Thank You, Mr. Moto

by John P. Marquand

  “Doesn’t anyone know?” I asked. “The police must have heard something.” Mr. Moto shrugged his shoulders.

  “So many things have been talked about,” he said, “so many things that no one believes. This will be an incident, I think, that is very serious. The Mukden incident will be nothing compared to it. Excuse me, I am very distressed.”

  Mr. Moto’s anxiety was obvious enough to indicate that he was telling the truth and that he believed, that he was probably certain of, everything he was saying. I had lived in Peking when there had been fighting outside the city walls. I had danced more than once at parties in our foreign colony which had been held as a background of war lords’ artillery fire. We had gossiped about war lords’ proclivities at the Club, and had agreed that these things frequently happened but that there would be no disturbance in Peking. Somehow the peace of Peking was always accepted as an incontrovertible fact. Anyone who contradicted the idea was always scoffed at as an alarmist. We were all convinced that the dissensions of China would never touch us. We had been infected with the calm and the tolerance of the Chinese. Now that I was faced with the incontrovertible fact of an incident in the making, I had not lost my incredulity. I could see the complete logic of Mr. Moto’s narration. I found myself classing it with another war lord intrigue. The only thing I could not believe was that I had any part in it.

  “Do you know when this incident is going to occur?” I asked.

  “Yes, approximately,” Mr. Moto answered. “At an early hour in the coming morning, according to what I learn. I am very, very sorry that I could not know the hour.”

  “You mean to-night?” I repeated.

  “To-morrow morning,” Mr. Moto corrected me. “And now, there is one thing you did for which I am very, very sorry. You struck Wu Lo Feng, with your fist, in the face, this evening at your house. Yes, I know of that also. I am very much afraid that you have too much temper. I am very much afraid that it is an affront which Wu Lo Feng will not forget. I think he will probably take you with him to the hills when he is finished here. I hope very much that you may be recovered before it is too late.”

  My tongue and my lips felt very dry.

  “Thanks,” I said. Although I had heard him, I still could not believe that I was in this predicament.

  “But what will this man do with Mr. Nelson?” asked Eleanor Joyce. Mr. Moto coughed discreetly behind his hand.

  “Please, perhaps it will be better not to think,” he answered, “but you, Miss Joyce, you will be quite safe, I think. Wu Lo Feng will want so much to sell the pictures. He is not an ignorant peasant. Two hundred thousand American dollars will be valuable to him. Oh yes, of course, I know about the pictures.”

  Mr. Moto’s suggestion that it might be as well not to speculate upon my future was smoothly and considerately put, but a difficult one to follow. I still could not be entirely convinced that I was the person who had incurred Wu Lo Feng’s dislike by striking him in the face. Nevertheless, I could understand his point of view. He had been disgraced through my agency in the eyes of his followers. I had probably administered the form of disgrace which is most difficult to live down in the Orient. If our encounter had occurred in private he might have been eminently reasonable, but it had not. Both Eleanor Joyce and Mr. Moto were looking at me in a way that made me feel like a being apart. I tried to look unconcerned. I felt in my pocket for a cigarette.

  “Well,” I said, “it doesn’t matter, does it?” But my remark was not convincing.

  Then Eleanor Joyce asked a surprising question.

  “But why?” she asked Mr. Moto. “Why won’t he take me along too?”

  “Please,” said Mr. Moto. “There is really no fear of that. This man is really very sensible. Please, a merchant cannot be impolite to a customer. Oh yes! Everything will be very nice. You will be valuable to him safe, Miss Joyce.” Mr. Moto bowed and turned to watch the soldiers by the door.

  “Yes,” I told her, “that’s fine. It makes everything a lot better. Don’t worry. Mr. Moto is generally right.”

  “No,” said Eleanor Joyce, and there was a catch in her voice as she answered, “No, it isn’t fine.” But I did not ask her why because Prince Tung walked toward us, stroking his wispy grey mustache.

  “I think from the noise outside,” Prince Tung said, “that we are about to have a visitor. There are quite evidently a number of people outside, a crowd. You can hear them pushing. They are interested in us, I think. My ancestors were very strong men. I trust I shall not disgrace them.”

  I heard the sound to which he referred: a muttering, shuffling sound, like the noise made by an orderly crowd anxious to see an interesting spectacle. I heard someone outside give a low order. One of the guards was pulling open the side of the double door.

  “Tom,” Eleanor Joyce called to me. “Tom Nelson. I’m sorry if I’ve been nasty to you. I’m sorry.”

  She did not finish. There was a glare of white light which revealed a ring of faces staring through the open door. A man in blue clothes had entered, carrying a gasoline incandescent lantern, and the sudden intrusion of this white light was dazzling. It made the shadows of the pillars and the shadows of the religious mud figures dance. It made the doorway a spot of brilliance which framed two other figures walking through it as successfully as a spotlight on the stage. I knew the first one at once, although he was very much changed. It was the man whose acquaintance I had made in the courtyard of my house; it was Mr. Wu Lo Feng.

  Chapter 19

  He was no longer dressed in a servant’s white gown. Instead, he was arrayed to present a figure which must have represented the fulfillment of his boyhood dreams. He was dressed as a military man, in a starched khaki uniform, with red tabs on the shoulders and red tabs on the high collar, probably a uniform which marked one of his periodic services with the armies of the early republic. A Luger pistol was hanging at his belt, with its holster flap cut away so that it might be drawn the quicker. His chest glittered with medals; I have often wondered what they represented. The uniform made him tall, taller than anyone present. It brought out the gaunt, athletic lines of his figure, but his face was just as I remembered it. His hatless closely shaven head gleamed with perspiration. His cheeks were sunken, haggard almost. His narrow eyes were puckered, like the eyes of a nearsighted man. The haggard look accentuated a lump on the side of his jaw. His mouth stood out from the face, with all the incongruity I remembered, that rosebud mouth of which Major Best had spoken.

  The fallacy that all Chinese look alike has always seemed to me another of those myths which have gathered cloudily about that country ever since Marco Polo discoursed on its peculiarities. It is the same as the myth that Japanese tellers must be employed in Chinese banks because of the inherent dishonesty of the race. From another quarter it is said that Chinese tellers must be employed in Japanese banks for the same reason. Then there is the story of the conscientious Chinese tailor who copied a pair of trousers even down to the patch in the seat. These racial misconceptions are shared by the Chinese themselves. There is a universal belief in the less enlightened portions of the country, for example, that the knees of Europeans bend backward rather than forward. The belief that all Chinese look alike falls into a similar category. You would have been convinced of this if you had seen Wu Lo Feng that evening. There are different marks of character upon Oriental features due to different tradition—that is all.

  Anyone who might have had the bad fortune to have encountered Wu Lo Feng that evening, with the white gasoline light clear on him, would have understood that he was observing a very exceptional man. The face, the bony face of generations of poor farmers, had been refined by inexpressible suffering and degradation into an example of exceptional survival. There was room for brains in the high, narrow, close-shaven skull. The eyes were frankly calculating, frankly curious, serenely unclouded by any civilized compunctions of conscience or charity. The jaw, in spite of the incongruous mouth, belonged to the man of action. It was the jaw of a H
indenburg, or a Pershing, or a Foch. I can think of Wu Lo Feng now as rather splendid, rather overpowering. When his glance met mine I felt distinctly shaky. It was an interested, probing glance and there were no words behind it. He walked into the centre of the room and stopped and his decorative lips pouted slightly, thoughtfully and mirthlessly.

  His presence made one unaware for the moment of the man who was with him, exactly as one momentarily accepts the presence of the pilot fish about the shark behind the plate glass of an aquarium, without doing more than accept it. I remember that I had to remove my gaze with a conscious effort from the tall man in the khaki uniform to his companion. When I did so, I realized that his companion was also exceptional. He was a Japanese, dressed in a tropical worsted suit whose cut reminded one of an American business man’s clothing. He was a man who was strange to me, and my first impression was of his physical frailty. His body must have been skin and bones beneath the worsted suit. The face, lined and nervous, was emaciated, almost skull-like; his upper teeth protruded over a receding lower jaw. It was the face of a man, probably a soldier, who had been severely, almost mortally, wounded once, and his left hand confirmed the impression. His left hand was badly deformed from some wound and was minus three fingers, leaving only the little finger and a thumb. I remember that he held a lighted cigarette between the thumb and little finger. The frailty was not impressive in itself; there was a feverish glow in the frailty, a sense of will power inside it, that was burning that inconspicuous man as if with a high, perpetual fever. I can shut my eyes still and bring back the parchmentlike pallor of the tight drawn skin over his cheek bones. I can still see his uneven, protruding teeth. He was the first one who spoke. He spoke in the rather whispering voice of a consumptive, and to my surprise he spoke in English.

  “How do you do?” he said and bowed. There is nothing in the world as perfect as a Japanese bow. There is a dramatic timing in the way the head droops that invokes an indefinable impression of courtesy and modesty and pride. His glowing, dark eyes were examining all of us, intently and enigmatically.

  Mr. Moto was the one who answered. I had always thought of Mr. Moto as being a high strung man, but he was solid and adjusted compared to his fellow countryman.

  “Good evening, Mr. Takahara,” Mr. Moto said. “I thought you would be here.”

  Then I remembered. This was the man of whom Mr. Moto had spoken. So had Major Best. Mr. Moto did not say it was very nice. It was plain that Mr. Moto felt that Mr. Takahara’s presence portended something diametrically the opposite.

  “Yes, I am here,” said Mr. Takahara. “In a few minutes you and I will step outside for conversation, Mr. Moto. I am sure you understand.”

  “Yes,” said Mr. Moto, “perfectly.”

  “I am sorry,” Mr. Takahara said softly, “that we are not of the same political persuasion. And this lady and this gentleman—they are the two Americans? My name is Takahara, sir. I was in your great country once at the Washington Naval Conference. America and Japan are friends. I am sorry that a misunderstanding should be existing here to-night.”

  I bowed to Mr. Takahara and he bowed in return. Curiously enough, this exchange of courtesies did not seem out of place.

  “Mr. Takahara is very kind,” I said, “I am a great admirer of his country. I gather, Mr. Takahara, that you are one of the more advanced imperialists.”

  “Yes,” said Mr. Takahara. “I am so sorry we have no time to talk, because I have heard that you are a reasonable, interesting man. I am so sorry. Mr. Wu Lo Feng says that he will have need of you later. You and I are men of the world enough to know that accidents will happen. I am so sorry. I speak in English so that you will understand my position. Thank you.”

  “Thank you,” I repeated.

  Wu Lo Feng bawled out an order to the guards. His voice boomed jovially through the room.

  “Why are these people not tied up?” he shouted. “Have two men to hold this foreigner. I am going to teach him something.”

  Mr. Takahara answered quickly in Chinese: “No,” he said, “not now, General, you forget.”

  “Very well.” Wu Lo Feng shrugged his heavy shoulders. “I can wait. This room will do. Bring in two chairs and a table and tapers. We will start off the messages.”

  Mr. Takahara raised his deformed left hand and examined a wrist watch.

  “Yes,” he answered, “this will do. Headquarters can be here, I think. There is not much time.” Wu Lo Feng frowned at him. Two men were bringing in a table and two chairs. Wu Lo Feng let his belt out two notches, shifting his pistol holster on his side, and sat down. Mr. Takahara sat down also and the lantern was placed on the table between them.

  “First,” said Mr. Takahara, “we shall send runners to the mustering points. The arms will be issued; it is time to do so, I think.”

  Still frowning at Mr. Takahara, Wu Lo Feng leaned back in his chair, and again his voice boomed out:

  “Please not to forget,” he said, “I have conducted these matters before. You Japanese may control the provinces but I am not to be controlled. I can be hired but not controlled. Do you understand me, Mr. Takahara?”

  “I understand you,” said Mr. Takahara, “as long as you do what you have promised.” Mr. Wu pursed his rosebud lips, his forehead creased with wrinkles, and he stared at Mr. Takahara insolently, with an active sort of dislike.

  “Then do not talk,” he said, “you are talking too much. You are annoying me and I do not like to be annoyed. You have seemed to be giving me orders to-night. Well, these men of mine take my orders and not yours. You are here as my guest. You are not even armed, Mr. Takahara. You are talking to Wu Lo Feng, who has seen more fighting than you have. I tell you again to be quiet. I am conducting this affair.”

  Mr. Takahara answered softly:

  “Do not disturb yourself,” he answered, “I never carry a weapon. I shall not forget anything you say.”

  Wu Lo Feng half rose from his chair and banged his fist on the table.

  “And do not forget,” he shouted, “that I am familiar with your methods. I know how far to trust you. You have given me money and assistance. That is all I have wanted. I know how to treat men who have betrayed me. Do you remember Major Best?”

  “Please attend to the business you have undertaken,” Mr. Takahara said, “and first, there are only two guards by the door. I should have more guards.”

  Wu Lo Feng laughed coarsely. He laughed and pounded his hand on the table. There was a reek of rice wine about him which told me that he had been drinking, but not to excess.

  “They told me you were brave,” he said, “and now I know they lied. You are a woman. You are afraid of this miserable countryman of yours, and of a debauched Manchu, and of an American woman and a man. If I had the proper weapons my boys could exterminate any Japanese Army that comes here. You think I am afraid with this courtyard full of former Chinese soldiers? No. I am not afraid. I have never been afraid of anything.”

  Wu Lo Feng looked at us and grinned. He had the bluster of a character in a Chinese play and I knew his type. I had seen war lords in Peking before; some had been small, quiet men but others had been arrogant egotists, exactly like Wu Lo Feng. He had all the overbearing pride and conceit of a self-made business man. He was the captain of his own industry and the master of his own soul.

  “Yes,” said Wu Lo Feng, “I shall conduct this business by myself. I know exactly when the guns you have supplied me will open fire against the wall. I know everything and there is time enough.” Mr. Wu paused and rested his broad hands on the table. Anyone could tell that he was pleased with himself. He called to me by my Chinese name.

  “Step nearer here,” he said, “I think I can make use of you. I wish you to explain something to, this woman, your countryman. You will tell her honestly what I say, I think. You do not wish her to come to any harm, I think. Many of your women are very delicate. Once, some years ago, I captured three Russian women when I raided a town to the North. They were not beautiful. I
think all your women are very ugly but I saved them out of curiosity. I had to kill them finally because they could not stand the travel.” He looked at Eleanor Joyce and then looked back at me. “Tell her truthfully what I say, please,” he said.

  I looked at Wu Lo Feng carefully. I was anxious to learn as much of him as I could because there is always a chance at such a time that something may be gained by temporizing talk. The most dangerous situations in China sometimes evaporate mistily in a cloud of words.

  “What do you wish to tell the young woman?” I asked him.

  Wu Lo Feng grunted. It has been said that there is always a touch of the shopkeeper in a Chinese bandit; as he framed the words of his next speech his manner grew suave.

  “I wish to tell her nothing that she will not like,” he said. “It was due to your meddling that she is here at all. Did Major Best tell you of the pictures? He demanded them in payment for his work; then he turned traitor. The young virgin wishes to buy them. I am pleased to have her buy them. Money is important to me. This life of mine cannot go on forever. A man in my position must retire. In a year, I trust that I shall be safe in Shanghai with sufficient property. I wish the money for those pictures, which I understand are very good. Mr. Pu is already looking for them. If he cannot find them I think Prince Tung will tell us where they are. Will you not, Prince Tung?”