Mr. Moto Omnibus

by John P. Marquand

  “We may as well take a look at the lagoon,” he said. “It’s later than I thought. It’s getting light.” It was true that the outlines of the buildings were growing more distinct. There was no reason why they could not be themselves for a moment.

  “That crowd in the plane,” he said—“did you think any of them seemed offbeat?”

  “No,” she said. “I had some ideas about the thin Englishman, but I’ll clear him now.”

  “He’ll do,” he said. “I think we’re still in the clear.”

  “Yes,” she said. “I think so. You’re still not worried about that Jap in San Francisco?”

  “No,” he said. “Not seriously, not after Honolulu.”

  “You don’t think he was trying to tell us something, do you?”

  “I’ve thought of that,” he said, “but it doesn’t seem to hold water. Let’s forget him temporarily.”

  “I wish I could forget him and everything else. Do you ever feel that way?”

  “Oh, yes,” he answered, “lots of times.”

  “The hell of it is,” she said, “that after a while you don’t know what’s what. You don’t know what you are, because you can’t be anything.”

  “Yes,” he said, “I know what you mean. Maybe chameleons feel that way—not the kind you buy at circuses, but really good chameleons.”

  “We might have a nice time together, mightn’t we,” she said, “if we weren’t all mixed up in this?”

  “We might,” he said, “but I’m not sure I would know how. I’m too much of a chameleon now. I might turn green and yellow and not know I was doing it.”

  “How long have you been in?” she asked.

  “Long enough to forget what it’s like outside,” he said. “About ten years.”

  “Well,” she said, “you don’t act it altogether. Of course, I’m newer than that.”

  “Yes,” he said, “of course. What were you doing outside?”

  “College,” she said, “majoring in Romance Languages. I met the Chief at a cocktail party in New York. Let’s skip it, shall we?”

  “Yes,” he said, “let’s skip it, but I hope your name isn’t Ruth.”

  “Well, it is,” she said, “and it’s too bad you don’t like it, and now let’s both sign off. You’re right. It’s getting lighter.”

  “Yes, he said. “The lagoon’s over there, I think. The Chief gave you a briefing, didn’t he, about Big Ben?”

  “Yes, I’ve got the whole story,” she told him.

  They walked for a while without speaking, through the moist, hot dark. He could see the outlines of a dilapidated portable house, on the right, quite clear against the lightening sky; but ahead there seemed to be nothing, and of course there would be nothing except white coral sand and water. In a few minutes now, there would be a glow of sunrise, and there would be a few magic minutes that always came to atolls, when the colors of sand and sea would be unbelievably beautiful.

  “It seems queer to me,” he said, “that they haven’t picked him out by now, if he is a big man, once connected with show business. I never know anyone in show business who doesn’t try to push into the front row, and I never knew one who could keep his mouth shut for long.”

  “Why, what’s the matter?” she asked him. “Don’t you like the theater?”

  “I used to,” he answered, “but I get nervous when I go now. The actors are all so obviously what they are. That’s what I mean about our boy. He ought to be obvious, too.”

  He was glad they had gone for a walk. The sky in the east was growing brighter, and in a few minutes it would be sunrise. He felt almost happy, walking with his partner. In the distance he could hear the explosion of a motor warming up, and the noise of the island generating plant, and then he heard another sound, nearer, but some distance away. She must have heard it too, because she put her hand on his arm, and they both stood still, listening.

  “Someone singing,” she said.

  “Yes,” he answered, “over by that house, I think.”

  “San Francisco,” she said. “You remember, don’t you?”

  Of course he remembered. She was referring to the footsteps outside the hotel door in San Francisco, and that snatch of outmoded song, and now in the dark a man was singing another song from The Red Mill. The singer’s voice was excellent. It sounded carefree and happy, and full of the joy of living.

  “ . . . In old New York!” The words came carelessly and incongruously through the darkness. “The peach-crop’s always fine!”

  They stood motionless on the road, listening. Of course, it was only the time and place, he was thinking, that emphasized the coincidence, but nevertheless it was the sort of thing that could not have happened once in a thousand times. It was the kind of long shot that might possibly have a meaning, and you never could tell exactly how things were balanced. He could tell himself it was only Wake Island, but still there was the coincidence.

  “It comes from over by the lagoon,” he told the girl beside him.

  “Let’s move over that way.” The song was coming from ahead and slightly to the right of them, and it continued as they walked.

  They’re sweet and fair and on the square!

  The maids of Manhattan for mine!

  Then the song was gone, but it had been just ahead of them, and there was light enough to see the lagoon, by now.

  “From The Red Mill,” Jack Rhyce said, in a loud and hearty voice. “It sounds like home, doesn’t it? Do you remember the rest of it, Ruth dear?”

  “Why, no, Jack,” she said, “of course I don’t. Not that old song. Do you?”

  “Why, Ruth dear, you can’t fool me on old songs. It goes like this: You cannot see in gay Paree, in London or in Cork! The queens you’ll meet on any street in old New York.”

  He had not sung it badly, and it was not a bad idea—in fact, it was the exact thing he might have done, considering. It seemed very natural when he heard a voice call back.

  “Hey, let’s do it again, whoever you are. In old New York! In old New York! . . . ”

  The east was growing pink, but it was still not full day, so that shapes did not have the same definition that they would a few minutes later. A man in khaki swimming trunks was walking toward them. His yellow hair was dripping sea-water, and he had a towel over his right shoulder. At first, Jack Rhyce thought that the early light gave an extra illusion of size, but a second later he saw that the man was very large—two inches taller than he, he guessed, and a good twenty pounds heavier. He was beautifully built, too, tall and blond, heavy sandy eyebrows, greenish eyes, and a large mobile mouth.

  There was occasionally a time when you could be sure of something, beyond any reasonable doubt. You never could tell when or how the sureness would strike, but such a moment of utter conviction was with him now. He felt his heart beat with a quick savage triumph that extended to his fingertips. It was one of those moments that made all drudgery worthwhile. He knew that he must be right. He knew that he could not be wrong. It was just as though someone were whispering in his ear, “There he is, there he is.” It could not be anybody else. He knew as sure as fate that he was looking at Big Ben.

  Nevertheless, even in that moment of revelation, he contrived to keep his balance because his training had been good. He knew that the one thing that would save the picture was to maintain the mood of the moment, which was one of joy of life and friendliness. Cover was the main thing, his common sense was saying, always cover. He found himself joining in the song without a quaver, just gay, always gay, and he put his arm around Ruth Bogart to emphasize this genial spirit.

  The peach-crop’s always fine!

  He was singing. “Come on, Ruth . . . ”

  They’re sweet and fair and on the square!

  The maids of Manhattan for mine!

  He paused to catch his breath, and the big man in the khaki swimming trunks raised his hand like an orchestra leader.

  “Now we’re hitting it,” he said. “Come on, let’s give it
the works. Let’s go. You take the lead, I’ll follow. You know I’d pretty well forgotten those last two lines.”

  “Well, it’s nice to meet another Red Miller,” Jack Rhyce answered, “especially on a rock like this. All right, here we go. Come on and join in with us, Ruth. . . . ”

  You cannot see in gay Paree, in London or in Cork!

  The queens you’ll meet on any street in old New York.

  If you had to be a damn fool, it was usually advisable to be one all the way down the line, and it required no intuition to tell him that it was important to be a damn fool now. He knew as sure as fate that he was talking to Big Ben, although he still had to prove it, and his main hope was that Big Ben did not have intuition, too—at least not so early in the morning. In the waxing light the man’s size was more impressive than it had been before. In spite of all Jack Rhyce had learned at the Farm, he was not sure how things would come out if they reached a showdown in the next few seconds—but of course there was not going to be a showdown.

  “Say, that was good,” the big man said. And as far as Jack Rhyce could see, his smile was friendly, and his eyes showed no glint of suspicion. “You’re not joining this flying installation here, are you?”

  “No,” Jack Rhyce said, and he laughed. “If you’ll excuse my insulting such a lovely piece of real estate—Thank goodness, no. We’re just passengers from the resthouse, only out for a stroll, and heading west in about an hour.”

  The big man draped his towel more carefully around his shoulders.

  “Oh,” he said, “you mean flight Five-zero-one.”

  “Yes, I think that’s the number,” Jack Rhyce said. “It’s sort of confusing, all this air travel. We were just saying, a few minutes ago, we didn’t really know where we were. We are on Flight Five-oh-one, aren’t we, Ruth?”

  “Yes,” Ruth said. “Don’t be so vague, Jack. Of course it’s Five Hundred and One.”

  Even the clumsy use of numerals could help with cover. They were just tourists indulging in a happy wayside adventure. The big man shook his head slowly.

  “That’s too bad,” he said. “I’d hoped you were on some crew, or something, so we could think up some more old songs. You’ve got to think up something when you lay off on this rock. Let’s see. There’s a world tour group, isn’t there, on this Flight Five-zero-one? There was something about it, seems to me, at Operations.”

  His voice was gentle and lazy, with a drawl that might have belonged either to the Tidewater country, or to the Southwest. Jack Rhyce did not attribute it to Texas, as he listened, and he was interested in more than the voice. Big Ben in trying to place them had overstepped, because it was doubtful whether a world tour group would be mentioned in Operations.

  “That’s right,” Jack said, “there is a world tour group aboard, but we don’t happen to be in the party. Miss Bogart and I are being employed by the Asia Friendship League, not that I suppose you would hear of it if you’re working on an airline.”

  The big man shook his head vaguely in a way that expressed genuine regret.

  “Well, it’s too bad you’re not staying on,” he said, “because you both look like nice folks to get to know, and we might have gone swimming and fishing. We airline folk get lonely even though we move around. And now, as it is, we’re just ships that pass in the night.”

  “That’s a very nice way of putting it,” Jack Rhyce said, “but it’s a pleasure even to have made such a short acquaintance. I suppose we really ought to be getting back to that resthouse.”

  “Maybe so,” the big man said, “but it’s been a treat for me, too. Well, so long folks, and don’t let those Japs give you wooden nickels.”

  “Well, so long,” Jack Rhyce said, “and many happy landings.”

  They turned and walked back toward the airstrip. For a while he felt that the big man was watching them, but only for a very short time.

  “Turn and wave to him,” he said to Ruth Bogart.

  “He’s gone,” she said. “He must be living in one of the huts back there.”

  “Well,” he said, “that’s that, at least for the moment.”

  “Do you think what I think?” she asked.

  “I’m glad great minds think alike,” he said. “It’s lovely that we have so much in common.”

  “Oh, shut up,” she said. “Do you think he is the same man that was singing in the hall?”

  “Yes,” he said, “I think so.”

  “Do you think he knew that we were in that room?”

  Jack Rhyce sighed. You couldn’t think of everything.

  “That’s a sixty-four-dollar question,” he said, “but I shouldn’t be surprised if we knew the answer someday.”

  No matter how you met a given situation, it was impossible to do everything right. There were other things he might have done at Wake Island, but he did his best to follow the maxims of the business, one of which was to disturb nothing unless it was absolutely necessary. Besides, he was only acting on a hunch. He had no way of proving it; yet if his hunch was right, they had him. Even if it had been wise, there was no necessity to ask questions at the moment. The man was obviously an airline employee. Now that he had appeared at Wake Island, he was as safe as a book in the reference library. Only a few discreet inquiries would be necessary to obtain his full life history, and all his life connections. The main question was how the inquiries should be made. As he said to Ruth Bogart, there was only one sixty-four-dollar question. Did their man know who they were? If so it would be best to break out of cover at once and communicate with Washington. Although hindsight was always clearer than foresight, Jack Rhyce could never convince himself that he had not moved properly at Wake. After all, he was under Gibson’s orders, and he was only ten hours to Tokyo, but doubts still plagued him even after the plane had taken off.

  “I might go up forward and have a chat with the crew,” he said, “in a purely social way.”

  “I wouldn’t, if I were you, Jack,” she told him. “It could get back to Wake that you were asking.”

  Of course she was perfectly right, and besides, there had been no sign of recognition at that meeting, no uneasiness or tenseness that he had been able to detect.

  “I didn’t notice anything, either,” she said, “except that I didn’t quite believe that drawl.”

  “Yes,” he said, “but I’m not sure.”

  “Did you notice his hands?” she asked.

  It was an unnecessary question because he had not taken his eyes off them for more than a few seconds. There was nothing harder to disguise, or more revealing, than hands.

  “The way he kept his fingers half-closed—they frightened me,” she said.

  He did not want to tell her that he had been thinking several times what he could possibly do if Big Ben were once to get him by the throat.

  “He looked very able,” he said, “very first-class.”

  He was not thinking of the hands when he made that estimate, but of the wide forehead, the greenish eyes, the careless-looking good-natured mouth, and the general ease of motion which showed that mind and body moved contentedly together.

  “Well,” he said, and he took the sayings of Buddha from his briefcase, “let’s wait until we see Gibson.” All they could very well do was to wait.

  5

  THE FIRST time Jack Rhyce had seen the islands of Japan from the air was when he had flown over Tokyo as an Intelligence observer on a B-29 bombing mission. They had come in from the sea on that occasion, on much the same line of approach that they were making now.

  “We are now approaching the coast of Japan,” the steward said over the loud speaker. “The sacred mountain of Fujiyama is visible off the left wing.”

  No one could say that the Japanese were not realists. Their representations of Fujiyama on block-print textiles and on porcelains were exactly like that cinder-coned volcano. All the beauties and the difficulties of Japan were starkly obvious as one approached the coast by air. The sharp folds of the mountains showed why
only a fifth of the land was suitable for agriculture. He could see the bright green of the rice paddies, now that the plane was letting down, and he could also distinguish the lighter green of bamboo and the darker shades of giant fir trees. The fishing boats off the coast added a last touch to the broad picture of the Japanese struggle for existence. You could understand a great deal about Japanese character the moment you saw the coast, especially its elements of persistence and tenacity.

  Japan’s army was gone, and its navy, but not, as the Chief had said back in Washington, its national will to live. In Jack Rhyce’s second visit to Japan, his brief trip during the Occupation, the Japanese in defeat had seemed more bewildering to him than they ever had before. They displayed a disturbing absence of rancor, a good-natured acceptance of reality, almost a polite regret for any inconveniences they might have caused. There was a relief from tension which he could understand, but much of the new attitude was so far removed from other behavior patterns he had know as to be unsusceptible of analysis. It was all very well to quote, as Intelligence officers did in those days, the old Japanese motto about the supple bamboo bending with the typhoon and never breaking. He was sure that this was an oversimplification. He had kept looking for something inscrutable in Japanese behavior, but he could find very little that answered the definition. They had been picking up the Tokyo wreckage as though nothing devastating had happened, smiling cheerfully in the depth of their misfortunes. After all, there had been too many earthquakes, too many tidal waves, not to have had a deep influence on the national point of view.

  On this, his third arrival, he was not surprised to find that the new air terminal, shining with glass and plastic, was much handsomer than any in New York. The immigration official hardly glanced at him as he stamped the passport, and the customs examination was only a formality.

  “Well,” Rhyce said to Ruth Bogart, “that’s that.”

  The time, he saw, had changed again. It was quarter to twelve o’clock.