Last Laugh, Mr. Moto

by John P. Marquand

  The Inspector’s clothing was somewhat dingy and soiled, but even so it had the uncompromising military neatness that Bob Bolles remembered in Kingston a few days back. The Inspector’s military mustache was carefully trimmed. His puffy red cheeks were clean-shaven. Like Mr. Kingman, he was wearing a sun helmet and in his right hand he held a short stick, a swagger stick. It made him look like what he undoubtedly had been once—an English noncommissioned officer.

  “It will hardly help to bluster,” Inspector Jameson said, “and I shall give everyone here the usual warning. Anything said by him, or her,”—his stolid blue eyes moved in the direction of Mrs. Kingman,—“will be used against him or her.”

  From the way Inspector Jameson spoke, he seemed to consider that his sudden appearance there was only a routine matter.

  “And I might add,” Inspector Jameson said, “it will do no good to flourish those weapons at me.”

  “Oh,” said Mr. Kingman, “won’t it?”

  “You’ll only be responsible for the death of an officer in line of duty,” Inspector Jameson said, “besides what else is against you. It will ’ardly help you, sir.”

  Mr. Kingman had a dazed, blank look—and they must have all looked the same. From the corner of his eye Bob Bolles saw that Oscar was watching Mr. Kingman’s face. Mr. Kingman moved his hand and Oscar moved a little to the left. Inspector Jameson must have seen the gesture.

  “It’s too late for monkey tricks for you or that Swede either,” Inspector Jameson said.

  But Mr. Kingman’s voice had only surprise in it.

  “Never mind that now,” Mr. Kingman said. “Can’t you tell us where the devil you came from?”

  The Inspector’s official manner relaxed slightly.

  “No harm in explaining,” he answered more genially. “In the motor launch with this Japanese gentleman, of course,” and he pointed a heavy finger at Mr. Moto.

  “Excuse,” Mr. Moto said. “There were two in the crew. I did not see you.”

  “No more you did,” Inspector Jameson answered, “since I was stowed snug up forward. Why, you can thank me that you had the launch at all.” The Inspector was only human. He looked at Mr. Moto complacently.

  “Oh,” said Mr. Moto. “Please, why should you want—”

  “It isn’t always foreigners who know everything, if I may say so,” Inspector Jameson answered. “How did you think it was so easy for a foreigner like you to hire a boat? Why, I’ll tell you why—because the police have been searching for a Swede under the name of Oscar Lindquist and for a gentleman with an American passport by the name of Kingman.”

  Mr. Kingman’s face was as motionless as marble, but he did not speak.

  “But I am not Mr. Kingman, please,” Mr. Moto said.

  “No more you’re not and very lucky for you,” Inspector Jameson answered. “You shall explain later why you were looking for Mr. Kingman. When it was known you were asking where he was and looking for a boat, it was a welcome opportunity, if I do say so. I arranged for the boat and I’opped aboard and when she passed the schooner I knew that I was right and when she got here I ’opped off and now—”

  “I do not understand,” Mr. Kingman said.

  Inspector Jameson squared his shoulders and gave his stick an expert twirl.

  “Now that the schooner is gone, the jig is up, Mr. Kingman, for you and for the Swede here named Oscar Lindquist. You are ’ere on an island, one of His Majesty’s possessions, and no way of getting off, and I’m ’ere representing the law, sir, and that’s all there is to it.”

  A blank, incredulous look crossed Mr. Kingman’s face.

  “But I don’t exactly see—” Mr. Kingman said. “Where is your boat now, man?”

  Inspector Jameson spoke respectfully. He obviously considered that Mr. Kingman was a step above all the others.

  “Once the schooner was sighted last night,” he said, “I knew you were aboard and coming to Mercator. The motorboat has orders to go on and send for a Government cutter. I wanted no accident about it, in case you should get to the schooner again, and there are odd doings here which need investigation. But now the schooner’s gone you can’t get off and I’ve showed myself. That’s all, sir.”

  Mr. Kingman pursed his lips. He seemed to whistle noiselessly.

  “And I take it,” the Inspector went on, “from what I overheard ’ere, the black boy employed by Mr. Bolles has run off with the schooner for what reason I cannot fancy. And what brings this lady and all the rest of you here is something for further investigation when the authorities appear on the cutter. In the meanwhile, since no one can leave here, I’m taking over. Is that plain to everyone?”

  “Yes,” said Mr. Moto. “Thank you. The cutter—when is it coming back, please?”

  Inspector Jameson looked up at the sun and then glanced at his wrist-watch. He was magnificent in his complete faith in himself. He seemed entirely oblivious of any possible danger.

  “If she is at Nevis she should be here by noon tomorrow,” he said. “It’s as I say, the jig is up, Mr. Kingman. You can’t get off and you won’t be so foolish as to lay a hand on me. Your ’istory’s been sent on the cable from Scotland Yard,—a sort of international toff, I take it you are,—and you won’t make matters worse for you by lying an ’and on me, if nothing can be gained by it. You nor anyone else.”

  His china-blue eyes moved serenely across the group and Mr. Kingman stood with his mouth half open.

  “Do you mean to say that you’re here by yourself, my good man?” Mr. Kingman asked. “You mean you haven’t got anyone lurking in the bushes?”

  “Here by myself is right, sir,” the Inspector answered. “One man is enough when he has the old Empire behind him.”

  Mr. Kingman looked at Mr. Moto in a stupefied sort of way.

  “Did you ever hear of anything like this?” he asked.

  “Yes,” Mr. Moto said, “please, it is like the British.”

  “By—by Jove,” Mr. Kingman said, “I never can understand them,” and then Bob Bolles spoke up. He could not endure standing there and doing nothing.

  “Jameson,” he began, “you damned fool—”

  “’Ere,” said Inspector Jameson. “That’s no way to talk, Mr. Bolles. I do not believe you are in any ways implicated, but there must be an explanation.”

  “Wait, please,” Mr. Moto said. “Why do you want Mr. Kingman and the other man, please?”

  Inspector Jameson straightened his shoulders again.

  “Quite right for you to ask,” the Inspector said, “I’m sure,” and his voice became official and sonorous. “On a very serious charge. On the confession of a keeper of a public house—one Henry Pasquez.”

  “Oh,” said Mr. Kingman, “that’s it, is it?”

  “There you have it, sir,” said Inspector Jameson, nodding. “On the night of November 12th, Henry Pasquez was apprehended endeavoring to conceal a body.”

  There was a sharp cry from Mrs. Kingman, but the Inspector’s voice went on.

  “The body of a tourist, French, described as Charles Durant. The confession describes one Oscar Lindquist as strangling this Charles Durant with a rope in a very ’orrible way, if I may say so.”

  “Oh,” Mrs. Kingman cried, “you—”

  Mr. Kingman turned on her. His face was white, but his eyes were burning bright.

  “You be quiet if you know what’s good for you,” he said. “What other piece of nonsense is there, Mr. Policeman?”

  “And you are accused as accessory,” Inspector Jameson said. “I ’ereby place you under arrest and anything you say will be used—”

  Mr. Kingman’s voice rose in a sharp snarl.

  “Against me? What? All right, Oscar!”

  And Mr. Kingman drove the butt of his rifle with all his force into the pit of Inspector Jameson’s stomach. At the same moment Bob Bolles felt a hand on his arm.

  “Not now, please,” Mr. Moto said, “careful, Mr. Bolles!”

  It was over in a second. Ins
pector Jameson and Oscar were struggling on the stone terrace. Mr. Kingman was leaning over them, but almost instantly he looked up.

  “Be careful, my dear,” he said to Mrs. Kingman. “Keep back!” His voice was sharp and harsh above the other sounds. Oscar had raised his fist and had struck with all his force at the base of the Inspector’s skull, and now the Inspector lay still.

  “All right,” said Mr. Kingman briskly. “No need to finish him, Oscar. Drag that fool into the shade and put a gag in his mouth and tie him up.”

  Oscar was very strong. He lifted the whole limp weight of the Inspector on his shoulders and carried him around a corner of the house and out of sight. Mr. Kingman looked at Mr. Moto as though he expected his sympathy and understanding.

  “He’ll be all right for the time being, I think,” Mr. Kingman said. “By—by Jove, I never saw a thing like that. He was going to arrest all of us. He really meant it.”

  But Mr. Moto did not appear to sympathize and he shook his head slowly.

  “So very bad, please,” he said. “This brings more trouble, always more trouble. Why liquidate a man in Kingston, Mr. Kingman?”

  Mr. Kingman moved his head impatiently. He seemed to be troubled too. He seemed to be using all his will to keep his nerves under proper control.

  “Damn it,” Mr. Kingman said, and he spoke jerkily. “That man—that Henry—was recommended to me. I told the fool to make it look like suicide. By God, I even fixed the farewell note. How did I know he’d lose his nerve? At any rate, it was necessary.”

  Mr. Moto moved his left hand softly over the creases of his white coat.

  “I should never do such a thing in Kingston,” he said softly. “There are other ways.”

  “Damn it,” Mr. Kingman said, again. “It’s none of your business, and there was a difference of opinion and the man fought. And that’s that. It was an accident, and you can’t help accidents.”

  Then Mrs. Kingman spoke—so unexpectedly that even Mr. Moto looked startled.

  “You coward!” she said. Her eyes were icy cold and contemptuous and her lips were curved with the same contempt. “You double-dealing coward! You meant to go back on us all the time, didn’t you?” Mr. Kingman took a quick step backwards. His eyes were on Mr. Moto, but Mr. Moto did not move. Suddenly Mr. Kingman’s face looked as ugly as a snake’s.

  “Perhaps I’d better explain myself,” Mr. Kingman said, “right now.”

  “Yes,” said Mr. Moto, “it would be so nice.”

  “Then, listen,” Mr. Kingman said. “It’s better to have it in the open. I’m out for myself entirely. To hell with the Vichy Government and any sniveling Frenchmen! Helen, my dear, you people don’t pay enough. It was an accident in Kingston and I’m sorry for it. Mr. Moto and I are working together now, and perhaps we’ll continue if Mr. Moto pays enough. That part on the plane should be worth a million dollars if it’s delivered to the right party. But as for you, Helen, you’re out of it. You’ve always been out of it. You and your people can’t stop me now.” Mr. Kingman paused and moistened his lips. No one spoke until he went on again.

  “All this happily married business! I’m just as sick of it as you are. If you know what’s good for you—and I think you do—you’ll play this game with me right to the end. And no further personal remarks from you, my dear. There’s nothing you can do—absolutely nothing. You’re in a damned tough spot and you know it. Do I make myself clear?”

  There was something sickeningly certain about Mr. Kingman’s speech. It was full of all sorts of unspoken implications, and Mrs. Kingman must have understood it. She was standing stiffly, digging her nails into her palms. Her lower lip was trembling and for a moment Bob Bolles thought she was going to weep.

  “Yes,” she said, “it’s clear.”

  “And you’ll do what I tell you, won’t you?” Mr. Kingman said.

  “Yes,” she answered, “yes, Mac,” and she seemed utterly beaten, utterly resigned.

  “You’ve got a great way with women, haven’t you?” Bob Bolles asked. “I’d like to take that up with you someday.” He had to say something. He could not have stopped if he had tried, for he suddenly felt himself seething with white-hot anger. It was not what Mr. Kingman said, but what he had not said. And then Oscar came around the corner of the house, holding his rifle ready.

  “It is all right, Oscar,” Mr. Kingman said, and his eyes met Bob Bolles’s squarely. “Romantic, aren’t you, Bob? She’s pretty. I’ll admit it. And if I wanted she’d get down on her face right now and lick the dust off my shoes, because she’d have to, Bob, if she knows what’s good for her. Don’t interrupt. I’m taking up your case. That was pretty smart of you, sending that boat away, wasn’t it? There’s just one thing about it—”

  “What?” Bob asked.

  “It makes you about as useless as a broken-down horse, my friend, unless you can think of some way of getting that boat back.”

  “To hell with you,” Bob Bolles said. “There isn’t any way. She’s gone. They’ll pick you up in the morning, Kingman.”

  “That’s just a little hasty,” Mr. Kingman said, “don’t you think? I’m going to give you time to think that one over. When the breath is being shut out of you, you may change your mind—‘a ’orrible death with a rope.’ You heard that, didn’t you? Oscar can handle that.”

  Bob Bolles still felt that white flame of anger, but his mind was working fast.

  “Maybe Mr. Moto wouldn’t like it,” he said.

  Mr. Kingman’s forehead wrinkled.

  “I do not see—” Mr. Moto said. “Why should I not like it?”

  Bob Bolles answered quickly. He still had a card to play.

  “It just occurred to me,” he said. “You wanted a plane mechanic. I know a lot about airplane engines, Moto. I can put them together and take them down. I was an aviator, in case it interests you.”

  “By—by Jove,” Mr. Kingman said, “I didn’t know that.”

  “I just thought Mr. Moto would like to know,” Bob Bolles answered.

  “Why, yes,” said Mr. Moto. “Thank you so much. That is very interesting.”

  Mr. Kingman’s fingers drummed gently on his rifle stock.

  “You think damned fast, don’t you?” he asked. “Well, Moto and I might be able to use you, Bob. And now, Mr. Moto—”

  “Yes,” Mr. Moto said, “yes, please?”

  “You’re pretty much in the way too, but we need each other, don’t we, in case the American Navy or that British cutter comes? We’re two against you, Moto, and we’re agreed to do nothing until we find that plane. That’s right, isn’t it?”

  “Yes,” said Mr. Moto, “that is right.”

  “And maybe we can talk business afterwards.”

  “Yes,” said Mr. Moto, “yes, perhaps.”

  “Then take your hand out of your pocket,” Mr. Kingman said. “It’s all right, Moto.”

  Mr. Moto did not remove his hand from his coat pocket.

  “Excuse me, please,” he said, “if under the circumstances I still do not trust you altogether.”

  Mr. Kingman shrugged his shoulders. That genial manner of his was back with him again.

  “Oh,” he said, “all right, all right. Let’s have a bite of lunch and then we’ll start looking,” and he glanced toward the house. “Bring in the basket, Oscar. There should be some place to sit inside.”

  “Why, yes,” said Mrs. Kingman. “I’m very hungry now.”

  It was all surprising to Bob Bolles. That anger of hers and her fear seemed to have entirely gone, just as though that scene with Mr. Kingman had never happened. It was most amazing—that complete control of hers. She seemed completely happy again. Perhaps she was always meant to be happy.

  CHAPTER XIII

  They had all turned by then toward the stone walls of the house with their peeling yellow stucco. The tall windows of the room in front of them opened like doors upon the terrace and showed a large bare room inside with a flagstone floor. Fire and weather had des
troyed the beams and ceilings long ago, so that the room itself was half choked with rubble and you could look up through the three stories of the house to the open sky; but a corner of the room near the windows was clear and, standing in the corner, you were in the shell of the greater house with all its ground plan bare and bleak in spite of the wreckage. The room where they stood might have been the dining room or the parlor, and it had the only floor which was left. Beyond it was the entrance hall with the remains of a stone staircase which led upwards into emptiness. The floor of the hallway and the floors of the other rooms had dropped into the cellars and the floor of the room where they were standing would have been gone long ago had there been a cellar beneath it. As it was, there were the remains of plaster on the wall and a fireplace between two windows that was half filled with rubbish.

  “Why,” Mrs. Kingman said, “there isn’t anything here,” and Mr. Kingman and Mr. Moto also seemed surprised for, with its walls still standing, the building from the outside still gave the appearance of a house.

  “The devil,” Mr. Kingman said, “there’s no place here to store a plane. By Jove, there’s law and order! There’s the British Empire.”

  He was referring to Inspector Jameson, who was standing, trussed and gagged, against a heap of stones. There was nothing to do about Inspector Jameson then.

  Oscar said nothing. He pulled four blocks of stone together to make a table and moved some other stones around it for seats. Then he found some tin cups that were in the picnic hamper and pulled out a bottle of wine.

  “Isn’t Oscar wonderful?” Mrs. Kingman said. “He can make any place look like home.” Bob Bolles sighed. He could not make her out at all.

  “Yes,” said Mr. Kingman. Nothing seemed to disturb him, not even Inspector Jameson. Those people had amazing resilience. There was no doubt of that. “Now, we all feel better for the moment, don’t we? The walls protect us from the sun, and here is canned chicken and bread, and Oscar will boil some coffee, I think. Pass the cups around, Helen, my dear. It is Rüdesheimer, if no one objects to a German wine. Sit down, Moto. Sit down, Bob. Your troubles haven’t started yet, my boy.”