Mr. Moto Omnibus Read online

  MR.

  MOTO

  FOUR COMPLETE NOVELS

  ABOUT THE AUTHOR

  JOHN P. MARQUAND was born in 1893 in Wilmington, Delaware. Marquand graduated from Harvard in 1915, and settled in Newbury, Massachusetts. He worked as a reporter for the Boston Transcript and the New York Herald Tribune and served as a lieutenant in the army during World War I.

  An extremely popular writer, Marquand was noted for his novels of manners, which earned him the title of “martini-aged Victorian.” In 1938 he won the Pulitzer Prize for his novel The Late George Apley.

  His character Mr. Moto, a Japanese agent, was a highly successful creation, both in the book and in the movie version, in which Peter Lorre played Mr. Moto.

  Marquand died in 1960 in Newbury, Massachusetts.

  MR.

  MOTO

  FOUR COMPLETE NOVELS

  By John P. Marquand

  YOUR TURN, MR. MOTO

  THINK FAST, MR. MOTO

  MR. MOTO IS SO SORRY

  RIGHT YOU ARE, MR. MOTO

  Avenel Books • New York

  Copyright © 1983 by John Marquand, Jr., and Christina Welch

  All rights reserved.

  This Omnibus edition was previously published in separate volumes under the titles:

  Your Turn, Mr. Moto (originally published as No Hero) copyright MCMXXXV by John P. Marquand. Copyright renewed © MCMLXIII by John P. Marquand and Christina M. Welch.

  Think Fast, Mr. Moto copyright MCMXXVIII by John P. Marquand. Copyright © renewed MCMLXV by John P. Marquand, Jr., and Christina M. Welch.

  Mr. Moto Is So Sorry copyright MCMXXXVIII by John P. Marquand. Copyright © renewed MCMLXVI by John P. Marquand, Jr., and Christina M. Welch.

  Right You Are, Mr. Moto (originally published as Stopover Tokyo) copyright © MCMLVII by John P. Marquand.

  This 1983 edition is published by Avenel Books, distributed by Crown Publishers, Inc., by arrangement with Little, Brown & Company, Inc.

  Manufactured in the United States of America

  Library of Congress Cataloging in Publication Data

  Marquand, John P. (John Phillips), 1893–1960.

  Mr. Moto : four complete novels.

  Contents: Your turn, Mr. Moto—Think fast, Mr. Moto—Mr. Moto is so sorry—Right you are, Mr. Moto.

  1. Detective and mystery stories, American. I. Title.

  PS3525.A6695A6 1983 813'.52 83-12269

  ISBN: 0-517-421844

  h g f e d e b a

  CONTENTS

  YOUR TURN, MR. MOTO

  1 2 3 4 5 6 7 8 9 10 11 12

  THINK FAST, MR. MOTO

  1 2 3 4 5 6 7 8 9 10 11 12 13 14 15

  MR. MOTO IS SO SORRY

  1 2 3 4 5 6 7 8 9 10 11 12 13 14 15 16 17 18 19 20 21 22 23

  RIGHT YOU ARE, MR. MOTO

  1 2 3 4 5 6 7 8 9 10 11 12 13 14 15 16 17 18 19 20

  End of Mr. Moto Omnibus

  YOUR TURN, MR. MOTO

  1

  COMMANDER JAMES DRISCOLL, attached to the Intelligence branch of the United States Navy, has asked me to write this, in order that my version may be placed in the files with his own account of certain peculiar transactions which took place in Japan and China some months ago. My immediate reaction, when Driscoll made the request, was the same as it is now. I had a vision of certain executives in the service reading this sort of thing. I told Driscoll that no one would believe it, and his answer, if not a compliment to me, was partially reassuring.

  “Maybe,” he said, “but I have a hunch they will. You’ll probably write it so badly that they’ll know it is the truth.”

  “But it’s preposterous,” I said. “It’s melodrama. Honest to goodness—no one in his right mind, Driscoll, if he isn’t in the scenario department of some movie outfit, writes this sort of stuff.”

  Driscoll thought a moment. The idea appeared to interest him so much that I believe he has really thought of writing fiction in his softer moods.

  “Don’t let that worry you,” he said finally. “It wouldn’t go. Any sort of narrative has to have a hero in it to get over with the public, and, believe me, you weren’t any hero. Oh, no, you don’t need to be self-conscious for once in your life. Just snap into it. It won’t take you long. Besides, there’s another angle to this sort of thing. Probably no one will ever read it, anyway.”

  “Then why do I write it?” I inquired. Curiously enough, this question seemed ridiculous to Driscoll. He reminded me that I had been in the service myself at the time of the World War and that I should understand about army and navy paper work.

  “You can just go right ahead,” he said comfortably, “with the almost complete assurance that the whole thing will be stored away somewhere in a room in Washington. Why, if l can possibly avoid it, I won’t read it myself.”

  “Thanks,” I said, “but how do I begin?”

  His answer, though practical, has proved of no great help.

  “You sit down with a pen and ink and paper, and you write it. You can still form your letters, can’t you? You tell what happened, Lee.”

  So that’s what I am doing. I’m using Driscoll’s time-worn phrase of snapping into it. I am trying to cast back into this series of incidents which occurred on the other side of the Pacific Ocean, but although the pieces have all been fitted quite completely together, when I try to start, the elements of this artificial beginning are as mysterious as the beginning was in fact. My mind lingers on certain incidents. I think of a suave scion of the Japanese nobility named Mr. Moto, if that is his real name. I think of a dead man in the cabin of a ship; the roaring of a plane’s motor comes drumming across my memory, and I hear voices speaking in Oriental tongues. The past of an ancient race mixes peculiarly with the present. And in back of it all I see a girl,—one of those amazing wanderers in our modern world, disinherited and alone. International espionage moves in a world of its own, and its characters must always be lonely.

  “Under-cover work is always like that,” Driscoll said to me once. “The people one encounters are much the same. They may be shady and raffish, but don’t forget they’re all of them brave. They do their work like pieces on a chess-board and nothing stops them from moving along their diagonals. You mustn’t feel animosity toward them, Lee, for they feel none toward you. They’re working for their respective countries and that’s more than a lot of people do.”

  Perhaps what is still the most interesting part of this adventure is its complete impersonality, its lack of rancor. I believe honestly that if Mr. Moto, a most accomplished gentleman, and I were to meet today that we might enjoy each other’s company; and I should be glad to drink with him in one of his minute wine cups to the future of Japan. I have an idea that he would agree with me heartily in wishing for perpetual amity between Japan and the United States, as long as that amity did not interfere with what he and his own political faction conceive to be his nation’s divine mission to establish a hegemony in the East. Distance sometimes makes it difficult to remember that Japan is a very great country and that the Japanese are capable people, sensitive and intelligent. Still, although it sometimes seems incredible that our two nations should ever go to war, there is always the thought of war behind the scenes in every nation. Given a shift in the balance of power, men like Moto must start working, I suppose.

  But I am getting away from my beginning.

  Probably I had better start in the Imperial Hotel at Tokyo one afternoon in spring about a year ago. Out of some confused notes which I made at the time I have been able to rescue the essential dates and scenes. With their help and my memory, I’ll do the best I can.

  In the first place, I suppose I must tell who I am and what I was doing in Tokyo one spring afternoon. Though time moves fast and ch
aracters appear and disappear in a hasty procession before the public eye, the readers of the newspapers for the past decade may be vaguely familiar with my name. I am the “Casey” Lee whom various publicity directors have touted as a war ace. My first name incidentally is not “Casey” but Kenneth C. Lee—K.C.—not that it makes much difference. I am the Casey Lee who flew the Atlantic at a time when previous flyers had rather taken the first bloom off that feat. My reputation and my personality used to be as carefully built up in those days as a pugilist’s or a motion-picture star’s, for my personality meant money. In short, I was one of that rather unfortunate group of almost professional heroes who sprang up in the boom days after the war and whose exploits diverted a jaded and somewhat disillusioned nation. I was a stunt flyer, having been a Chasse pilot in the war, a transcontinental flyer and a transatlantic flyer with a row of American and Italian war medals besides. My picture looked well in the rotogravure sections. My testimonial looked well in the advertisements of clothing and lubricants and nourishing foods, but when the cloud of depression grew blacker, people quite reasonably seemed to grow tired of heroes. I was pushed more and more into the background with others of my kind. Thus, it was not strange that when money was running very short and a large tobacco company offered me the chance of making a flight from Japan to the United States, I should have welcomed the opportunity. I welcomed it even though I had no great conviction that I was any longer in a suitable condition to go through with such a business. I was only glad to attempt it because I was rather tired of life. That was why I was in Tokyo, in a country which was entirely strange to me, waiting for a plane to be shipped from the States and for the usual publicity to start.

  I can still see the yellow stonework and the curious floor levels and galleries in the Imperial Hotel and their strange sculptured decorations, half modernistic and half Oriental. I can see the intelligent, concentrated faces of the waiter boys and the outlandish mixture of guests,—Europeans from the embassies, tourists from a cruise ship, Japanese in European clothes, Japanese girls in flowered kimonos, Japanese men in their native hakimas. That background of costume is startling when one stops to think of it. It is like the East and West meeting in two waves of unrelated cultures which swirl about Tokyo’s streets.

  It was a fine sunny day outside, I can remember. It occurred to me that I had been drinking heavily since early in the morning, but this state was not unusual with me. At the time of the war we pilots had drunk in the evening to forget the imminence of death, and after that most of us had continued, to forget the imminence of boredom. I think we had a reasonable semblance of an excuse. When one starts air fighting at the age of eighteen the values of life are apt to become distorted. One craves for the thrill of excitement as the nerves of an addict clamor for his favorite drug. I cannot feel so badly about the drinking of those days.

  It was the drinking that I had done to drown the depression that inevitably follows a man unlucky enough to become a publicized hero of which I cannot boast. Liquor had become a problem to me, when, after weeks and months of every sort of adulation for having made a transatlantic flight, I was dropped as suddenly as if a wing had come off my plane. The depression which follows the excitement is the worst of it. In those moments of let-down I could sometimes see myself as I must have appeared to others,—not Casey Lee, one-time war ace, who had fought in Poland and Spain against the Riffs, nor Lee the ocean pilot, but only a shell of that Casey Lee.

  I remember that I was talking. There was a crowd around me, as usual, of people who had nothing better to do than listen to me talk, and who enjoyed the association with a celebrity even if he might have been a trifle seedy.

  “The plane’s being shipped next week, a new type Willis Jones AB-3,” I was telling them. “Give me another week to tune her up and I’m ready for it. I’ll take her across alone, straight on the shipping lane, with one stop at Honolulu. The Pacific isn’t any worse than the Atlantic, if you fly high, I guess.”

  “Will you have another drink, Mr. Lee?” someone said.

  “Yes,” I answered. “I will have another drink. I’m perfectly glad to have several more. Does anybody here think I can’t fly the Pacific?”

  “Oh, no, Mr. Lee,” came a voice from the crowd; “of course not.”

  “There’s only one thing that can stop me,” I said, “and that’s money, and I’ve got the financial backing this time. Give me a crate to fly and refueling planes and I’ll fly a non-stop around the world.”

  “Why not make it twice around the world, Mr. Lee?” another voice said.

  With a little difficulty I focused my attention on the speaker. He was a pale pimply youth whom I had never seen before, obviously an American. “Listen, baby,” I said to him. “You’re the only product that America’s turned out since 1918. When I see you, I know the United States is going to hell. I don’t have to listen to your lip. Everybody knows who I am.”

  “Of course they do, Mr. Lee,” said someone. “Won’t you have another drink?”

  “Yes,” I said, “I don’t mind if I do. Always glad to have another drink, always glad to try anything once or twice—that’s me.”

  “Tell us,” said someone respectfully, “who is backing you this time?”

  “It’s a cigarette company,” I said. “They’re using a part of their advertising appropriation for a transpacific flight. Believe me, it’s the first break I’ve had in a long time. The Mayor of Tokyo gives me a couple of packages of their cigarettes, or somebody in Tokyo, I don’t remember who. And I deliver one pack to the Governor of Hawaii and another to the Mayor of New York City. I’m going to be a good-will ambassador between Japan and the United States. But I don’t care so long as I have a crate to fly. The good old American game of nonsense doesn’t bother me.”

  “You needn’t yell about it so,” a voice objected. “You’re an American, aren’t you?”

  “That is where I was born,” I answered, “but I’m broadminded enough to have my own ideas. I’ve fought for the Spaniards and the Poles. There are other nations besides the United States—in case you don’t know—several others.”

  “All right, Lee,” said someone, “but here you are in a public place. Keep your voice down. A lot of these Japanese are looking at you.”

  “Let ’em look,” I said. “Why should I care if they look? And I’ll say anything I damn well please any time at all.”

  As I spoke, I became aware that my voice must have been louder than I had intended. I saw individuals staring at me curiously and I set down my glass. I was reaching a stage, which I had known before, when I became sorry for myself. And I had a sufficiently good reason to be sorry for myself half a minute later. One of the hotel boys, bowing and drawing in his breath noisily between his teeth, presented me with a cable. The words were slightly blurred and I had to concentrate to make them clear, before I could understand their meaning. The cable was signed by the codeword of the cigarette company. “Plans for flight off,” it said. “Bank will pay your passage home.”

  My first thought was one of sickening hopelessness, for I had not realized until I saw that cablegram how much I had counted on this opportunity. It had raised me in my own estimation above other flying men I knew, and it offered me a prospect of redeeming myself in the eyes of others. I knew well enough why I had been selected,—on account of my name and my past reputation, not because of any present ability or future promise. I even had a sufficiently uncomplimentary idea of myself to suspect why the plan had been vetoed. I could hear them in New York saying that Casey was through. It seemed to me that everything was over then; I could see myself returning to the role I had played for several years, living on an out-worn reputation. I suppose whoever we are, we try to rationalize all our failures. We push away our own faults and try to blame them on someone else. That is exactly what I did then. In some irrational way, I attributed my own failure directly to my country and to my country’s eccentricities. The group around my table was looking at me curiously as I st
ared up from that cable. I tried to return casually to the subject where we had left off, a difficult matter when the words of that cable were ringing, with the drinks I had taken, through my thoughts.

  “Since when was it a sin to criticize one’s country?” I inquired. “I’m tired of having everyone wince and look scared, if a word is said in public against the present Administration. If it represents the will of America, it is not the country that I used to know. The United States are in the hands of a lot of communized visionaries, if you want my idea. I’m not afraid to say I’m ashamed of certain aspects of my country. I could tell you a thing or two about what’s happened to commercial aviation. Can you sit here and admit that my country has not repudiated its just obligations to its citizens by juggling with its currency? The word of the United States isn’t what it used to be, and the sooner we all know it the better. The national character isn’t what it used to be, and I can prove it by this cable in my hand. Now that our government can repudiate its obligations, any citizen seems to feel free to break an agreement any time—as long as the man he breaks it with can’t get at him.”

  “What’s the trouble, Lee?” someone asked. Even in my stimulated state, I felt that I had become involved beyond my depth, and that I had made a statement which I could not back by intelligent argument. I was no expert on the problems of currency and I realized that the economic woes of the world were as insoluble as my own.

  “Those double-crossers back home,” I said. “They’ve turned me down.”

  “Maybe they heard something,” a voice suggested. “You’ve been raising a good deal of hell, Lee.”

  There was no doubt that the remark was true, but its implication was enough to make me lose my temper in a way I never had done before. I could see myself going straight down the ladder without friends and without respect. I whirled upon the man who spoke and I shouted at him. In my total lack of self-control I did not care for consequences. I did not care where I was or who heard me.