Mr. Moto Omnibus

by John P. Marquand

  Mr. Moto was waiting at a wall table, facing the door—a conventional position under the circumstances. He waved a welcome to Jack Rhyce in an exaggeratedly European manner.

  “Beer, of course?” Mr. Moto said. “It is so cool and comfortable here.”

  It was cool but noisy, and Jack had a feeling that the Cimaroon did not belong in Japan or anywhere else. He took only a sip or two of beer because he disapproved of drinking before any such event as the one they were approaching.

  “Everyone is posted,” Mr. Moto said. “Ha-ha, we will use the same Buick in which I drove you.”

  “Have you looked for him all through this building?” Jack asked.

  “Oh, yes,” Mr. Moto said. “No sign. Are you thinking of something, Mr. Rhyce?”

  “I’m just wondering whether he will be hiding until he sees her,” Jack Rhyce said. “Maybe we were wrong in not having her drive up.”

  Mr. Moto thought for a few moments.

  “I very much approve your thoroughness, Mr. Rhyce,” he said. “It is too late. We might call her, from the manager’s office.”

  The office was a cubbyhole of a room, only a few paces from where they were sitting, and it was startlingly silent, once they had closed the door. She answered almost immediately.

  “Ruth, we’ve got a second thought,” he said. “Maybe you’d better take a taxi and come here at six o’clock. Get out and stand by the main entrance.”

  “Okay,” she said. “It’s nice that great minds think alike sometimes. I’ll be there.”

  He felt a momentary qualm as they returned to the table, simply because he disliked revising a plan on such short notice. It showed once again that he was not sure of himself when it came to Ruth Bogart; and besides, any revision always presented a new set of factors. Yet he had not the slightest premonition that he had made an error until it was six o’clock. It was six and there was no sign of any American girl, let alone Ruth Bogart, outside the Cimaroon.

  “There is traffic,” Mr. Moto said. “She may have misjudged the time. Do not let it upset you for five more minutes, Mr. Rhyce.”

  He had not meant to show his feelings, nor had he thought he would, for he had believed that experience had made him immune to sudden reverses—but he had not felt a shock of helpless panic for years comparable to what he experienced then. Everyone went wrong sometime, he said to himself, and this was it for him.

  “I’d better telephone and see if she’s left,” he said.

  When he reached the manager’s office and gave the number he noticed that his hands shook. It did no good to tell himself that he must quiet down. He had never in his life wished for anything so vehemently as that he might hear her voice answer, but there was no answer. She had gone. Outside the office he was startled at the sight of his own face, reflected from one of the wall mirrors.

  “I think they’ve double-crossed us,” he said.

  Mr. Moto looked very grave, and glanced at his wrist watch.

  “If so, I share your feelings,” he said. “But wait, we gain nothing by hurrying, Mr. Rhyce. Remember that you yourself made her wait ten minutes, only not to appear too prompt. She may be doing this, too—and please remember just one thing more.”

  “What’s that?” Jack Rhyce answered.

  “I am to blame as much as you are Mr. Rhyce. And—what is it they say in America? The show must go on in any case, Mr. Rhyce?”

  He did not like the appraising look in Mr. Moto’s eyes. After all, he was representing the Intelligence of his country.

  “Damn it,” he said. “Don’t you tell me how to behave.”

  “That is better,” Mr. Moto said. “I know I would not need to remind you, Mr. Rhyce.”

  Jack Rhyce stood up.

  “I’m going now,” he said.

  “Where, please?” Mr. Moto asked.

  He restrained his impatience. After all, he represented the Service.

  “Back to the hotel,” he said. “It’s the place to start from, isn’t it?”

  He still did not like the inquisitive, measuring look in Mr. Moto’s eyes. The Japanese was waiting to see how he would behave.

  “Yes, that will be the proper procedure,” Mr. Moto said. “I shall go with you. They have won this game. He was brighter than we thought him.”

  It was accepted practice on any battlefield to draw opponents to one spot, and then to strike in another. There were four of them in the car, two Japanese in front and he and Mr. Moto behind. They sat in rigid silence until they were slowed by the traffic at the Shinbashi station.

  “I’m so very sorry,” Mr. Moto said.

  The remark jangled against the raw edges of Jack’s nerves. The Japanese were always expressing sorrow which they did not mean.

  “To hell with it,” he said.

  “I did not mean so sorry for you,” Mr. Moto said, “as much as so sorry we both were mistaken. I am not being personal, Mr. Rhyce.”

  “Do you think they got her in the room or outside?” Mr. Rhyce asked.

  “It would be the room, I think,” Mr. Moto answered. “It would have been worked carefully.”

  He was relieved by that opinion because, if true, his asking her to join them was not responsible for what had happened. The car turned in the drive of the Imperial Hotel, and the lotus pool and the low building looked as ugly as his thoughts.

  “Let us not appear too worried,” Mr. Moto said. “I shall ask a question or two and join you in your room. I think we had better set up the telephone again.”

  “Why the telephone?” Jack Rhyce asked.

  Mr. Moto gave him another inquiring look.

  “Because they will be making contact with you,” he said, “allowing only time for your return from the Cimaroon. Why else would they have caught her, Mr. Rhyce?”

  What had come over him, he wondered, not to have thought of it before? He should at least have conceived of the possibility and have taken suitable precautions. Instead, he had been drawn off as easily as though he had been the third team. What had happened that had made them able to outguess him? At some point something had occurred to give away the show. It might have been something that night in the place called the Main Bar, or it might have been something that morning in the office of Mr. Harry Pender. Some detail had gone wrong somewhere, and now it was futile to guess what it might have been. Play as safe as possible all across the board was another maxim of the business, and he had disobeyed it by not having her room guarded.

  He had certainly acted like the third team. Neither his mind nor hers had been on their work. They had been thinking about the outside.

  He never forgot the appearance of her room. What engraved it so vividly on his memory was that everything was exactly as he had anticipated. The lock of the door had been forced by someone who had examined the lock before, with an instrument that had made it give immediately. The only sign of struggle was an overturned suitcase that had fallen from the bed to the floor. Her handbag was gone from the table. They must have taken it with them when they left, but they had not bothered with any further search. Even with her gone, her personality was left. There was the faint scent of the Guerlain perfume she used, and the bottle was still on her dressing table beside her gold-backed comb and brush. He picked up the brush and gazed at the initials on the back, R. B. She had started packing, just as he had suggested, and her dresses and her lingerie that had fallen from the overturned suitcase still showed signs of careful folding. Mr. Moto came in while he was holding one of her dresses. Jack Rhyce laid it down gently.

  “They were not seen to leave,” Mr. Moto said; “but then, no one was watching. We should have thought of this and taken measures, but the conversation on the telephone sounded so very true. I am so sorry. I am also very much ashamed.”

  “You and me both,” Jack Rhyce said. “Sorry and ashamed. What are you doing now?”

  Mr. Moto, having adjusted the broken lock so that the door would close, had opened his briefcase.

  “The telephone,”
he said. “We must both listen, I think.”

  “I don’t see why you’re so damn sure they’ll call,” Jack said.

  “Please, it is inevitable,” Mr. Moto answered. “They would not have taken her otherwise. They will call quickly before you go elsewhere. I have already taken steps to have the call traced, but I fear it will not help. They are so very clever. Excuse. They know you are in love with her, Mr. Rhyce.”

  The words came out brutally in the ravaged room, and Jack felt his face grow brick-red, but he knew he had no right to be angry. His rights to be particular about anything had gone because of his stupidity.

  “It was a mistake,” he said. “We both knew we were damn fools—not that it does any good.”

  “Please, I am not criticizing,” Mr. Moto said. “It may be a mistake, but sometimes one cannot help them, Mr. Rhyce.”

  “Unless it is necessary,” Jack Rhyce said, “I’d just as soon not bring this subject up again.”

  It was infuriating to have something which should have belonged only to him and her tossed out in the open to be used as a point in a game. Mr. Moto’s manner was considerate; his voice silkily smooth when he answered.

  “I do not wish to offend,” he said. “I only speak because I think you should be ready. I think they will be prepared to make you an interesting proposal, Mr. Rhyce.”

  Jack gave a start. He had been staring at the overturned suitcase, and his thoughts had wandered from what Mr. Moto was saying.

  “What sort?” he asked.

  “I do not know,” Mr. Moto said. “So much of our work is always in the dark, but I think you have come close to finding something that worries them, Mr. Rhyce.”

  It was true about working in the dark. Even when a hand was half-played you never could be wholly sure where the other cards lay, but already Mr. Moto’s words had aroused a suspicion in Jack Rhyce that gripped him with icy fingers. Bill Gibson’s cynical statement about safety in sex flashed across his memory. He cleared his throat.

  “Do you think they’re going to propose a swap?” he asked.

  When Mr. Moto answered, his voice was soft and measured.

  “Yes, Mr. Rhyce,” he said. “I believe they will offer to bring Miss Bogart safely back if you will agree to leave here. You see, I think they are afraid you know too much.”

  Jack Rhyce felt a spasm in the pit of his stomach and his heart was beating faster, but still he could notice that Mr. Moto was watching him very carefully. He was even able to resent the detached critical manner and the air of academic curiosity. Mr. Moto was weighing him in an Oriental, not a European, balance.

  “You will have to make a decision as to whether to leave or whether to stay,” he said; “and I am so very much afraid I cannot help you, Mr. Rhyce.”

  Of course he had to make up his mind, and he had the training to do it.

  “Damn you”—he said, and the sound of his voice warned him that he must compose himself—“you don’t have to help me.”

  Mr. Moto was still watching him very carefully.

  “So sorry for you, Mr. Rhyce,” he said. “Will you have a cigarette?”

  “No, thanks,” Jack Rhyce said. “I told you I didn’t smoke.”

  “Oh, I remember. Excuse, please,” Mr. Moto said. “When I was a younger man I, too, was abstemious, in that and in other regards—”

  Jack felt his face redden again. He took a quick stride across the room.

  “That’s about all I’m going to take from you,” he said.

  Mr. Moto watched him without moving a muscle.

  “You do not allow me to finish,” he said. “I was about to add that, even so, one cannot give up everything.”

  Just then the telephone rang. The small bell had a laughing, mocking sound, and he was not prepared for the sound because he had not been wholly convinced that they would call. Mr. Moto slipped the earphones over his head.

  “Answer quickly, please,” he whispered. “Seem to be anxious, please.”

  When Jack picked up the telephone he was steadier. He even felt a spasm of annoyance that Mr. Moto should tell him how to act. He had had it bad before—as bad as the small man who was listening had ever had.

  “Hello,” he said. His voice was even and agreeable. He had learned long ago to give nothing away by voice. He was playing the old game of wits, and the fact that the telephone had rung at all confirmed Mr. Moto’s assertion that he had something they wanted.

  “Hello.” He recognized the voice on the other end of the line immediately. “That’s you, isn’t it, Jack?”

  “Indeed it is,” he said.

  His response was affable and easy. He had control of himself again.

  “This is Harry Pender, Jack. You recognize my voice, don’t you?”

  “Well, well, Harry,” Jack Rhyce said. “It’s nice of you to give me a ring. I sure do recognize your voice. I’d know it anywhere.”

  “Okay, Jack,” Harry Pender said, “then let’s cut out the monkey business. You and I won’t have to do our clowning from now on in.”

  “Thanks,” Jack Rhyce said. “That’s a big relief. Okay. What’s on your mind?”

  “We’ve got Ruth Bogart here. I thought you’d like to know.”

  Though he had anticipated it, he found it hard to control himself, and the instant while he struggled for calmness could not have been lost on Mr. Pender.

  “Thanks for letting me know,” he said. “I was beginning to be worried about her.”

  There was a good-natured laugh on the other end of the wire.

  “We thought you might be. Well, take it easy, Jack. She’s right here, and we wish you were, too. And she’s happy and comfortable as of now, Jack. I’ll let you speak to her in a minute.”

  “Why, thanks,” Jack Rhyce said, “thanks a lot.”

  He heard Harry Pender laugh again.

  “You know who I am, don’t you, Jack? I mean you’ve got me taped by now?”

  “Yes,” Jack Rhyce said, “I’ve got a pretty good working idea, but I’m quite a ways away from the files.”

  Harry Pender’s laugh had a corroding effect. He was too brisk and too excited, obviously on edge.

  “I may as well admit,” he said, “that I was pretty dumb regarding you. All of us were. In fact, we never got wise to you until just before lunchtime today. Nice going and congratulations, Jack.”

  At least it bolstered his ego to know that he had seen right in believing that he had been in the clear over the week end.

  “Thanks for the compliment,” he said. “Anybody in our line of work appreciates a kind word, Harry.”

  “No reason why we shouldn’t all be friends in this thing, Jack,” Harry Pender said, “even if we are on different sides of the fence. That’s the thought I want you to hold for the next minute or two if you can manage, Jack. As I was saying, we have been sort of dumb around here, but you haven’t operated in the East much, have you?”

  “Why, no, Harry,” Jack Rhyce answered. “This is my first time out here on a job, in case the fact is useful.”

  “Well, that’s what threw me, Jack,” Harry Pender said. “And you did look damn good for what you were, and the boys had cleared you in ’Frisco. When we heard you’d been looking at the bookshops, I admit, I should have taken the news more seriously, instead of discounting it. Maybe you’d still be fooling me, if it hadn’t been for a very nice guy who just blew in here, by the name of Skirov. Remember him, Jack?”

  “The name’s familiar,” Jack Rhyce said, “but I can’t say that I remember him exactly. I don’t think I ever saw him, but I’m sure I’d recognize him.”

  “Well, he remembers you, boy,” Harry Pender said. “He saw you in Moscow back in ’46. He was a waiter at one of those big parties, and passed you caviar. Just as soon as I described you he clicked. You were talking to Molotov back in ’46. You were saying all men are brothers.”

  Jack exchanged a glance with Mr. Moto. The Chief had said it was a damn fool thing to say, and the Chief had be
en, as usual, correct. Never try to be conspicuous, the Chief had said.

  “Now we’re on the subject,” Jack Rhyce said, “I was kind of slow in locating you myself, although I had you down for a phony the first time you came in. It’s nice to know that Skirov’s safe in town, and thank you for the information, because we’re interested in Skirov.”

  A pause followed and Jack Rhyce, who had never listened harder, was conscious of faint sounds of others listening on the far end of the line.

  “You’ve been real busy during your stay here, haven’t you, Jack?” Harry Pender said.

  “Yes,” Jack Rhyce said, “busy as a bird dog.”

  “And dogs have their day. Ever hear that one, Jack?”

  He fought down the frustration that was growing on him, and spoke with patience.

  “Let’s cut out the hamming, Harry,” he said, “and get down to the point.”

  “All right, Jack,” Harry Pender spoke soothingly. “We’re busy here, too, as you may have gathered—busy enough so we didn’t want Bill Gibson around, and we don’t want you, either, Jack. Do you get my drift?”

  “I get some vague idea,” Jack said. “Is it a threat or a promise, Harry?”

  There was another silence on the line, longer than the one that preceded it.

  “It’s neither, Jack,” he heard Harry Pender answer. “It’s a firm offer that we’re making.”

  His eyes encountered Mr. Moto’s half-inquisitive, half-blank stare. He felt as though a cord were being drawn tight about his head. Anybody in the business could have told what was coming.”

  “Well,” he said, “go ahead and make it. I’ve got an open mind.”

  He had been standing all that time. Now he would have reached for a chair and sat down if the Japanese had not been watching.

  “I thought you’d have an open mind, Jack.” Harry Pender said, and his voice was placatingly gentle. “That’s why I’m going to such trouble to have this little chat—because now that we’ve pooled our notes here, we know you’ve a real reputation. Skirov, for instance, knows about that job you pulled at Istanbul, and that other one in Athens. We know you’re a pro, Jack, and not someone off an analytic couch.”

  “Go ahead,” Jack said. “It could be, if I’m a pro, that I’m tracing this call, Harry.”