Of course there had always been people like himself who could not easily adjust to civil life after having faced the violences of war. There had been wonderful moments and triumphs. There was always the satisfaction of knowing that in ten years he had made a place for himself in a highly exacting profession, but in the end, what was there of real value? Very little, except what might lie in a set of disconnected memories, very little of which to be proud. And what was he in the end? He was a spy, or a secret agent, if you cared for a politer word, trained to live a life of lying and of subterfuge; trained to submerge his individuality into something he was not—to be a sneak, and if necessary a betrayer; trained to run from danger and let his best friend get it, if it helped the business; to kill or be killed inconspicuously; to die with his mouth shut, in the dark. There was only one loyalty—loyalty to the business. It was, by outside standards, a contemptible profession, and in the end, everybody in the business paid, because deceit was the same as erosion of character.
Why had he not gotten out of it, before it was too late? He raised himself on his elbow. The whisky flask was in his bag and the glasses were on the table. He could even see the traces of Ruth Bogart’s lipstick on her glass. She should have been more careful. He sat up, with his eyes still on the bag, but then he leaned back again. Drinking was always dangerous in the business—it was far safer to indulge in bitter thoughts. It was too late for him to leave the business now. He remembered what she had called him a while ago—a pro; and you could not get from the inside to the outside once you were a pro. He wished to heaven he could sleep as she did. It meant that she still could get out of the business; he hoped she would. He resolved to tell her so, if they came out of this safe. He must have been thinking of what he would say to her just as he fell asleep.
He was convinced that he was not the man he had been once, when the telephone awakened him. He heard Ruth Bogart close the adjoining door before he was on his feet. First he had not been able to sleep. Then he had slept too heavily, and like Ruth Bogart, he must have been on the outside, too, in his dreams. It was something that should never happen in the field.
“Hello,” he said. “Jack Rhyce speaking.”
At any rate, he was back under his cover again, hearty voice and everything. The time on his wrist watch was six to the dot. He was feeling very hungry, and also rested. He was on the beam again.
“Please.” It was undoubtedly Mr. Moto speaking. There was the slow, gentle modulation he remembered, and also the monotony of speech that even excellent Japanese linguists sometimes found hard to escape. “I hope I did not awaken you, Mr. Rhyce.”
“Oh, it’s you, is it?” Jack Rhyce said. “Do I sound sleepy?”
There was a nervous laugh that went with conventional politeness.
“Just a little in your voice, Mr. Rhyce.”
He had to admit that the man downstairs was a damned smart Jap, and when they were, it was hard to find anything smarter.
“Well, you win, as a matter of fact,” Jack Rhyce said. “I have been having a little shut-eye. But come on right up, you’ve got the room number, haven’t you?”
“The room number? Oh, yes.”
It was a needless question. Of course he had the number. There was time for Jack Rhyce to tie his shoes, and put on his seersucker coat. As he did so he realized he had not unpacked anything. He hastily opened his Valpak and pulled some clothes out, because he did not want to give the impression that he might leave at any moment. Then he left the door to the hall half open because a locked door might be conspicuous, and then his heart gave a startled jump. He had completely forgotten the three glasses on the table, but as he moved toward them he saw that only two were there, one with the lipstick smears, and another. Ruth Bogart must have been in when he was asleep, and he felt very much ashamed. He should have thought of the two glasses himself—one of them with lipstick.
The tap on the door was gentle and discreet. Jack Rhyce was accustomed to Japanese manners, and he had listened for many wearisome hours to lectures by social anthropologists on Japanese psychology, but from his own experience in the cruder arena of combat intelligence, he doubted the correctness of many of the lecturers’ conclusions. The background and the thought process of Japan were so different from his own that he had always avoided a confident appraisal. When Mr. Moto knocked, Jack felt a species of nervousness. He knew too much about Japan, yet he must not show it. Japanese were always sensitive.
“Well, well,” Jack Rhyce said, “step right in. You’re right on the dot, I see.” He spoke loudly and deliberately, as one should to a foreigner.
Mr. Moto’s features were finely chiseled. His hands were slender and graceful. In native dress, he would have been a fine figure of a trusted Samurai, and it was very possible that his family had held that feudal rank. But the hideous, purplish-blue business suit, aggressively pressed and arrogantly neat, ruined his romantic picture, and so did the very light tan shoes. Mr. Moto was more a figure of low comedy than a representative of old Japan. Then a startling idea came to Jack Rhyce—that he and Mr. Moto might both be impersonating clumsy people. If you took it one way, the hissing intake of Mr. Moto’s breath had a Weber and Fields quality that was too loud and too comic. The same was true of his speech, yet Jack Rhyce could not definitely tell.
“So nice of you to receive me,” Mr. Moto said. “You have enjoyed your sleep, I hope.”
“Yes, sir,” Jack Rhyce said. “I had a real nice shut-eye, thanks, and I feel very much better for it, Mr.—excuse me. I forget your name.”
“Moto,” Mr. Moto said. He laughed again, but there was no way of telling whether or not his politeness was deliberately overdrawn.
“Moto,” Jack Rhyce said. If they were playing a Mr. Japan and Mr. America game, both of them knew their business. “I’ve got that straight now, and I hope you’ll excuse it, Mr. Moto. Japanese names are tough for me to remember, and I suppose my name is hard for you—Rhyce.”
“Oh, no,” Mr. Moto said. “R is easy in Japan. We have trouble when we pronounce your letter rell. See—I cannot say it. Ha-ha-ha.”
It was hard for Jack Rhyce to decide whether or not Mr. Moto was having deliberate trouble with his l’s. It was true that the l sound was difficult for Japanese to accomplish, although good linguists could manage it. In the Pacific during the War, Jack Rhyce remembered, there had been a sea area christened “Alligator Lipstick.” The term had been invented because the area was frequently mentioned by voice over the air and “Alligator Lipstick” was a jawbreaker for the average Japanese. It seemed to Jack Rhyce that sometimes Mr. Moto was having no trouble with his l’s at all.
“That is comical, when you come to think of it,” Jack Rhyce said, “but it takes all kinds to make a world, doesn’t it? You know, I’m kind of hungry after that plane ride. I wonder if we could get some bacon and shirred eggs and tea. Maybe you can make the room boy understand in Japanese better than I can in English. Ha-ha-ha.”
As he spoke he felt sorry for Ruth Bogart listening at the connecting door, and he added, “A whole flock of bacon and eggs and tea.”
“Oh, yes,” Mr. Moto said. “I shall call up room service. Everything is up to date at the Imperiar Hote-ru. Excuse me when I cannot say the l.”
There was no breaking the law of averages. Sooner or later there would be a slip of the tongue, or else a careless gesture might become a chain reaction that ruined everything. Mr. Moto had slipped, and Jack Rhyce was sure that he was unaware of it. Mr. Moto had surmounted that stumbling block of the Japanese tongue by pronouncing the letter l with a subconscious fluency, indicating that he could speak a better brand of English than he was using. When he picked up the hotel telephone and asked for room service in Japanese, his accent was crisp and educated. There was something in the careless way in which he handled the instrument that was not Japanese, or English, or German, and certainly not Russian. His posture was very good, as he stood speaking into the receiver, showing that he had done his tour of military
duty—the army, Jack Rhyce guessed, rather than navy; and if it was the army, he might have been in the fanatical wing that started the war. His face showed no passion or arrogance, but it was hard to classify Japanese features. When Mr. Moto gave the order, he asked for bacon and eggs and coffee—not tea; and Jack Rhyce was certain he had mentioned tea. He could not suppress a quiet satisfaction as he sat and listened to Mr. Moto’s Japanese. He felt rested, and Mr. Moto had lost a trick in pronouncing the letter l.
“Everything will be right up,” Mr. Moto said. “Chop-chop, as they say in China. Ha-ha.”
“That’s mighty kind of you,” Jack Rhyce said. “This language barrier is a pretty tough thing, isn’t it? Sit down, won’t you, please? And I do hope the food does come up chop-chop, as you say. I could certainly do with a cup of coffee.”
You were bound to fall flat on your face at one time or another. He could have bitten off his tongue the moment he mentioned coffee, but already it was too late. There was nothing to do but go ahead, without showing a trace of embarrassment.
“You know you’ve come at just the right time, Mr. Moto,” he said. “I’m here to do a piece of work for an organization known as the Asia Friendship League, something in the nature of a report, and the more I think of it, the more sure I am that I’ll need somebody like you to show me around.”
Mr. Moto’s glance had turned toward the glasses on the table; Jack Rhyce had a feeling that tension had relaxed when Mr. Moto saw them. There might have been some truth in that phrase of Bill Gibson’s—safety in sex. You could discount a good deal of potential menace in a man if you saw a glass with lipstick smears in his bedroom.
“The Asia Friendship League,” Mr. Moto said. “How very, very nice. The United States is such a kind nation, after the war, to do such nice things for Japan. The Asia Friendship League is known to me, and Mr. Pender, its new head, is such a good, nice man.”
“So you know Mr. Pender?” Jack Rhyce said. “Well, that’s fine. I’ve already had a warm and really constructive talk with him. He’s going to show me around the shop tomorrow, and so I’m afraid I’ll be pretty much engaged tomorrow. By the way, how about a little drink, Mr. Moto? Oh-oh . . . I’ve got to rinse the glasses.”
“Oh, no,” Mr. Moto said, “not for me. But you—prease, you help yourself.”
Jack Rhyce took his flask from his open kit-bag and poured himself another drink.
“I suppose the tap water’s all right in Tokyo?” he asked.
“Oh, yes,” Mr. Moto said. “You see, the American Army has been here.”
“Oh, yes,” Jack Rhyce said. “Well, as I was saying, I’m going to be busy tomorrow, but Saturday and Sunday I shall need a little rest and relaxation. You know—maybe you’ve got a saying in Japan like ours in the States—all work and no play makes Jack a dull boy? And the nice thing about that little maxim is, my first name happens to be Jack.”
Jack Rhyce smiled fatuously and sipped his drink. He was almost sure that Mr. Moto was smiling sympathetically.
“There are lots of amusements in Tokyo and its vicinity,” Mr. Moto said. “I would be so preased to show geisha girls or anything, Mr. Rhyce.”
Jack Rhyce laughed easily.
“That would be swell sometime later,” he said. “But this Saturday and Sunday I was thinking of taking a spin into the country. You see, I was here in the Occupation for a day or two, and the army had taken over a hotel up in the mountains. I’ve got the name of the place written down. It’s in Mio—Mio—”
“Oh,” Mr. Moto said, “Miyanoshita. Very nice.”
Jack Rhyce took another sip from his drink, and gave Mr. Moto a man-to-man look.
“Well, I thought if you could rent me a good car, and a driver, I might go up there, and well—you know, take a girl along.”
Mr. Moto nodded and tactfully drew in his breath.
“Oh, yes,” he said. “I can drive myself. I can get a good car for you, and very nice girl.”
“That’s it,” Jack Rhyce said. “That’s the spirit, Mr. Moto. I had a hunch, right when I saw you at the airport, that you’d be broad-minded. A man has to have fun sometime, doesn’t he?”
“Oh, yes,” Mr. Moto said. “Oh, yes. If you wish, I can find four or five girls and you can make a choice.”
“Well, that’s fine,” Jack Rhyce said, “but you supply the car, and I’ll supply the young lady. Be around here at nine o’clock on Saturday morning.”
“Oh, yes,” Mr. Moto said, “and we can see Kamakura—many interesting things. The Daibutsu Buddha—very big and very old, and Eno-shima—very rovery, very many things.”
There was a knock on the door. It was a waiter with bacon and eggs and coffee. Mr. Moto rose and bowed. The bow was old-fashioned, belonging more to the older than the new generation. “Nine, Saturday,” he said. “Big, fine American car. Everything first-crass. You will be satisfied, I am sure, and thank you very much. Good night then, Mr. Rhyce.”
It had been a long while since Jack Rhyce had been so unsure of his cover work. He could not tell exactly what anything was about, except that there had been that atmosphere of tenseness, and a combat of minds. That slip of his still worried him. There was no need to exaggerate its potential danger. His expression must have disturbed Ruth Bogart when he called her to come in.
“What went wrong?” she asked. “You sounded so terrific, you almost made me feel sick to my stomach.”
Jack Rhyce pointed to the table and the tray.
“Sit down and eat it,” he said. “I’ll order up some more from room service.” He stopped and imitated Mr. Moto’s voice. “Everything is up to date in the Imperiar Hote-ru.”
“But what is worrying you?” she asked.
“The coffee,” he answered, and he told her.
“Well, it’s over now,” she said. “I didn’t know you knew a word of Japanese. You said you’d hardly ever been in Japan.”
There was nothing to do, and time stretched ahead of them uninterruptedly until the next morning. There was actually no reason why he should not talk about himself, or why they should not be reasonable human beings for a while.
“Frankly,” he said. “I did live in Japan from the age zero to five. Japanese servants are devoted to kids, and I was speaking the language all the time. My father was a missionary, and the moral of that story is always to look out for missionaries’ sons.”
“You’re too conscientious for me to have to look out for you,” she said. “Why didn’t you lose that Japanese when you went back to the States?”
He had not talked about the outside to anyone for several years. It was an unfamiliar and rather agreeable experience, to be sitting there in Tokyo, thinking of the outside.
“My father wanted me to keep it up,” he said, “and he made me for quite a while. You see—don’t laugh—he wanted me to be a missionary, too. It’s peculiar what parents want their children to be, isn’t it? The language came right back to me in the war at language school.”
He stopped and passed the flask to her.
“We may as well finish this,” he said, “and you heard what our friend told us—tap water’s good in Tokyo. And thanks for doing that about the glasses. Thanks a lot.”
“Don’t mention it,” she said. “You can’t be a mastermind all the time, you know. Did he notice?”
“Oh, yes,” he said, “he noticed. You wait until you see more of him. I’m afraid he’s very smart.”
“Afraid?” she repeated.
“That’s right,” he said. “I don’t know where he fits in—not to mention this man Pender in the Chevrolet.” He had forgotten that she did not know about Harry Pender.
“We’re still in the clear with him, I think,” he said, “or he wouldn’t have told about the U.S.O. singing caravan. But we’re running into something.”
Her manner changed as she listened. All the outlines of her face had hardened. Her eyes were still very pretty, but they had hardened, too.
“Yes,” she said, “we’re
walking into something, but let’s not take it too big, if you know what I mean.”
“I wish I could place the Jap,” he said. “It’s what I tell you I can’t make out where he fits.”
“All right,” she said. “We’ll find out. We’re walking into it, but don’t take it too big.”
“There’s the second time you’ve said that. Just what do you mean?” he asked.
She thought for a moment before she answered, and the hardness had not left her face.
“I suppose I’ll have to be personal,” she said. “We’re teamed up on this, and we’ve got to stick together, and you’re running the show, of course. I don’t know as much as you do, but I’ve seen enough to like the way you work. There’s only one thing about you that makes me nervous.”
From the way that he reacted he knew that his nerves were still edgy, and he found it difficult to keep annoyance out of his voice.
“I’m sorry if I make you nervous,” he told her. “Go ahead and tell me why.”
“Because, as I was saying, you’re too damned conscientious, Jack,” she told him. “You try to think of everything, and no one can. Why not try to just think of one or two things tonight, and put the rest out of your head? It will be back in the morning.”
“All right,” he said. “Name the one or two things.”
“Well, I’ll name one,” she answered. “How about thinking about me for a while? I wish you wouldn’t take me as another responsibility. I’m really not as bad as that. Remember about the glasses?”
When she smiled at him his nerves were not on edge any longer.
“I mean,” she said, “let’s try to be friends as well as business associates. I think it would help the cover if we found out a little more about each other—what we really are, I mean, and not what we’re pretending to be. We can pick that up again tomorrow.”
Mr. Moto Omnibus Page 65
