of the sleeping room when Mr. Moto stepped through the paneled windows from the garden.
“Is it time to turn off the garden lights?” Jack Rhyce asked.
“Yes,” Mr. Moto said, “as soon as I have seen arrangements are understood, the house will go to sleep. We may still be a long while waiting.”
It was impossible to know how long they would wait, but by then they both must have believed they would not draw a blank. There was a feeling in the air, a telepathic sense of something already moving.
“When the garden lights go out,” Mr. Moto said, “I shall ask you to step outside,” Mr. Rhyce, and stand by the corner of the house. I shall rest on the bed. The windows will be open. I think he will approach through the garden and attempt to enter by the windows. When he is near enough you may move on him, Mr. Rhyce, but please let us be patient and wait until he is near, for we do not wish shooting. There are so many questions in a neighborhood whenever shots are fired.”
It was Mr. Moto’s party and not his.
“Don’t worry. I haven’t got a gun,” Jack Rhyce said, “only the jack you gave me.”
“It is so much better,” Mr. Moto said. “There are others here who will take the further steps if necessary. If he enters this garden or this house, I do not think he will get away from us.”
“That’s fine with me,” Jack Rhyce said. “I want him out as much as you do.”
Both his tone and his wish showed him that he had traveled a long way in the last few hours. He had never waited avidly wanting to kill before. The desire was neither practical nor professional in a field where personal wishes should never have intruded.
“So glad you agree,” Mr. Moto said. “He will plan to use a knife, I think. Perhaps you would like one also, Mr. Rhyce?”
“It is not necessary,” Jack Rhyce said. He had a tingling feeling of anticipation which was premature when there might still be a long period of waiting. “He won’t cut me. There’s only one thing I want.”
“Yes?” Mr. Moto said. “What is that, Mr. Rhyce?”
“I want you to let me handle him. I want him to know I’m here.”
“It will be a pleasure,” Mr. Moto said, “if he comes through the garden and not through the house, when he will be my responsibility, Mr. Rhyce.”
“Even so,” Jack Rhyce said, “I’d like him to know I’m here.”
“I can understand your viewpoint, Mr. Rhyce,” Mr. Moto said. “I hope so very much that he will know we both are here, but there can be no chances.”
“We won’t miss any,” Jack Rhyce said.
He had learned how to take cover as skillfully as any jungle fighter in Japan. When the lights were out he blended into the shadows by the angle of the house so completely that he was a part of the shrubbery. The night was w
arm as a Burmese rain forest, but drier, and the glow of the city’s lights was reflected in the sky. The grounds and the house were peacefully silent in spite of the monotones of the great city that rose all around them. The noises of the Orient were more eccentric and more staccato than those of the West, shriller voices, shriller music, shriller laughter. Still, it was possible to attune the ear to closer sounds. A stirring of the bushes near the driveway revealed the presence of one of the guards and Jack Rhyce could hear a whisper of breeze in the pine trees.
The approach was made with such care and deliberation that Jack Rhyce had heard the first sound fully ten minutes before Big Ben slipped through the bushes at the far end of the garden and began his walk across the lawn toward the bedroom ell. He moved unhurriedly with a noiseless, deliberate confidence which showed he was wholly familiar with the house and grounds. Once he was on the lawn the background of the trees and shrubbery combined with the lights reflected in the sky made him stand out clearly. He wore a seersucker suit, almost identical with the one Jack Rhyce had worn earlier in the evening. He paused to listen as he drew near the house. He would have been an easy target for a pistol with a silencer, Jack Rhyce was thinking, and he was glad that the idea had not crossed Mr. Moto’s mind. He wanted Big Ben to know that he was there. Ben was drawing nearer, lazily, gracefully. When he was a few yards from the house he reached in his side pocket, drew out a knife and switched open the blade carelessly. Jack Rhyce coughed gently, but loudly enough to hold the other momentarily motionless. Then before Big Ben could move, he was on top of him, and his blackjack had struck the knife out of the hand holding it. Big Ben took a step backward; he must have known in that second that he could not get away. Jack Rhyce spoke softly, as though there were actually sleepers in the house.
“It’s me, Ben. It’s Jack.” He could not see the expression on Big Ben’s face, but the laugh was all that was necessary.
Right You Are, Mr. Moto Page 26
