Thank You, Mr. Moto

by John P. Marquand

  The impression which those scrolls gave me was one which leaves no memory of exact detail, for the impression was too dramatic and too strong. It was the contrast which I remember best between the deep, lucid stillness of those pictures and the sordid, anarchistic motion around us. It did not seem possible that brush strokes on silk, the combinations of color and line should leave such an impression in such a place, yet I remember thinking that the breathless, brooding clarity was an attribute of the land and of the genius of its people; that bottomless tranquillity was a part of the mountains and the valleys of the almost endless land outside our city walls. It lay behind all the turbulence of the life, mystically, indelibly. It explained why one felt security even in periods of the greatest disturbance. I remembered listening to the city sounds from my own house at the hour of sunrise. There was always a roar of sound from a Chinese city, unfamiliar to the native of another land because the sound is human rather than mechanical. Yet always underneath that sound was the mystical silence of the pictures.

  Wu Lo Feng stood peering down at them, wrinkling his brows and puffing through his rosebud lips. He was a strange corollary to the perfection of Chinese art, but I think he was swayed by it like the most ignorant of his countrymen.

  “These are very cheap,” he said, “for two hundred thousand dollars.” Mr. Pu, still on his knees, nodded obsequiously.

  “Indeed,” said Mr. Pu, “they are cheap at any price. They are the work of the Emperor Hwei-tsung himself. Look! One has only to read the inscriptions.”

  Prince Tung spoke to me sadly:

  “You must agree with me,” he said, “that these are far too beautiful to be looked upon by any but suitable persons. They have been the treasures of ruling houses. I have never shown them to you, because, although I value your friendship, I have been afraid that your cultivation was not great enough; and now they will be taken from me, to be stared at by pale-eyed ghosts of barbarians who do not even know how to walk or speak, if you will excuse my saying so. I can truthfully remark that this is the saddest moment of my life. Will you excuse me if I turn my back?” And Prince Tung turned away.

  Mr. Takahara gazed at the pictures also. He spoke more to himself than to any of the rest of us.

  “Such work should be in Japan,” he said, “where it would be suitably cared for and properly appreciated.”

  “Yes,” said Mr. Moto, “I am very, very much ashamed of myself that I have never heard of them until this afternoon.”

  “Well,” I began. My mind was still on the pictures. I was pleased now that I had seen them, if only for a little while. I looked up from the floor toward Eleanor Joyce. “I shall tell Mr. Wu that you will be glad to buy them,” I began, “and then—”

  I stopped. I could not have finished that sentence if my life had depended upon it. My eyes were glued on Eleanor Joyce. I could not believe what I saw and I had no great wish to believe it. She was reaching out her left hand, cautiously but none the less certainly, in the direction of Wu Lo Feng. At first I believed that the gesture was unconscious, but it was not. She was reaching for the Luger pistol that hung in the holster from the General’s belt. I wanted to shout at her to stop but I seemed incapable of speech. The time element was too brief to think of anything much. I can almost think of her moving slowly, but actually she must have moved very quickly. No one noticed her at that instant.

  “Stop!” I wanted to say to her. “Stop! you fool!” But the words were choked inside me. It was too late to tell her to stop. No one noticed her until the last moment, when Mr. Moto did. As I say, this all occurred in an instant, though it seemed like a distorted, dragging length of time that I stood there, mesmerized, watching. And then I heard Mr. Moto draw in his breath sharply.

  “Ha!” said Mr. Moto. “Ha!”

  Wu Lo Feng had never conceived the possibility of such a thing any more than the rest of us, until Eleanor Joyce was snatching his pistol from his holster.

  “Tom!” Eleanor Joyce was calling to me. “Tom! Quick!” And she had Wu Lo Feng’s automatic drawn in her left hand.

  Chapter 20

  There was no time to think what a fool she had been. There was no time to think of anything. Eleanor Joyce had been asking why no one could do anything and Eleanor Joyce had done it. In a single, impetuous, uncalculated gesture she had upset all the tenuous, emotional balances.

  “You fool!” I was saying to myself. “Now we’re in for it. You’ve finished everything. We’re going to be killed.” The worst of it was that there was no time for anything, no time for consecutive thought. Yet it is curious how alert one’s senses are in such a fraction of a second. My observation had never been so keen; my impression of every detail was incontrovertibly distinct. It was as though a swiftly unrolling film had stopped, leaving all the actors poised and momentarily motionless. Wu Lo Feng was turning, probably in a flash though it did not seem so. His expression was one of incredulous astonishment, mingling with a ludicrous touch of insulted dignity. Mr. Pu on his hands and knees among the pictures looked like a grandfather playing with the children in the nursery. The man who had been helping him was scrambling for his rifle. The guard by the door was holding his rifle ready; Mr. Takahara was moving; Mr. Moto was moving; I was moving. Prince Tung was the only one who remained still. I could hear Eleanor Joyce’s voice calling:

  “Tom! Tom! Quick!”

  I was moving, not because I wished to, or even knew what to do, because I was under a compulsion. I had to move. That first instant is clear enough but the next is always vague and beyond my powers of reconstruction.

  “You fool!” my mind was still saying, “we’re in for it now.” But I must have reached Eleanor Joyce in the same instant. I have a recollection of snatching the pistol and of pushing her behind me. Then I was standing, pointing the pistol at the body of Wu Lo Feng. For a second time that night, unfamiliar though I was with its mechanism, I had a pistol in my hand. I was thinking that it was up to me to say something when I found that I was already speaking.

  “Don’t!” I was saying in Chinese. “Please not to move, Your Excellency.” But Mr. Moto was moving. I had a glimpse of him from the corner of my eye. He had seized Mr. Takahara by the throat. He was pushing Mr. Takahara into a chair. Then I was speaking again; my mind was on the guard by the door.

  “Excellency,” I was saying to Wu Lo Feng, “tell your guard not to fire. I shall certainly kill you first.”

  Wu Lo Feng was a man who was used to action and accustomed to quick decision. His shaved head snapped around to the doorway.

  “Wait!” he shouted. “Wait!” Then his head turned back to me. “Let everyone be still,” he added. His head had moved but the rest of him was motionless. He certainly believed that I would kill him and I think that he was right. His forehead puckered into an incredulous frown and the room was very still. All that I remember hearing was Wu Lo Feng’s deep breathing.

  “This is most ridiculous,” said Wu Lo Feng, “this is entirely irregular. Try to be calm. You are being very foolish.”

  I could agree with him that this was most irregular and entirely beyond my own abilities of prediction, but I was calm enough, probably out of stark terror. I have never been able to take much credit for my actions. They were all, I think, dictated by unadulterated fear. There was only one thing that was clear to my mind. In all probability I would be able to kill Wu Lo Feng before Wu Lo Feng had me killed, and Wu Lo Feng was balanced enough to recognize the fact. At the time my reasoning did not go any further, except that I was quite convinced that I would have no compunction in killing Wu Lo Feng. I definitely did not like him. I wanted to tell him that I did not like him. I wanted to tell him that he was a mad dog but instead I said:

  “Walk over to that chair, Your Excellency. Draw it back from the table and sit down in it. I shall be standing just behind you.”

  Wu Lo Feng hesitated and our glances met. Beads of perspiration were making his round head and his whole face shiny. I thought he was going to speak, but ins
tead he walked carefully to the chair and sat down. I believe he understood that I did not like him. I stood just behind him. I allowed the muzzle of his Luger pistol to touch the back of his scrawny, unwashed neck just at the base of his skull. He did not cringe away from it but I am sure he felt the coolness of the muzzle. I am sure he did not like it any more than I should have.

  “Wait, you turtle’s egg!” said Wu Lo Feng to the guard at the door. “Do not finger that rifle. Do you not see that this fool has lost his wits.”

  Then he was addressing me. He did not turn his head. “There is nothing you can do, you fool,” he remarked. “You can kill me but you will certainly be killed. Try to calm yourself. Try calmly to consider the consequences of your actions.”

  His advice was undoubtedly good. I have never tried so earnestly to think calmly and consecutively.

  “That is exactly what I wish to do,” I said. “I wish to think calmly, Your Excellency. Tell that man to set down his rifle. It makes me very nervous. Prince Tung, will you be so kind as to pick up those two weapons, and put those two men in a far corner, and make them both sit down.”

  I was thinking and Wu Lo Feng must have been thinking, too; except for an occasional glimpse about me, my sight was concentrated on the back of Wu Lo Feng’s neck and on the back of his shaven head. I could see the veins pounding in the back of his neck but his muscles were motionless.

  “Can you listen to me calmly,” Wu Lo Feng asked. The thickness in his voice indicated that he was not calm himself. “Your ancestors were turtles. Your grandmother was a fallen woman. Your male ancestors were carriers of filth.”

  I prodded him softly in the neck, not that his interpretation of my ancestry disturbed me. I should have been interested to have heard him at another time.

  “And you were a love child,” I told him. I was sufficiently diverted at being able to insult him to forget the potentialities of our situation. “Your parents lived on the offal from the city trash heaps. Keep you mouth closed unless you can be polite. Careful! Careful!” And I prodded him in the neck again. Wu Lo Feng cleared his throat.

  “You are seized with madness,” said Wu Lo Feng. “Someone will come in here at any moment. My messengers, my lieutenants. Do you not realize I am here on affairs. If someone comes in it will be the end of you.”

  I had been thinking of a possibility that seemed obvious and certain.

  “Just as soon as the door opens you will end,” I said. “It only needs the pressure of a finger.”

  There was a pause. I do not suppose that the pause lasted more than a few seconds, although it seemed much longer. He was thinking, I suppose, and I know that I was thinking desperately, without being able to arrive at any conclusion except that we had reached a stalemate. In another incarnation I once had possessed the reputation of being a good negotiator and of having a facile way of reconciling disputes between contending parties. I tried to think logically and fast, embarrassed because the whole room was waiting. Eleanor Joyce was watching me. Prince Tung and Mr. Pu on the floor, the two gurads, Mr. Moto and Mr. Takahara—all were watching me respectfully. I was relieved to see that Mr. Moto had thrust a handkerchief into Mr. Takahara’s mouth, because Mr. Takahara was held by no bonds of loyalty or fear. Eleanor Joyce, by her impetuosity, had arranged it so that I was holding the destiny of everyone in that room in my hands, tenuously, temporarily perhaps, but nevertheless certainly. I centered my thoughts upon the single obvious point which existed. The point was that I could kill Wu Lo Feng. He was astute enough to share the same conviction. He spoke again in a different tone.

  “Wait!” he said. “Wait! Let us endeavor to be sensible. I repeat to you someone may come in here at any instant. That would be bad for you and bad for me. I have been very careless. I did not suppose the young woman could commit such an indiscreet act. It was too irregular to be considered, but now I shall make you a proposal. I think I have seen enough of you. The odor of you behind me nauseates me. I shall be pleased to let you leave here safely.”

  “Will you,” I asked him. “How do I know you will?”

  “My word, of course,” said Wu Lo Feng. “You will be sensible if you abide by my sense of mercy.” He must have known that his promise was a feeble one and that his integrity could have no possible negotiable value, because he added, rather pathetically, I have often thought:

  “I declare to you that I really mean it.”

  “Think of something else,” I suggested, “or I shall think of something.” I was still trying to think of something when Mr. Moto spoke, in English, softly, like someone in a sick room, taking great care not to upset the patient:

  “Excuse me,” Mr. Moto said. “There is one thing which I think might be very, very nice. Mr. Wu Lo Feng will be reasonable, I think. If there is a demonstration to start at the railroad station, as my friend Mr. Takahara has said, there cannot be very many people waiting here. If Mr. Wu were to go to the door and open it and simply give the order for the men to start ahead—they will go in motors I presume—and if he were to add that he will follow in a moment and in the meanwhile does not wish to be disturbed, I think, don’t you, that it would be very, very nice. Of course, you must be careful of him, very, very careful. Please, I believe you can do it. He will understand that he must be truthful I think. If you would rather, you may take care of Mr. Takahara, and I shall be so glad to try. It is, of course, a suggestion; but I think it would be very nice.”

  “Thank you, Mr. Moto,” Eleanor Joyce said, and the sound of a woman’s voice just then was pleasant. “I think it is a very good plan. I am sure that Mr. Nelson can arrange it. For an amateur he seems to be doing rather well.”

  “Yes,” said Mr. Moto, “very well indeed. Mr. Nelson is very nice. I like him very, very much. And you, Miss Joyce, I like you very, very much.”

  “Get up,” I said to Wu Lo Feng, “slowly. Now walk slowly to the door. Never mind the pictures on the floor. Walk across the pictures.”

  “Yes,” said Eleanor Joyce, “never mind the pictures.”

  I walked just behind Wu Lo Feng, with a pistol prodded in his spine and I explained to him what he was to do.

  “Or if you have any ideas, use them,” I said. “I shall be glad to leave the details to Your Excellency. You must see by now how important it is to have people out of the way, and for us to be private here. If you do so you shall have my promise that I shall try to save your life.”

  Wu Lo Feng halted in front of the faded red woodwork of the door. He did not turn to look at me but he spoke emphatically:

  “It is impossible,” he said. “They will not understand.”

  “Think,” I said. “Your Excellency is an adroit man. Major Best himself has told me so. Think, if you do not want to die like Major Best.”

  “It is impossible,” said General Wu. “If everyone goes they will understand there is some mistake.”

  “Your Excellency,” I told him, “must understand that there can be no mistake. Send away as many as possible and do so in a way which I can understand, because we must have completest faith in one another.”

  I have often lived over the moment when I stood behind Wu Lo Feng when he opened the temple door. I have lived over all the imponderables which surrounded us both. They have awakened me often out of a sound sleep, to leave me staring, frightened, at the dark. Wu Lo Feng was a brave man. I know of no people who have a greater indifference than the Chinese to a certain type of danger. Wu Lo Feng was desperate and capable. I was the only person who controlled his actions. Those depended entirely upon his opinion of me and thus I could only hope that he had a higher opinion of myself than I had. I could only hope that he still clung to a certain conviction that he was very close to death, and yet at the same time had a chance for life provided he did what I told him. I had given him my promise honestly. I could only hope that he believed in my promise sufficiently not to make a dash for safety. As it happened, he must have believed it. He began to open the door.

  “Not too wide,
Excellency,” I advised him. “It would be better for no one to see me.”

  He did not open the door too wide. I dislike to think what wild temptations must have been running through him. I could feel his back quiver as I prodded it. Once I believed that he was going to make a dash for it. I am quite sure he was on the point of it but he did not. He opened the door and shouted out an order, calling a man’s name, and I could detect no anxiety in his voice. It was as loud, as unmusical, as arrogant as ever.

  “You may go ahead,” he shouted. “Have my car made ready. I shall be leaving in a moment.”

  The man had a sense of psychology. He must have known that I would be relaxed as soon as I heard him speak, and that my attention would be more on his words than on him because the instant he spoke he whirled around, with one of those strange, snakelike gestures of the Chinese boxer and slashed a fist at me. I had never known that I could be so nimble. I must have jumped back as soon as he moved. I had contrived to get just out of his reach and we were standing face to face. My pistol was still levelled at him.

  “I should not do that again,” I said. “That was unfortunate, Your Excellency. Turn around slowly and close the door.” I could hear him breathing in deep gasps as he closed it. The strain was beginning to tell on Wu Lo Feng. “And now,” I said, “walk back to your chair, and don’t startle me again. It will be better for us both.”

  Wu Lo Feng walked back and Mr. Moto addressed me as he did so.

  “Very, very nice,” said Mr. Moto, with a sibilant hiss like a tea kettle. “Oh, yes, you did that very, very nicely. I think things will be a little easier now. There will not be so much strain. I shall not suggest anything more. I see that I can safely leave negotiations in your hands.”