Thank You, Mr. Moto

by John P. Marquand

  “The pictures?” she asked. And she looked as though her mind were on something else. “It is just as well he spoke of them. I am not very proud of what I have done about those pictures. I understand a good deal more about them than I did. Tell Prince Tung I had no idea they were going to be stolen from him. Tell him I am very much ashamed. The pictures are his, of course. Tell him I should not think of trying to buy them from him. They should be owned by someone like Prince Tung. I can understand why you did not like it when you heard I was trying to buy them. You see, I never really knew what it implied. I am sorry about it, Tom. I am through with all that, really. I am a sadder and wiser girl to-night.”

  I was pleased with her reaction. I knew that I had something to do with her making that decision, and it seemed to me eminently a just one. If she had changed me momentarily, I had changed her also. I explained the matter to Prince Tung, delicately, eloquently, because, I thought, being a man of essentially cultivated instincts, that the Manchu nobleman would share my pleasure. I wanted him to see that we were not all barbarians, not all of us bent on pillage. As I explained, I was surprised to see Prince Tung puff out his cheeks and exhale his breath loudly.

  “What?” he said. “She does not wish to buy my pictures? But this is quite impossible.”

  “No,” I answered patiently. “Miss Joyce has delicate sentiments. Foreigners sometimes have, Your Excellency; not frequently, but sometimes. There are some of us who do not wish to take what is rare and beautiful from your country. Some of us—but not many.”

  “But this is impossible,” said Prince Tung again. “It is beyond all the lines of logic. A little while ago she desired the pictures. What has happened to them since that she does not desire them? This is very terrible. This is distressing. I begin to be ill. It is essential that she buy my seven pictures for one hundred and seventy-five thousand American dollars.”

  I stared at the Prince, without speaking, because his reasoning was beyond me.

  “Why?” I asked, at length.

  “I do not see why you have to ask,” said Prince Tung almost testily, “for a simple explanation. If she does not take these pictures every thief in the City will know of them now. Every thief in the City will break into my wretched house, as they did this very night. Do you think that villain, Pu, will allow me to keep them? Besides,” Prince Tung’s voice became confiding, “I had no idea that these objects had such a great value. That wretch, my steward, tried to sell them a year ago, and he had the effrontery to tell me that they would fetch almost nothing. Besides, it is only correct that I should make a generous gesture. Tell the young virgin, please, that I cannot disappoint her and tell her to place the funds safely in a Shanghai banking institution which is run by English.”

  “I am afraid I do not understand,” I said. “I thought that you valued your pictures.”

  Prince Tung waved his delicate hand in a polite but hopeless gesture.

  “There is so much, my valued friend, that you do not understand,” he said, “that I am discouraged by your ignorance. I do value my pictures to the extent of the price that is offered.”

  It was up to me to explain to Eleanor Joyce Prince Tung’s mingled sentiments, but I did not know how to explain them lucidly. Instead of framing some adequate explanation, my mind had turned away from Prince Tung and his difficulties about his pictures; the voluble, mercurial chatter of Prince Tung had done something to me that was only half explicable. I know now that it was only the last of a succession of experiences which had been combining over a period of time to change me. Eleanor Joyce, my servant Yao, Prince Tung and Mr. Moto all were in it. They had all conspired to shatter my confidence in my well being. The result made me lonely. It confirmed my reluctant conviction that things would never be quite as they had been before. I had felt that I was a part of the city of Peking; now I knew that this conviction had been illusion, and that I would never be a part of it. I could see myself as others may have seen me, certainly as Eleanor Joyce had seen me—a stranger in a strange country, living in a fool’s Paradise; and I could see myself as something uglier than that. I could see myself as one of those misfits who cumber the earth, like spoiled children, incapable of adjustment to the life where they were placed and indulging instead in illusory futilities of existence which certainly were no part of life. I could see myself as one of those unfortunates, unable to face incontrovertible fact, constantly escaping from reality, and at the same time endeavoring to gain applause. That vision of myself made me lonely, empty. More than that, it filled me with distaste.

  I do not say that this train of ideas came to my mind just then in any sort of logical sequence. The thing which I experienced was more of an emotion than an idea and the emotion had a personification. It was personified by Eleanor Joyce. I wondered why I had not realized before that she was something which I had always wanted. She stood for something which my own inadequacy had told me I would never have. And now, something had made her worth everything else. She had been strong enough to be herself without any affectation. She had conceded nothing. I had entirely forgotten Prince Tung and his pictures.

  “Eleanor,” I said, and stopped, amazed at and distrustful of the impulse that was making me speak.

  “What is it, Tom?” she asked.

  I looked around the room and cleared my throat. I looked at Prince Tung who was pouring himself a cup of tea. I looked at the blue and red and green patterns on the rafters and at my red lacquer desk and at the paper windows, and then I looked at Eleanor Joyce. She was not the sort that ever would go native.

  “What is it, Tom?” she said again, “aren’t you feeling well?”

  I was not. I doubt if one ever is when one is struggling with emotion.

  “Eleanor,” I said, “do you think that I amount to anything?”

  “Don’t be stupid,” she answered. “Of course I think you do.” I was humbly grateful to her for her opinion and I wanted to tell her so, but instead I said:

  “Eleanor, let’s get out of here.”

  “Out where? What do you mean?” she asked. It would have taken me a long while to have explained to her exactly what I meant. I waved my hand in a helpless circle that embraced the objects in the room.

  “You have rather broken this thing up for me,” I said. “Don’t ask me how, because I couldn’t answer you. I don’t even know what I mean exactly, but you’ve broken this thing up. If I stayed here, I’d keep thinking of you. Last night I had a letter. They want me to come back. They want me back at home.”

  “Well, why don’t you go?” she said. Her expression was curious. I believe she knew perfectly well what I was trying to say.

  “I can’t go. I won’t, unless you go too,” I answered.

  She was smiling at me. “Is this serious?” she asked.

  “Yes,” I said. “Damned serious.”

  Her smile grew broader. “That’s the clumsiest proprosal I’ve ever had,” she said. “And not so dreadfully complimentary, either.”

  “Well,” I said, “it doesn’t matter, does it?”

  “No,” she said. “I don’t suppose it does. I shall be delighted to get out of here. Thank you for suggesting it.”

  Then Prince Tung was speaking. He had set down his cup of tea and his voice chimed inopportunely into our discussion.

  “I trust you have explained about the pictures,” he said. “And that everything is satisfactory.”

  “It is not so,” I told him. “My mind wandered. I was not speaking about the pictures. I have asked Miss Joyce to marry me.”

  Prince Tung raised a delicate hand and dropped it back on his knee.

  “But I do not understand,” he said. “This is inconsequential. Surely this is not a way even your peculiar people embark on such a problem. Why do you wish to marry her?”

  “Because I love her,” I said.

  “That is one thing,” said Prince Tung. “Personally I have loved many women. Marriage is another.”

  It occurred to me that I had
forgotten something.

  “Excuse me,” I said to Prince Tung. “There is something I must tell the lady.” And I spoke to Eleanor Joyce.

  “Eleanor,” I said. “I love you.”

  “I know you do,” she answered. “It’s lucky for you I know it.” Then I was kissing her, without having known that I was going to. And I heard Prince Tung saying:

  “This is amazing. I do not understand.”

  And I did not understand whether circumstances had altered me or whether I had altered circumstances. There was no opportunity just then to apologize or to explain my actions to Prince Tung, because my servant Yao appeared in the courtyard doorway in a clean, white, cotton gown.

  “The Japanese, Mr. Moto, is approaching,” he said, “and refreshment will be ready in a few minutes. I trust the master is comfortable. I trust the master is pleased with his servant.”

  “Don’t disturb yourself,” I told him. “Words cannot express my pleasure.” I did not care to express exactly what I felt about him. I actually felt kindly toward him, although I knew he was a rascal. I felt kindly toward the Orient and toward the Western world.

  Mr. Moto appeared, exactly as he had promised. Although he must have been very busy since I had seen him last, he had found time to wash and change. He was dressed in a fresh black and white checked suit. Its pattern was blatantly large, selected, I imagine, from some idea that it represented the height of European fashion. Mr. Moto’s smile was broader than I have ever seen it. It was evident that he was very, very pleased.

  “Everything is nice,” said Mr. Moto. “Very, very nice.” He rubbed his hands together as though he were warming them before the fire. “There will be no incident to-night. Everything is very, very calm. Have you some whiskey, my dear chap? Good whiskey for good friends, what? Here is looking at you, what? Yes. Everything is very, very nice. No, there will be no disturbance. The police here are not bad. The City will be under martial law to-morrow morning but you shall have a pass, of course. And Miss Joyce, of course. But if it is convenient, I think Miss Joyce should stay here for a little while, although I am afraid it may not be quite proper.”

  “Thank you,” said Miss Joyce. “As long as Mr. Nelson is sure he wants me.”

  Mr. Moto bowed and took a long sip from his whiskey glass.

  “I am very grateful to you,” he said. “You have not helped only me to-night, but what is more important, you have helped my country. It would have been serious just now if anything should have happened. It would have interfered with other plans which are more practical. I cannot explain. Please do not ask me to explain.”

  I knew better than to ask him. But. there was one thing that worried me.

  “But what has happened to Wu Lo Feng and Mr. Takahara?” I asked him. “Did you catch them before they got loose? They must have got away.”

  Mr. Moto’s smile grew broader. I was reminded again that the smile of a Japanese does not necessarily denote humor. It may be used equally well to cover up embarrassment and pain. Mr. Moto’s smile was purely mechanical, purely a piece of politeness.

  “Oh,” he said. “I am very, very sorry but they will make no more trouble. You see—” Mr. Moto rubbed his hands together, “that is why I was delayed when we were leaving that room to-night. I was so sorry I could not come directly when you called—so very sorry.”

  “How do you mean?” I asked him. I was sorry myself the moment I asked because I should have known the answer.

  Mr. Moto’s eyes were on me, narrow and inscrutable. “Of course,” he said, “Mr. Takahara could not live. Although I was very, very sorry. It was different with Wu Lo Feng. He might have been very, very useful to me under certain circumstances. But then I considered that he might be difficult for you. So I was obliged to liquidate them. Do not thank me. I am so very grateful. I am so very glad. He was not a very nice man. But shall we talk of something pleasant?”

  Eleanor Joyce walked toward him and held out her hand.

  “Yes,” she said, “let’s. Thank you, Mr. Moto.”

  About the Author

  John P. Marquand (1893–1960) was a Pulitzer Prize–winning author, proclaimed “the most successful novelist in the United States” by Life magazine in 1944. A descendant of governors of the Massachusetts Bay Colony, shipping magnates Daniel Marquand and Samuel Curzon, and famed nineteenth-century writer Margaret Fuller, Marquand always had one foot inside the blue-blooded New England establishment, the focus of his social satire. But he grew up on the outside, sent to live with maiden aunts in Newburyport, Massachusetts, the setting of many of his novels, after his father lost the once-considerable family fortune in the crash of 1907. From this dual perspective, Marquand crafted stories and novels that were applauded for their keen observation of cultural detail and social mores.

  By the 1930s, Marquand was a regular contributor to the Saturday Evening Post, where he debuted the character of Mr. Moto, a Japanese secret agent. No Hero, the first in a series of bestselling spy novels featuring Mr. Moto, was published in 1935. Three years later, Marquand won the Pulitzer Prize for Fiction for The Late George Apley, a subtle lampoon of Boston’s upper classes. The novels that followed, including H.M. Pulham, Esquire (1941), So Little Time (1943), B.F.’s Daughter (1946), Point of No Return (1949), Melvin Goodwin, USA (1952), Sincerely, Willis Wayde (1955), and Women and Thomas Harrow (1959), cemented his reputation as the preeminent chronicler of contemporary New England society and one of America’s finest writers.

  All rights reserved, including without limitation the right to reproduce this ebook or any portion thereof in any form or by any means, whether electronic or mechanical, now known or hereinafter invented, without the express written permission of the publisher.

  This is a work of fiction. Names, characters, places, events, and incidents either are the product of the author’s imagination or are used fictitiously. Any resemblance to actual persons, living or dead, businesses, companies, events, or locales is entirely coincidental.

  Copyright © 1936 by John P. Marquand

  Copyright renewed © 1964 by John P. Marquand, Jr. and Christina M. Welch

  Cover design by Andy Ross

  ISBN: 978-1-5040-1634-6

  This edition published in 2015 by Open Road Integrated Media, Inc.

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