XIV

The atmosphere in the Main Bar had changed since he and Ruth Bogart had been there last, for the better as far as hotel receipts were concerned. There was no doubt any longer, if there ever had been previously, that the patrons—aside from their Japanese girl friends, who were trying to enter into the fun as vigorously as Madame Butterfly had in another generation—realized that they were far away from home. Their loneliness plus the dancing and the drinks had begun drawing them together, so that an alcoholic affection, plus an undercurrent of companionship in misery formed the motif for the now crowded bar. The flyers, the officers of the ground forces, the Navy personnel, the American civilians in and out of government jobs, and even a few Europeanized Japanese had begun to realize that they were all members of the Legion of the Lost Ones. No one had as yet started to sing “Gentlemen Rankers” or “The Road to Mandalay,” but several men by the bar were already drunk, and an American girl was doing a dramatic recitation in a corner to which no one in her party listened. A sea of smoke and spilled drinks and voices washed like a wave over Jack Rhyce and Ruth Bogart.

“All right, honey,” he said, “we’re tight and full of fun, and we’ve got to check in here, honey, in a big way, and this is our night off. Why, lookit—there’s Big Ben, just where he said he’d be.” He leaned down until her hair brushed his cheek. “Just remember, he doesn’t know who we are,” he whispered. “Just hold that thought, sweet, and give me another kiss. It’s better that I’m all lipsticked up tonight.”

It was common sense aside from anything else. There could never be anything sinister about a man if he was smeared with lipstick, and what was it Bill Gibson had said? There was safety in sex. Perhaps if Bill had practiced that maxim himself he would not have been a corpse in Chrysanthemum Rest.

“Oh, Jack,” Ruth Bogart said, and her voice had the shrill note that fitted with that happy evening, “look at Ben. He’s got a man with a squeeze box with him. Aren’t you glad we haven’t gone to bed yet, darling?”

It gave him an unpleasant twinge to observe the number of amused faces that turned toward them after Ruth Bogart had asked her last question. Naturally she did not need to tell him to look at Big Ben. Big Ben stood in the middle of a noisy group near the center of the room, and sure enough, a man with an accordion was with him. He had learned the tricks of holding attention that could only have been derived from the theater. In fact, at the moment Big Ben might have been master of ceremonies in a night club, and perhaps he had held such a position once.

“Jack,” she whispered, “he’s changed his shirt.”

She did not have to tell him. He had been wearing a white shirt when he had cut in on them on the dance floor, but now his shirt was blue.

“That’s right,” Jack said. “He’s been having a busy evening, sweet. Wave to him. He’s seen us now.”

“Hi, Ben,” she called.

“Why, sweetness,” Big Ben called, and he shook his finger at her. “Say, whatever have you been doing to Oberlin? Honest, I couldn’t guess.”

Ruth glanced at Jack’s face. She gave a stifled scream.

“Oh, Jack,” she said, “I’m sorry. They told me in the States that it wouldn’t come off, darling.”

Jack Rhyce grinned self-consciously at Big Ben and the boys and girls around him, then he pulled out a pocket handkerchief, wiped his cheeks and lips, and shook his head.

“I guess the trouble is, dear, this isn’t the States. Maybe nothing’s kiss-proof in Japan.”

It was a pretty good line, considering, and the laugh that greeted it confirmed this impression. A man with lipstick on him couldn’t help but be a nice guy, especially in a bar.

The effort he was making made Jack Rhyce afraid that he might be overdoing things, until he saw there was no sharpness in Big Ben’s glance.

“Say, boy,” Big Ben said, “come on over here. Let’s do a song number for the crowd. This fellow can really sing, folks.”

“Oh, now,” Jack said. “I might break my larynx.”

Now that they knew he had a comic streak everything he said was funny. Ruth Bogart gave him a playful push.

“Oh, go ahead, Jack,” she said. “You can sing just as well as he can.”

There is nothing harder in the world than to give a convincing imitation of being drunk. Jack Rhyce was wise enough not to try.

“Well, let me have a double Scotch first,” he said, “so I can halfway catch up with things.”

Big Ben gave a hearty whoop of laughter. Jack Rhyce tossed off the drink when it was handed to him in three quick swallows. He did not need to ask for another because someone immediately thrust a second into his hand, but those two quick slugs had surprisingly little effect. They only served to make everything more hideously grotesque, at the same time bringing the faces around him into clearer definition. Big Ben was holding a half-empty highball glass in exactly the expert way that an abstemious person handles a drink at a cocktail party. You could always pick a drinker from a nondrinker from the way he held his glass. Big Ben, in spite of all his noise, was cold sober, but his sobriety had been hard to detect because his spirits and elation were not normal. Elation was exactly the word, the sort that came after emergence from danger. The truth was that Big Ben was happy, and also he must have felt completely safe. Like Jack Rhyce, he must have examined the hotel guests and must have concluded that there was not a cough in a carload.

“Well, I do feel better not,” Jack said.

Big Ben patted his shoulder affectionately; in return Jack Rhyce gave him an affectionate punch on the chest—just two big boys roughhousing. There was no softness in Big Ben’s midsection, as he had observed already at Wake. He was more of a wrestler than a boxer, but these were not the right thoughts for the moment, when even a thought could be detected if it influenced attitude.

“Say,” Big Ben said, and his voice had a wheedling note in it, “now you’ve got yourself lubricated up, how about a little harmonizing? Ted here can play almost anything on a squeeze box. How about a piece from The Red Mill? How about ‘Every Day Is Ladies’ Day with me’? Huh, Jack?”

“Oh, say,” Jack Rhyce said, “why that old chestnut?”

“Aw, come on,” Big Ben said. “It’s got real melody. It’s a swell song.”

“Why is it you have this yen for The Red Mill,” Jack Rhyce asked, “when it was written before you and I were born, Ben?”

Big Ben drew his hand across his eyes.

“I know,” he said. “It don’t sound reasonable, does it. Yet it’s a kind of a theme song with me. Will you sing it with me if I tell you why?”

His invitation, which included the group around them again, had a professional tone. He was a born master of ceremonies, and in the relief he must have been feeling, he might have dropped his guard.

“Why, sure,” Jack said, “if it’s a good yarn.”

“Aw, shucks,” Big Ben said, “it isn’t much of a one—just kid stuff. You know how it is when you’re a kid, how things kind of happen so you don’t forget.” His voice was eager and appealing. “It was senior year in this Baptist college down South.… It’s a kind of corny yarn, now I think of it.… There was this banker in town—the local rich guy, and he had this pretty daughter with golden hair. Well, my folks were poor, in the missionary business actually, and I was sort of shy back then. For two years I used to walk past her house most every night, without daring to knock on the door, and then comes Senior year. That autumn when I’d sort of built up my ego by playing football, why I walked up the front stoop and rang the bell, and there she was all alone, and she asked me to come inside. Well, I was shy, but she asked me if I liked hearing music on the phonograph. It was one of those kind you wind with a crank, and there were lots of records belonging to the old man that went a long ways back. Well, we played them for a while, and then she put on this Red Mill record, and held my hand, and then—well, we kinda got to loving each other with that old Red Mill playing. Then her old man came in, and he kicked me the hell out, and I never saw her again, but that’s how I remember The Red Mill.” Big Ben’s voice grew softer. “And I haven’t forgot that old aristocratic bastard, either.”

He had completely held his audience, and there were sympathetic murmurs applauding his tale of young frustration. The pride and sensitiveness that had run all through the incident had revealed themselves only in the last sentence. Something had happened then, something more than was told, of course, but The Red Mill was its monument to a new beginning, and the music of early youth was always the best music.

Big Ben shrugged his shoulders. “Then after that, before the war, I was with a sort of musical caravan, and what should happen—there was The Red Mill. Anyway, it kind of stays with me.”

“That’s quite a story, Ben,” Jack Rhyce said, and he meant it. He had learned a lot from the story.

“Well,” Big Ben said, “let’s make a quick switch. Stand up here, fella. Let’s show ’em. Strike up the band. ‘Every Day Is Ladies’ Day with Me.’”

Bill Gibson was dead at Chrysanthemum Rest. Their arms were draped over each other’s shoulders as they sang, and Jack knew the words better than Big Ben.

And my pleasure it is double if they come to me in trouble,

For I always find a way to make them smile, the little darlings!

Applause came from all over the bar when they had finished. Show business was written all over Big Ben when he took in the applause.

“Say, Jack,” he said, “if we only had straw hats and canes, we could soft-shoe it, couldn’t we?”

If you played the game you had to play it through.

“We don’t need hats and canes,” Jack Rhyce said.

“Why, we don’t sure enough,” Big Ben said. “Come on. Strike up the band.”

It wasn’t a bad show either. Jack Rhyce had to admit that they both had an unusual gift of comic interpolation. In fact there was one moment when he was almost tempted to join in the laughter of the crowd as he watched Big Ben slip deliberately and recover himself. Actually his impulse to laugh died when he saw Ruth Bogart’s expression as she watched them. Then an instant later he picked out the face of Mr. Moto. Mr. Moto was standing near the street entrance of the bar. Jack Rhyce remembered being ashamed of Mr. Moto’s seeing him making a deliberate fool of himself, but then there was no reason why Mr. Moto should not have been there since he had been given the evening off. After all, enough was enough. Jack Rhyce was never surer of the truth of that aphorism than when the dance was over. He looked once toward the spot where Mr. Moto had been standing, but the Japanese was gone and Jack Rhyce could hardly blame him.

“Well, folks,” Jack Rhyce said, “it’s been nice seeing you. Come on, Ruth. Let’s say good night.”

They had done what was necessary. They had showed up in the bar and the clock showed it was ten minutes to twelve. He could tell from the tight grip of her hand when they walked toward the Cozy Nook ell that her nervous resistance was wearing thin.

“Jack,” she said, as they closed the door of their room. They had not spent much time there, but the edges of unfamiliarity had been rounded off already, and they were both through with cover for the moment.

“Just a minute before you say anything,” he told her, removing his coat and tie. “Just let me wash the touch of that goon off me first. I’m sorry, Ruth.”

“You needn’t be sorry,” she said. “Nobody could have done better than you did, Jack.”

She was standing just where he had left her when he came back rubbing his face and shoulders with a bath towel.

“Darling,” she said, “you’ve washed the lipstick off and now you won’t have anything to remember me by. Please unzip the back of my dress. I don’t know why people always sell unzippable dresses.”

“Maybe they do it to get girls into trouble,” he said.

“Jack,” she said, “don’t you think it would look better if we turned out the lights?”

“How do you mean,” she asked, “look better?”

“More conventional,” she said, “more what’s expected of us. We don’t know who’s watching or listening.”

“Just get it into your head,” he said, “no one’s watching or listening. We’re out of this as of now.”

“But it won’t be long,” she said. “And it would be better if you did turn out the lights. I must look like hell.”

“Oh, no, you don’t at all,” he said.

“Well, I feel like hell,” she answered.

“All right,” he told her, “I don’t blame you. So do I. We haven’t exactly been playing charades tonight.”

He turned out the lights, except the one in the bathroom, but he could still see her standing there.

“We used to play charades at home,” she said. “Did you ever play them?”

“If it’s just the same with you,” he said, “let’s not get reminiscing. Why, yes, I used to play charades with the banker’s daughter, dear, until the banker threw me out.”

“Jack,” she said, “wasn’t it God-awful?”

“Yes,” he said.

“Jack,” she said, “I don’t know anything about Bill Gibson’s setup here, do you?”

“No,” he answered, “and we won’t now Bill’s dead.”

“Jack,” she said, “what are we going to do?”

It was the question he had been asking himself for quite a while, because he was left with nothing, now that Bill Gibson was dead—no contacts, unless he communicated with home, and that was far too dangerous under the circumstances.

“I don’t know,” he said, “but maybe we’ll think of something in the morning.”

“Is that the best you can do?” she asked. “Come here. Come closer. I want to ask you something.”

If only because they were in the same predicament, they were close enough already.

“I haven’t got any bright answers,” he said. “I couldn’t win any giveaway show tonight.”

“Why did they kill Bill?” she whispered.

“Because he knew something they didn’t want passed on,” he said. “You know that. That’s always why we kill people in this racket.”

“But what did he know?” she asked.

“He didn’t tell us,” he said, “but we’ve got to try to find out, come morning.”

“Jack,” she said, “wasn’t it awful?”

He felt her arms steal around his neck, and she buried her face against his shoulder.

“Go ahead and cry if it does you any good,” he said. “I don’t blame you, Ruth.”

“I’m not going to cry,” she said, “but I’m glad you’re here, Jack.”

“I wish you weren’t,” he said.

“Oh, Jack,” she said, “I don’t think that’s very polite, considering everything.”

“I mean it’s too damn dangerous here,” he said. “Let’s face it. I mean I love you, Ruth—and I’m not pretending.”

“Well,” she said. “I’d almost given up hoping that you’d ever say it.”

“Well, I have,” he told her. “But it’s a damn fool thing for anyone like me to say.”

He was right about that last statement. It was bad for business to fall in love, especially with anyone like her, but he had said it, and there they were, alone together with their secrets, miles away from any help except what they could give each other. Miles away from anything that made for common sense.…

Hindsight was always simpler than foresight. Later it was easy enough to tell himself that no one should rely on convictions that had no solid foundation of fact—except that his belief that they were in the clear did have its own foundation: he could always return to the indisputable point that Bill Gibson would not have been killed in the way he had if anyone had suspected who Jack Rhyce and Ruth Bogart were. As a matter of fact, time was to prove that Rhyce had been right in these assumptions. But still he should have allowed for the unexpected. He should have been more alert, after finding the Japanese in his room, and particularly after the incident of the footstep on the temple path. The trouble was, there had been so much on his mind, that he had finally yielded to the temptation of blacking out the whole problem for a few hours that night, which had been inexcusable. You always paid for such a thing as that in some coin or other, but he never dreamed that he would pay so soon. In fact, he did not even bother to do anything about the lock on the bedroom door, because he was so sure that they would be undisturbed.

The hour when he was awakened must have been shortly after two. The two double whiskies he had drunk may have made him sleep more soundly than usual, but he doubted it. The truth was that the callers were such expert operators that even if he had propped a chair beneath the doorknob they could have handled it without waking him. He had often heard older men in the bureau, including the Chief, say that prewar Japanese agents were tops in the field. They loved intricacies, and if they knew what they wanted, their patience was inordinate.

Actually the first he knew of anything wrong was when they switched on the ceiling lights. It was the light rather than the click of the switch that had aroused him. In the instant his sight was adjusting to the light, he was on his feet. In fact, before he could see clearly, he heard someone speaking just in front of him.

“Please, Mr. Rhyce, no noise, please.”

Then everything was cleared. Mr. Moto and two other stocky Japanese in blue serge suits were in the bedroom. Operator was written all over them.

Ruth Bogart, in her twin bed next the wall, reached for her handbag, but the man nearest to her knocked it from her hand.

“Quiet, please,” Mr. Moto said. All the previous awkwardness had gone from his voice. His English had become impeccable, and his accent was highly educated. “Get dressed, please, Mr. Rhyce. The man here will hand you your clothes.” Mr. Moto smiled politely. “He was a valet once for a member of your cabinet in Washington—before the war, of course.”

The loquaciousness disturbed Jack Rhyce because it indicated Mr. Moto’s belief that he held the cards. So far no one had pulled a gun, which also meant that the situation was in hand. Jack Rhyce wished he was not barefoot in pajamas, and he also wished that he could keep down his rising anger.

“I’ll give you and your chumps just ten seconds to clear out of here,” he said, “or else by God I’ll throw you out, right through that window.”

The three Japanese were a crowd, but given luck, Jack Rhyce believed that he might do it.

Mr. Moto raised his hand in a placating gesture.

“Please,” he said, “make no disturbance, Mr. Rhyce, or I shall be obliged to call for the police.”

“How’s that again,” Jack Rhyce said, “you little yellow bastard?”

“Please do not be insulting,” Mr. Moto said, “though I can understand how you feel at the moment, Mr. Rhyce. I mentioned the police.”

“Oh,” Jack Rhyce said, “so you’re a cop, are you?”

Mr. Moto looked grave and shook his head. “Not what you call a cop” he said. “I am just what you are, Mr. Rhyce, and you and I do not want cops, do we? I only want a quiet talk with you. It would be a pity if I were to call the police.”

“Go ahead and do it,” Jack Rhyce said, “and I’ll use the same word to you again. Go ahead and do it, you impertinent little yellow bastard. Call in your police.”

He had made the Japanese angry, which was perhaps a useless luxury.

“I do not understand,” Mr. Moto said. “You must be an intelligent man to have been sent here, Mr. Rhyce, and your work was very good last evening—but not the police, Mr. Rhyce. I should have to tell you and the lady here had murdered Mr. Gibson. I think you would help me rather than have me do that, Mr. Rhyce.”

Then Jack Rhyce realized that he was in grave difficulty, and the expressions of the two assistants confirmed the fact.

“Well, well,” he said, “so that’s the picture, is it? All right, tell your goddam valet to hand me my pants and a clean white shirt. From the way he looks I’ll bet he stole the plans for the wrong battleship, even if he could find his way around Washington.” There was no change in the three foreign faces watching him. He grinned at Ruth Bogart. “Anyway,” he said, “the house detectives haven’t got us, Ruth.”

While he pulled on his trousers over his pajamas, Mr. Moto rubbed his hands together softly.

“Now that is better,” he said. “I understand how a sudden intrusion can be upsetting.”

The first surprise was leaving Jack Rhyce. Although he still needed time, the directions were growing clearer. He pointed to his shoes and socks, and where they were handed to him he sat on the edge of his bed and stole another glance at Ruth Bogart. The whiteness of her face showed that they both were beginning to see where the Japanese were fitting in.

“Oh, yes,” Mr. Moto said. “Please, may I repeat, you did it very well? So neat with the pills, so nice with the needle—so nice to be a big strong man, Mr. Rhyce. No reason to tell the police. Your chief and my chief would prefer it otherwise, don’t you think?”

Jack Rhyce pulled a clean shirt over his head, tightened his belt carefully, took the tie that was handed him and knotted it deliberately. Mr. Moto had not moved his glance from him, nor would Jack have done so either, if he had been in Mr. Moto’s place.

“Not the belt, please,” Mr. Moto said, “Mr. Rhyce. I should rather hear Big Ben strike only over the BBC.”

He heard Ruth Bogart draw in her breath, and her mind must have gone, as his had, to Fisherman’s Wharf in San Francisco.

“So that’s the way the ball bounces,” Jack Rhyce said. “You’ve got me down for Big Ben?”

“Yes,” Mr. Moto said. “Your coat, please, Mr. Rhyce.”

Jack Rhyce snatched the coat from the blue-suited man.

“I’ll put that on myself,” he said.

He had a sudden unreasoning fear that if he were helped they might pinion his arms behind him.

“We will leave quietly,” Mr. Moto said. “I never like to do more than is necessary. That is why Miss Bogart will stay here. She will understand that it will do no good to make trouble. I shall drive her back to Tokyo myself in the morning.”

Ruth Bogart cleared her throat.

“You don’t know what you’re doing,” she began.

It was not the time to break security; indeed it was still a question whether they would have been believed if they had attempted to explain.

Jack Rhyce smiled at her and shook his head.

“I don’t really think there’s much you can do, Ruth,” he said, “the way the ball is bouncing.”

“But, Jack,” she said, “they’re going to—”

“Let’s not be mind readers,” he said.

Mr. Moto rubbed his hands together again.

“It is so true,” he said, “what you say about the ball bouncing. One day it is you. One day it is me. The young lady is not important, Mr. Rhyce. I can give you my assurance that I will see her off for home, myself, from the airport tomorrow.” He picked up her handbag and tossed it to one of the men. “I shall give it back also tomorrow.”

“Okay,” Jack Rhyce said. “Do you mind if I ask you one question?”

“If it is short,” Mr. Moto answered. “The sooner we leave the better, Mr. Rhyce.”

Jack Rhyce nodded toward the curtained windows.

“What makes you think I killed that man down there?”

“Because he knew too much about something you know, too, Mr. Rhyce,” Mr. Moto said. “We’re going where we can have a quiet talk, and I think you will tell us what he knew before we are finished, Mr. Rhyce. Moscow does not know all the tricks.”

“You ought to know I’m not a graduate from there,” Jack Rhyce said. “Well, as long as I have your word about Miss Bogart—”

“I repeat,” Mr. Moto said, “never do anything unnecessary. Why should she come to harm? Are you ready now, Mr. Rhyce?”

“Jack—” Ruth Bogart began. Her voice was dangerously loud.

It was not a time for handsome speeches, and besides, everything was strictly business.

“Don’t, Ruth,” he said—“but it’s been nice to have known you. Come on, let’s go.”

He still was not recovered from surprise, but he began to see that there were several reasons why they should have mistaken him for Big Ben. Everything, he knew, was very dangerous.

They walked in a compact, softly stepping group down a flight of stairs and out into the night.

“By the way,” Jack Rhyce said, “what time is it?”

Mr. Moto turned his head quickly.

“Why?” he asked. “Have you an appointment, Mr. Rhyce?”

Jack Rhyce did not answer. It was dark and very still. The hotel and the small town around it seemed sound asleep. The car that had brought them there was parked on the drive.

“You will sit in the front with me, please,” Mr. Moto said. “The men will be in the back. One of them will have you covered. He is a good man with a pistol.”

Jack got into the car without speaking. Mr. Moto took the wheel. The place where they went was not far from the hotel. It was a substantially built Japanese house surrounded by a high wall. The car stopped at the entrance door.

“You will step out quietly, please,” Mr. Moto said.

Jack Rhyce gave way to a purely professional piece of exasperation.

“Tell that goon of yours to take his hands off me,” he said. “I can still get out of a car.”

A light burning above the doorway showed the raised platform where one sat to remove one’s shoes, but there was no neat row of shoes such as one might have seen if the house had been occupied. Its dark windows and the unkempt condition of the shrubbery indicated that it had stood vacant for some time and had been opened only for this special occasion. Mr. Moto gave an order and one of the men opened the front door, at the same time switching on the lights in the entrance hall.

“The man will not touch you,” Mr. Moto said. “Walk just behind me into the house, please. It belongs to a Baron. An American general had it as a resthouse during the Occupation. Many of its rooms are European.”

Jack Rhyce was not interested in the ownership or the architecture of the house, nor did he have time to think of the incongruity of what had happened to him. The dark night, the strangeness, and the belief that time might be running short were things that one thought of later. There was a distance of about six paces of gravel driveway between the car and the lighted hallway of the house. Mr. Moto walked a pace ahead of him, not bothering to look back, which showed that he trusted the man who was walking a pace behind, but the man behind was overanxious. He was too close, as Jack could tell from the sound of his steps, and if you held a gun at someone’s back, one of the first principles was to keep a decent interval.

If one debated on whether or not to take a chance, one always ended with indecision. In the last analysis it was the contempt in Mr. Moto’s tone that made Jack take the chance, in spite of the obvious risks involved. He whirled on the ball of his right foot, and he was correct that the man in the blue suit was too close. Jack Rhyce had his wrist in his left hand and the barrel of the pistol to the ground in the split second before he brought his fist across to the jaw with all the momentum of his body behind it. The pistol exploded at the same moment. Then the hand that held it relaxed, and Jack Rhyce had the weapon—from its size and weight, another one of those Berettas. Mr. Moto turned with the light of the door behind him. Jack Rhyce spoke before anything went further.

“Shall we leave it the way it is?” he said. “I told you I didn’t want that man crowding me—and tell the other one to stop.”

The other blue suit was back in the doorway, and Mr. Moto gave a curt order.

“I am so sorry he annoyed you,” Mr. Moto said. “Yes, he was very clumsy.”

“Not clumsy,” Jack said, “just overanxious. Let’s not you and me get overanxious. I’ll get you anyway before you and the other one get me.”

They stood completely motionless for seconds that seemed to Jack Rhyce to last for a long while.

“Yes,” Mr. Moto said. “Yes, and what do you suggest?”

“You tell that friend of yours behind you,” Jack Rhyce said, “to come over here and help his friend. He’s coming to, now. I don’t like being treated this way, Mr. Moto.”

Mr. Moto was silhouetted by the light behind him so that it was impossible to see his face, and now one could gauge his reaction only from his voice.

“Yes,” Mr. Moto said, “yes?”

The rising inflection of the last word turned it into a question.

“You tell your two people to keep out of the way,” Jack Rhyce said, “and I’ll go into that house with you. I want to talk to you as much as you want to talk to me. I’m not Big Ben, and I didn’t kill Gibson. Frankly, he was my boss.”

The light from the doorway was on his face, and he still could see only the shadow of Mr. Moto, but part of the tension was gone. The disarming of the guard had done it, and there was doubt in Mr. Moto’s voice.

“You say you are not Big Ben?”

“You’re damned well right I’m not,” Jack answered. “I’m on the American team, the same as Gibson. He came up here to meet me. He was dead by the time we got there, and I want to know what he knew as much as you do. Maybe we can do some business if we go inside.”

He heard Mr. Moto sigh softly. “You may put the pistol of the clumsy man in your pocket, Mr. Rhyce,” Mr. Moto said. “If you gave it to him now he would kill himself for shame, but I am grateful to him for his clumsiness. You would of course have shot it out with me if you had been Big Ben.”

“Yes,” Jack Rhyce said, and he sighed, too, now that the tension was easing. “That’s exactly the point I’ve been trying to make, and I had to move damn fast to make it Here, take the gun, I don’t need it any more. I never did like the balance of these Italian rods.” He tossed the pistol on the driveway.

“Thank you,” Mr. Moto said. “I am very mortified that I should be so mistaken. Excuse me, please.”

“That’s all right,” Jack Rhyce said. “I’ve been sort of trying to explain you myself the last two days. It’s too bad we didn’t know sooner we were after the same boy.”

“It was so very stupid of me,” Mr. Moto said again. “I was so stupid, I think, because I have tried too hard, and thought too hard. So you were after Big Ben, too?”

“Yes,” Jack Rhyce said, and everything was easy now, and relaxed. “That’s why I was sent over from the States for. Gibson was worried and wanted help.”