“Hello, you gum-shoe bastard,” he said. “That girl of yours was pretty good, but she didn’t last for long.”
The words, and not the time or place, robbed Jack Rhyce of his judgment. He had told himself long ago that it would be unsafe to close with Big Ben, yet that was what he did; and before he could get a wrestling hold, Ben had him by the throat. The feel of the hands was what cleared Jack Rhyce’s head even before the thought flashed through him that his neck would be broken in seconds. He was in luck to be close enough to bring up his knee before Big Ben moved clear, but he had to strike again before the hold relaxed. There was a vicious moment when they rolled together on the ground. Before Jack was able to get a full swing to the jaw, he could feel Ben’s thumbs groping for his eyes. He rolled free and was on his feet while Big Ben was still on hands and knees. He delivered a kick with all his force to the side of the bleeding head, and Big Ben rolled over on his face.
Ruth Bogart had been right about the crepe-soled shoes. Hard leather, lumberman’s boots, would have been better. Then he felt arms, holding him, and he heard Mr. Moto speak.
“That is enough, Mr. Rhyce,” he said. “You can leave him to the others now, I think. It would be so much nicer, as you Americans say, if you were not killing, Mr. Rhyce. Perhaps you would feel unhappy about it later. Americans are such sentimental people.”
He felt his breach coming in gasps that made it hard for him to be able to speak.
“He’s not half dead,” he said.
“No,” Mr. Moto answered, “but I do not think we need worry about the ultimate result. My men are very conscientious, and I am afraid you will have to wash and rearrange your clothing. You did very well indeed, but I was glad I had a knife with which to strike him in the back. He was so very strong. Let us go. We are not required here any longer, Mr. Rhyce.”
Jack Rhyce’s first impression was one of shame, that he had not been capable of finishing Big Ben without Mr. Moto’s intervention; but as far as he was concerned, the thing was over. It was something that never would be repeated, and now he had to move on to something else. Again there was nothing but a hunch to work on, but again he had the gambler’s instinct. Besides, there was always some return if you paid a price.
“All right,” he said. “That’s one down. Now let’s go and get this Skirov, or I’ll go myself if you’re not interested.”
It was too dark to observe facial expression, but he heard the sharp intake of Mr. Moto’s breath.
“I shall be very pleased to accompany you,” he said. “But where is Skirov?”
Although it was only a hunch, it was still based on a line of reasoning. Skirov, who always kept in the background, would be in a quiet place where he would not be likely to be under surveillance. He would not be at any headquarters. He would be in communication, but removed from the center of trouble.
“It’s only a guess,” Jack Rhyce said, “but it’s an educated one. I believe he’s in Mr. Pender’s office in the Asia Friendship League. Anyway, it may be worth trying.”
“And what makes you think that?” Mr. Moto asked.
“Do you remember Pender on the telephone?” Jack Rhyce answered. “He was too damned elated on that telephone. He was talking about a boy from the office seeing us off for the airport. I think he made a slip when he used the word ‘office.’”
He heard Mr. Moto laugh. He was beginning to understand the various meanings of Japanese laughter.
“It would be a pleasure to try,” Mr. Moto said. “I think, Mr. Rhyce, that you are a very clever man.”
XX
“So he fell out the window?” the Chief asked.
“Yes, sir,” Jack Rhyce answered. “Eight stories, from Mr. Pender’s office in the Asia Friendship League.”
“You’re sure he was Skirov?” the Chief asked.
“Yes, sir,” Jack Rhyce said. “There was time to take photographs and fingerprints before he fell out the window. This Japanese—this Mr. Moto—checked them with his records. I have them with me, sir.”
“Moto,” the Chief said. “That’s not a name. It is a suffix.”
“Yes,” Jack Rhyce answered. “That’s what Bill Gibson told me.”
He was having difficulty adjusting himself to the results of plane travel. Less than forty-eight hours previously he had been in Tokyo, and now he still had the feeling experienced by other air passengers, that some part of him had been left behind, and this illusion was sharper than it had ever been before. Certainly, after other trips, the Chief’s office had seemed like home, or if not home, a threshold to rest and safety; but now it extended no such welcome.
“Oh, yes, Gibson,” the Chief said. “That’s a tough one. It’s no fun sitting here on this job, hearing that people you’ve raised and been fond of are gone. It’s no fun because you can’t do anything except send out more. Maybe you’ll face it yourself sometime. I’m not going to hold down this desk forever, Buster.”
He was still such a long way from home that it had almost skipped his mind that the Chief sometimes called him Buster. At another time, the open hint that the Chief had given him that he might be in the line would have awakened a thrill of pleasure, and his conscience told him that it should right now.
“I don’t think Bill had a hard time, sir,” he said. “I’m afraid it was different for Miss Bogart.”
The Chief picked up a pencil and tapped its eraser end softly on his desk.
“I’ve often wished this business were not coeducational,” he said, “but then the score more than makes the trip pay off. We can scratch Skirov and this Big Ben character, but what’s your evidence on Pender?”
“The word of this Mr. Moto,” Jack Rhyce said; “and there was a piece in the paper before I left that Mr. Pender was struck and run over by a track in Tokyo.”
“It’s a queer thing,” the Chief said. “I used to be something of a specialist on the prewar Orient, but I never heard of this Moto. Of course, they’re devious over there.”
“You might have missed him because he was abroad, sir,” Jack Rhyce said. “If you want my suggestion, I would inquire from State. From what he said, he would have been some sort of embassy attaché. And I have another line on him. He said his cousin is a Baron who owns a semi-European house in Miyanoshita—that is, if he was being straight. I can fill out the description and get it in the works.”
“Yes,” the Chief said. “We ought to get a line on him. It’s hard to understand why Bill Gibson didn’t know him.”
“I have a hunch that maybe this Moto is like you, sir,” Jack Rhyce said, “from one or two things he let go.”
“If it’s all the same with you,” the Chief said, “I’d rather not be like a Jap. I don’t forget the war.”
“I didn’t mean it that way, sir,” Jack Rhyce said. “But now you’ve brought the matter up, I’d rather be like Mr. Moto than most of them. I only intended to suggest that he’s behind the scenes like you in some dummy office. I don’t believe he steps out front often. He’s getting on, you know, for the rough stuff, Chief.”
“That’s right,” the Chief said. “I’m getting on, myself. As I said, I won’t be warming this chair indefinitely. It is only a question of whom I pull out from the rough stuff, as you call it, to occupy it. But let’s stay with one thing at a time. I’d like to get a little more of the feel of this Moto, Jack. I’d almost like to hop a plane and go over and take a look at him.”
“I think you’d find it hard to come up with him, sir,” Jack Rhyce said. “I don’t think he’d have appeared at all if he hadn’t set me down for this Big Ben. One thing else about him—he’s as slick as a whistle with a shiv, and I ought to know.”
He felt no enthusiasm for what he was saying, still, he was no longer being two things at once, as he sat there in the Chief’s office. He was not a do-gooder any more, enamored of an enthusiastic American girl, whose profile he could not forget, whose hands were both strong and delicate, whose loyalty and humor were both impeccable. He was out from cover, and far fro
m safety in sex.
“He sounds like a right guy,” the Chief said.
“If I were guessing, I’d say he’s from the nobility, sir,” Jack Rhyce said, “or in the very high officer class. He might have been something in the Imperial household, educated in America, the East coast, I should say. But I’ll get it all down on my report and put it in the works.”
“Quick with a shiv,” the Chief said. “It always amuses me, this talk about stabbing someone in the back. It’s ten to one you hit a rib, and when someone’s moving around anatomy doesn’t count.”
“As a matter of fact, sir,” Jack Rhyce said, “the knife was one of those small samurai blades. I think it was partly in a rib because it was still in the back at the time I left.”
“Well,” the Chief said, “that’s enough for a quick run-over. Are there any other loose ends that we ought to tie up?”
“That’s all, sir,” Jack Rhyce said, “except for disposing of Miss Bogart’s personal effects. I brought them with my luggage, and they’re outside now.”
“I’ll attend to them,” the Chief said. “That’s one of the tough things about where I sit, Jack.”
“By the way, sir,” Jack Rhyce said, “I suppose Ruth Bogart is a cover name?”
“The Ruth’s real, the Bogart isn’t,” the Chief said. “If I were you, I’d only be inquisitive when you’re asked to be, Buster.”
He appreciated the Chief’s reproof, but also he resented it.
“When you’ve been in the business ten years, sir,” he said, “and trained on the Farm, and have all your personality knocked out of you on the road, even so sometimes you can’t help being personally interested if you have to throw in with someone for a while. Occasionally, in spite of finishing school, you can’t help being human, sir.”
The Chief picked up his pencil again, but he did not tap it on the desk. From where he sat, he had frequently had to deal with temperament. He understood better than most phychiatrists the inevitable results of long repressions.
“I forgot to remark, you’re looking tired, Jack. I know you’ve had it rough,” he said, “but I know you, and it’s nothing that a couple of weeks off and some sleep won’t fix.”
His diagnosis could have been correct some weeks ago, but it was not right intrinsically any longer. Something had happened that was new and different from the moment Jack Rhyce had seen the empty room in the Imperial Hotel in Tokyo, yet he had not known exactly what had happened until the Chief rebuked his inquisitiveness.
“Even if I rest up,” he said, “I’m afraid I’ll still stay human, Chief. I won’t be the old smooth-running machine again.”
The Chief smiled at him tolerantly.
“Listen, Buster,” he said, “you’re in no shape to analyze yourself right now. What you need is a shot in the arm and sleep. The Doc’s in from the Farm today. He’ll take you home and sit with you until you cork off. Never mind putting anything in the works until tomorrow afternoon. I know enough to get the framework started.”
“Very well, sir,” Jack Rhyce said, and he pushed back his chair.
“That’s better,” the Chief said. “That’s my boy. Anything else on your mind before you go?”
“Only one thing else, sir,” Jack Rhyce said. “If I can’t know her name, I’d appreciate it if you could see your way clear to give me a photograph.
The Chief raised his eyebrows rebukingly and let his pencil drop to the desk, and the minute disorderly sound it made was an adequate measure of his surprise.
“So that’s the way it was?” he said. “I wouldn’t have thought it of you, Jack. I’m sorry for you, son.”
Jack Rhyce was glad that the thing was in the open for once, and it would only be for once.
“That’s the way it was,” he said. “We fell in love like a couple of kids. We both knew it was a damn fool thing to do, but it didn’t spoil the operation, Chief.”
“She wouldn’t have wanted it to,” the Chief said. “She was a very good girl, Jack.”
“She wanted me to go ahead,” he said. “She told me to, over the telephone. Anyway, we couldn’t have found her in time.”
“You didn’t tell me she spoke to you,” the Chief said.
“I left it out,” Jack answered. “Maybe I should have this time. It’s something that belongs to her and me. As I was saying, sometimes you can’t help being human, Chief.”
He was talking too much, and he despised self-pity. He wanted the interview to finish.
“I’ll tell you all about her someday,” the Chief said, “but I don’t believe now is quite the time.”
“Thanks,” Jack Rhyce answered, “if it’s just the same to you, I’d rather not know any more about her, except what belonged to us. I admit it wasn’t very much.”
He stood up. He had not intended to speak his full mind, at that particular interview, but that brief talk about her had crystallized his thoughts.
“As I say, it wasn’t much,” he said. “We both knew we were being foolish, and we didn’t have many opportunities to talk, but we both decided that we’d go back to the outside when we came home. She isn’t here, but I’m going, anyway, sir.”
“Now, wait a minute—” the Chief began—“this is all on the spur of the moment. Is it anything I said that made you come up with this?”
“No, sir,” Jack Rhyce answered, “nothing you said, but I’m going to hand in my resignation, sir.”
“Now, Jack,” the Chief said, “you can’t do that. You’re the best man in the office. You’re in line to follow me here. I as good as told you, didn’t I? You’d be like a fish out of water, on the outside. You can’t do this, Jack.”
He was aware that what the Chief said was true. He had intended to talk it over and think it over, but instead it was done already.
“I’ve got reasons, sir,” he said.
“All right,” the Chief said. “Just name the reasons.”
Jack Rhyce squared his shoulders and pulled his thoughts together.
“Things happen sometimes,” he said, “that you can’t put into words, sir. After what happened over there, even if I stayed on the job, I could never be the man I used to be. I felt it coming over me in Tokyo. Being with her made me too human, Chief, and when you get too human you get fallible, and when you get to thinking about the outside you get forgetful—part of you is on one side and part of you is on the other. Part of me’s back there. I’ve lost something, and I’ll never get it back.”
The Chief was also on his feet. “You’re talking off the top of your head,” he said, “and everything you say is specious, Jack.”
“You may be right, sir,” Jack Rhyce said. “It isn’t so much what I say as what I feel. And besides, she wanted me on the outside. She asked me to promise.”
“Jack,” the Chief said, “give yourself a chance before you start crossing Rubicons. You’re going through what everyone in the outfit goes through periodically. I’ve seen it and heard it all. Sure, something chips off you every time you go through anything, but you’re the kind it only makes sharper, Jack. I’m willing to make you a bet: in a week or so you’ll want to stay in the business on account of her, and not leave it because of her. You’ve got too much Moxie to take a step like that. Now don’t interrupt me.”
Jack Rhyce had cleared his throat but he had no intention of interrupting.
“I just want two promises from you,” the Chief said. “Don’t say anything to anyone about this talk, and promise me you won’t make a decision until you’ve had that shot in the arm and two weeks away somewhere.”
“All right,” Jack said, “if that’s the way you want it.”
At any rate, he had said exactly what was on his mind, and he believed that he was right in everything he had stated, and he felt closer to her, now that he had spoken, than he had since he had gone. He knew as sure as fate that he was not coming back.
About the Author
John P. Marquand (1893–1960) was a Pulitzer Prize–winning author, procla
imed “the most successful novelist in the United States” by Life magazine in 1944. A descendant of governors of the Massachusetts Bay Colony, shipping magnates Daniel Marquand and Samuel Curzon, and famed nineteenth-century writer Margaret Fuller, Marquand always had one foot inside the blue-blooded New England establishment, the focus of his social satire. But he grew up on the outside, sent to live with maiden aunts in Newburyport, Massachusetts, the setting of many of his novels, after his father lost the once-considerable family fortune in the crash of 1907. From this dual perspective, Marquand crafted stories and novels that were applauded for their keen observation of cultural detail and social mores.
By the 1930s, Marquand was a regular contributor to the Saturday Evening Post, where he debuted the character of Mr. Moto, a Japanese secret agent. No Hero, the first in a series of bestselling spy novels featuring Mr. Moto, was published in 1935. Three years later, Marquand won the Pulitzer Prize for Fiction for The Late George Apley, a subtle lampoon of Boston’s upper classes. The novels that followed, including H.M. Pulham, Esquire (1941), So Little Time (1943), B.F.’s Daughter (1946), Point of No Return (1949), Melvin Goodwin, USA (1952), Sincerely, Willis Wayde (1955), and Women and Thomas Harrow (1959), cemented his reputation as the preeminent chronicler of contemporary New England society and one of America’s finest writers.
All rights reserved, including without limitation the right to reproduce this ebook or any portion thereof in any form or by any means, whether electronic or mechanical, now known or hereinafter invented, without the express written permission of the publisher.
This is a work of fiction. Names, characters, places, events, and incidents either are the product of the author’s imagination or are used fictitiously. Any resemblance to actual persons, living or dead, businesses, companies, events, or locales is entirely coincidental.
Copyright © 1956, 1957 by The Curtis Publishing Company
The author wishes to thank Music Publishers Holding Corporation for permission to quote from the following songs: “Every Day is Ladies’ Day With Me” (copyright 1906 by M. Witmark & Sons. Copyright renewed); “The Streets of New York” (Copyright 1906 by M. Witmark & Sons. Copyright renewed); “Because You’re You” (Copyright 1906 by M. Witmark & Sons. Copyright renewed).
Right You Are, Mr. Moto Page 27
