Thank You, Mr. Moto

by John P. Marquand

  “A difficult matter of disguise, as you say,” Prince Tung said placidly, “but at the same time possible. Both the Bachelor of Arts and the tortoise stopped at an inn outside this gate. ‘It will be your fortune to see the Emperor,’ the tortoise said, ‘because you will take a first degree in your examination. When you see the Emperor will you do me a favor? Will you please to ask him when I may come into the city and go up for my examination?’ Matters came to pass exactly as the tortoise had predicted. The scholar took a first degree, and when he came back to the gate again he stopped to see the tortoise. You understand that he had the interests of the city at heart?”

  “Yes,” I said, “naturally I understand.” I said it, but as I listened to the folk tale I could almost agree with Eleanor Joyce that we were both a little mad, although the madness seemed quite natural.

  “And the scholar said to the tortoise,” continued Prince Tung, “‘The Emperor sent you this message. When the gong on the East Straight Gate is struck it will indicate that you are summoned for your examination.’ You understand the significance of this, of course? It is hardly necessary to add that the scholar in all haste repaired to the suitable officials. The gong on the East Straight Gate was removed and the bell was set up in its place. Thus the tortoise is still waiting outside the gate, and thus he has not been offended. You understand how important all this was.”

  In spite of myself my mind was wandering. There were sounds outside the temple door of footsteps and voices. “What did you say?” I asked absent-mindedly. “Perhaps I don’t understand after all, I’m sorry.” Prince Tung surely must have heard the voices too but he gave no sign of interest. He smiled at me mockingly and rubbed his hands together.

  “I regret that I have outstripped your great knowledge of our country,” he said. “I had taken it for granted that you would be completely acquainted with our symbolism.” The tortoise is the sign of floods, thus one could naturally not let him into the city, and at the same time one could not offend him. And now my story is over at exactly the right moment. See? The main temple door is opening.”

  The two guards by the door straightened and had put their rifles at a rough imitation of European port arms. I do not know what I expected to see come through the door but certainly not what I saw. Three men entered carrying a fourth, bound and gagged, just as we had been. They tossed him on the floor, untied his ropes, turned and walked out.

  “They’ve brought someone else,” said Eleanor Joyce. It was an idiotic remark but I did not tell her so. I was gazing at the figure on the mud floor. It was a small man, in a light grey business suit which was torn in several places and spattered with mud. For a moment I could not see his face because a bandage was still across his eyes. His head was bleeding from a scalp wound and he was lying motionless. The guards by the door stared at him placidly. They made no objection when I walked over to him. I put my hand beneath his head and pulled the gag from his mouth. The man was a Japanese but even before I took the bandage from his eyes I knew who he was and so did Eleanor Joyce.

  “It’s Mr. Moto!” she said.

  Chapter 18

  “Moto,” I was saying, “do you hear me, Moto?” It was Mr. Moto sure enough.

  I got my arm beneath his shoulders and sat him up. It was easy enough because he must have weighed less than a hundred pounds. I took my handkerchief and wiped the blood from the scalp wound on his head. As I did so, Mr. Moto opened his eyes and drew in his breath with a sharp, conventional hiss. He recognized me at once, and Mr. Moto had his manners too, as good in their way as Prince Tung’s. His dark eyes flickered.

  “Thank you,” he said, “thank you so very much. I am sorry to have troubled you, sorry to have spoiled your handkerchief. Good evening, Mr. Nelson. I am so sorry to see you here, very, very sorry. Will you help me to my feet, please? Thank you, now I am quite recovered.”

  “Are you recovered enough,” I asked, “to tell us what we are here for?”

  If Mr. Moto was in pain his expression did not show it. The gold fillings of his teeth glittered in a mechanical smile and he pressed my handkerchief softly to the side of his head.

  “Certainly,” said Mr. Moto, “I can tell you. It was what I suspected, but now I am quite sure. Thank you for the handkerchief, so very, very much. Sometime, Mr. Nelson, I hope very, very much that I may buy you another, please. Yes, I shall tell you why we are here. I think, I am almost sure, that a man named Wu Lo Feng believes that we all know that he is proposing an outlaw military demonstration in Peking. Being afraid we might tell of it he brought us here. He killed Major Best for the same reason. Why he did not kill the rest of us I cannot quite imagine. I have no doubt we shall know however very, very soon.”

  When Mr. Moto with sharp, staccato words ceased, Prince Tung did a surprising thing, yet not so surprising if one is familiar with the Chinese point of view. The Prince walked toward the door and spoke to one of the guards.

  “We have not had tea,” he said. “We are fatigued, we desire some tea.”

  The guard stared at him stupidly, then he opened the door a crack and bawled into the dark outside:

  “Tea,” he said, “the prisoners desire tea.” And strange as it may seem, a man appeared a minute later with a pot of tea and four cups.

  “That is much better,” said Prince. Tung. “Now we shall be more comfortable, I think.”

  Prince Tung placed the blue wire-handled teapot upon the dusty altar. He looked like a temple attendant as he poured out four cups of tea. He glanced at Mr. Moto with placid and resigned recognition. “You have the advantage of me,” he said, “in being able to speak the excellent though rather limited language of the West. No doubt you were explaining something to our excellent friend Mr. Nelson. Could it be that you might be gracious enough to repeat it to me, in my own poor language, simply to satisfy my own curiosity, not that it will do much good? This tea is wretched, but at least it is quite warm.” Mr. Moto mopped at his head again.

  “His Excellency has been an enemy of ours for a long while,” he said in Mandarin, “but I shall be glad to tell him.” I handed Eleanor Joyce a cup of tea while he was speaking. She had evidently understood the significance of Mr. Moto’s explanation, short though it had been. I tried to say something calm and cheerful.

  “It looks as though we were caught up in a little war,” I said. “Such things have happened in outlying provinces but I never expected to see anything like it here. We always think that nothing will happen.” She looked frightened and I did not want her to be afraid.

  “Do you really mean that bandits have got into Peking?” she asked.

  “It looks that way,” I said. “That’s what comes of buying casual works of art. That’s why you are here to-night.”

  The color came back to her cheeks. “Well,” she said, “it’s a chance I took. I guess I can stand it if you can. You are calm enough about it. Are you always so calm about everything?”

  I shrugged my shoulders and drank my tea. As a matter of fact I was far from feeling calm. The significance of what was happening was a good deal clearer to me than it was to her, and there was no use disturbing her with the significance. Mr. Moto had thrown nearly the last ray of light upon complications which were now becoming simple. My legal training had shown me before that the most involved human combinations grow geometrically plain once the motives are revealed. This gradual elucidation was absorbing enough to make me half forgetful of where I was, now that the cards were falling on the table. The figure of a single man whom I had only seen for a moment stood in the shadows behind those motives; the half-mythical, dreamlike figure appealing strongly to any height of the imagination; the man with the rosebud mouth, the kissable mouth; the bandit chief named Wu Lo Feng. He was not there but he was somewhere just outside, almost the last of the unknown quantities. Just now he held all of us in the hollow of his undoubtedly grimy hand, a clever man, an able man, as Major Best had said. Each moment I experienced a growing respect for the abilities and the motiv
es of Mr. Wu Lo Feng. I had respect enough to realize that I was perspiring clammily. He had killed Major Best because the Major, through some past acquaintance, knew what he was doing. He had tried to kill me because he had thought that the Major had told me the secret. Now he had caught all four of us because he thought that we all knew it. If the secret involved an uprising inside the city, I did not blame him for his caution.

  We were all there for different reasons, each because of his own motives. Mr. Moto and Prince Tung were glancing at each other covertly, the last of the old China and the beginning of the new. Prince Tung set down his teacup. There was one thing which each of those two shared in common—admirable self-control.

  “Mr. Moto was graciously explaining,” Prince Tung said. “Now that he is apprehended the result can only be highly serious. It does not seem to me possible that Mr. Moto, or any of us, can be allowed to escape alive. If Mr. Moto comes free from here he will hardly forget the indignity. He and his government will pursue the man who insulted them like a mad dog. Americans may be insulted but not the Japanese. If I were Wu Lo Feng I should certainly feel that the least embarrassing thing would be to dispose of all of us. I am sure Mr. Moto agrees.”

  Mr. Moto nodded. “Yes,” he said. “I believe the Prince is right,” and he smiled at me almost apologetically. “This, of course, is in my line of duty, but I am sorry that Mr. Nelson and the young lady should be here. I am very, very sorry. Affairs in the Orient are so complicated to-day. They grow so difficult, if you will pardon my saying so, please, because of the suspicions of your country, Mr. Nelson; and because of the suspicions of certain European nations regarding the natural aspirations of my own people.” Mr. Moto spoke precisely and academically, as though he were lecturing to a class. “Yes,” he said, “these suspicions make the most harmless activities of my country very, very difficult. A disturbance happens, anywhere in China, and my nation is always blamed for it. It is hard; very, very hard. Did not your own great country seize a large part of Mexico in the past century, Mr. Nelson? And what of Britain’s colonizing efforts? The British Empire has always held out a helping hand to distressed and backward nations. Yet if my own poor country tries in the most altruistic way to settle even the smallest Chinese difficulty, there are notes of protest and inflammatory passages in the press. It is very, very hard. Believe me, Mr. Nelson, our policy at present is not to interfere in the internal troubles of China. We are scrupulously careful not to be identified in any disturbance, but you do not believe me, do you, Mr. Nelson?”

  The conversation had been strange enough, as strange it seemed to me as the conversation at the Mad Hatter’s tea party. First, there had been the tale of the tortoise outside the East Straight Gate, and now Mr. Moto was speaking earnestly, forgetful of his bleeding head, of the aspirations of Japan.

  “Then why are you involved in this?” I asked him gently. “Why are you here this evening, with a broken head, if you are not interested in the internal affairs of China?”

  Mr. Moto appeared momentarily embarrassed by my question. He frowned and drew in his breath.

  “Shall we all be frank?” he suggested. “I cannot see what harm it will do to be frank. There is, Mr. Nelson, a disturbing, radical element in my country; even your great nation has disturbing political elements, does it not? There is a group in my country, somewhat bigoted and fanatical. It feels our nation is not moving fast enough. Frankly, this group has been a source of very bad annoyance. My mission out here has been to curb its activities. I am very much afraid that certain of my more radical, impetuous countrymen are instigating this Wu Lo Feng in the very bad step he is taking. Then there will be another incident, engineered by Japan, exactly what is so undesirable. Yes, I am afraid there are certain of my countrymen behind this. I have failed in preventing their rash action. Therefore I think that they will kill me. I do hope that you understand me now.” Mr. Moto smiled at me brilliantly and then he added: “If they do not kill me, at any rate having failed I shall have to kill myself.”

  Prince Tung listened with mild and sympathetic interest, and looked thoughtfully at the dark shadows of the rafters.

  “Mr. Moto has been most considerate to tell us so much,” he said: “For my part, if there were not guards here, and if I had a sufficient length of rope, I think that I should strangle myself. It would be quite the most correct way out of this predicament. I have never felt so cold, uncomfortable or confused.”

  I spoke to Mr. Moto urgently, angrily, in English: “Moto,” I said. “You are a man. You are a brave man. There are only two guards here. If we could get their rifles away from them we might do something.”

  Mr. Moto laughed and patted my arm affectionately. “I expected you to say that,” he replied. “But excuse me, I am not feeling very well just now, and it would not do any good. The courtyard is full of men waiting to have weapons passed to them. Besides, do you hear the noise outside? I believe that our friend, Mr. Wu, will be with us in a moment.”

  The doors of the pavilion were thin enough to admit every sound outside. These sounds had told me long ago, without my being able to see, that there were a good many men lounging outside the doors. There was that peculiar undercurrent of coughing, chuckling, whispering and spitting which one associates with a patient and waiting Chinese group. It was the sound I had heard a hundred times before, in the yards of Chinese inns at night, when mule drivers and travellers gathered in small squatting circles around their teapots and their minute flagons of wine. It was the patient, orderly sound, like the background of everyday China, but it always had a portentous note, a half distinguishable undertone which might rise into hysteria and desperation only to return again to murmuring placidity. Now, as Mr. Moto reminded me, this lapping tide of talk outside, which had whispered in our ears like the sounds in the convolutions in a seashell, had changed perceptibly. A ripple of tenseness and excitement came from the courtyard into our dusky shed in an invisible, radiant wave. Voices grew louder, like the chatter of disturbed birds about to rise in flight. I heard several voices saying “Quiet,” and everything was quiet enough outside, but still there was a change. I was listening, wondering what was going on, when Eleanor Joyce spoke to me.

  “If Mr. Moto won’t do anything you can count on me,” she said:

  “For what?” I asked her. She made a quick, impatient gesture.

  “For helping to get out of here, of course. That suggestion you just made to Mr. Moto is almost the first concrete piece of common sense I have ever heard out of you. I am surprised that you didn’t say that it doesn’t matter, does it? Please try to be sensible. I haven’t understood half of what you are saying. I suppose you have been trying to keep everything from me. Well, don’t, I know enough. I can see that Prince Tung and Mr. Moto are scared to death, for instance.”

  Mr. Moto gave a horrified start. “Please,” he said, “you are mistaken, please, it is not so. I be afraid? Oh no—please.”

  “No,” I said. “Mr. Moto is not afraid, he only means to commit suicide. He is only afraid of being disgraced.”

  Eleanor Joyce snatched my handkerchief from Mr. Moto’s hand.

  “Come here,” she said, “and let me tie this around your head.”

  “Thank you,” said Mr. Moto politely. “Thank you very much.”

  “And now,” said Eleanor Joyce again, “let’s try to be sensible. If we know some facts we may be able to do something. How can a lot of ragamuffins capture a large city like this, Mr. Moto? It’s nonsense and I don’t believe it.”

  Mr. Moto shook his bandaged head. I should have been amused by the conversation at another time. Even then it was momentarily diverting to see Eleanor Joyce’s practicality encountering the unshaken logic of the Orient.

  “Excuse me,” said Mr. Moto, “American ladies are very impetuous. I know because I have observed them once when I spent a year in domestic service in your very lovely country, Miss Joyce. American women feel they can do everything. I think their men protect them perhaps too muc
h. No, Miss Joyce, excuse me. I am so sorry to say that this idea of creating a disturbance is feasible. My investigations have shown it even before Major Best was about to call this matter to my attention. My investigations have taught me that the preparations here were very, very careful. I think that Major Best did most of it himself. He was once a very good member of the English Army Intelligence before he was made to resign.”

  Eleanor Joyce looked startled and I could sympathize with her, because the shade of Jameson Best had never entirely left me.

  “What?” I exclaimed. “You mean to tell me that Major Best was in with Mr. Wu? He couldn’t have been. He told me the other night—”

  Mr. Moto touched my arm again. “Your people have a very nice word for it,” he answered. “You have such apt words in your vocabulary. Double-cross I think you say, please. I think that Major Best was in partnership with Mr. Wu. He arranged the importation of weapons and of the selection of strategic meeting points. There were several maps in his desk, he was to be paid well for it. Oh yes, the Major would have been rich. Among other things he was to be given eight pictures. I think you know them please, Miss Joyce?”

  Eleanor Joyce nodded.

  “I am very, very pleased that you are interested,” Mr. Moto said. “Major Best then had a thought, a nice thought. He thought that it might be better to sell to me also—so he might get everything—yes? Besides, I knew several things about the Major which might have made him unhappy. I think he would not have liked it if he had given me full information. He was about to tell me all arrangements and then he died. I am so very sorry.”

  “Never mind about being sorry. Go on,” I said. It was a revelation to see Mr. Moto in such a loquacious mood and I know that he must have considered the situation hopeless to have told so much.

  “Certainly,” he continued. “I shall be pleased to go on, very, very pleased. You have a military word for what they do. Infiltration, is it not? For the last month Wu Lo Feng has had a concentration of disbanded soldiers at a spot out in the hills. A few of them have been coming dressed as peasants through the city gates, a few one day, a few the next. My people had suspected this for a long time but it has been very well done. I was able to acquire knowledge on the last of the arrangement only to-night, when I was struck on the head from behind. Yes, it is not nice. There are certain concentration points in the city. There are several field guns they have assembled in the Chinese city. At a given hour they will throw shells at the city wall. While the police are demoralized there will be outbreaks at several points. Wu Lo Feng himself will be in charge. You think it is audacious, yes? But it is very, very possible. There will be a great deal of upset, a very great deal of pillage. Before there is resistance, Wu Lo Feng—he goes. He runs away.”