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Title: Stopover: Tokyo
Author: Marquand, John P. [John Phillips] (1893-1960)
Author [songs from the 1906 operetta The Red Mill]:
   Blossom, Henry Martyn (1866-1919)
Date of first publication: 1957
Edition used as base for this ebook:
   Boston: Little, Brown, 1957
   [first edition]
Date first posted: 25 December 2011
Date last updated: 25 December 2011
Project Gutenberg Canada ebook #899

This ebook was produced by Al Haines and Mark Akrigg






JOHN P. MARQUAND



STOPOVER:

TOKYO




LITTLE, BROWN AND COMPANY

BOSTON  TORONTO




COPYRIGHT, , 1956, 1957, BY THE CURTIS PUBLISHING COMPANY

  ALL RIGHTS RESERVED. NO PART OF THIS BOOK IN EXCESS OF FIVE
  HUNDRED WORDS MAY BE REPRODUCED IN ANY FORM WITHOUT
  PERMISSION IN WRITING FROM THE PUBLISHER

LIBRARY OF CONGRESS CATALOG CARD NO. 57-5508




W

The author wishes to thank Music Publishers Holding Corporation for
permission to quote from the following songs: "Every Day Is Ladies' Day
with Me" (Copyright 1906 by M. Witmark & Sons.  Copyright renewed);
"The Streets of New York" (Copyright 1906 by M. Witmark & Sons.
Copyright renewed); "Because You're You" (Copyright 1906 by M. Witmark
& Sons.  Copyright renewed).




  _Published simultaneously in Canada
  by Little, Brown & Company (Canada) Limited_

PRINTED IN THE UNITED STATES OF AMERICA




  TO

  TIM and LONNY

  _Who may grasp the significance of this book
  more readily than that of some of my others_




STOPOVER: TOKYO




I

Jack Rhyce had not expected to see the Russians in San Francisco.  The
word in Washington had been that Mr. Molotov and his delegation would
have left the city, several hours before Rhyce's arrival; but no one
could have notified Jack Rhyce of the change of plans without creating
undue attention.  It had also been a mistake to make a reservation at
the Mark Hopkins Hotel, but they had said categorically in Washington
that the celebration of the tenth anniversary of the United Nations
would be over.  Instead, the Russians were just leaving the Mark
Hopkins when Jack Rhyce arrived by taxi from the airport.  There was
hardly time for him to get his bags out before the driver was shooed
away by a police escort, and there was nothing left for him to do but
stand in the small crowd that was gathering.

"What's going on?" he asked the bellboy.  The question was unnecessary
because at the moment he asked he saw the limousines and the faces of
the drivers.

"It's the Russians," the bellboy said.

"What?" Jack Rhyce asked.  "The Russians aren't staying here, are they?"

"No, sir," the bellboy said, "but Mr. Molotov has been having a
cocktail with Secretary Dulles."

"Well," Jack Rhyce said, "good for Mr. Molotov."

It would have looked conspicuous if he had moved backwards.  It was
better, in his opinion, to stand quietly and watch.  The guards were
coming out and grouping themselves around the leading limousine.  At
first glance the men seemed interchangeable with any of the people who
protected top-flight Russians--heavy, stocky men with potatolike faces,
and not a beauty in the bunch; but then they were not selected for
show.  Russian features were hard to classify, and he had been out of
touch with the problem for quite a while, but he was sure two of them
were officers high up in the NKVD.  He could only hope that the
recognition was not mutual; not that there would have been any great
harm in it.  After all, nothing could have been more natural than that
he should be in San Francisco at this particular time.  Still, he would
have felt easier if he had not encountered the Russians just when he
was on the point of flying to Japan.  He knew that one should never
underrate them, not even when they were being jolly good fellows in
front of the Mark Hopkins Hotel.

"The one with the glasses is Mr. Molotov," the bellboy said.

Jack Rhyce had not seen Mr. Molotov for quite a while, but he was not
likely to forget him, with or without glasses, since they had met twice
on social occasions and had once exchanged amenities over caviar and
vodka, at the end of the war, when Jack Rhyce had been traveling with
one of the American missions.  Mr. Molotov was in no hurry.  He smiled
happily as he walked toward the limousine.  His expression was exactly
the same as it had been in Moscow when he had slapped Jack Rhyce on the
shoulder.

"Young man," Mr. Molotov had said, "let us touch glasses in token of a
lasting friendship between our two countries."

"This is a great honor, sir," Jack Rhyce had answered.

"No, no," Mr. Molotov said.  "You and I both are men."

"Yes, Excellency," Jack Rhyce said, "and all men are brothers."

He was younger in those days, with a lot to learn.  He had made his
last speech in Russian, when the Foreign Minister had been speaking in
English, and Russian had not been necessary.

"Young man," Mr. Molotov had said, "you speak Russian not badly."

Jack Rhyce instantly realized that by showing off his Russian, simply
because he was proud of being top of a language class, he had called
attention to himself.  His chief had spoken to him very roughly about
it afterward, and the Chief had been absolutely right.

"Just get it through your head," the Chief had said, "that boys like
you aren't supposed to be heard at all, and that you don't wear striped
pants all the time.  Never try to be conspicuous.  Never."

It was good advice, and Jack Rhyce seldom needed to be told things
twice.

There was no way for him to discover whether any of the Russian party
recognized him now or not.  He could only tell himself again that, even
if they did, it should make no particular difference.  Mr. Molotov,
still beaming, waved to the crowd.  Then the car door closed.  The
Russian party was gone as completely as though it had never been there.
They had his dossier, of course, but they had him connected with
Washington and Berlin.  There was no reason whatsoever for them to
believe that he was going to the Orient.  Still, he wished that he had
not seen the Russians.

Jack Rhyce had been a guest in so many hotels that he could instantly
catch the atmosphere of any place in which he stopped and could
immediately fit into its background.  For God's sake, as the Chief had
once told him, never chaffer too long at a hotel reception desk, and as
rapidly as possible get up to your room, and never be seen hanging
aimlessly around the lobby.  Experience had taught Jack Rhyce that the
Chief nearly always was absolutely right.  Twice during the war he had
been to the Mark Hopkins Hotel, but only to ascend in the elevator to
that popular cocktail room known as the Top of the Mark.  He had been
with the paratroopers in those days, and he had never dreamed that
anyone would select him for what he was now doing, but even then his
memory had been excellent.  Consequently, he had the general layout of
the hotel straight, almost the instant he was inside the door.

"Would you please hand me my briefcase, son?" he asked the bellboy.

The way you handled a briefcase could make you look like a traveling
salesman or a corporation lawyer.  It was better at the moment, Jack
Rhyce thought, to be placed as a corporation lawyer.  He printed his
name carefully in block letters on the registration card.

"The name is Rhyce," he said.  "John O. Rhyce, from Washington, D.C.  I
don't suppose you have any letters waiting for me?  Or telegrams or
messages?"  He spoke in a gentle, cultivated voice with an accent
difficult to identify.

"No messages, Mr. Rhyce," the clerk said, "but we do have your
reservation.  It's lucky you didn't come a day earlier, what with all
the goings on.  I hope you saw Mr. Molotov.  He must have been leaving
just when you came in."

"Oh, yes," Jack Rhyce said.  "He was pointed out to me."

"Front," the clerk said--"Room 515."

If Jack's guess was right, he would be in the middle of the corridor,
and he always slept more soundly there than at either end.  It was a
pleasant, airy room which looked toward the Bay.

"Well, thanks, son," Jack Rhyce said.  "That extra quarter is for
showing me Mr. Molotov."

Until the bellboy left, he stood gazing admiringly at the view, but as
soon as the door was closed he started on a tour of inspection which
was as routine as a plane checkup.  No transom; the door lock sound,
and in good order; no balconies or closely adjoining windows; no air
shaft in the bathroom.  It was five o'clock in the afternoon, ample
time in which to make a final appraisal of all his personal effects
before he went to dinner.

First he examined his passport.  Unlike several others that he had
carried, it told his true history except for his occupation--height
five feet eleven, hair light brown, eyes blue, no distinguishing marks
or features.  His place of birth was Lincoln, Nebraska, where as a
matter of fact his mother and his elder sister still lived.  His date
of birth was January 13th, 1920.  His occupation was educator.  A good
deal of thought had been given to his photograph, and the general
result was useful, in that it only vaguely resembled him.  There was no
disguising his high broad forehead, or the arch of his eyebrows, or the
firmness of his jaw, but if he changed his expression he could
repudiate the whole document, if necessary.

Next, he turned to his briefcase.  He had been taught and he understood
the great importance of cover.  The proper odds and ends and letters in
a briefcase could be of the utmost value, and one of the rules of the
game was that one never could be too careful with cover details.

The latest advices were that Japan was getting hot again and with a
tensing in the Pacific area, there was bound to be increased interest
in any strange American in one of several quarters.  Thus he expected
and hoped that someone would go through his personal effects, either
during his stopover in Hawaii or directly after his arrival in Tokyo,
and the sooner this happened the better, as far as he was concerned.
The main point was to demonstrate as early in the game as possible that
he was harmless, with absolutely nothing to conceal.

He put his briefcase on the writing table and drew out its contents,
placing the items in a neat row.  He was satisfied with the way
everything looked.  The letters had obviously been well handled, and
the odds and ends beside the letters were the sort of things that would
get into a briefcase by accident, and each added its bit to the owner's
background.  There was, for instance, a small box of deodorant powder
which confirmed his new personality, since affable people who wished to
please dreaded perspiration.  The New Testament which was also in the
briefcase he had felt was too obvious by itself, and he had compromised
by adding a small volume of the sayings of Buddha, published by the
Oxford University Press.  Both these volumes were also well worn, with
many cogent passages marked in his own writing.  The letters indicating
his family background gave him particular pleasure.  He could not
forget the work which had gone into the one from Omaha, Nebraska.  Not
only the words but the handwriting accurately revealed the writer's
character.


DEAR, DARLING BUNNY:

I am so pleased and so proud that this wonderful chance has come to you
after so many years of working so hard for other people.  I know you
don't know much about the Japanese, any more than I do.  But we both
know their hearts are in the right place.  And your personality that
inspires trust in everyone will get through to them, I know, in spite
of all the barriers of race and creed.  I would be worried about the
Oriental women that you are going to meet over there if I did not have
a mother's knowledge of a devoted son.  I know you will be thinking of
me as much as I of you.  Send me a postcard every day, and happy
landings.

MUMSIE


Although Jack Rhyce admitted that the letter might seem exaggerated, at
the same time people who skimmed through briefcases often required
definite leads, and the Oedipus complex was universal.  After all,
there could be little sinister about a mother's boy.

The second letter was written in a girlish hand on the stationery of
the Department of Sociology of Goucher College.


DEAR JACKIE:

I'm going to miss you terribly.  But seriously, sweetie, I think it's a
grand thing that you are going away to new countries for a while, to
study how other people live--not that I want you to get interested in
any girls there, or anything like that.  But seriously, sweetie,
although I don't like to be a "bore," I do think the time has come for
you to make up your mind.  In fact, the time has come for both of us.
This doesn't mean that I don't love you dearly, sweetie, but a girl
can't stay waiting all the time for any man, can she?  And this has
been going on ever since we met at your Senior Prom--remember?  I know
your mother is a darling, but honestly, I don't feel that she need
interfere with a happy marriage.  I've been reading a lot about these
problems lately, and all the authorities say that they can resolve
themselves, but we all have to do our part.  I simply can't do
everything.  And so as you wing your way over the ocean, I hope...


Jack Rhyce did not read the rest of it, because he was familiar with
the contents.  The letter had been composed, though not handwritten, by
an elderly spinster who specialized in cover work, and who had no sense
of humor.  She was not even amused by the signature, "Loads of love,
your HELENA."

"Why do you think that's funny?" she asked him.  "That's exactly the
sort of girl who would want to marry you if you had a mother like that."

Both letters showed signs of constant reading.  For the past two weeks
he had spent a half hour perusing them before going to sleep, and his
fingerprints proved it.

Then there were the more formal letters of introduction to
representatives of a completely genuine institution known as the Asia
Friendship League in Japan, and all other countries where the League
had branches.  The beauty of it all was that there was nothing wrong
with any of this part of the cover.  The organization had been honestly
conceived by public-spirited citizens, and, at least in its Washington
headquarters, had no employees with subversive records.

Connecting him with the Asia Friendship League had been the Chief's
idea.  It happened that the Chief had known the man who had given the
money to form the Asia Friendship League.  He was a Texas oil
millionaire named Gus Tremaine who had established a charitable trust
for tax purposes, and in fact had not known that the Asia Friendship
League existed until the Chief had informed him of it personally.  The
trust money, Mr. Tremaine had explained, was handled by a board, the
meetings of which he seldom attended; but he was most co-operative
after the Chief had talked to him, and he had called and written the
chairman of the Asia Friendship League personally.

Jack Rhyce now had the letter written to him, as a result, on the
League's letterhead:


ASIA FRIENDSHIP LEAGUE
  NATIONAL HEADQUARTERS
    WASHINGTON, D. C.

DEAR MR. RHYCE:

It is a real delight to hear from Mr. Gus Tremaine that he has
commissioned you, on his behalf, to make a survey of our work in the
Orient, and to write a general report for him.  This is just the sort
of thing we like, and we like it all the better when it shows Mr.
Tremaine's interest.  You must not be prejudiced by any idle gossip
regarding the Institute of Pacific Relations, or anything like that.
You will find that in our show we have all the cards on the table and
nothing up our sleeves.  The main ideal behind our organization,
endorsed by all the fine people whose names you see on the left margin
of this letter, is in one word--good will.  In fact, we have only one
ax to grind, if you call it an ax, and that is that a lot of people out
in the Pacific area need a lot of help, but not handouts that smack of
colonialism.  Our concept is simply to help folks to help themselves.

However, I am, as it were, talking out of school.  You'll understand
our aims better after we have lunch and spend an afternoon together on
any day you name next week.  And on your travels, you'll find out, too,
what a swell, alert team of truly dedicated folks we have in Tokyo,
Seoul, Hong Kong, Saigon and Thailand.

Well, anticipating a word from you, and looking forward to being of any
help to you in any way I can, in what I honestly predict will be for
you a real eye-opening adventure--

Cordially yours,
  CHAS. K. HARRINGTON


This letter also showed signs of repeated reading.  It had interested
Jack Rhyce from the beginning.




II

As soon as he had received the Harrington letter, Jack Rhyce had asked
to see the Chief, who listened carefully while Jack read the letter
aloud.

"Well," the Chief said, "what's so funny about it?"

"I didn't say it sounded funny," Jack Rhyce said.  "I said I thought it
sounded phony."

"I wish you wouldn't bother me about these details, Buster," the Chief
said.  "The whole department is working on this cover for you.  We're
giving it everything we've got, and then when we come up with something
you merely say it's phony."

"I only mean," Jack Rhyce said, "I sort of get the idea that this whole
Friendship League setup sounds a little too good to be true."

There was an appreciable pause, and it seemed to Jack that perhaps the
Chief was reviewing the bidding.  It was the Chief's open mind that had
finally put him where he was, in spite of competition.

"Have you read their literature yet?" the Chief asked.

"No, sir," Jack Rhyce said.

"Well, read it," the Chief said, "before you make any snap judgments.
Of course it sounds like a front organization, but as far as we can
see, this one is harmless, although Bill Gibson has not reported on it
yet.  Anyway, Chas. K. Harrington is harmless, and everyone else in his
executive suite.  They ought to be.  They are drawing higher salaries
than you or me, and they have expense accounts besides.  Frankly, I
never thought of this outfit to cover you until I saw that the Tremaine
Foundation had set it up.  Gus and I were in the war together.  He's a
Texan.  Do you like Texans?"

"Not always," Jack Rhyce said.

"Well, I think maybe you ought to meet him," the Chief said, and looked
hard at Jack again and smiled in a frigid way.

"You see, Gus is like you, Buster.  He just doesn't believe that the
world is full of people who want to do good by spending other peoples'
money.  But you're going to understand it.  You'd better start
learning, because we're going to turn you into one of those people."

"Maybe I'm not the right type, sir," Jack Rhyce said.

"You're going to be," the Chief said.  "You're going to be a mother's
boy, and have a sweetheart.  I think we'll have her in the sociology
department at Goucher College.  You'll only have about two weeks before
you start, so throw yourself into it, Buster."

Naturally, he was most anxious to throw himself into it.  He had only
been told until then that Gibson, in Tokyo, had requested help, and
that he had been selected, but he still did not know what his mission
was, and he had been careful not to ask.  Now, however, as he sat in
the Chief's office, listening to the humming of the air-conditioner,
and the sounds of the Washington traffic, he understood that the plans
had solidified, and that his briefing was about to start.

"Do you know what I found out the other day?" the Chief asked him.  "I
discovered that the boys and girls in the office call me Dick Tracy.
Why do you suppose they do that?"

"Well," Jack answered, "I'd say it was mainly out of affection, and not
because they think you're a figure of fun, or a comic, or anything like
that."

The Chief turned on another of his icy smiles.

"Right," he said, "comics aren't comics any more.  When I was a kid I
was supposed to laugh at the Hall-Room Boys and Mutt and Jeff and the
Katzenjammer Kids, but that's all over now.  Nothing is really funny
any more, not even a good prat-fall, because it may have international
significance.  Right?"

"If you say so," Jack Rhyce said, "but I don't follow you."

"Now don't get fresh, Buster," the Chief told him.  "I admit that I am
circuitous this morning.  I'm sorry to harp on the remark you made
about this Asia Friendship League letter.  You said you thought it
might be phony, but I'm afraid you think it's funny too.  Please don't
think it is, because I'd like to have you come back alive from Tokyo."

He paused, and a silence fell between them.

"Let's skip that last remark," the Chief said.  "All I'm trying to say
is that these people like this Chas. K. Harrington aren't funny.  Often
they're not even stupid.  Please don't underrate them, Buster.  Oh,
sure, a lot of them are grotesque.  Most of them are ignorant in many
sectors, because they're usually narrow and dogmatic--but don't forget
they can be dangerous.  They do have a certain idealism, and a kind of
selflessness.  They have what Tennyson called 'an all-increasing
purpose' even if it's fuzzy-minded.  Never underestimate the
do-gooders, Buster.  As a class, they've made us a hell of a lot of
trouble in the last thirty years.  Please never think of them as being
funny."

When the Chief got started, he had an orator's ability to begin in a
slow, haphazard manner, and then with no appreciable effort to pull
everything together.

"Incidentally," he said, "I wonder if you have ever read _Heaven's My
Destination_ by Thornton Wilder.  I don't suppose so, because it was
written when you were in short pants, except that of course they
weren't wearing them when you were a boy, were they?  I wish you would
read it before you go to sleep to-night, because his central character
is a do-gooder.  Some people thought he was funny, but he wasn't.
You're giving me your full attention, aren't you?  You see, your cover
is a do-gooder and you've got to understand the species."

He stopped and gazed at Jack Rhyce, but of course Jack was giving him
his full attention.

"The thing to keep clearly in mind is that this individual you're going
to represent, whom I call a do-gooder for want of a better word, is a
distinctly modern type.  There was nothing like him in the days of the
Roman Empire, and he can only survive today in a country rich enough to
afford him.  There have been plenty of philanthropists before, and
socialists and revolutionists--Tom Paines, and John Donnes, and Karl
Marxes, and Arnold von Winkelrieds, and Wilhelm Tell, and Spartacus,
and lots of other active characters whose hearts have bled for the
common man, but not the same way our modern hearts bleed.  Do-goodism
in its purest form is new in the world.  Maybe it's our greatest hope,
but it's also our biggest danger--seriously."

"You mean certain people and ideologies take advantage of it?" Jack
asked.

"You're smart today, Buster," the Chief said.  "The trouble is, we're
an incorrigibly romantic nation who believe, like Little Orphan Annie,
that Daddy Warbucks will always be just around the corner.  Do-gooders
are unrealistic and their older models weren't, basically.  The older
models thought things through, but we don't think.  We feel.  The same
used to be true of you, but I trust you're getting over it."

"How do you mean--it used to be true with me?" Jack asked.

"Do you remember," the Chief asked, "that damn-fool remark you made to
Molotov just before we yanked you out of the paratroopers, about all
men being brothers?  That's what I mean--it was do-goodism.  I damn
near sent you back to the army after that."

Jack Rhyce was startled.  The truth was you never could tell what the
Chief would remember.

"I agree with you, sir," he answered.  "I hope I'm better now."

"But I don't want you to be better now," the Chief said.  "I want you
to be a do-gooder.  I want you to throw yourself into it.  Now you've
shown me your letter.  Here's another for you, Buster, and after you
read it maybe you won't feel that Chas. K. Harrington's Asia Friendship
one is so phony.  Don't hurry with it.  Take your time."

He opened the top drawer of his desk and pulled out a photostat of a
letter dated a week before from Amarillo, Texas.


DEAR MR. HARRINGTON [he read]:

Due to my business commitments here and there I've been kind of out of
touch with your project, the Asia Friendship League, but I've heard a
lot about the fine things you're doing out there, and I feel right
gratified, to use a Texas phrase.

Now just in order to keep myself up to date, I am commissioning a young
friend of mine, for whom I can vouch in every way, because we've rode
the range together, and eaten brains at the same barbecue, to make a
survey for me of everything you're doing, so I can have the whole
picture straight, right here at El Rancho Chico.

The name is Jack Rhyce--a good real American, by the way, though I'm
not anti-foreign or anti-anything, partner.  Take him right in and
shoot the works to him, and send him around the world to all those
places which I hope to see myself someday, where they ride in sampans
and leave their shirttails out.

You're going to like Jack, so just feel free to tell him anything,
because, honestly, he's a prince.  And here are a few facts.  Jack
graduated from Oberlin College in 1941.  He has a fine religious
background, but is at the same time a real he-man.  For example, he
played right tackle for Oberlin on the team that almost got to the
Sugar Bowl or someplace, and also commenced interesting himself in
civic and welfare projects.  For instance, during summer vacations, he
was counselor for the Y.M.C.A. boy's camp at Lincoln, Nebraska; and
helped out in various recreational projects, including the organization
of the Tiny Tim Football League, which proved very popular.

He tells me he thinks he would have gone into settlement work if it had
not been for the war, but he was just as quick as a Texan to heed his
country's call, serving in the paratroopers until wounded.  After this
he did desk work for various services in Washington, and since then has
stayed in Government, not wearing striped pants, but traveling the
world for projects like Point Four and things like that.  Jack's got a
lot of swell ideas, and you two are going to have a lot in common.
He's at loose ends now, and I don't know anyone who will understand and
appreciate what you're up to better than Jack.

Why is he at loose ends?  Well, frankly, because I've been lucky enough
to shanghai him out of Washington with the eventual plan of having him
as a sort of leg-man for me out here at Amarillo.  How was I able to
shanghai him?  Well, frankly, don't kid Jack about it, but Cupid has
entered into the picture in the shape of a very lovely little trick who
is working in the department of sociology at Goucher College, whose
name is Helena Jacoby.  What with his lovely mother, whom he's never
let down since he was five, and this Cupid deal, Jack needs a little
more dough.  Well, that's the story, Harrington.  You'll hear from him,
and give him the red carpet treatment all the way to everywhere, and
so, _hasta maana_.

GUS TREMAINE


The strength of the letter was that its main facts were provable by
investigation.  He had been to Oberlin.  He had played right tackle.
He had been a Y.M.C.A. camp director, and his parents did entertain
strong religious convictions.  He had been a paratrooper until the
Chief had run into him at "Walter Reed hospital.  Since the war he had
served in Washington.

"How do you like it?" the Chief asked.  "It ought to be good, because I
spent two nights over it, personally."

Jack Rhyce handed back the copy.  It was amazing how intricately the
Chief's mind could work.

"It looks pretty good, sir," he said, "but it might help if you were to
tell me just why you've selected me for this spot, and what I'm
supposed to do when I get there--in Japan."

For a moment the Chief looked annoyed, but finally he nodded.

"Maybe you've got a point there, Buster," he said.  "You know I never
play fun and games with anyone intentionally, don't you?  I think it's
early to give you the breakdown, but maybe you've got a point."

He paused and tapped his desk with his pencil.

"All right," he said.  "Question Number One: You're going out to the
East because you're not known there.  Europeans, and especially
Americans, stand out like sore thumbs in the East.  Everybody knows
your income and your girl friend in the Orient.  Even the rickshaw
pullers know whether you are a spy or not.  Orientals are experts about
people, as you'll find out, and that's why we are working so hard on
your cover, but it won't help indefinitely.  They find out everything
eventually."

"What about Sorge?" Jack Rhyce asked.  "He lasted quite a while."

He was speaking of one of the greatest men in the profession--the
German Sorge who, in the guise of a newspaper correspondent, ran the
Russian spy ring, and for years had given Moscow accurate intelligence
regarding all Japanese intentions.  He had been a foreigner, alone in a
highly suspicious country, who had been watched by a highly organized
secret police, and yet it had been a long while before the Japanese
caught up with him.

"Sorge," the Chief said.  "Exactly.  Sorge had a good cover.  But the
Japs got him in the end, and made him sing.  He must have forgotten his
pillbox.  I want you to keep yours handy, Buster."

They were both silent for a few seconds.  They were professionals, and
there was no need to underline anything.

"All right," the Chief said.  "Question Number Two: You're going out to
assist Gibson.  You'll be under his orders."  And then he lowered his
voice.  "Gibson's got the wind up, and he doesn't scare easy.  He
thinks the Commies are planning a political assassination, and
anti-American demonstrations in Tokyo.  This is serious when you
consider the total political picture."  The Chief pushed back his desk
chair and stood up.  You never realized how tall he was until he was on
his feet.  He selected another chair and drew it close to Jack.

"Gibson's vague.  But you know as well as I do that he's damned
intuitive.  He says a new personality is running things."  The Chief's
voice dropped to a still lower note.  "An American personality, Gibson
thinks.  He asked for you particularly."

"Did he say what the personality is doing?" Jack Rhyce asked.

It was never a good idea to ask the Chief direct questions, and he was
not surprised that the Chief was annoyed.

"Damn it," the Chief said, "Gibson was necessarily vague.  That's the
trouble with this cold war.  It's all vague.  It isn't a question of
stealing the secret plans.  It's organization and propaganda and sudden
ugly incidents; and our side hasn't learned yet to organize or to
understand what people want.  All we know is what they ought to want,
but maybe we're learning slowly."

The Chief described a circle in the air with his right hand.

"All we can do is to sketch this character," he said.  "He's an
organizer, a new mind in the apparatus.  There's been a sudden marked
change in Japan, according to Gibson's estimate.  The neutralist
intelligentsia are getting more neutralist.  There's more
anti-Americanism, more pro-Communism.  The Communist choral groups are
getting better.  There's more and better Red literature in the
bookshops.  There are new ideas.  For instance, there's a new labor
union that sells clothes at 40 per cent below the retail price.  It's
the bread and circus idea, but somehow it's done on subtler lines.
It's Gibson's notion that all this is only the prelude to large-scale
disturbances.  You'll have to see him to get it straight, or maybe
you'll even have to see the character."

This piece of exposition impressed Jack Rhyce because it lacked the
Chief's usual balance.

"Maybe I haven't quite followed you," Jack Rhyce said.  "It seems to me
everything you say sounds like the usual Moscow technique."

Certainly he and everyone else had seen enough of it.  The undeviating
quality of the Moscow manufactured procedure was its greatest strength,
because there came a saturation point when simple-minded men accepted
boredom.  The Chief nodded slowly.

"I'm sorry if I gave you that impression," he said.  "Actually yours
was my own initial reaction, until I examined the orders to organizers
and all that sort of thing.  It's all gayer.  It doesn't taste so much
like castor oil.  You'll find you almost enjoy it.  When was the last
time you were in Tokyo?"

"Eight years ago," Jack said, "and only for two days.  Tokyo looked
pretty well bombed out then."

"Well," the Chief said, "I was there six months ago, and really you
wouldn't know the place now.  The Japs have that resilience, or
national will to live, or whatever you may call it.  The whole town's
built up and it's bigger, better, busier.  And any fool can observe
that its atmosphere is predominantly American.  It used to be Germany
before the war, but now in Japan the fashion is the U.S.A.  Even the
shop signs are in English in districts no American ever visits.  Maybe
they think America is good because we won the war.  I wouldn't know.  I
wouldn't care.  Of course Japanese culture never will be American, but
oh, boy, they have the superficialities!  You hardly see a kimono in
Tokyo any more.  You don't hear the sound of a geta on the sidewalk.
Go to a ball game--and you might think you were back at home from the
sounds the crowd makes.  The girls all wear American dresses and the
men are in business suits.  Do you think I'm getting away from my
point?"

"I know you couldn't do that, sir," Jack Rhyce said, and he was quite
right, because in the next few words the Chief pulled everything
together.

"They like everything American.  That's the point," the Chief said.
"They don't fall for anything Russian.  And this new propaganda has an
American touch.  It has jazz and neon lights in it.  It's damn clever.
And I think Gibson's right--it's dangerous.  Communist-made Americanism
always is, because it can form the background of serious disturbances.
Frankly, I wouldn't say that Japan is very firmly in the camp of the
freedom-loving nations.  Why should it be?  Well, we lost China, and
God help us if Japan goes Communist.  We'll be in the grinders then;
and frankly, Gibson thinks there's a hell of a better chance of its
happening than there was six months ago.  Something new has been added
from America and things are accelerating."

Jack Rhyce knew that the Chief had not given all the details yet.
Certainly the Bureau's organization in Japan was not so ineffective
that it had not turned up a few concrete facts.

"I hope you're going to tell me what's been dug up," Jack Rhyce said.
"After all, I have personal reasons for being curious."

"Oh, yes," the Chief said, and he sat down behind the desk again.
"I've made a few mental notes.  Of course we have our contacts in the
left-wing organizations, but as far as we can make out, none of our
people has seen this individual.  However, there is reason to believe
that he has been to Japan several times.  We think we know his cover
name.  It's Ben Bushman.  There's a lot of talk about a Ben in all the
recent intercepts.  The man who is really masterminding things out
there is a Russian named Skirov who comes over to Tokyo to meet Ben.
Gibson thinks there's a meeting due pretty soon.  I don't need to ask
you if you know about this Skirov, do I?"

"I know who he is all right, sir," Jack Rhyce answered.

The Chief smiled faintly, indicating that they both understood that the
question had been a joke.  Skirov had been on the Moscow first team for
a long while, and the latest evaluations had placed him close to the
first ten in Moscow.

"Yes," the Chief said.  "He's been improving in the last few years like
rare old wine, and he's slippery as an eel, always behind the scenes.
Am I right in remembering that you've seen Skirov once?"

Jack Rhyce shook his head.

"No," he answered, "I'm sorry, sir, I missed him if he was at any of
those parties in Moscow, but I have him clear in my mind, just as
everyone else around here has.  I examined his photographs only last
week."

"You mean in relation to the new Politburo setup?" the Chief asked.

"Yes, sir," Jack Rhyce said, "in that connection, and I can give you
his description verbatim."

The Chief sighed and tapped his pencil on the desk.

"I suppose it's too much to think you'll run into Skirov over there,"
the Chief said, "but if you should you know what the orders are
regarding Skirov, don't you?"

"Yes, sir," Jack Rhyce answered.

The Chief had stopped tapping his desk.  The pencil was motionless.

"No matter what it costs," he said, "don't forget the sky's the limit
if you contact Skirov.  There's just a hope that this new one--this Big
Ben--may lead you to him, but I doubt it.  Skirov never sticks his neck
out.  That's why your main mission is this Big Ben.  I want him located
and taped."

"There's no personal description of him yet, is there?" Jack Rhyce
asked.

"Nothing that is definite," the Chief said.  "He may be big, because
he's referred to occasionally as Big Ben.  Once the phrase, 'the
Honorable Pale-eyed' was found in words contiguous to Ben's.  I wish
the Japanese were as clever at giving nicknames to foreigners as the
Chinese....  But I'm getting off the point.  All we have about our boy
are theories.  It looks as though he were energetic, and therefore
young.  If he's young, he must have some sort of war record.  I'd say
he was college-educated.  He must have been in the East for a while at
one point, because our bet is that he has a smattering of Japanese and
a little Chinese.  This might put him in the preacher class, but I
doubt it.  He must have a vigorous, engaging personality, be quite a
ball of fire in fact; but he isn't in our files.  There's one thing
more that I'm pretty sure of.  It looks to me like a safe bet that Big
Ben has been in show business."

"What makes you go for that one, sir?" Jack Rhyce asked.

"The Communist drama groups in Japan," the Chief said.  "You know how
the Communists have always used folk drama to make their little points.
I saw a lot of their plays before the war, in China.  Now, according to
Gibson, these productions, which used to be excruciatingly dull, have
been jazzed up.  Pretty girls are singing blues, there's soft-shoe and
tap dancing, and American-type strippers."

"He sounds like someone in the Hollywood crowd," Jack Rhyce said.

"It could be," the Chief answered.  "Naturally we've given some thought
along that line, but Hollywood is more of a generic term than a place.
For my money, Ben has been around the live stage, specifically musical
comedy.  I rather think, since we haven't dug him up, that he was in
some Little Theater group.  Or maybe he was in one of those road
companies that are always traveling around the country doing revivals
of Sigmund Romberg or Victor Herbert.  Well, there's your picture.  We
want to know who Ben is, and you're going to help Gibson find out."

"What do we do if we find him?" Jack asked.

The Chief laughed, one of his rare laughs.

"You know my motto," he said.  "Always do it with velvet gloves--when
possible.  I wouldn't want to hurt this Big Ben for the world, if it
isn't necessary, but we don't want political assassination or
anti-American demonstrations either.  Anyway, Bill Gibson will give you
the line to take.  Of course, if you run into Skirov, that will change
the picture, and Bill's got his orders, too, about Skirov.  Also, if
you stir things up, it may be that the whole Skirov apparatus will get
ugly.  Don't forget that one.  Now, there's one thing more."  The Chief
looked at his watch again.

"What's that, sir?" Jack Rhyce asked.

"Beginning tomorrow I want you to take two weeks off to study that
material, and I want you to go up to the Farm to do it, and every
afternoon you're to have a workout with George and the boys.  Right
through the whole curriculum--everything."

"It isn't necessary," Jack said.  "I know those things."

"It won't hurt to have a refresher course," the Chief said.  "From now
on you're a do-gooder.  And do-gooders don't carry rods.  I want you to
be good if you have to rough it up with people.  Really, Jack, I'm most
anxious for you to come back to me alive."




III

One of the troubles with working in the office was that you could have
no real life of your own because you knew too much, and because the off
moment might arise when you forgot what was classified or what was not.
The only people with whom you could be at ease were those of a selected
group from the office, and even with them you could not wholly relax.
Nevertheless, you always had to appear to be normal, because in no
respect could you seem peculiar or conspicuous.  It was no wonder that
Jack Rhyce sometimes laughed sourly when he read the advertisements in
True Detective magazine; no wonder that most members of the group went
on drunken sprees when they returned from various assignments.  The
Chief was always lenient about these lapses, as long as they were done
at the Farm.  The worst of it was, that sometimes you hardly knew who
you were, after months in foreign parts, and yet you finally adjusted
to anything.

The Chief had once told Jack Rhyce that he had only one handicap: he
was too good-looking, too athletic and well-set-up to avoid attracting
attention.  But for once his athletic build, his guileless face, and
his irrepressible interest in everything around him were all helpful to
his cover.  As he sat in his bedroom in the Mark Hopkins, Jack Rhyce
had almost forgotten who he was.  His mind, in the solitude of the
Farm, had absorbed all the facts and details, both about himself and
Big Ben.  He had almost developed a genuine enthusiasm for the
self-improving opportunity that this trip to the Far East would give
him, and he had been able to communicate this enthusiasm to Mr. Chas.
K. Harrington, in several of his interviews.

Of course he had still harbored the suspicion, after that talk with the
Chief, that there must be something wrong about the Friendship League,
and the Chief was amused when he heard about it.

"I don't think so, although we haven't got a final check," he said.
"The thing that saves them is that they're too damned obvious.  After
the Institute of Pacific Relations investigations, any sensible Comrade
would think that this is a trap; but give them a good looking-over,
Buster."

He had not forgotten what the Chief had told him.  As he sat in his
locked hotel room there in San Francisco, checking over for the last
time the contents of his briefcase, he had an unworldly feeling.  None
of his precautions seemed correct for anyone who was going to write a
favorable report about a fine organization, and who was so fortunate as
to have his expenses paid to a wonderful part of the world.  He
examined the last papers in the briefcase, down to the final odds and
ends that had seemingly fallen there by mistake--those bits that gave
more veracity than any letters could, and all revealed character: the
paper of matches from an inexpensive hotel, and a very respectable one,
in mid town New York; the theater-ticket stubs to the matinee of a play
which had only one week left to run; the memorandum of telephone
numbers--all of persons to whom Chas. K. Harrington had referred him,
in case anyone should want to confirm.  There was one thing that
bothered him slightly in his final summing-up.  The net result of that
briefcase, he suddenly feared, was too neat, too virtuous, lacking any
sign of human weakness, and most people did have frailties.  Perhaps,
although it had been carefully discussed in Washington, it had too many
earmarks of obviousness and exaggeration.  He sat for a moment thinking
carefully of possible remedies, and suddenly he had it.  He would go to
a drugstore that very evening and get a paper-bound copy of the Kinsey
Report of the sex life of the American Female, and put a plain paper
cover over it.  It would take several hours to get the book
authentically dog-eared, but the trouble might be worth it.  No one who
searched that briefcase would ever doubt his character again--not with
the New Testament, Buddha and Kinsey all together.  He was still
congratulating himself on the idea when his room telephone rang.


There was no reason, as he thought it over later, why the jangling of
the bell should have run through his nerves like an electric shock.  It
must have been that sight of the Russians that made him start at the
sound, and also, as far as he could tell, the fact that no one knew
that he was in San Francisco.  He watched the telephone for a
considerable time without lifting it, but the bell continued ringing.
Whoever was calling the room must have been very sure that he was
there.  He finally picked up the instrument.

"Hello," he said, and he spoke in the mellifluous, accentless voice
that he had spent such a long time cultivating.

He was startled when a girl's voice answered.

"Hello"--the voice had a slightly husky quality, and sounded very
young, and at the same time seductive.  "Is this Mr. John Rhyce?"

"Yes," he answered, and he timed the pause very carefully.  "Yes, this
is Mr. Rhyce."

The voice changed immediately into confidential happiness.  The words
tumbled over each other in what seemed to him a Midwestern manner.

"Gosh, I'm glad I contacted you, Mr. Rhyce.  I was afraid you might
have left your room, or something.  This is Ruth--Ruth Bogart."

"Oh," he said.  "Oh, yes"--and he tried to cudgel his brains.  Having
been in the profession for a considerable period, he was naturally good
with names and faces; but he could not place any Ruth Bogart.

"Don't you know who I am?" she asked.

"Why, no," he said, and he laughed.  "I don't, to be quite frank; but
then perhaps I'm not the Mr. Rhyce you're looking for either.  Rhyce is
a common name, but mine is spelled with a _y_."

"Of course it's spelled with a _y_," she said.  "Oh, dear, didn't Mr.
Harrington tell you?  I'm one of the Asia League girls, and we're going
on the same plane tomorrow."

"Why, no," he said, "Mr. Harrington didn't tell me."

"Oh, dear," she said.  "He promised he was going to.  Have you inquired
for wires and everything?"

"There wasn't any wire," he answered.

"Oh, dear," she said.  "Charlie gets so absent-minded sometimes.  Well,
just the same, I'm Ruth Bogart."

There was a slight pause while his mind moved rapidly, since there were
a number of possibilities in that call, and the most important one was
that it might have originated with the Russians.

"Well, it's very kind of you to give me a ring," he said, "especially
when you must have many acquaintances in the city, Miss Bogart."

"No," she said, "I haven't, and it's awfully lonely in a strange city,
isn't it?"  If it weren't for her American voice, and the implacable
self-confidence of American women, he would have thought the approach
was crude.  "I'm stopping here at the Mark, too, and--maybe I'm butting
in, but Charles--I mean Mr. Harrington--did suggest I call you.  I was
hoping if you weren't too busy or something, we might have dinner.
There's a place here called Fisherman's Wharf, I understand, where they
have divine sea food.  My room is 312."

"Why, that sounds swell," Jack Rhyce said.  "I could certainly do with
some sea food.  I'll be knocking on 312 in just a jiffy."

It was much better to see what was going on than not, and he especially
liked the word "jiffy," for it had a suggestive Friendship League
sound.  He looked in the mirror above the bureau and straightened his
coat.  Then he bent down and tested the laces of his brown crepe-soled
shoes.  Finally he gave a parting glance at his briefcase.  It was the
oldest game in the world, to lure someone away so that his room could
be searched, and a girl was conventionally the shill.  He very much
hoped he was correct in this suspicion, because the sooner he was
placed the better.  The only doubt he harbored was how dumb he ought to
be.  Should he put his briefcase in the upper drawer of the bureau, or
should he simply leave it on the writing table?  He compromised by
tossing it carelessly on the bed, closed the room door noisily behind
him, and walked down the corridor eagerly and merrily, just in case
anyone should be watching.  There was an old saying in the business
that a lot of men had saved their lives by giving the impression that
they were easily beguiled by women.  There had been a girl in Istanbul
once, and a very pretty one, too, but that was another story, and he
had been sorry when he heard later that she had fallen from a hotel
window and died of a broken neck.

One of the oldest tricks was also the ambush, the alluring call on the
telephone, the welcoming inward opening of the door, and the blow on
the base of the skull.  He was still whistling when he stepped out of
the elevator and walked down the corridor to Room 312.  A great deal of
thought had been given at the Farm to the right and wrong way of
entering a strange room.  He rose to the balls of his feet, rapped
briskly on the door of Room 312 with his left hand, his right low at
his side, shoulders forward, knees bent, but only slightly.

"Oh," a voice said.  "Just a moment, please."

His memory of the Russians made him very careful.  He moved closer to
the door and touched the knob with his left hand in order to be fully
prepared when it turned.  As the door opened inward, Jack Rhyce moved
with it, almost touching the panel with his left shoulder, knees still
bent, right hand still slightly down.  There was bound to come a moment
when the situation would reveal itself, and when you had your
opportunity to advance or retreat, as long as you were moving with the
door.  Jack Rhyce entered the room almost on tiptoe, knees still bent.
It was a duplicate of his own, and the bathroom door was closed.  A
glance at the bed showed that someone must have been resting on it at
almost the moment he had knocked.  He also had a glimpse of two matched
suitcases of canvas airplane luggage.  Of course he saw all those
things at the very same instant he saw the girl who stood by the door.

She was very pretty, which did not surprise him.  He would have
estimated her age at not over twenty-five, until a glance at her hands
made him doubtful.  Her height was five feet six, hair dark brown, eyes
gray green.  Her face was longish with a mouth that showed character,
although you could not tell much about a woman's mouth when touched
with lipstick.  She wore a green dress of heavy silk with a thin yellow
stripe in it, and she held a red leather handbag.

"Why, Mr. Rhyce," she smiled, "I didn't know you'd come rushing down
quite so rapidly."

He smiled back in the overcordial manner that anyone might use when
meeting an attractive girl.  She was using very little make-up.  The
color in her cheeks was natural, and she had only a touch of lipstick.
He had grown adept, long ago, in spotting persons engaged in his line
of work.  There was something indescribable about them that could
awaken his intuition--an overalertness, perhaps, or a general
impression of strain--but her personality baffled him, and he could not
reach an immediate conclusion.

"I guess I hurried down faster than was polite," he said, "because it
was such a surprise, and a real pleasure too, to hear a friendly voice
in 'Frisco.  I hope I didn't sound rude, or anything like that, when
you called me, because that was my last intention.  I'm terribly sorry
that Charlie didn't say anything about you, and a little surprised,
too, because without wanting to be forward or anything, I don't see how
anyone like you could possibly skip anyone's mind."

He could not help being pleased with the general tone of his speech,
all of which reflected his new character.

"Why, Mr. Rhyce," she said, "what cute things you say."

Her looks, and then the word cute, were like a tag in the museum case,
although the possibility remained that she, too, had a cover.

"Well, I can only say it is a real pleasure, making your acquaintance,
Miss Bogart," Jack Rhyce said, "and it will be fun exploring San
Francisco with you.  I'm especially glad you mentioned Fisherman's
Wharf, and after that we might visit Chinatown.  I believe it is the
largest Chinese district anywhere in the United States."

There was no doubt that his weeks of work were paying off, and Mr.
Wilder's novel had been of great assistance.

"I think dinner would be lovely," she said, "but I'm afraid I'll have
to beg off on Chinatown, although it sounds awfully romantic and all
that; and anyway, you and I are going to see a lot of these Oriental
people pretty quickly, aren't we?  I'm a little woozy, because I've
just flown in from Chicago, and we have an early start tomorrow."

There was no doubt that she was very pretty, and of course, like all
American girls, she obviously knew it.  In the elevator she opened her
red leather bag and took out a gold compact--genuine, not an ordinary
plated job.  She looked at herself critically in the little mirror,
standing with her back to the elevator boy.  Jack Rhyce could not avoid
a sympathetic interest because it was the correct technique for
examining the elevator operator.

"Oh, I forgot to powder my nose," she said.

Her nose looked straight and determined.  It did not need powder, and
he told her so.

"Well, anyway," she said, "this is a very exciting hotel.  Do you know
who was here this afternoon?  Mr. Molotov himself, who was calling on
Mr. Dulles.  I had the good fortune to have a glimpse of him just as he
was getting into his car."

"Did you?" Jack Rhyce said heartily.  "I had that good fortune, myself.
I was just getting in from the airport."

They were by the front door then and the doorman was whistling for a
taxi.

"I know," she said, and gave him a playful smile.  "I saw you, and I
did hope you would be you."

It disturbed him that he had not seen her.

"You were so busy looking at those Russians," she said, "that I thought
you almost wanted to speak to them."

"Well," he said, "I guess I forgot to look for pretty girls, or
anything, being so close to Molotov.  He was quite a character, wasn't
he?"

"I thought he was cute," she said.  "I was surprised.  I thought he was
just an old Teddy bear, didn't you?"

"Well," Jack Rhyce said, "not exactly a Teddy bear."

He kept wishing he could place her, so that he could be more at ease.
The business with the compact mirror still disturbed him.

As he sat down beside her in the taxi, she took out her compact again,
and Jack Rhyce's shoulders stiffened slightly because there was really
no valid reason for doing so a second time.  Then she snapped her bag
shut, and put her hand over his, where it rested on the seat beside
him.  Jack Rhyce was startled because her gesture did not fit correctly
with the picture at the moment.

"It is so romantic, isn't it," she said, "to see the sun setting over
the Golden Gate?  I never thought I'd have the opportunity."

"Yes," Jack Rhyce said, "I agree with you.  It is going to be a lovely
sunset."

But he was no longer listening to his words or hers.  Her fingers were
pressing on the back of his hand, first long, and then short, the
Continental Code.

"_Being followed,_" he read: "_Orange-and-black taxi._"

He was not disturbed by the news that she had given him, but on the
contrary, rather relieved.  What did disturb him was his inability to
place the girl.

"_Okay,_" he signaled back.  "_So what?_"

"_Have message from Chief,_" she signaled back.

There was a happy smile on his face, and he drew his hand away.  There
were plenty of people in the outfit whom he did not know, since the
cardinal principle in conducting such an operation was to have an
individual know as few others as possible.  What bothered him was that
he still could not be sure of her.

"Driver," he asked, "what is the best place for sea food at Fisherman's
Wharf?"

"I will never recommend one over another," the driver said, "but a lot
of newcomers here sort of go for Fisherman's Grotto, maybe on account
of the name."

Jack Rhyce studied the back of the driver's head carefully, thinking
that he had talked more than was necessary, but then taxi drivers were
apt to be verbose.  He turned to the girl beside him.

"That's quite a name--the Fisherman's Grotto," he said.  "Do you think
we'd better try it?"

"Why, yes," she said.  "I think it would be lovely."  She sounded very
happy, just the way a girl should who is being taken to dine at a place
like the Fisherman's Grotto.  "I always love to dine in new places,
don't you?  And we have so much to talk about, so many notes to
compare."

"Yes," Jack Rhyce said, "and I can't tell you how pleased I am that we
will be traveling together."

"That's why they hurried things up back East--just so we could," she
said.  "Mr. Tremaine said that so long as you were going, I might as
well go with you, since you've traveled so much and this is all a new
experience for me.  He's a lovely old man, isn't he?  I mean Mr.
Tremaine--just a regular old Teddy bear."

"I never thought of him in that category, exactly," Jack Rhyce answered.

"It seems to me," she said, "that you don't seem to think of anybody as
Teddy bears."

"Well, frankly, no, I haven't--not for a good many years," Jack Rhyce
said.  "And maybe it's just as well."

"Oh, dear," she said, "I hope you're not going to be a dim-view artist.
I didn't think you would be, from what I heard of you at Goucher."

"Where?" he asked.

"Why, Goucher College, of course," she said.  "Helena and I are both in
the Department of Sociology, and we room together.  In fact, frequently
we're mistaken for each other."

"Now that you mention it," Jack Rhyce said, "I can see you look like
Helena."

"I've heard so much about you," she said, "that I almost called you
Jackie.  What's the latest news of your mother?"

There was no time to answer because the taxi had stopped at the
Fisherman's Wharf.  Jack Rhyce was out and beside the driver as quickly
as he could manage it.  An orange-and-black cab had stopped behind
them, and a slender man in his sixties got out of it.  It was a calm,
still day, and close to sunset, but there was plenty of light.  He
noticed that the Fisherman's Wharf was well equipped with artificial
illumination.  It was not the sort of place to finger anyone.  The
elderly man from the orange-and-black cab lingered outside the
Fisherman's Grotto, examining some abalone shells.  Jack Rhyce pulled
his thoughts together abruptly.  Granted there was no immediate danger,
he would have felt safer if he had not met the Russians.  There still
remained the possibility that he had been spotted standing in the
crowd, and the present reaction still might be more than a routine
checkup.

"Helena says you always call your mother 'Mumsie,'" the girl beside him
said.

"Oh, yes," he said, and he laughed in an embarrassed way, "but it's
only a holdover from childhood."

Her last few words filled him with relief because it would have been
difficult, at least in his judgment, for anyone outside of the office
to have strung so many facts so consistently together.  He was
reasonably sure by now that she was the girl at Goucher College who had
hand-written the "Dear Jackie" letter.  For a second his mind moved
from immediate necessities long enough for him to wonder how the Chief
had ever found her, but it was none of his business, and the Chief
would never tell.  Still, he needed to make a further check before he
finally accepted her.

"Well," he said, "so here we are at the Fisherman's Grotto," and he
smiled and nodded to the headwaiter.  There was still a choice of
tables because the hour was early.

"I believe it's the season for Dungeness crabs," he said to her, "and
if you've never tried one, they are a most rewarding experience."

Her smile was exaggeratedly gay and provocative, and he was naturally
quick about playing by ear.  She was telling him, as clearly as though
she were speaking, that they both should be absorbed in each other's
words and glances, and oblivious to what went on around them.

"Why, I never heard of them, Jackie," she said.  "That's what Helena
calls you, isn't it?  Jackie?"

"Let's not go on any more about Helena," he said.  "She's quite a
distance away--already."

"Oh, dear," she said, and her smile grew reproachful.  "I'm afraid
you're mad at Helena because of what she said about your mother.  You
can't blame her for being a little tiny bit jealous, can you?"

"Well, it does get me a little miffed," he said, "and after all, as I
repeat, Helena isn't here."

"Well, I think you're being rather naughty, Jackie," she said.  "Do you
think I'd make a better mother substitute than Helena?"

"I have an idea you'll be much better," he said.  "In fact, I'll be
glad to experiment.  And may I call you Ruth?"

"Why, yes," she said, "only I hope you don't think I'm being forward,
or susceptible, or anything like that, because that isn't really the
case at all.  I just believe in being myself, Jack.  Don't you?"

It was one of the worst conversations in which he had indulged since he
was sixteen, but as he threw himself into the make-believe, the thing
assumed a quality that was almost genuine, particularly in the
boy-meets-girl scene.  The bored look of the waiter as he handed the
menu proved, at any rate, that the audience believed.

"I think this occasion calls for a Martini or something like that,
don't you?" he asked.

"I don't know that I care for a Martini," she said, "and I don't know
that it would be any too good for you, either, now that I'm a mother
substitute."  Their glances met, and they both smiled fatuously at her
little joke.  "But I would like a nice bottle of that lovely California
wine that is made by those priests, or something."

He was somewhat embarrassed that she had been smarter than he.
Admittedly, it was conceivable that you might not know what went into a
cocktail, but he wanted to tell her that you could also doctor a bottle
of wine just as easily.  In the end it might not have looked well if
neither of them had taken a drink.

"We'll have both Martinis and the wine," he said, in a big-brotherly,
reproving voice.

The most harmless thing in the world, the Chief was accustomed to say
in one of his best lectures on cover, was a young couple falling in
love.  It was clear from the way she looked at him that she, too, could
have heard that lecture of the Chief's.  If things went right, he
decided, no one would be surprised, if, after dinner, they stood for a
while gazing across the bay at the lights of Alcatraz, and if he put
his arm around her and whispered in her ear, or if she whispered back.

It was a problem to appear completely engrossed in her, and at the same
time to examine the man two tables behind.  He looked like a bank clerk
about to reach retirement age, and he made no apparent effort to hear
what they were saying, showing that his job, obviously, was only to
keep them both in sight.

"You can't blame me for being surprised when you called," Rhyce said.
"No one gave me the least inkling that you'd be coming along, too."

"I know," she said.  "It was Mr. Tremaine.  He's impulsive, the way, I
suppose, all rich people are."

Jack Rhyce laughed in an embarrassed way.

"I hope this doesn't mean they're losing faith in me, or anything like
that," he said.

"Oh, no," she answered quickly, "it was only that it suddenly occurred
to Mr. Tremaine that your job might be bigger than he thought, and that
you might need some help.  A girl with a typewriter, and things like
that, you know."

"Are you good with a typewriter?" he asked.

"Yes," she said, and she laughed.  "Any sort of typewriter."

"I hope we'll only have to use a standard brand," he said.

They looked at each other exactly as though they were falling in love.

"I didn't know the job was getting bigger," he said.  "I'm very glad
you're coming."

"So am I," she said, "because I love to travel.  You know, just after I
graduated from secretarial school I worked for a while for a man named
Mr. Jackson, in Washington.  He used to joke and say I had an itching
foot, and it's awfully hard for a girl to travel alone."

"Well, where did you go to after you worked for Mr. Jackson, if you had
an itching foot?"

"Oh, I went to Europe as soon as I could," she said.  "I had a divine
time traveling around there, seeing monuments and things like that, but
I was with an insurance firm in London, mostly."

"Who was your boss in London?" Jack Rhyce asked.

"His name was Mr. Billings.  It was a pretty big company in London,"
she said, "and it was a group of lovely people.  I love London, don't
you?"

"Yes," he said, "the few glimpses I've had of it.  From my point of
view, London is a man's town."

"But a girl can have a good time in a man's town, sometimes," she said.
"I love everything about London.  I always feel at home when I can hear
Big Ben."

Jack raised his wineglass carefully.  It reflected the old man eating
two tables behind him.  He was not listening, but it was still better
to go on with the double talk.

"I wonder how Big Ben's striking these days?" he said.  "It seemed to
me his timing was erratic the last time I was in London.  You know,
I've been told you can hear Big Ben right in Tokyo, over the BBC--that
is, when Radio Moscow doesn't interfere.  I wonder if we'll hear Big
Ben when we get to Tokyo?"

"I think we will," she said, "almost right away."

"Well," he said, "we'll have to remember to tune in."

She had told him almost everything, but she was still talking brightly,
as though she were completely unconscious of it.

"I love to be in strange places and see strange people, don't you?" she
asked.

"Yes," he answered.  "Strange faces always fascinate me, too.  I often
play a little game with myself wondering who people are, and what
they're thinking about; but maybe it's a bad habit and a waste of time."

"You can't ever tell though, can you?" she said.  "Now there's a little
old man, all sort of worn and threadbare just directly behind you, two
tables away, and he keeps looking at us now and then, as if he were
lonely.  I wonder what he's been doing all his life."

Jack Rhyce laughed as though she had said something highly amusing.

"Whatever he's done, he's kept alive," he said.

"They say, don't they," she said, "that San Francisco is the gateway to
the Orient?  And it's true, isn't it?  Because I see there's an
Oriental here.  I can't tell whether he's Chinese or Japanese.  Can
you?"

"Where?" Jack Rhyce asked, and without intending it, his voice had an
edge to it.

"Over there near that case with the queer fish on ice," she said.

A young Japanese, whom he had not noticed, had entered the Fisherman's
Grotto.

"Oh," he said, "yes.  I'd put him down for Japanese, and Nisei from his
build.  It's funny.  I didn't see him come in."

She laughed again as though he had said something highly amusing.

"Well," she said, "maybe we'd better go back to the hotel before we get
into any trouble, because I didn't see him come in either."

"The only trouble we'll have here is to get the attention of the
waiter," Jack Rhyce said.  It was safe, in his opinion, to discount the
Japanese.

The old man behind them must have paid his check already, because he
rose when Jack Rhyce signaled to the waiter, sauntered slowly out of
the restaurant--pausing, just as he passed their table, to light a thin
black cigar, and to glance down at his wrist watch.  The waiter arrived
with the check just as the stranger went out the door.  Jack Rhyce had
a bill ready.

"Thanks," he said, "and keep the change."

He pushed back his chair.  Miss Bogart raised her eyebrows.  The lights
were on outside and there was still daylight in the sky.  Their shadow
called a taxicab.  The tension that had built up inside Jack Rhyce
subsided slowly.

"He was a dear old man, wasn't he?" Ruth Bogart said.  "I wonder where
he's going now?"

"Home," Jack Rhyce said.  "He's finished work, I think," and he linked
his arm through hers affectionately, partly for relief, and partly
because of cover.  "The whole thing was only a check on our baggage,"
he told her softly.

This could be the only possible explanation of the shadow's actions.
His glance at the watch and the lighting of the cigar confirmed the
theory.  They were only to be watched for a definite time, so that a
warning could be given, in case they returned too soon--and now the
time was up.  He could light a cigar now.

"I think there's light enough," he said, "if you should care to look at
Alcatraz through the telescope."

"That would be lovely," she said--and then she giggled--"as long as we
don't get any nearer."

"That's one place where we probably won't end up," he said.  Then, when
he put a coin in the slot of the telescope, he added in a lower voice,
"We can talk at the hotel.  I think we're in the clear now."

"Why, it's fascinating," she said.  "Hurry and take a look, before we
have to spend another dime."

He had been careless, because he thought they were in the clear.
Otherwise, he would not have kept his attention so long on Alcatraz.
Consequently, when he heard a step behind him, he almost whirled around
in a guilty way, instead of turning slowly.

"Sir," a voice said before he saw the speaker, "I beg your pardon, but
would you like to see Chinatown?"

It was the young Japanese from the restaurant, the one whom he had
thought might be American.

"No, thanks," Jack Rhyce said, "not tonight."

The Japanese, he saw, was at most in his early twenties.  His neat,
dark suit, his shirt open at the neck, and his hair done in a crew cut,
gave him the appearance of a college student.

"There are many interesting things to see in Chinatown," the boy said.
He was not persistent, but he was still there.

"I know," Jack Rhyce said, "but not tonight, thanks."

He had not seriously thought until then that there might be something
wrong with the picture.  The young man's hands were at his sides.
There was no indication of a forward motion, and nothing in the face,
or eyes, or shoulders, or in the set of the feet indicated trouble.
Nevertheless, the Japanese had not moved.

"Excuse me, sir," he said.  "Would you mind if I ask you another
question?"

"Why no, not at all," Jack Rhyce answered heartily.  "Go ahead and ask
it, son."

After all, he was a liberal-minded educator who liked kids.  He smiled
encouragingly at the Japanese.

"I was so near enough your table at the Fisherman's Grotto, sir," the
young man said, "that I overheard some words you said to the young
lady."  He smiled back at Jack Rhyce.  His face looked thin, sensitive,
and handsome.  "It was only accident--I did not mean to be intrusive."

Jack Rhyce laughed like a good-natured schoolteacher.  After all, he
had nothing to conceal, but, even so, he felt a slight tingling at the
base of his skull.

"Why, that's all right, son," he said, "perfectly all right.  There's
nothing I should mind having you overhear at all.  The lady and I are
strangers from the East, eating a fish dinner.  What was it that we
said that interested you?"

Jack Rhyce watched the young man move his fingers slowly across his
palms before he spoke.

"Well, you see, I'm Japanese, sir," he said.  "Why, of course you are,"
Jack Rhyce said heartily, "and I can see that you're American, too.  My
guess is you were born right here in California.  A lovely state,
California."

"That is so, sir," the boy answered.  "I was born here, and I'm a
graduate of Cal. Tech."

"Well, well," Jack Rhyce said, "congratulations.  That's a great
school, isn't it Ruth--Cal. Tech.?"

"Yes, indeed it is," Ruth Bogart said.  "One of my classmates at
Goucher married a very cute boy from Cal. Tech. who majored in physics.
I can't remember his name right now, but it will come to me in a
minute."

"I was interested in what you were saying at the table," the boy said,
"because I have relatives in Japan.  May I introduce myself?  My name
is Nichi Naguchi.  They called me Nick at college."

"Well, well," Jack Rhyce said.  "This is a real pleasure, Nick.  My
name's Jack Rhyce, and this is Miss Bogart."

"I do wish we had time for you to show us Chinatown," Ruth Bogart said.

It was hard to tell whether or not the meeting was offbeat.  After all,
people were more breezy and friendly on the West Coast than the East.

"Well, don't hold back on us, Nick," Jack Rhyce said.  "What was it you
heard us say that caught your attention?  Come on and tell us."

"Well, sir," the young Japanese said, "might I ask if you and Miss
Bogart are going to Japan?  You were saying you hoped to hear Big Ben
strike in Tokyo, over the BBC."

The tingling at the base of his skull grew more pronounced.  Now that
Big Ben had been mentioned, he could not disregard the coincidence.

"Why certainly you can ask," Jack Rhyce said.  "We haven't any secrets,
Nick.  Why sure, we're flying out that way tomorrow morning.  Miss
Bogart and I happen to be working for an organization in which we both
take great pride--the Asia Friendship League--and I certainly hope that
some of the things we're going to do may be of some assistance to your
relatives there in Tokyo."

He watched for some revealing sign, however small, but the boy only
looked reassured, and began to speak more eagerly.

"Since you have been so kind as to tell me," the boy said, "may I ask
if you will not need a guide when you get to Tokyo?  The Japanese
language is difficult for Americans sometimes."  He was overeager and
laughed nervously.  It was the first time that his Cal. Tech. veneer
was gone.  "I know a very good guide.  He is my uncle.  His English is
very good.  He is also fond of Americans, is very educated, knows all
about Japan, all sights--everything.  He can answer all questions,
because he knows everything about Japan."

Jack Rhyce listened, balancing every word, but he could catch no
undertone.

"Well, that's quite a recommendation, that he knows everything," he
said, and he laughed before he finished.  "Do you suppose he knows Big
Ben?"

It was dangerous, but now and then you had to play a card.  There was
nothing he could see in the boy's face, except uncomprehension.

"Big Ben?" the boy repeated.

Jack Rhyce laughed again, very heartily indeed.

"Didn't you get it, Nick?" he said.  "The clock that you heard us
talking about, you know, the one that strikes."

He still could read nothing in the boy's face.

"Oh, yes," the boy said, "I forgot.  I am very sorry.  If you would
like, I can give you my uncle's address.  I can write it on a card."

"Why, sure, Nick," Jack Rhyce said.  "Jot it down and I'll look him up
if I should ever need a guide."

"Thank you," the Japanese boy said.  "Thank you very much."

"Not at all, Nick," Jack Rhyce said.  "The pleasure is all ours, and
I'll certainly give your uncle a buzz if I need him.  Well, thanks, and
so long."

"Good-by, sir," the boy said, "and good-by, Miss Bogart, and good luck,
and a very happy trip."

They were alone, with their backs to Alcatraz.  The wharf was more
crowded now.  No one among the parked cars or in the arcade seemed to
take any interest in them, but it was safer to register an impression,
in case there was anybody there who cared, and still to be very happy
about what they were beginning to discover in each other.

"Well," he said, "that was quite a little human experience, wasn't it?"
He put the card carefully in his wallet.  "Everybody has always told me
that San Francisco is a friendly city."

"Nichi Naguchi," she said.  "They have funny names, don't they?  But he
was sort of shy and sweet.  It was cute of him, wasn't it--thinking of
his uncle?  We should have asked him his address, so we could send him
a picture card when we get to Tokyo.  Oh, dear, that was stupid of me,
not to think of it."

"It's all right," he told her.  "I was just about to ask him myself,
when I saw he had written his uncle's name on one of his own cards.
His address is there, and everything."

"That was sweet and sort of sensitive of him, I think.  Don't you?" she
said.  "Well, I'm glad we didn't ask him, because it might have looked
too inquisitive.  I don't like inquisitive people, do you?"

"No," he said.  "They rub me the wrong way, somehow.  This has been a
lovely experience, getting to know you, Ruth."

"The same is true on my side, too," she said.  "The more I know you,
the better I think I'm going to like you, Jack.  Let's stroll around
and look at the fishing boats and things, before we go back to the
hotel.  Always get as much as you can out of any place you go to, has
always been a motto of mine."

Undoubtedly she was as anxious to get back to the hotel as he, but it
was never wise to hurry.

The elevator boy who took them to the third floor only looked bored
when Jack got out with her.

"I'll just see you to your door," he said, "and see you're not locked
out or anything."

"It isn't really necessary, Jack," she said, "but it's sweet of you to
think of it."

When she took her room key from her handbag, he snatched it from her
playfully, and there was even a merry, gentle little scuffle in the
corridor, just in case anyone might be interested.

"Now really, Jack," she said, "now please try to behave."

When he turned the key in the door he was still laughing softly, and he
approved of the way she covered him and watched the hall, and she kept
the correct distance behind him when he entered the darkened room.  The
second the door was closed behind them he pointed to the closed
bathroom door.  She nodded, opened it, turned on the light, and pulled
open the closet door afterwards.

"Okay," she whispered.  "My God, I'm tired of being a Major Barbara!"

"Just a minute," he said gently, "just a minute before you get so
frank."  He took a pencil from his pocket and offered it to her.
"Would you mind writing a few words on the back of this envelope?"

"Oh, so that's it?" she said.

"Yes, that's it," he answered, and his hand closed over her wrist.
"I'll take your handbag while you're writing.  It might get in your
way."

They eyed each other for a moment.

"You don't miss any tricks, do you?" she said.

"I try not to," he answered.  "Hurry, please."

"What do you want me to write?" she asked.

"Anything, as long as you write it," he told her.  "Write 'I'll do my
best to be a good co-operative girl if I go with you on this trip.'"

There was no hesitation when she wrote, but she did not write the words
that he suggested.  Instead, when she handed him back the envelope he
read: _I don't like people who have to be so careful, and as I said, it
has been a boring evening_.

Her writing was the same as the Helena letter in his briefcase.

"I'm sorry," he said, "if you think I'm disagreeable, but I had to make
up my mind about you.  Let's check on the luggage now."

He pointed to her matched suitcases.  They were lying one on top of the
other, with a small envelope briefcase on top.  She unzipped the
briefcase while he sat on the edge of the bed watching her, aware for
the first time that he was feeling tired.  All of her gaucheness was
gone.  Even before she looked up and nodded, he knew that the baggage
had been searched.

"Good job?" he whispered.

She nodded back, smiling, and held up both her thumbs.

"It must have been a woman or a ribbon clerk," she whispered.  "They
folded the nylons back beautifully."

"Briefcase contents?" he whispered.

"All through everything," she whispered.  "They had it out all over the
writing table."

"Careless of them," he said.

"Clever of me," she whispered, "for being dainty and using lots of
dusting powder.  See where they brushed it off?"

He looked over her shoulder at the glass top of the writing table.

"Gloves," he said.  "They dusted with them before they put them on."

"Smart as a whip, aren't you, Buster?" she said.

"You bet," he said, "right on the ball.  What makes you call me Buster?"

"The Chief," she said.  "He calls you that."

"Right," he said.  "Now--what's the word?"

"Gibson asked for both of us.  Big Ben's coming over.  It's definite,
he's from the States."

They both stopped and listened.  Another guest was walking down the
corridor with jaunty, heavy footsteps, and just as the steps passed,
they heard a man's voice singing softly:

  _For every day is ladies' day with me.
  I'm quite at their disposal all the while!_


The song was from _The Red Mill_--an old song, and slightly incongruous
for that reason, but then the comedy had been revived recently.  They
were both silent until the steps and the voice died away.

"Any identification?" he asked.

She shook her head.

"Nothing new.  The Chief still likes show business."

"Well," he whispered, "things don't look too bad for us, now they've
gone through the bags."

"Yes," she said, "I know, but what about that Jap?"

"I know," he said.  "I'd like to get a check on him, but I think it
wiser not to signal Washington.  Don't you?"

They looked at each other, and nodded.  From now on, any communication
with the Bureau might ruin everything.

"Well," he said, "I guess that's that.  I wish I'd met you earlier
before I took on this cover.  I hate to be such a prat-fall all day
long."

"Oh, well," she said, "it won't be as bad as all that.  Breakfast
downstairs at 7:30, what?  Good night, Buster."

"Good night," he said, and he put his hands on her shoulders.  "Don't
worry.  We'll get through all right."

"Hell," she said, "I've given up worrying long ago.  Haven't you
noticed that?"




IV

By the time he left Honolulu for Tokyo, Jack Rhyce was positive that he
and Ruth Bogart were in the clear.  It was inevitable, after a number
of years' experience, that one should develop intuition.  There was a
sense of malaise--similar, he sometimes thought, to what psychiatrists
called 'free guilt'--when you were being watched.  You could not put
your finger on any one thing, but finally you could learn to depend
implicitly upon that feeling of imbalance.  There had been none of that
feeling in the airport at San Francisco, and none in Honolulu.  When he
showed Ruth Bogart the feather cloaks in the Bishop Museum, and the old
mission house that had been transported in sections in ships around
Cape Horn, he felt that he was exactly what he was supposed to be.

When the pictures of the early missionaries gazed at him sternly, he
was able to gaze right back, and the question hardly crossed his mind
as to what the Chief would have said about the missionaries.  He was
exactly what he should have been, and so was Ruth Bogart.  He could
even forget that they were boringly obvious.  He was even able to take
a surfboard out at Waikiki, in a perfectly carefree manner.  He had
learned a little of the trick of it while he had been stationed at
Honolulu, during the last war, and it all served as part of the cover.
He could be as expert as possible because he was a muscular do-gooder,
full of good will toward all the world.  He was beginning to experience
that wonderful feeling of complete creative success that came with
perfect cover.  There was confidence in such a feeling, but never
overconfidence, only a thorough understanding of the cover itself, and
a conviction that it had finally blended with his own personality.

On the afternoon when they boarded the plane for Tokyo, and began
flying into the setting sun, nothing changed his mood, and he had
always been highly sensitive to airports.  The passengers on the plane
were interesting, but not outstanding; a Hawaiian-Japanese couple, a
Dutch businessman, two British businessmen, and then thirty members of
a world tour group, all of whom could only have been exactly what they
were.  The project, as he learned from the world cruise director in the
course of the trip, had been started by a travel agency which had
founded an organization named the World Wide Club.  Members of this
organization, it seemed, paid their dues into a general account for
several years, until at last the total sum had become large enough to
pay a liberal down deposit on a round-the-world trip--and that was not
all, either.  During the years (as the director, who was a retired
chemistry professor, told Jack Rhyce) in which the fund had been
building up, there had been bi-weekly study groups, so that everybody
by now knew quite a lot about the places to which they were going.
Jack fell into the spirit of their trip at once, and told the cruise
director that it was one of the greatest ideas he had ever heard of,
and one that ought to spread to every city of the country.

"You know," he said, "the thought has just occurred to me, that we
might incorporate this very travel idea into the organization which I
happen to represent--the Asia Friendship League.  One of our basic
problems is to stimulate an interchange of travelers.  Don't you think
it is a great idea, Ruth?"

Of course she thought it was a great idea, and except for the Dutchman
and the Englishmen, they all became a congenial group, flying across
the Pacific at nineteen thousand feet.  There were very few cocktails
served, except to the Dutchman and the Englishmen, but still they began
singing songs, and Jack Rhyce threw himself into the spirit of it, and
he did have a good baritone.  As far as he could remember later, they
broke away from cover only once; it was Ruth Bogart's fault, not his.
When it had grown dark, and dinner was over, and the merriment had died
down, he took the sayings of Buddha from his briefcase.

"This fellow Buddha," he said, "has quite a lot to say.  Some of it's a
little difficult, due to his antiquity and his foreign way of life, but
a lot of it fits right in with today.  Would you like me to read you a
little of it, Ruth?"

"Oh, shut up," she said, "and let me go to sleep."

"Why, of course," he said.  "It was very thoughtless of me, chatting
along this way, but I've been stimulated by this travel group and
everything.  Shall I ring to get you a pillow, Ruth?  I know it is a
tiring trip, with all this change of time and the plane vibration."

"Oh, shut up," she said again, and on the whole he could not blame her.
They were silent for half an hour.

"Jack," she said.  "I'm sorry."

"Oh, that's all right," he told her.  "Everybody gets tired sometimes."

"Damn it, I'm not tired," she said.  "It isn't weariness, it's
schizophrenia.  When we set down at Wake, can't we get away for twenty
minutes and be ourselves?"

"Why, yes," he said.  "I think that would be a wonderful idea, but it
will be dark at Wake--just before dawn."

"All right," she said, "in the dark then.  In fact, it would look
better if we did.  We're supposed to be in love, aren't we?  At least
the idea is for us to try to give that impression."

"Yes," he said, "and you've been wonderful about it."

"Oh, shut up," she said, "and let me go to sleep."


She was still asleep hours later when the plane was letting down.  He
put his hand on her arm to awaken her, and she gave a start and looked
around her for a moment, as though she did not know where she was or
who she was.  He knew exactly how she felt, because he had experienced
the same confusion more than once himself.  And this was dangerous,
particularly on the beginning of a trip.

"Wake," he said, "in about thirty minutes."

"All right," she said.  "I've got it now.  I was having a bad dream,
and I thought you were someone else."

"Just take it easy," he told her.  "There's no reason for any bad
dreams."

His guess about the time of arrival at Wake was approximately correct,
because the announcement came over the loud speaker a few minutes later.

They would be on the ground at Wake Island in half an hour.  It would
still be dark.  There would be a change of crew, and an hour to two
hours on the ground.  Transportation would be furnished, so that
passengers could go to the resthouse, which was only a short distance
from the field, for early morning refreshment.  He had not touched at
Wake when he had been to Japan eight years ago, but he had been on
other islands like it--atolls that were pinpoints on lonely seas.  Even
in the dark, when he stepped out of the plane, he could almost swear
that he had been on Wake before.  The lights on the field, the activity
around the hangars were exactly the same as on other islands, and there
was also the same warm humidity, and the sticky smell of salt in the
air.  They had been given a leaflet describing Wake, and even a map of
the island, but he really did not need it.  There was the field with
the familiar cluster of buildings around it, the tarred streets, the
Nissen huts, the army shacks, and then the lagoon.  There was no
check-up on the passengers, and there was no reason at all why he and
Ruth Bogart should not walk to the rest-house or anywhere on that small
island.

"God," she said, "it's lonely."

"Yes," he said, "it's lonely all right."  But he was surprised that she
should be impressed by it, because nothing was more lonely than the
existence of anyone who was in the business, and she must have guessed
what he was thinking.

"I mean, this is a different sort of loneliness," she said.  "I'm used
to being lonely in the middle of everything, but this is being lonely
in the middle of nowhere."

Except for the field, the personnel at Wake was still asleep.  They
walked alone up a road, illuminated only by dim electric lights, with
ugly shadows of buildings on either side.

"We may as well take a look at the lagoon," he said.  "It's later than
I thought.  It's getting light."  It was true that the outlines of the
buildings were growing more distinct.  There was no reason why they
could not be themselves for a moment.

"That crowd in the plane," he said--"did you think any of them seemed
offbeat?"

"No," she said.  "I had some ideas about the thin Englishman, but I'll
clear him now."

"He'll do," he said.  "I think we're still in the clear."

"Yes," she said, "I think so.  You're still not worried about that Jap
in San Francisco?"

"No," he said.  "Not seriously, not after Honolulu."

"You don't think he was trying to tell us something, do you?"

"I've thought of that," he said, "but it doesn't seem to hold water.
Let's forget him temporarily."

"I wish I could forget him and everything else.  Do you ever feel that
way?"

"Oh, yes," he answered, "lots of times."

"The hell of it is," she said, "that after a while you don't know
what's what.  You don't know what you are, because you can't be
anything."

"Yes," he said, "I know what you mean.  Maybe chameleons feel that
way--not the kind you buy at circuses, but really good chameleons."

"We might have a nice time together, mightn't we," she said, "if we
weren't all mixed up in this?"

"We might," he said, "but I'm not sure I would know how.  I'm too much
of a chameleon now.  I might turn green and yellow and not know I was
doing it."

"How long have you been in?" she asked.

"Long enough to forget what it's like outside," he said.  "About ten
years."

"Well," she said, "you don't act it altogether.  Of course, I'm newer
than that."

"Yes," he said, "of course.  What were you doing outside?"

"College," she said, "majoring in Romance Languages.  I met the Chief
at a cocktail party in New York.  Let's skip it, shall we?"

"Yes," he said, "let's skip it, but I hope your name isn't Ruth."

"Well, it is," she said, "and it's too bad you don't like it, and now
let's both sign off.  You're right.  It's getting lighter."

"Yes," he said.  "The lagoon's over there, I think.  The Chief gave you
a briefing, didn't he, about Big Ben?"

"Yes, I've got the whole story," she told him.

They walked for a while without speaking, through the moist hot dark.
He could see the outlines of a dilapidated portable house, on the
right, quite clear against the lightening sky; but ahead there seemed
to be nothing, and of course there would be nothing except white coral
sand and water.  In a few minutes now, there would be a glow of
sunrise, and there would be a few magic minutes that always came to
atolls, when the colors of sand and sea would be unbelievably beautiful.

"It seems queer to me," he said, "that they haven't picked him out by
now, if he is a big man, once connected with show business.  I never
knew anyone in show business who doesn't try to push into the front
row, and I never knew one who could keep his mouth shut for long."

"Why, what's the matter?" she asked him.  "Don't you like the theater?"

"I used to," he answered, "but I get nervous when I go now.  The actors
are all so obviously what they are.  That's what I mean about our boy.
He ought to be obvious, too."

He was glad they had gone for a walk.  The sky in the east was growing
brighter, and in a few minutes it would be sunrise.  He felt almost
happy, walking with his partner.  In the distance he could hear the
explosion of a motor warming up, and the noise of the island generating
plant, and then he heard another sound, nearer, but some distance away.
She must have heard it too, because she put her hand on his arm, and
they both stood still, listening.

"Someone singing," she said.

"Yes," he answered, "over by that house, I think."

"San Francisco," she said.  "You remember, don't you?"

Of course he remembered.  She was referring to the footsteps outside
the hotel door in San Francisco, and that snatch of outmoded song, and
now in the dark a man was singing another song from _The Red Mill_.
The singer's voice was excellent.  It sounded carefree and happy, and
full of the joy of living.

"... _In old New York!_"  The words came carelessly and incongruously
through the darkness.  "_The peach-crop's always fine!_"

They stood motionless on the road, listening.  Of course, it was only
the time and place, he was thinking, that emphasized the coincidence,
but nevertheless it was the sort of thing that could not have happened
once in a thousand times.  It was the kind of long shot that might
possibly have a meaning, and you never could tell exactly how things
were balanced.  He could tell himself it was only Wake Island, but
still there was the coincidence.

"It comes from over by the lagoon," he told the girl beside him.
"Let's move over that way."  The song was coming from ahead and
slightly to the right of them, and it continued as they walked.

  _They're sweet and fair and on the square!
  The maids of Manhattan for mine!_


Then the song was gone, but it had been just ahead of them, and there
was light enough to see the lagoon, by now.

"From _The Red Mill_," Jack Rhyce said, in a loud and hearty voice.
"It sounds like home, doesn't it?  Do you remember the rest of it, Ruth
dear?"

"Why, no, Jack," she said, "of course I don't.  Not that old song.  Do
you?"

"Why, Ruth dear, you can't fool me on old songs.  It goes like this:
_You cannot see in gay Paree, in London or in Cork!  The queens you'll
meet on any street in old New York._"

He had not sung it badly, and it was not a bad idea--in fact, it was
the exact thing he might have done, considering.  It seemed very
natural when he heard a voice call back.

"Hey, let's do it again, whoever you are.  _In old New York!  In old
New York!_..."

The east was growing pink, but it was still not full day, so that
shapes did not have the same definition that they would a few minutes
later.  A man in khaki swimming trunks was walking toward them.  His
yellow hair was dripping sea-water, and he had a towel over his right
shoulder.  At first, Jack Rhyce thought that the early light gave an
extra illusion of size, but a second later he saw that the man was very
large--two inches taller than he, he guessed, and a good twenty pounds
heavier.  He was beautifully built, too, tall and blond, heavy sandy

eyebrows, greenish eyes, and a large mobile mouth.

There was occasionally a time when you could be sure of something,
beyond any reasonable doubt.  You never could tell when or how the
sureness would strike, but such a moment of utter conviction was with
him now.  He felt his heart beat with a quick, savage triumph that
extended to his fingertips.  It was one of those moments that made all
drudgery worth while.  He knew that he must be right.  He knew that he
could not be wrong.  It was just as though someone were whispering in
his ear, "There he is, there he is."  It could not be anybody else.  He
knew as sure as fate that he was looking at Big Ben.

Nevertheless, even in that moment of revelation, he contrived to keep
his balance because his training had been good.  He knew that the one
thing that would save the picture was to maintain the mood of the
moment, which was one of joy of life and friendliness.  Cover was the
main thing, his common sense was saying, always cover.  He found
himself joining in the song without a quaver, just gay, always gay, and
he put his arm around Ruth Bogart to emphasize this genial spirit.

  _The peach-crop's always fine!_


He was singing.  "Come on, Ruth..."

  _They're sweet and fair and on the square!
  The maids of Manhattan for mine!_


He paused to catch his breath, and the big man in the khaki swimming
trunks raised his hand like an orchestra leader.

"Now we're hitting it," he said.  "Come on, let's give it the works.
Let's go.  You take the lead, I'll follow.  You know I'd pretty well
forgotten those last two lines."

"Well, it's nice to meet another Red Miller," Jack Rhyce answered,
"especially on a rock like this.  All right, here we go.  Come on and
join in with us, Ruth...."

  _You cannot see in gay Paree, in London or in Cork!
  The queens you'll meet on any street in old New York._


If you had to be a damn fool, it was usually advisable to be one all
the way down the line, and it required no intuition to tell him that it
was important to be a damn fool now.  He knew as sure as fate that he
was talking to Big Ben, although he still had to prove it, and his main
hope was that Big Ben did not have intuition, too--at least not so
early in the morning.  In the waxing light the man's size was more
impressive than it had been before.  In spite of all Jack Rhyce had
learned at the Farm, he was not sure how things would come out if they
reached a showdown in the next few seconds--but of course there was not
going to be a showdown.

"Say, that was good," the big man said.  And as far as Jack Rhyce could
see, his smile was friendly, and his eyes showed no glint of suspicion.
"You're not joining this flying installation here, are you?"

"No," Jack Rhyce said, and he laughed.  "If you'll excuse my insulting
such a lovely piece of real estate--Thank goodness, no.  We're just
passengers from the resthouse, only out for a stroll, and heading west
in about an hour."

The big man draped his towel more carefully around his shoulders.

"Oh," he said, "you mean Flight Five-zero-one."

"Yes, I think that's the number," Jack Rhyce said.  "It's sort of
confusing, all this air travel.  We were just saying, a few minutes
ago, we didn't really know where we were.  We are on Flight
Five-oh-one, aren't we, Ruth?"

"Yes," Ruth said.  "Don't be so vague, Jack.  Of course it's Five
Hundred and One."

Even the clumsy use of numerals could help with cover.  They were just
tourists indulging in a happy wayside adventure.  The big man shook his
head slowly.

"That's too bad," he said.  "I'd hoped you were on some crew, or
something, so we could think up some more old songs.  You've got to
think up something when you lay off on this rock.  Let's see.  There's
a world tour group, isn't there, on this Flight Five-zero-one?  There
was something about it, seems to me, at Operations."

His voice was gentle and lazy, with a drawl that might have belonged
either to the Tidewater country, or to the Southwest.  Jack Rhyce did
not attribute it to Texas, as he listened, and he was interested in
more than the voice.  Big Ben in trying to place them had overstepped,
because it was doubtful whether a world tour group would be mentioned
in Operations.

"That's right," Jack said, "there is a world tour group aboard, but we
don't happen to be in the party.  Miss Bogart and I are being employed
by the Asia Friendship League, not that I suppose you would hear of it
if you're working on an airline."

The big man shook his head vaguely in a way that expressed genuine
regret.

"Well, it's too bad you're not staying on," he said, "because you both
look like nice folks to get to know, and we might have gone swimming
and fishing.  We airline folk get lonely even though we move around.
And now, as it is, we're just ships that pass in the night."

"That's a very nice way of putting it," Jack Rhyce said, "but it's a
pleasure even to have made such a short acquaintance.  I suppose we
really ought to be getting back to that resthouse."

"Maybe so," the big man said, "but it's been a treat for me, too.
Well, so long folks, and don't let those Japs give you wooden nickels."

"Well, so long," Jack Rhyce said, "and many happy landings."

They turned and walked back toward the airstrip.  For a while he felt
that the big man was watching them, but only for a very short time.

"Turn and wave to him," he said to Ruth Bogart.

"He's gone," she said.  "He must be living in one of the huts back
there."

"Well," he said, "that's that, at least for the moment."

"Do you think what I think?" she asked.

"I'm glad great minds think alike," he said.  "It's lovely that we have
so much in common."

"Oh, shut up," she said.  "Do you think he is the same man that was
singing in the hall?"

"Yes," he said, "I think so."

"Do you think he knew that we were in that room?"

Jack Rhyce sighed.  You couldn't think of everything.

"That's a sixty-four-dollar question," he said, "but I shouldn't be
surprised if we knew the answer someday."

No matter how you met a given situation, it was impossible to do
everything right.  There were other things he might have done at Wake
Island, but he did his best to follow the maxims of the business, one
of which was to disturb nothing unless it was absolutely necessary.
Besides, he was only acting on a hunch.  He had no way of proving it;
yet if his hunch was right, they had him.  Even if it had been wise,
there was no necessity to ask questions at the moment.  The man was
obviously an airline employee.  Now that he had appeared at Wake
Island, he was as safe as a book in the reference library.  Only a few
discreet inquiries would be necessary to obtain his full life history,
and all his life connections.  The main question was how the inquiries
should be made.  As he had said to Ruth Bogart, there was only one
sixty-four-dollar question: _Did their man know who they were_?  If so
it would be best to break out of cover at once and communicate with
Washington.  Although hindsight was always clearer than foresight, Jack
Rhyce could never convince himself that he had not moved properly at
"Wake.  After all, he was under Gibson's orders, and he was only ten
hours to Tokyo, but doubts still plagued him even after the plane had
taken off.

"I might go up forward and have a chat with the crew," he said, "in a
purely social way."

"I wouldn't, if I were you, Jack," she told him.  "It could get back to
Wake that you were asking."

Of course she was perfectly right, and besides, there had been no sign
of recognition at that meeting, no uneasiness or tenseness that he had
been able to detect.

"I didn't notice anything, either," she said, "except that I didn't
quite believe that drawl."

"Yes," he said, "but I'm not sure."

"Did you notice his hands?" she asked.

It was an unnecessary question because he had not taken his eyes off
them for more than a few seconds.  There was nothing harder to
disguise, or more revealing, than hands.

"The way he kept his fingers half-closed--they frightened me," she said.

He did not want to tell her that he had been thinking several times
what he could possibly do if Big Ben were once to get him by the throat.

"He looks very able," he said, "very first-class."

He was not thinking of the hands when he made that estimate, but of the
wide forehead, the greenish eyes, the careless-looking good-natured
mouth, and the general ease of motion which showed that mind and body
moved contentedly together.

"Well," he said, and he took the sayings of Buddha from his briefcase,
"let's wait until we see Gibson."  All they could very well do was to
wait.




V

The first time Jack Rhyce had seen the islands of Japan from the air
was when he had flown over Tokyo as an Intelligence observer on a B-29
bombing mission.  They had come in from the sea on that occasion, on
much the same line of approach that they were making now.

"We are now approaching the coast of Japan," the steward said over the
loud speaker.  "The sacred mountain of Fujiyama is visible off the left
wing."

No one could say that the Japanese were not realists.  Their
representations of Fujiyama on block-print textiles and on porcelains
were exactly like that cinder-coned volcano.  All the beauties and the
difficulties of Japan were starkly obvious as one approached the coast
by air.  The sharp folds of the mountains showed why only a fifth of
the land was suitable for agriculture.  He could see the bright green
of the rice paddies, now that the plane was letting down, and he could
also distinguish the lighter green of bamboo and the darker shades of
giant fir trees.  The fishing boats off the coast added a last touch to
the broad picture of the Japanese struggle for existence.  You could
understand a great deal about Japanese character the moment you saw the
coast, especially its elements of persistence and tenacity.

Japan's army was gone, and its navy, but not, as the Chief had said
back in Washington, its national will to live.  In Jack Rhyce's second
visit to Japan, his brief trip during the Occupation, the Japanese in
defeat had seemed more bewildering to him than they ever had before.
They displayed a disturbing absence of rancor, a good-natured
acceptance of reality, almost a polite regret for any inconveniences
they might have caused.  There was a relief from tension which he could
understand, but much of the new attitude was so far removed from other
behavior patterns he had known as to be unsusceptible of analysis.  It
was all very well to quote, as Intelligence officers did in those days,
the old Japanese motto about the supple bamboo bending with the typhoon
and never breaking.  He was sure that this was an over-simplification.
He had kept looking for something inscrutable in Japanese behavior, but
he could find very little that answered the definition.  They had been
picking up the Tokyo wreckage as though nothing devastating had
happened, smiling cheerfully in the depth of their misfortunes.  After
all, there had been too many earthquakes, too many tidal waves, not to
have had a deep influence on the national point of view.

On this, his third arrival, he was not surprised to find that the new
air terminal, shining with glass and plastic, was much handsomer than
any in New York.  The immigration official hardly glanced at him as he
stamped the passport, and the customs examination was only a formality.

"Well," Rhyce said to Ruth Bogart, "that's that."

The time, he saw, had changed again.  It was quarter to twelve o'clock.

"I wish you wouldn't keep making that remark," she said.  "Maybe that
and that will add up to something else someday."

Her face looked drawn, which was not surprising, because pursuing the
sun across the Pacific was always a tiring process.

"We may as well get a taxi to the hotel," he said, "and not wait for
the limousine.  Nobody around here seems interested in us."

"I hope you're right," she said.  "I don't want to go into an act right
now.  My God, I'm tired."

He wished that he was feeling more alert himself because it was hard to
trust decisions made under the strain of fatigue.  He noticed that the
main concourse at the airport was not crowded, except for the smallish
group that had come to meet the plane, hotel and travel agents, and
friends of the passengers.  The faces, as he examined them swiftly,
were Japanese, but there was none of the Gilbert and Sullivan quality
that a stranger might have expected.  The women were dressed in the
same style that one might see in New York.  The men, bareheaded, wore
neat dark business suits, proving once again that the Japanese were,
superficially at least, the most adaptable people in the world.  Only a
few generations, he was thinking, lay between the grotesque shadows of
the double-sworded Samurai, who had once roamed the streets of Tokyo as
symbols of total feudalism, and this entirely Western scene.  The
changes in that brief span were impossible for even a vivid imagination
to encompass and they had ended in an adequate acquisition of all the
skills of Western culture.  Perhaps Japan's main ineffectiveness lay in
the too rapid merging of past with present, but then there had been no
time for a gradual change.  It was no wonder that there was something
bizarre even in the self-conscious drabness of that group waiting at
the airport.  No Western observer that Jack Rhyce had ever heard of,
and no Japanese either as far as his reading went, had been able to
rationalize all the conflicts of the Japanese spirit.

These thoughts all came to him hurriedly and added up to a sort of
bafflement, as he faced the crowd.

"Taxicab?" he said to the porter.

The porter, dressed in coveralls with the airline's name stitched
across it, smiled, shook his head.

"Limousine," he said.  "All people go in big limousine.  Will stop at
all hotels."

"No, no," Jack Rhyce answered slowly.  "The lady and me--taxicab."

He was just as tired as Ruth Bogart.  He did not want to be in a
crowded car, and he was so anxious to make his point that he was not
aware that anyone had been watching until a small, middle-aged
Japanese, dressed in a business suit of an unpleasant purplish blue
color and wearing very yellow tan shoes, stepped toward him.

"Excuse me, sir," he said.  His hair was grayish and close-clipped, and
he bowed in the manner of an older generation.  "Do I speak to Mr.
Rhyce?"

Jack Rhyce had honestly thought until that moment that they were in the
clear.  He wished that his mind were moving faster, and that everything
did not have the blurred quality that was so frequently the outgrowth
of fatigue.  The main thing, he told himself, was not to appear too
careful.

"Why, yes," he said, "I'm Mr. Rhyce."

The Japanese smiled again, and Jack Rhyce saw that both his upper
incisor teeth were gold-covered.

"I am so very glad, sir.  May I introduce myself?"  His voice was high,
and slightly monotonous.  He gave a nervous deprecating laugh, and his
hands moved with astonishing rapidity as he snatched a wallet from
inside his purplish blue coat and whipped a name card out of it.

"Please," he said, holding out the card.

"Why, thanks," Jack Rhyce said as he took the card, "thanks a lot."

The thing to do was to take it slowly and clumsily.  It was of great
importance to exhibit no alertness or suspicion.

"I. A. MOTO," he said, reading aloud from the card.  "Well, well, let's
see--that name rings a bell somewhere."  He did not want to overdo the
slowness, but at the same time he did not wish to appear too bright;
finally he allowed himself to break into a relieved smile.  "Yes, I've
got it now."  He pulled out his own wallet and thumbed eagerly through
papers and memoranda until he produced the card he had been given at
Fisherman's Wharf.

"Yes, it's the same name," he said.  "Moto.  Yes, I've got it now.
Your nephew gave me your name in San Francisco.  Well, this is a real
surprise."  He turned to Ruth Bogart, smiling with fatuous enthusiasm.
"You remember that nice Japanese boy on Fisherman's Wharf, don't you,
Ruth dear, who told us about his uncle who might show us around the
city?"

"Why, yes," Ruth Bogart said, and her face also grew radiant with
delight.  "Why, he must have sent over a cable.  What a lovely thing of
him to do."

It was quite a little scene, and Mr. Moto was laughing in courteous
sympathy.

"Yes," he said, "my nephew.  He sent a cable.  Yes."

"Well," Jack Rhyce said.  "It's a pleasure to meet you, Mr. Moto, and
it's a mighty nice surprise to find you here, just when I was trying to
tell the porter that I wanted a private taxicab to take us to the
Imperial Hotel."

"Oh, yes," Mr. Moto said, "Taikoku Hotel."

"What's that one again?" Jack Rhyce asked.

"Taikoku," Mr. Moto said, "Japanese word for Imperial.  We can get a
taxicab downstairs.  This way, please."  And he spoke swiftly and
eloquently to the porter.

"This is all mighty kind of you, Mr.--er--Moto," Jack Rhyce said.
"This young lady and I are pretty tired.  If you could just get us a
taxi and tell the driver Imperial Hotel--then suppose you come around
later and call my room at, say, six o'clock, and maybe we can talk over
what you can show us in Tokyo.  I'll be a little bit more on the ball
by then."

"On the what?" Mr. Moto asked.

"On the ball," Jack Rhyce said, laughing at the small joke.  "It's the
American way of saying more wide-awake."

Mr. Moto looked delighted.

"On the ball," he said.  "Oh, yes.  Thank you so very much, and good-by
until then.  I will call at six o'clock, and we will both be more on
the ball."

He laughed; Jack Rhyce and Ruth Bogart joined him.

They were silent in the taxi for the first few moments.  There was no
way of being sure about the driver's English.  She put her hand over
his and her fingers pressed quickly.

"Picked us up again."

"Yes," he signaled back, and at the same time he spoke aloud.

"Ruth, dear," he said, "it seems to me your face is on just a tiny bit
crooked."

"Oh, Jack," she said, "why didn't you tell me sooner?" and she snatched
her compact out of her handbag, and a moment later gave the signal of
negative.  No one was following, but then, why should there have been?
They were going to the Imperial Hotel and the driver had been selected.

"Wasn't it nice of him to meet us, Jack?" she said.

"Yes," he answered, "it was very polite, wasn't it?  I think it will be
interesting to see more of him, don't you?"

"Yes," she said, "maybe.  Well, I can't believe we're here, can you,
Jack?  So this is Tokyo.  I must say it isn't so romantic as I thought
it was going to be."

She was right.  Tokyo was not a romantic city.  It lay sprawling over a
large area, divided by a muddy river and canals--a dusty, smoky city
that sweltered in the summer and shivered in the winter.  Except for
the areas contiguous to the Imperial Palace, all the districts of that
immense city were jumbled together planlessly like a deck of cards
thrown on a table, so that dwellings, shops, temples and factories were
shuffled into an indiscriminate confusion.  There were districts, but
there were no street names except for those that had been set up by the
American Army of Occupation.  He remembered a bright paragraph that had
been written about Tokyo in a prewar guidebook.  It was fortunate, the
book had said, that most of the dwellings in Tokyo were of fragile
frame construction, with paper windows, because they caught fire so
easily in the winter, thus making better city planning possible when
they were rebuilt.  There had been ample opportunity to rebuild Tokyo.
The great earthquake of 1923 almost razed the city, and during the war
incendiary bombing had achieved virtually the same result--in fact, the
modern business district in the vicinity of the Palace was about all
that had withstood the bombing.  Yet now there was hardly a sign of
war.  Tokyo was rebuilt again, in the same disorder as before, and with
the same flimsiness and impermanence.  The shops were back again, wide
open to the street, displaying dried fish, vegetables, bolts of cloth,
earthen and enamelware and banners in Japanese characters waved above
them.  You could buy anything in Tokyo, from raw tuna fish to a whole
gamut of Western-style goods in the great department stores along the
Ginza.  Tokyo was itself again, but, as the Chief had said, there was a
new veneer.  There were signs advertising American toothpaste and
American cosmetics, and the streets were as full of motor traffic as
any American city, with driving that was even more aggressive.  The
variety of the vehicles on those teeming streets was a living and
rather disturbing illustration of the efforts of the East to adjust
itself to competition with the West.

Once when he was in Chungking, during the war, Jack Rhyce recalled
having had a long conversation with a well-informed Chinese.  It had
taken place during an air raid, from which they had not bothered to
seek shelter, and the words of his Oxford-educated acquaintance had
been punctuated by the thudding of Japanese bombs.  Industrialization,
the Chinese had said, was not the private property of the Western
world, but only a trick which the East could learn as easily as not,
and perhaps this was so.  Perhaps all learning, in the final analysis,
was only a trick.  Certainly the Japanese had learned
industrialization, and they were still learning how to adapt it to
their peculiar needs.  The vehicles there in Tokyo were like
illustrations for the Darwinian origin of species, and all the
manufacturing nations in the world were represented in the picture.
Japanese and English cycles, motor bikes, scooter bikes, pedicabs,
small, three-wheeled private cars, larger three-wheeled trucks,
heavy-duty Japanese trucks, small shiny Japanese cars that competed
with the German Volkswagen, American light cars, American heavy cars,
French and English and Italian motors--everything was there to answer
any need, including rickshaws and hand-pushed barrows.  Somehow this
variety against the faades of the shops with their indecipherable
signs managed to assume a monotony which he associated with the
outskirts of any large city.  But the Chief had been right.  Where had
the kimonos gone?  And where were the wooden clogs called getas?  There
had been an effort everywhere to lift the face of Tokyo.  There were
strange echoes of New York, Chicago, and Hollywood.  The American
moving pictures and the GI's might have inspired the ball parks, beer
halls and dance halls.  But from the street, at any rate, there was no
way of seeing behind the entrance doors, and the sliding windows,
sanded or papered, of the wooden Japanese dwellings and inns along the
main thoroughfare.  There was only a suspicion, among all that
modernity, of something older and more conventional, only an
occasional, fleeting glimpse through a gateway of a dwarfed tree, or a
pool or a rock garden.  Nevertheless, as sure as fate, most of old
Japan still lay behind those perishable faades, and it would remain at
least for the foreseeable future.

"It's dreadfully noisy and crowded, isn't it?" Ruth Bogart said.

He remembered that she had never been there before, and that the noise
and crowded feeling inspired by an Eastern city was different from the
West.  There was more patience and adroitness and discipline because
populations were denser and living space was smaller.  Tokyo gave a
sense of teeming millions that one never experienced in London or New
York, but Jack Rhyce knew that there was a peculiar peace behind those
faades.  Once they had reached home, all the Japanese women, in their
New York cotton dresses and their high-heeled shoes, and all the
Japanese schoolgirls, in their navy-blue skirts and white middy
blouses, and all the men in their business suits and all the Boy Scouts
would move magically into another kind of life.

The shoes would be left outside.  There would be straw matting
underfoot.  European clothes would be hung away, and there would be
kimonos--no chairs, no beds; and still, perhaps, wooden blocks for
pillows.  There would be cushions beside low tables, a charcoal brazier
and tea, and _suchi_ made of raw fish and rice, and a porcelain jar of
hot sake surrounded by minute cups.  There would be the family tub for
the hot bath, and now that it was summer, an open window would afford a
glimpse of a tiny garden court, with goldfish in a lily pool.  This
picture would vary with poverty or wealth, but everywhere in Tokyo the
pattern would be the same.  The old conventions still lay just behind
the modern curtain and behind the barrier of language.  Every stranger,
in his own way, was conscious of that older life.  It must have been
hard to live two lives at once, as people always did in Tokyo.

"Are you sure we're going the right way?" she asked.

Of course he was sure.  It was true that he had scarcely been in Japan,
but as soon as he had been briefed on his present assignment, he had
spent so many hours on the Tokyo material that he could have found his
way to any point in the city, without asking directions.

"We'll be there before long," he said.  "You'll see the Imperial Palace
grounds and the moat to your right in just a minute."

"You do know a lot of fascinating facts," she said.  "I would have
boned up on this, too, but I didn't know I was coming."

"It's going to be a great experience for you," he said.  "We're
reaching the handsomest part of Tokyo now.  It might almost be
Cleveland or Toledo, except for the Palace."

The Palace and the moat and the modern office buildings that stood
opposite, across the broad avenue, gave a vivid illustration of the
colossal effort Japan had made to compete in a dangerous and changing
world, and spoke very eloquently of the cultural cleavage that had torn
Japan for a century.  There was no place in Tokyo where the pictures of
old and new Japan appeared in more accurate focus.  The Palace grounds
of Japan's Emperor were guarded by a moat and behind it by a grim,
sloping, dry masonry wall of black lava rock.  At the wall's summit,
through the artificially contorted outlines of pine trees, were the
curving tiled roofs of ancient guardhouses.  The area had been the
citadel of the old Tokugawa fortress, before the Emperor had moved
there, after Perry's visit to Japan.  The walls and moat were at least
a thousand years old, and the etiquette and spiritual qualities that
they protected were vastly older.  A part of the Palace had been
destroyed by bombs, but the Emperor was still residing among the trees
and gardens.  Across the street the skyscraper buildings of banks and
insurance companies, and the modern Nikatsu Hotel, made a dramatic
contrast.  Most of them were of a prewar vintage, and most of them had
successfully survived the bombings.  It was true, as he told Ruth
Bogart, that when you saw them, you had the whole story of Japan, if
you could manage to read it.

"Out there in the park by the Palace gates," he said, "is where the
people gather in times of grief and mourning.  They say that there were
thousands of them on the day of the surrender."

He thought that he could still feel echoes of that time as they passed
the Palace walls.  The Emperor had addressed his people over the radio
that day, the first time that his voice had ever been heard by the
general public, and it was ironical that it had been difficult for many
of his subjects to understand him because he spoke in the dialect of
the old Court of Japan.  It was a time, he said, when all must bear the
unbearable; Japan had surrendered, and the subjects of Japan were asked
to welcome their former enemies.  And they had done so.  They had put
large signs on the airstrips reading WELCOME, U.S.A.  It was still not
difficult to imagine the park, filled with thousands of mourning
Japanese, prostrate, beating their heads on the ground.  Hundreds had
disemboweled themselves before the walls that day, as a loyal gesture
to the Emperor.

"You see," Jack Rhyce said, "they are very loyal.  That's the main
thing to remember about Japanese.  Loyalty is the essence of their
religion, although they might not put it that way."

"How do you know so much about them," she asked, "if you've been here
so little?"

"By reading," he said.  "And in the war we took a prisoner now and
then."  But this was no time to talk about himself; they were driving
up to the Imperial Hotel.

He heard her exclaim when she saw that low structure of yellowish
volcanic stone, with its strange windows and angles.  Although the
hotel was designed by an American, it must have once represented the
quintessence of Japanese aspirations.  He had always thought it was one
of the oddest buildings in the world, and he still thought so.  While
he went to register at the desk, he left Ruth Bogart standing by the
baggage, staring bemused at the rough stone corridors and angles.  The
building had been completed in 1922, and, as a guidebook once put it,
it was a maze of "terraces, loggias, porte-cocheres, turrets, inner
gardens, glassed-in corridors and roof gardens ... the salient
architectural features of the exterior have been reproduced in the
interior, where there are columns, ledges, winding tile stairs and
temple-like effects."

He could not tell whether he was surprised or relieved when he found
that their rooms on the third floor of the front wing had a connecting
door.  Gibson had made the arrangements, and the connecting door might
possibly have been an attempt at humor, except that Jack Rhyce knew
that Gibson seldom made jokes.  Three Japanese boys walked ahead of
them, carrying their luggage.  He was almost sure that he had seen at
least one of them when he had been at the Imperial during the
Occupation.  The hotel had seemed old and tired then.  Now he knew that
it would never be young again, because it represented a Japanese dream
that was lost, a fantastic, disturbing dream of misplaced grandeur and
conflicting taste.  He wondered, as he often had before, whether its
famous architect, Mr. Frank Lloyd Wright, or some Japanese contractor
had approved the final plans.  He was inclined to settle for the
contractor, because everything was too small and weirdly compact for
Western taste.  There was a Lilliputian quality about the rooms and
everything inside them.  The writing tables were too low, the wardrobes
below normal height, and the walls of volcanic stone made everything
look crowded.

"You can take either room you like," he said.  "I don't really see much
difference."

"Neither do I," she said.  "I'll take this one."  And then he saw that
she had noticed the connecting door.  He did not wish to discuss it
then, while he was busy giving orders about the baggage.

"I'd go to sleep if I were you," he said.  "Knock on the door if you
want anything."

Before he decided on any course of action, he had to make a routine
examination of his room.  The draperies, the carpet, and the bed
covering were all worn, and gave him again a melancholy feeling of
creeping age.  The bathtub was also too small.  He had to bend his
knees to reach the washbasin.  He went carefully through the wardrobe
and every drawer, looked behind the mirror and over every inch of the
wall.  He finally took off his coat and shoes and opened the door for a
glance at the corridor, but there was no one there.  The ubiquitous
servants that he had remembered in the Occupation--the smiling maids in
obis and getas, and the boys in white uniforms--had disappeared
somewhere into the past.  On the whole he approved of the selection of
the rooms.  They each looked over the fantastic porte-cochere and the
hotel driveway, thus affording a view of all the hotel traffic.  The
walls were all thick, so that it would be possible to talk freely if
voices were kept low and all the locks were sound.

He knew the number he was to call, but he did not give it to the
operator.

"I want to speak to Mr. William Gibson," he said, and he spelled the
name out slowly, "at the Osaka Importing Company.  If he asks who's
calling, say it is Mr. John Rhyce," and he spelled the name carefully
again, and put down the telephone.

It was half past one in the afternoon, but he did not feel hungry
because of all the elapsed hours of the ocean flight.  The sun of late
June shone hot and strong on the lotus pool in front of the
porte-cochere, and he stood at the room's small window looking at the
pink and yellow lotus flowers while he waited for his call.  He did not
turn when he heard the door connecting the two rooms open, because he
knew the sound of her step by then.

"Is everything all right in your place?" he asked.

"Yes," she said.  "Everything's okay.  So you knew this door was
unlocked?"

"Yes," he said, "and the latch has been oiled, I think.  Gibson must
have wanted it that way."

"Well, let's keep it open for a while," she said.  "It's awfully far
away from everything here, isn't it?  Do you like the way things are
going?"

"No," he said, "not with that Jap meeting us at the plane.  He looked
to me as though he were in the business.  When he reached into his
pocket to take his wallet out, I almost thought he was going for a rod.
You don't move that way without training.  You just don't."

"So you're feeling jumpy, too, are you?"

"It's the trip," he answered.  "I'll feel clearer just as soon as I get
a little shut-eye.  I'm just contacting Gibson.  They ought to call
back any minute now.  How would you like some tea?"

She shook her head.

"How about a drink?  I've a flask of bourbon in my bag."

"You sure it won't take the razor edge off your mind?" she said.

"It isn't kind to kid me," he said, and he pulled a flask from the
bottom of his bag.  Just then the telephone rang.

"Here," he said, "mix two stiff ones while I'm talking."




VI

There was no mistaking the harsh quality of Bill Gibson's voice.  Jack
Rhyce was tired, but he had to go into an act again.

"Say, Bill," he said, "guess who this is?  Jack Rhyce."

"Why, _Jack_," Bill Gibson answered.  There was no one who could throw
himself into a game better than Bill.  "Where did you ever drop from,
you old buzzard, and what are you doing in Tokyo?"

"I thought you'd be surprised," Jack Rhyce said.  "I'm over here to
write a report for the Asia Friendship League.  And who do you think
I've got with me, to help out?  Ruth Bogart.  You remember Ruth, don't
you?  She's right up in the room here now, mixing us both a good stiff
drink of bourbon.  Why don't you drop everything, and come on up, Bill?"

"There's nothing I'd rather do in the world," Bill Gibson said, "but
right at the minute things are pretty busy in the office."

"Oh, now Bill," Jack Rhyce said, "can't you let things drop for just
half an hour?  It's been a long time no see, and--"

Bill Gibson's laugh interrupted him.  It had just the right warmth, and
the proper tolerant affection.

"Oh, all right," he said, "all right.  You always did have a bad
influence on me, Jack.  Sure, I'll break away.  What's your room
number?"

Now that the point of urgency was made, the conversation was as good as
over, but Bill Gibson's final remark struck Jack Rhyce as disconcerting.

"Leave your door unlocked," he said, "and save me some of that bourbon."

Ruth Bogart was standing close beside him, and Gibson's voice was loud
enough so that she must have heard the conversation.

"Are you sure that was Gibson on the wire?" she asked.

He was sure it was Gibson's voice and he told her so.  Besides there
had been enough material in that conversation, innocuous though it had
seemed, to afford a double-check.

"Why did he ask to leave the door unlocked?" she asked.

"I guess because he wants to get in in a hurry," he said.  "Did you
hear him say that things were pretty busy at the office?"

"Maybe I'm not going to have a nap after all," she said.

"It could be possible," he told her, "but how about that drink?"

The worst thing in the world for anyone in the business was to develop
any dependence on alcohol, but he was sure that the whisky was good for
both of them, under the circumstances.  It was one of those few
opportunities afforded them to be natural.  They sat smiling at each
other when they were not watching the unlocked door to the hall.

"Here's looking at you," she said.  "I'd really like to have a hot bath
and go to sleep."

"In a miniature tub?" he asked.

"Anything at all," she said.  "Jack, are you carrying a rod?"

"Absolutely not," he said.  "Are you?"

"I have one of those fountain pens," she said, "in my handbag."

"Well, never mind it now," he said.  "I suppose you've been told that
you're a very pretty girl."

"Yes," she said, and she looked prettier when she answered.  "I've been
told, but I'm glad you brought the subject up.  And now do you mind if
I make a remark about you, as long as we're being personal?"

"Why, no," he said, "anything at all."

But she hesitated before she answered, and the bright, efficient gaze
left her face, making her look almost sad.

"I keep wondering what sort of a person you really are.  I mean, what
you're like when you're being yourself, what your tastes are, what you
want most and everything like that."

He felt depressed after she had finished speaking.  He could think of a
number of things he had lost in the course of time.  Besides, he had to
tell the truth, and the truth was something that had been bothering him
lately.

"You know," he said, "I'm really beginning to forget what I used to be.
That's the trouble with this business, isn't it?"

"Yes," she said.  "It's beginning to be the same way with me.  I keep
forgetting.  I wish we could have met on the outside.  Have you ever
thought of getting out of all of this?"

"I have thought along those lines," he said.  "The trouble is, I don't
know whether you ever can get outside, after you've been inside.
Inside leaves a mark on you, and gives you disagreeable habits.  I
wouldn't know what I could do outside to earn my living any more.  I
was planning to be a lawyer before the war came--but that's all too
late now."

"You could be a trustee," she said, "out front, in a bank with a marble
floor.  You wouldn't look half bad in a Brooks Brothers suit.

"Yes," he said, "or I could be a football coach; I used to play
football.  Or I could teach languages on the side, or maybe judo.  I
can drive a car pretty well--but I wouldn't want to do any of those
things.  If I ever were to get outside--"

He stopped because he had learned long ago that talking about one's
self never added up to much.

"Go ahead," she said.  "What would you do if you ever got outside?"

When he took another swallow of whisky, he felt more like himself than
he had since Honolulu.

"Frankly, I wouldn't want to do anything immediately," he said.  "I'd
like to get a canoe and some canned goods and a tent.  I'd paddle up
through the lakes in Ontario until I got about a hundred miles from
anywhere, and then I'd pitch the tent.  And when I wasn't asleep I'd
sit in the sun, doing absolutely nothing, just realizing that nobody
could find me.  But the main thing would be doing absolutely nothing--"

Just then the door opened.  His mind was jerked from northern Ontario,
and he realized he never should have been thinking of it.  He was not
surprised at the manner in which Bill Gibson entered the room, having
seen Bill Gibson move fast before, on several occasions, although he
had never understood how it could be done with excess weight and a
sagging waistline.  Bill Gibson was in a hurry, just as Jack Rhyce had
said he might be.  But even in a hurry, Bill Gibson looked the part he
had played for years in Tokyo--a middle-aged American businessman who
drank too much before lunch, who fell asleep at the club bridge table
in the evening, who talked too much, and who had amorous proclivities
which he could never suppress when he should.  He was wearing a
washable business suit.  His jowls were heavy, with a blackish tinge,
no matter how clean-shaven he might be.  His black hair was brushed
back in a pompadour, and he wore horn-rimmed spectacles.  Although he
had been in a hurry, he was not out of breath, and he had moved so
silently that there had been no sound until the door was opened.

"Hi," he said gently, and he nodded to Ruth.  "Lock that door now, kid.
I'm sorry to barge in this way, but I've had a hunch for the last few
days that I'm hot as a pistol, and I don't want to be seen coming up
here.  There's no better place to play cops and robbers than the
Imperial Hotel."  He spoke easily and confidently, as he always did.
"I'll take my weight off my feet and have a drink," he said, sitting
down on the edge of the bed.  "These rooms are all right to talk in.
I've used them before.  Well, what's the damn emergency, Buster?  I
thought I was to call you, and not you me."

Jack Rhyce nodded.  He realized that he was being rebuked, and he knew
Bill Gibson well enough to see that the situation was tense.

"That's right," he said.  "I took the liberty, Bill.  It's about Big
Ben."

"All right," Bill Gibson said, "go ahead, and make it snappy if you
don't mind."

"It's just a hunch," Jack Rhyce said, "but I have a feeling we've seen
Big Ben."

He started with San Francisco and with the steps outside the door, and
the singing of the tune, and then the other tune at Wake just as light
was coming in the sky.  He knew Bill Gibson well enough to make an
interpolation.

"I've never been psychic," he said.  "I never could tip tables, or
write messages on a Ouija board, but when I heard that voice, it linked
right up with that song in the hall.  It wouldn't have given me a jolt
if it had not been from the same show.  The song in San Francisco was
'Every Day Is Ladies' Day with Me,' and it was 'The Streets of New
York' on Wake, but they're both out of _The Red Mill_."

"Did you sneak up on him?" Bill Gibson asked.

"I didn't want to try, on that terrain," Jack Rhyce said.  "No, we just
stood there, and I sang the same song back."

Bill Gibson took a generous drink of his bourbon.

"If I'm seen here it won't hurt to have the smell of American hooch on
my breath," he said.  "Well, describe him."

"He was in khaki trunks, old army-issue," Jack Rhyce said; "hair was
wet, yellow to ginger-colored after his dip in the lagoon.  Bushy
eyebrows; wide forehead; big mobile mouth, and talking with a drawl,
more Tidewater than Texas; and he was damn big, and a beautiful
build--all big, especially his hands."

"Bigger than you?" Bill Gibson asked.

"Yes," Jack Rhyce said, "some.  I'd hate to tangle with him.  He has
beautiful co-ordination."

"How did he react?" Bill Gibson asked.

"Friendly.  Maybe a little too God-awful friendly.  He thought maybe
Ruth and I were new airline personnel, and then he asked if we were
passengers on a world cruise.  He indicated he had read about the world
cruise group on Operations teletype.  That's the one wrong move he
made.  I don't think the fact would come through Operations.  My hunch
would be that he picked it up in San Francisco the night he was singing
'Every Day Is Ladies' Day with Me.'"

Bill Gibson took another swallow of his whisky.

"Ruth dear," he said, "would you look out the window in a nice careful
way and see if there's an old beat-up Chevrolet out there--dark green,
'51 model?  Coupe, left front fender pretty well mashed in, a big dent
on the left-hand door, and the door missing a handle.  Let me know if
you see it, will you dear? ... So your hunch is he's on a plane
crew--what?"

Jack Rhyce nodded.

"And I'll bet he's only a few hours out of here right now," he said.

"There isn't any Chevrolet outside yet," Ruth said.

"Well, thanks, sweetie," Bill Gibson said.  "Keep on looking, will you?
That Chevvy's been like Mary's little lamb to me the last few days....
Did you check up on him at Wake?"

"No," Jack Rhyce said.  "It was a big temptation, but it might have
been a giveaway, and you'll have to be careful how you handle it
here--not that I want to give advice, Bill.  He looked very impressive
to me--an able, thoughtful character."

Bill Gibson whistled softly.

"Maybe you've got something, Buster," he said.  "It's the first good
lead on him I've seen for quite a while.  I hadn't been thinking much
about plane crews."

"If you don't mind," Jack said, "if you've got the time I'd like to add
a little more."

"All the time in the world," Bill Gibson said, "so long as that Chevvy
isn't there.  Keep looking, will you, darling?  And I can do with
another drink."

Sometimes it was hard for Jack Rhyce to realize that Bill Gibson's mind
and techniques were among the best in the office.  While Bill listened,
he took off his horn-rimmed glasses, and his face looked bloated
without them, and his eyes rheumy and dull, but he was not missing
anything.  He was listening to the encounter with the Russians, about
the old bank clerk at the table, and then about the Japanese who
mentioned the words Big Ben.

"Cripes, Jack," he said, "this thing is closing in."

"And that isn't all," Jack Rhyce said.  "There was this other one at
the airport."

"Let's see his card."  Bill Gibson held out his hand.  "Come on,
Buster."

He held the card and squinted at it, and put back his glasses.

"It's a phony, as far as I know," he said.  "Moto isn't a Japanese
name, it's only a suffix to a name, like Yamamoto, or Mikimoto, who
puts pearls in the oysters--and maybe there'll be some Mikimoto pearls
for you, Ruth dear, if you happen to see that Chevrolet."  He finished
his drink in a single gulp.  "Well, well, kids," he said, "it looks as
if we're going to get some action pretty quick out of this one.  Would
you guess this Moto boy was in touch with Wake?"

"I couldn't guess," Jack said, "but the thought has crossed my mind,
Bill."

Bill Gibson cleared his throat and looked at the empty glass on the
floor beside him.

"No," he said, "no, I won't have another, thanks.  Well, this has been
very interesting to me, kids, because it ties up with some other stuff
that's just come in.  We have a few people ourselves who get around,
you know.  Big Ben is around, all right.  I've a hell of a lot of
things I've got to do, and I can't brief you now.  It could spill
everything if I were seen up here, but we've got to get together
somewhere.  Now here's what I want--"

He stood up.  It was amazing how quickly he could pull himself off the
bed, fat abdomen, jowls and everything.

"Now get this."  He looked very much like a sales manager addressing a
convention, or a coach, exhorting a team between the halves.  "I want
you two to take all tomorrow to get your cover sweetened with this Asia
Friendship League.  I also want you two to make damn fools of
yourselves about each other.  I'm glad to see you have the connecting
door open already--not because I believe in sex, but because, under the
circumstances, sex is the safest thing for you.  That's why, the day
after tomorrow, you're going on a shack-up job to a resort hotel up in
the mountains.  It's a real off-the-record honeymoon retreat, and no
one will notice you, if you just keep interested in each other.  I'll
be up there Saturday night.  You'll see me at the bar at six o'clock,
but don't pay any attention to me.  Go to the big dance that night and
have a good time.  My room will be in a cottage called Chrysanthemum
Rest.  It's near the ballroom.  At ten o'clock, leave the ballroom as
if you were going out in the dark to smooch.  There'll be so much noise
and music, no one will hear us talking, or care, but I don't want us to
be seen together in Tokyo.  I'm too damn hot.  Have you got it, Jack?"

Jack was aware again that his mind was not working as accurately as it
should.  Bill Gibson had asked if he had got it, and the truth was that
he had been getting too much in the last few hours.  Granted that he
had been trained until most of his reactions were instinctive, a
craving for rest was beginning to keep his mind from facts.

"Well, Bill," he said, "you've handed me quite a lot since you've been
here."

"I've been concise," Bill Gibson answered, "but I'm in a hell of a
hurry, Jack."

"This hotel," Jack Rhyce said.  He was trying to get things into order,
but if he could not get some rest, as sure as fate he would slip up on
something, and once you made a slip, with circumstances the way they
looked you seldom were given a chance to recover.  "Where is it, and
how do I get there?"

"In Myanoshita, up in the mountains.  Here's the name."

Bill Gibson scribbled the name on the back page of a notebook, and tore
out the page.  "The army used it during the Occupation.  Officers and
their wives spend the week ends there, and unattached young men and
their Japanese and other girl friends.  It's a peculiar place, like
Japan, torn between two worlds, but comfortable and friendly."

"All right," Jack Rhyce said, "but if everything's so hot, why don't
you give us the whole fill-in for everything right now?"

"There's not time," Bill Gibson said.  "I mustn't be identified with
you.  But I'll tell you this, it's dangerous as hell.  It's confirmed
today.  They are planning a political assassination--"

He did not complete his sentence because Ruth Bogart, standing by the
window, interrupted him.

"A Chevrolet with a dented fender is driving up," she said.

Bill Gibson was on his feet in an instant, and again it was surprising
how quickly he could move.

"All right," he said.  "Persistent bastards, aren't they?  Let me know
what whoever gets out looks like, but tell me later.  Good luck.
You've got everything?"

"Yes, Bill," Jack said.  "We'll be seeing you."

"Right," Bill Gibson said.  "Don't get in touch with me again, and
remember: _safety in sex_."

He was gone, so quietly that the closing of the room door hardly made a
sound.  The incongruity of some of the things Bill Gibson had said only
occurred to Jack Rhyce later.  One obeyed orders and there was no
reasoning why in the business.  There was no time to discuss whether he
or Ruth Bogart liked the situation in which they had been ordered to
participate.  You were never yourself in the business, and you did what
you were told.

Ruth Bogart was speaking to him from her place by the window.

"Only one man in the Chevrolet," she said.  "He's parked, and getting
out.  Man, thirty-five or six, sun glasses, brown hair, balding at
temples.  Height five feet ten.  Weight maybe one seventy.  Pale face,
professorial type.  Aloha shirt with goldfish on it.  Trousers white
silk.  Shoes, white buckskin trimmed with brown leather.  He's entering
the hotel.  He seems American and harmless-looking."

Jack Rhyce did not move to the window to confirm because it seemed like
a professional and accurate description.

"Right," he said.  "You'd better go and lie down for a bit, Ruth, and
order up something to eat if you want it."

"I don't want anything to eat now," she said, "but hadn't we better
talk things over?  Bill Gibson looked upset."

"You take a nap first," he answered.  "I'm afraid we're going to have a
lot of time to talk things over."

"Afraid?" she repeated after him, and he could not help thinking that
she looked the way she might have on the outside, but it was not the
time or place to let one's mind wander.

"Forget it," he said.  "I didn't mean it personally."

"All right," she said, "I'll forget it.  God, you really are a pro."

She was obviously not saying it in a complimentary way, and for a
second her words gave him an accurate and devastating picture of
himself, but one he could excuse.

"Yes," he said, "I'm a pro.  We all have to be, don't we?  Now go and
lie down."

"Yes," she said, and she smiled at him although a smile was not
necessary.  "I'm a pro, too, a poor, tired pro."

She kicked off her shoes, and it seemed to him that their heels were
too high for efficiency.  Then she tossed herself inelegantly on the
bed, indicating there was not much reason for reticences when you were
in the business.

"I'll draw your curtains," he said.

"Thanks," she said, "and move my handbag near me, will you?  Thanks,
Jack."

He believed that she was already asleep when he closed the door to the
adjoining room, and he envied her because instinct told him that one of
them must stay awake until there was some assurance that things were
moving in a settled groove; the Chevrolet outside was curious and
disturbing.  He stood by the window looking at it--an inconspicuous
American car, one of thousands of its vintage, and one which must have
had several owners.  It was exactly the sort of car he would have
picked if he had wanted to tail someone.  He was still gazing out of
the window, and wondering whether it would be wiser to stray down and
take a closer look when someone knocked loudly on the door.

His reaction of annoyance was a measure of his fatigue.  The necessity
for being alert again was difficult to face, but it was an absolute
necessity because he could not imagine who would disturb him, and the
knock had been too loud for hotel servants.  It was no time to be
careless, and also no time to be furtive.  He walked to the door
promptly and opened it, seemingly carelessly, but with a few technical
precautions.  He was too tired for further shocks, but he had to face
another.  Standing outside in the rather narrow corridor was the man
whom Ruth Bogart had described--in the Aloha shirt with the goldfish on
it.

He had taken off his sun glasses, but there was no mistaking the shirt,
or the trousers of heavy Shantung silk, or the white buckskin shoes
trimmed with tan, or the closely clipped brown hair, receding at the
temples.  Ruth Bogart had said he had a professorial look, and she had
been correct.  He had the look which Jack Rhyce had begun to associate
with hundreds of individuals sent out by the government to work on
helpful commissions and projects--the eager and at the same time
self-satisfied expression of someone who knew he knew the answers.

"Hello," the man in the Aloha shirt said, and he had a warm hail-fellow
voice that fitted his professional expression.  "You're Mr. Rhyce,
aren't you?  They said downstairs that you were still in your room."

Jack knew that the face of the man in the Aloha shirt was important and
he catalogued it immediately--darkish, intellectual, brown eyes, high
cheekbones, longish nose, pointed jaw, thin-lipped mouth, good teeth.
These observations took only an instant as Jack Rhyce returned the
other's smile.

"Well," he said, "the name is Rhyce, and I'm here all right, just off
the plane."

"Well, it's a real pleasure to welcome you to Tokyo, Jack Rhyce," the
man in the Aloha shirt said.  "My name's Harry Pender, running the shop
here for Asia Friendship, replacing Jules Blake, who was called home
last week.  Chas. Harrington wired you were coming in today.
Seriously, it's fine to have you aboard."

Seriously, it was difficult to lapse into the cover again, and to give
the proper illusion of delight when all sorts of thoughts and questions
were moving in the background.

"Well, Harry Pender," Jack Rhyce said, "this is mighty kind of you to
look me up so promptly.  I was on the point of lying down and taking a
little snooze.  That plane trip has, frankly, left me a bit woozy, but
come on in.  You've waked me up already."

It was true that Harry Pender had waked him up.  There were certain
thoughts that demanded strict attention.  Pender was undoubtedly the
man in the Chevrolet, and why was it he had not called on the house
telephone?  How long had he been outside in the hall?  Then, on top of
those questions Jack Rhyce had another thought.  The Chief had made a
mistake for once.  If the Chevrolet with the battered fender had been
following Bill Gibson, how about the Asia Friendship League?  For a
fraction of a second Jack Rhyce wished that the Chief were there to
know that it was not harmless.

"I won't take a minute of your time," Mr. Harry Pender said.  "Of
course you're not oriented to Japan yet.  No one ever is.  I should
have met you at the airport, but frankly, we're going to have a
conference of Japanese writers tomorrow, and I've been unusually busy
as a consequence, and also, all the office cars were in use.  All that
was left was our old Chevvy, and I've had to use it all morning,
buzzing around."

"Meeting planes is always a problem," Jack Rhyce said.  "You mustn't
have me on your mind at all.  I'm just here to look things over and do
this report, you know.  I can hardly wait to see the office tomorrow,
and I'd like to sit in on that writers' conference."

Mr. Pender nodded enthusiastically.  "Chas. Harrington indicated that
you'd be right in here pitching," he said, "and the whole place is open
to you, Jack Rhyce.  Nothing up our sleeves or anything like that."  He
laughed heartily.  "And I don't know any way in which you can get the
spirit of what we're up to here more than by sitting in at the table
with some of our Japanese writers.  They're lovable people, the
Japanese--I mean, when you get to know them."

"How do you mean--lovable?" Jack Rhyce asked.

"You'll see," Mr. Pender said.  "You'll see.  You'll get their spirit,
given time.  They're basically only a bunch of mixed-up kids, but
lovable at heart.  You'll see."

Jack Rhyce nodded in a respectful, sympathetic manner.

"I suppose I'm somewhat prejudiced in my point of view about the
Japanese," he said.  "You see, I was in the Pacific during the war."

For one mad moment he could not recollect whether or not his war
service had been mentioned in that first letter to Mr. Harrington of
the Asia Friendship League, but he was sure that it had been when Mr.
Pender made a grave gesture of agreement.

"I know," Mr. Pender said.  "I know the superb record that you made
with the paratroopers in Burma.  I wish I might have been with you, but
I had to serve in a more sheltered branch myself, due to being in the
Four F category--the U.S.O."

"Oh," Jack Rhyce said, "so you were in the U.S.O.?"

It was only because he was very tired.  He could have kicked himself
the moment he had said it.  The U.S.O. and Big Ben might come together
somewhere and he never should have betrayed interest.  He almost
thought there was a sharpening in Mr. Pender's brown eyes, but it might
very well have been his imagination.

"It used to hurt at times," Mr. Pender said, "not to be able to be up
forward with you boys, but then we did our best in our small way.  I
was in a singing troupe."

"That must have been fun," Jack Rhyce said, "and believe me, I'd like
to have been able to change places with you at some points.  I always
did like singing.  What sort of songs did you do?"

"Oh," Mr. Pender said, "we had a name.  We called our group the Song
Caravan, and they were a fine dedicated bunch in it--you know, boys and
gals with a smattering of semiprofessional experience from the summer
theaters and whatnot, lots of whom finally joined more active branches
of the service.  We sang all the popular numbers.  We would just ask
the crowd to holler for a number and we'd sing it.  You might have seen
us out in the Pacific if you hadn't been in Burma.  We did get to
Chungking once.  Were you ever in Chungking?"

"Oh, yes," Jack Rhyce said, "once or twice, but only very briefly.
Quite a place--Chungking."

"It was," Mr. Pender said.  "It always seemed to me a very fascinating
page of social history--Chungking; we must have a good long talk about
it sometime, but it's all water over the dam now.  We mustn't forget
that we are entering into a new era of reconstruction and not
destruction.  I know you are going to agree with me--the Japanese
basically are nothing but a bunch of mixed-up kids--but lovable."  His
glance traveled about the room with a casualness which could have been
overelaborate.  "Oh, by the way, the young lady who was coming over to
assist you--is there anything I can do for her?  What is her name?
It's gone out of my head."

"Bogart," Jack Rhyce said, "Ruth Bogart.  She's asleep, I think."

"I certainly don't blame her," Mr. Pender said.  "But bring her over to
the office tomorrow morning.  The more the merrier.  We'll only have
the one day--until Monday--because we close things over the week ends,
but we'll think up some program for you over Saturday and Sunday."

"Why, thanks," Jack Rhyce said, and to his surprise he felt genuinely
self-conscious.  "As a matter of fact," he paused and cleared his
throat, "I'd sort of promised to take Miss Bogart to that hotel up in
the hills where they have the hot springs at--where is it--Miyanoshita.
You see, this is her first glimpse of Japan."

"Oh," Mr. Pender said, "I forgot to ask--were you here during the
Occupation?"

"Only passing through for a day or two," Jack Rhyce said, and far from
appearing watchful, Mr. Pender looked relaxed and tolerantly genial.

"We're going to have a lot of things to talk about, you and me," he
said, "and I know you're going to like our bunch out here, and
everything we're doing.  And now, before I go, is there anything you
want?"

"Well, no," Jack Rhyce said, "except maybe a little sleep, but thanks a
lot for asking."

"Yes, sir," Mr. Pender said.  "You and I are going to have a lot of fun
together.  I can feel it in my bones."  He held out his hand again.
His muscle tone was excellent.  "Well, so long.  How about up at the
office at half past nine sharp tomorrow?  You have the address, haven't
you?"

"Oh, yes," Jack Rhyce said, "and thanks again a whole lot for dropping
in."

After Mr. Pender had left, Jack Rhyce stood unobtrusively by his window
watching the parked Chevrolet.  In two and a half minutes Mr. Pender
had reached it--approximately the time it should have taken him to walk
down the staircases of the Imperial, across the lobby and out of its
front door.  Jack turned from the window and very gently opened the
door of Ruth's room.  She was wide awake, her head propped up on the
pillow.

"I'm sorry if we've kept you awake," he said.  "It was the man in the
Aloha shirt."

She smiled at him, and again she looked very much as she might have on
the outside.

"You didn't keep me awake," she said.  "I went down and took a look at
the car."

"That was a very good girl," he said, "provided you got away with it."

"I think I did," she said.  "I'm pretty good with cars.  There was
nothing except a rod in the glove compartment."

"Oh," Jack Rhyce said.  "What kind?"

"Beretta," she said, "all loaded."

"Oh," he said, "Beretta."

It was interesting that anyone in Mr. Pender's position should have
been carrying an Italian officer's pistol.  Pender had brown eyes but
he did not look like an Italian.

"And now," she said, "go away and let me sleep, and you'd better, too.
I think things are going to be quiet for a while."

They did not mention Mr. Pender again, but there was no need at the
moment.  They both had their own ideas about him--the same idea.

It was exasperating to discover the desire for sleep had left him, much
as he needed it.  He draped his coat over one of the small chairs,
stretched out on his bed and tried to relax.  The street sounds of
Tokyo were nearly indistinguishable, now, from those of a European
city, but he could not rid himself from watchful tension or from the
intuitions which no one could help developing in the business.  He was
full of the old malaise that told him that a net was closing.  The
elderly man in San Francisco and the Nisei Japanese boy were parts of
it, and so was the middle-aged Japanese named Moto who had picked him
up at the airport.  You developed a seventh sense for spotting opposite
numbers; he would have bet his last dollar that Mr. Moto was in the
business, except for the clumsy use of a name that, as Bill Gibson had
pointed out, was not a name at all.  It was so obvious that it might
have been a signal, but there was no way of being sure.  And then
Pender was another strand of the net.  If he had not said that he was a
former U.S.O. entertainer, the Beretta in the car was indicative, and
besides, there was the fact that Bill Gibson was on the run.  The net
was closing on Bill Gibson, and Bill knew it, but it might be, Jack
Rhyce thought, that he and Ruth Bogart were still out of it.  He was
almost positive that Mr. Pender had accepted them.

Mr. Moto was due to call at six.  There would be a chance then to
evaluate and handle him, and until six there was nothing to do but
rest.  Then suddenly he realized he had forgotten something, and
immediately he pushed open the adjoining door.  Ruth Bogart was asleep.
The hardness which he had occasionally noticed on her face was gone.
The tenseness about her mouth had relaxed.  Although her eyes were
closed, she had a half-cheerful, half-expectant look.  She was a very
pretty girl now that she was asleep, the way she would have looked on
the outside, and he was sure that her dreams had taken her there.  He
was sorry to bring her back into the business.

"Sorry," he said.  "Just one thing, Ruth."

You could tell that she had been at the girl's branch of the Farm from
the way she awakened.  A second before she had been on the outside; now
her right hand had moved toward her handbag, but it was only a
half-conscious gesture.

"Okay," she said softly.  "What?"

"This Moto character who's calling at six," he said.  "I think he'll
ring the house telephone and not barge up like Pender.  I'll leave our
door open.  The bell will wake you.  Get up and close the door but
listen, and keep that fountain pen handy.  It might just be we'll have
to use it.  Do you follow me, Ruth?"

"Yes," she said.  "I'd have covered you anyway, Buster.  Now go and
relax or you'll be fidgety when he comes, and leave the door wide open.
Don't be so delicate.  I need company."

He could not tell whether she was being friendly or not, when she
called him Buster; but he felt a twinge of annoyance because he had
never liked the name, and also the mere fact that he was annoyed
worried him.  He would not have given the matter any thought if he had
not been tired.




VII

He still could not sleep when he lay down again.  The truth had begun
to dawn on him that he was not physically the man he had been, that his
old resilience and iron were wearing thin, and that he would have been
better even three years earlier.  Everyone in the business burned out
eventually.  Either their physical reflexes slowed up first, or their
ability to keep concentrated on a single line.  He knew it was the
worst possible time to put his thoughts on a personal basis.  It had
been the girl's face that looked so young and happy in its sleep that
had disturbed him.  He began thinking, just when he should not have, of
the outside.  If he had stayed on the outside he would undoubtedly be
married by now.  He would have been in the law.  He would have had a
home and children, and he would have been a decent man--warm-hearted
and genuine--not a suspicious, machine-tooled robot who had been
through too much, a man who had played under so many covers that it was
becoming impossible to guess what he could have been.

Of course there had always been people like himself who could not
easily adjust to civil life after having faced the violences of war.
There had been wonderful moments and triumphs.  There was always the
satisfaction of knowing that in ten years he had made a place for
himself in a highly exacting profession, but in the end, what was there
of real value?  Very little, except what might lie in a set of
disconnected memories, very little of which to be proud.  And what was
he in the end?  He was a spy, or a secret agent, if you cared for a
politer word, trained to live a life of lying and of subterfuge;
trained to submerge his individuality into something he was not--to be
a sneak, and if necessary a betrayer; trained to run from danger and
let his best friend get it, if it helped the business; to kill or be
killed inconspicuously; to die with his mouth shut, in the dark.  There
was only one loyalty--loyalty to the business.  It was, by outside
standards, a contemptible profession, and in the end, everybody in the
business paid, because deceit was the same as erosion of character.

Why had he not gotten out of it, before it was too late?  He raised
himself on his elbow.  The whisky flask was in his bag and the glasses
were on the table.  He could even see the traces of Ruth Bogart's
lipstick on her glass.  She should have been more careful.  He sat up,
with his eyes still on the bag, but then he leaned back again.
Drinking was always dangerous in the business--it was far safer to
indulge in bitter thoughts.  It was too late for him to leave the
business now.  He remembered what she had called him a while ago--a
pro; and you could not get from the inside to the outside once you were
a pro.  He wished to heaven he could sleep as she did.  It meant that
she still could get out of the business; he hoped she would.  He
resolved to tell her so, if they came out of this safe.  He must have
been thinking of what he would say to her just as he fell asleep.

He was convinced that he was not the man he had been once, when the
telephone awakened him.  He heard Ruth Bogart close the adjoining door
before he was on his feet.  First he had not been able to sleep.  Then
he had slept too heavily, and like Ruth Bogart, he must have been on
the outside, too, in his dreams.  It was something that should never
happen in the field.

"Hello," he said.  "Jack Rhyce speaking."

At any rate, he was back under his cover again, hearty voice and
everything.  The time on his wrist watch was six to the dot.  He was
feeling very hungry, and also rested.  He was on the beam again.

"Please."  It was undoubtedly Mr. Moto speaking.  There was the slow,
gentle modulation he remembered, and also the monotony of speech that
even excellent Japanese linguists sometimes found hard to escape.  "I
hope I did not awaken you, Mr. Rhyce."

"Oh, it's you, is it?" Jack Rhyce said.  "Do I sound sleepy?"

There was a nervous laugh that went with conventional politeness.

"Just a little in your voice, Mr. Rhyce."

He had to admit that the man downstairs was a damned smart Jap, and
when they were, it was hard to find anything smarter.

"Well, you win, as a matter of fact," Jack Rhyce said.  "I have been
having a little shut-eye.  But come on right up, you've got the room
number, haven't you?"

"The room number?  Oh, yes."

It was a needless question.  Of course he had the number.  There was
time for Jack Rhyce to tie his shoes, and put on his seersucker coat.
As he did so he realized he had not unpacked anything.  He hastily
opened his Val-pak and pulled some clothes out, because he did not want
to give the impression that he might leave at any moment.  Then he left
the door to the hall half open because a locked door might be
conspicuous, and then his heart gave a startled jump.  He had
completely forgotten the three glasses on the table, but as he moved
toward them he saw that only two were there, one with the lipstick
smears, and another.  Ruth Bogart must have been in when he was asleep,
and he felt very much ashamed.  He should have thought of the two
glasses himself--one of them with lipstick.

The tap on the door was gentle and discreet.  Jack Rhyce was accustomed
to Japanese manners, and he had listened for many wearisome hours to
lectures by social anthropologists on Japanese psychology, but from his
own experience in the cruder arena of combat intelligence, he doubted
the correctness of many of the lecturers' conclusions.  The background
and the thought process of Japan were so different from his own that he
had always avoided a confident appraisal.  When Mr. Moto knocked, Jack
felt a species of nervousness.  He knew too much about Japan, yet he
must not show it.  Japanese were always sensitive.

"Well, well," Jack Rhyce said, "step right in.  You're right on the
dot, I see."  He spoke loudly and deliberately, as one should to a
foreigner.

Mr. Moto's features were finely chiseled.  His hands were slender and
graceful.  In native dress, he would have been a fine figure of a
trusted Samurai, and it was very possible that his family had held that
feudal rank.  But the hideous, purplish blue business suit,
aggressively pressed and arrogantly neat, ruined this romantic picture,
and so did the very light tan shoes.  Mr. Moto was more a figure of low
comedy than a representative of old Japan.  Then a startling idea came
to Jack Rhyce--that he and Mr. Moto might both be impersonating clumsy
people.  If you took it one way, the hissing intake of Mr. Moto's
breath had a Weber and Fields quality that was too loud and too comic.
The same was true of his speech, yet Jack Rhyce could not definitely
tell.

"So nice of you to receive me," Mr. Moto said.  "You have enjoyed your
sleep, I hope."

"Yes, sir," Jack Rhyce said.  "I had a real nice shut-eye, thanks, and
I feel very much the better for it, Mr.--excuse me.  I forget your
name."

"Moto," Mr. Moto said.  He laughed again, but there was no way of
telling whether or not his politeness was deliberately over-drawn.

"Moto," Jack Rhyce said.  If they were playing a Mr. Japan and Mr.
America game, both of them knew their business.  "I've got that
straight now, and I hope you'll excuse it, Mr. Moto.  Japanese names
are tough for me to remember, and I suppose my name is hard for
you--Rhyce."

"Oh, no," Mr. Moto said.  "R is easy in Japan.  We have trouble when we
pronounce your letter rell.  See--I cannot say it.  Ha-ha-ha."

It was hard for Jack Rhyce to decide whether or not Mr. Moto was having
deliberate trouble with his _l_'s.  It was true that the _l_ sound was
difficult for Japanese to accomplish, although good linguists could
manage it.  In the Pacific during the War, Jack Rhyce remembered, there
had been a sea area christened "Alligator Lipstick."  The term had been
invented because the area was frequently mentioned by voice over the
air and "Alligator Lipstick" was a jawbreaker for the average Japanese.
It seemed to Jack Rhyce that sometimes Mr. Moto was having no trouble
with his _l_'s at all.

"That is comical, when you come to think of it," Jack Rhyce said, "but
it takes all kinds to make a world, doesn't it?  You know, I'm kind of
hungry after that plane ride.  I wonder if we could get some bacon and
shirred eggs and tea.  Maybe you can make the room boy understand in
Japanese better than I can in English.  Ha-ha-ha."

As he spoke he felt sorry for Ruth Bogart listening at the connecting
door, and he added, "A whole flock of bacon and eggs and tea."

"Oh, yes," Mr. Moto said.  "I shall call up room service.  Everything
is up to date at the Imperiar Hote-ru.  Excuse me when I cannot say the
_l_."

There was no breaking the law of averages.  Sooner or later there would
be a slip of the tongue, or else a careless gesture might become a
chain reaction that ruined everything.  Mr. Moto had slipped, and Jack
Rhyce was sure that he was unaware of it.  Mr. Moto had surmounted that
stumbling block of the Japanese tongue by pronouncing the letter _l_
with a subconscious fluency, indicating that he could speak a better
brand of English than he was using.  When he picked up the hotel
telephone and asked for room service in Japanese, his accent was crisp
and educated.  There was something in the careless way in which he
handled the instrument that was not Japanese, or English, or German,
and certainly not Russian.  His posture was very good, as he stood
speaking into the receiver, showing that he had done his tour of
military duty--the army, Jack Rhyce guessed, rather than navy; and if
it was the army, he might have been in the fanatical wing that started
the war.  His face showed no passion or arrogance, but it was hard to
classify Japanese features.  When Mr. Moto gave the order, he asked for
bacon and eggs and coffee--not tea; and Jack Rhyce was certain he had
mentioned tea.  He could not suppress a quiet satisfaction as he sat
and listened to Mr. Moto's Japanese.  He felt rested, and Mr. Moto had
lost a trick in pronouncing the letter _l_.

"Everything will be right up," Mr. Moto said.  "Chop-chop, as they say
in China.  Ha-ha."

"That's mighty kind of you," Jack Rhyce said.  "This language barrier
is a pretty tough thing, isn't it?  Sit down, won't you please?  And I
do hope the food does come up chop-chop, as you say.  I could certainly
do with a cup of coffee."

You were bound to fall flat on your face at one time or another.  He
could have bitten off his tongue the moment he mentioned coffee, but
already it was too late.  There was nothing to do but go ahead, without
showing a trace of embarrassment.

"You know you've come at just the right time, Mr. Moto," he said.  "I'm
here to do a piece of work for an organization known as the Asia
Friendship League, something in the nature of a report, and the more I
think of it, the more sure I am that I'll need somebody like you to
show me around."

Mr. Moto's glance had turned toward the glasses on the table; Jack
Rhyce had a feeling that tension had relaxed when Mr. Moto saw them.
There might have been some truth in that phrase of Bill
Gibson's--safety in sex.  You could discount a good deal of potential
menace in a man if you saw a glass with lipstick smears in his bedroom.

"The Asia Friendship League," Mr. Moto said.  "How very, very nice.
The United States is such a kind nation, after the war, to do such nice
things for Japan.  The Asia Friendship League is known to me, and Mr.
Pender, its new head, is such a good, nice man."

"So you know Mr. Pender?" Jack Rhyce said.  "Well, that's fine.  I've
already had a warm and really constructive talk with him.  He's going
to show me around the shop tomorrow, and so I'm afraid I'll be pretty
much engaged tomorrow.  By the way, how about a little drink, Mr. Moto?
Oh-oh ... I've got to rinse the glasses."

"Oh, no," Mr. Moto said, "not for me.  But you--prease, you help
yourself."

Jack Rhyce took his flask from his open kit-bag and poured himself
another drink.

"I suppose the tap water's all right in Tokyo?" he asked.

"Oh, yes," Mr. Moto said.  "You see, the American Army has been here."

"Oh, yes," Jack Rhyce said.  "Well, as I was saying, I'm going to be
busy tomorrow, but Saturday and Sunday I shall need a little rest and
relaxation.  You know--maybe you've got a saying in Japan like ours in
the States--all work and no play makes Jack a dull boy?  And the nice
thing about that little maxim is, my first name happens to be Jack."

Jack Rhyce smiled fatuously and sipped his drink.  He was almost sure
that Mr. Moto was smiling sympathetically.

"There are lots of amusements in Tokyo and its vicinity," Mr. Moto
said.  "I would be so preased to show geisha girls or anything, Mr.
Rhyce."

Jack Rhyce laughed easily.

"That would be swell sometime later," he said.  "But this Saturday and
Sunday I was thinking of taking a spin into the country.  You see, I
was here in the Occupation for a day or two, and the army had taken
over a hotel up in the mountains.  I've got the name of the place
written down.  It's in Mio--Mio--"

"Oh," Mr. Moto said, "Miyanoshita.  Very nice."

Jack Rhyce took another sip from his drink, and gave Mr. Moto a
man-to-man look.

"Well, I thought if you could rent me a good car, and a driver, I might
go up there, and well--you know, take a girl along."

Mr. Moto nodded and tactfully drew in his breath.

"Oh, yes," he said.  "I can drive myself.  I can get a good car for
you, and very nice girl."

"That's it," Jack Rhyce said.  "That's the spirit, Mr. Moto.  I had a
hunch, right when I saw you at the airport, that you'd be broadminded.
A man has to have fun sometime, doesn't he?"

"Oh, yes," Mr. Moto said.  "Oh, yes.  If you wish, I can find four or
five girls and you can make a choice."

"Well, that's fine," Jack Rhyce said, "but you supply the car, and I'll
supply the young lady.  Be around here at nine o'clock on Saturday
morning."

"Oh, yes," Mr. Moto said, "and we can see Kamakura--many interesting
things.  The Daibutsu Buddha--very big and very old, and
Eno-shima--very rovery, very many things."

There was a knock on the door.  It was a waiter with bacon and eggs and
coffee.  Mr. Moto rose and bowed.  The bow was old-fashioned, belonging
more to the older than the newer generation.  "Nine, Saturday," he
said.  "Big, fine American car.  Everything first-crass.  You will be
satisfied, I am sure, and thank you very much.  Good night then, Mr.
Rhyce."

It had been a long while since Jack Rhyce had been so unsure of his
cover work.  He could not tell exactly what anything was about, except
that there had been that atmosphere of tenseness, and a combat of
minds.  That slip of his still worried him.  There was no need to
exaggerate its potential danger.  His expression must have disturbed
Ruth Bogart when he called her to come in.

"What went wrong?" she asked.  "You sounded so terrific, you almost
made me feel sick to my stomach."

Jack Rhyce pointed to the table and the tray.

"Sit down and eat it," he said.  "I'll order up some more from room
service."  He stopped and imitated Mr. Moto's voice.  "Everything is up
to date in the Imperiar Hote-ru."

"But what is worrying you?" she asked.

"The coffee," he answered, and he told her.

"Well, it's over now," she said.  "I didn't know you knew a word of
Japanese.  You said you'd hardly ever been in Japan."

There was nothing to do, and time stretched ahead of them
uninterruptedly until the next morning.  There was actually no reason
why he should not talk about himself, or why they should not be
reasonable human beings for a while.

"Frankly," he said, "I did live in Japan from the age zero to five.
Japanese servants are devoted to kids, and I was speaking the language
all the time.  My father was a missionary, and the moral of that story
is always to look out for missionaries' sons."

"You're too conscientious for me to have to look out for you," she
said.  "Why didn't you lose that Japanese when you went back to the
States?"

He had not talked about the outside to anyone for several years.  It
was an unfamiliar and rather agreeable experience, to be sitting there
in Tokyo, thinking of the outside.

"My father wanted me to keep it up," he said, "and he made me for quite
a while.  You see--don't laugh--he wanted me to be a missionary, too.
It's peculiar what parents want their children to be, isn't it?  The
language came right back to me in the war at language school."

He stopped and passed the flask to her.

"We may as well finish this," he said, "and you heard what our friend
told us--tap water's good in Tokyo.  And thanks for doing that about
the glasses.  Thanks a lot."

"Don't mention it," she said.  "You can't be a mastermind all the time,
you know.  Did he notice?"

"Oh, yes," he said, "he noticed.  You wait until you see more of him.
I'm afraid he's very smart."

"Afraid?" she repeated.

"That's right," he said.  "I don't know where he fits in--not to
mention this man Pender in the Chevrolet."  He had forgotten that she
did not know about Harry Pender.

"We're still in the clear with him, I think," he said, "or he wouldn't
have told about that U.S.O. singing caravan.  But we're running into
something."

Her manner changed as she listened.  All the outlines of her face had
hardened.  Her eyes were still very pretty, but they had hardened, too.

"Yes," she said, "we're walking into something, but let's not take it
too big, if you know what I mean."

"I wish I could place the Jap," he said.  "It's what I tell you.  I
can't make out where he fits."

"All right," she said.  "We'll find out.  We're walking into it, but
don't take it too big."

"There's the second time you've said that.  Just what do you mean?" he
asked.

She thought for a moment before she answered, and the hardness had not
left her face.

"I suppose I'll have to be personal," she said.  "We're teamed up on
this, and we've got to stick together, and you're running the show, of
course.  I don't know as much as you do, but I've seen enough to like
the way you work.  There's only one thing about you that makes me
nervous."

From the way that he reacted he knew that his nerves were still edgy,
and he found it difficult to keep annoyance out of his voice.

"I'm sorry if I make you nervous," he told her.  "Go ahead and tell me
why."

"Because, as I was saying, you're too damned conscientious, Jack," she
told him.  "You try to think of everything, and no one can.  Why not
try to just think of one or two things tonight, and put the rest out of
your head?  It will be back in the morning."

"All right," he said.  "Name the one or two things."

"Well, I'll name one," she answered.  "How about thinking about me for
a while?  I wish you wouldn't take me as another responsibility.  I'm
really not as bad as that.  Remember about the glasses?"

When she smiled at him his nerves were not on edge any longer.

"I mean," she said, "let's try to be friends as well as business
associates.  I think it would help the cover if we found out a little
more about each other--what we really are, I mean, and not what we're
pretending to be.  We can pick that up again tomorrow."

"That's true," he said.  "We don't know much about each other, do we?
And maybe you're right.  Maybe it wouldn't be a bad idea."

"Then go ahead and be yourself," she said.  "Say anything, but for
heaven's sake let's be ourselves.  For instance, say something about
Japan that isn't a free lecture.  Just go ahead and say something."

Her mood, it struck him, was the same as his had been before he had
fallen asleep.  He understood exactly what she meant, and it saddened
him that it was an effort to do what she asked.  Instinctive caution
was all around him.  He had been in the business too long.

"Well," he said, "I suppose childhood is an impressionable age.  Even
if you can't remember the details, they are all back in your mind
somewhere.  I haven't been back to Japan since I was five, except for a
few days in the Occupation, but it's all familiar.  I can feel at home
in it because I used to go to the mission school.  I used to play with
the gardener's boy."  He paused and cleared his throat.  "Is that the
conversational line you wanted?"

"Yes," she said, "it is, and it's the first time you've been natural
since I've seen you.  Now I know quite a lot about you, but you don't
know anything about me."

"No," he said, "but you don't have to tell me, Ruth."

"But aren't you curious about me?" she asked.  "Guess what I was
outside?  Aren't you curious enough to guess?"

He was surprised that she asked the question because girls in the
business seldom cared to talk about their pasts.  It was a safe bet
they all had them, and rather lurid ones, or they would not have been
in the business.  There was always some tragedy of love, or a broken
home, or some hate or some frustration that was requited by the
business.  As his glance met hers, and as she raised her eyebrows
slightly, he honestly preferred to take her as she was, without knowing
any more.

"Why, yes," he said, "I could make an educated guess about you, but I
don't know that you'd like it."

Her glance met his again, and then shifted.

"You're such a damn pro--aren't you?" she asked--"you know everything."

He was sorry to detect an undertone of antagonism in what she said.
Antagonism, or clash of personality, would seriously interfere with
their working smoothly together.  He knew that she must be tired by the
trip, and by Bill Gibson's hurried call, and by the Japanese; the
appearance of Mr. Pender in the dented Chevrolet did not help to soothe
one's nerves.  The truth was that neither of them did know anything
about the other, and in his opinion it was better that way, when
working with a woman in the business.  It was better to keep things on
an impersonal basis, if possible, and not to quarrel or be unkind; but
the strain of the day had told on him, too.  Otherwise, he would not
have been led further into the conversation.

"I'm sorry if I've displeased you," he said.  "I've got a lot on my
mind, you know.  Of course I don't know everything, but maybe I've been
around more than you have, and I've been acquainted with a lot of girls
in the business--some good and some not.  I know how they look and how
they act, and I've often had to check their backgrounds.  Naturally I
can make an educated guess about you.  Naturally I've made one to
myself already."

He was sorry to notice that her face had flushed.

"So you think I'm just another tramp," she said.  "Is that what you're
trying to tell me?"

"No," he said, "I'm not trying to tell you anything.  There's no cause
for you to lose your temper, Ruth."

"I'm not losing my temper," she answered.  He knew this was not true.
"But I do think if two people are going to work together they
understand each other better if they know something about each other,
and if they're friends and not acquaintances.  Suppose you tell me what
you think you know about me, and I'll tell you if you're right."

"Why don't we keep what we think about each other to ourselves?" he
said.  "It might save a lot of trouble, but if you want it your way,
I'll go along."

There was no use antagonizing her just when work was starting, but she
had challenged his professional pride.

"If you stay in this racket," he said, "as long as I've been in it,
you'll naturally learn to notice things about people, and not let them
get on your nerves.  You'll get further if you just sit quietly and
look.  All right, if you want the professor to give you an analysis--in
the first place, you're not in the tramp class, and you never will be.
You're too well bred.  You have too much background and character to be
a tramp."

"That's nice to know," she answered.  "Go ahead, what else?"

He was no longer reluctant to go ahead.  He had finally become
interested in his ideas.  If he had any gifts, his best had always been
analysis of people.

"Now most girls in your position," he said, "always tell the same
story.  All of them are always born of wealthy parents, usually living
on Southern plantations.  Then along came a business failure, or else
they married an undesirable man.  The undesirable man is usually
correct--but in your case the rest of it is true.  You come from an
excellent background.  You were brought up in a large American city,
but I can't tell which, from your accent.  Upper-class accents are
reasonably interchangeable."

"Go ahead," she said.  "What else?"

"You never spent all the year in the city."  He had forgotten Tokyo.
He was always interested in blocking out a character.  "You spent a lot
of your time, while you were growing up, in the country--a riding
country, but not the West.  You schooled and jumped horses once."

There was a flicker of interest in her glance.

"What made you make that guess?" she asked.

"Your posture," he said, "but mainly your hands.  You have beautiful
hands, but they are strong above the average.  They are riding hands."

"All right," she said.  "You hit that one.  Go ahead."

"All right," he said, "if you'll excuse my being personal.  One or two
things you said on this trip make me think you've been used to
attention, and expect a good deal from people.  You should, because
you're exceedingly good-looking."

"Why, thanks," she said.

"I'm a man," he answered.  "It's obvious; but I don't think I've been
influenced by it."

"And, believe me, I haven't tried to influence you," she said.  "And
don't worry.  I won't.  So you think I was spoiled, do you?  All right,
I was, by the family and the servants."

"I'd also guess that you're an only child," he said.  "That's only an
educated guess.  I'd say your father had great personal charm.
Drinkers do, and I'm afraid he was a drunk.  I've noticed how your
expression changes every time I pick up my glass.  You loved him and he
disappointed you--so you were disillusioned by the father image.  He
died, I imagine, while you were away at a fashionable boarding school.
Your mother married again, and you were on the loose with an
independent income--a bright, popular girl.  You went to college, and
I'll bet it was nearer to Bryn Mawr than Goucher.  You fell in love,
and the boy friend left you flat.  He wasn't killed in Korea or
anything.  He left you flat."

"What makes you say that?" she asked.

"From the way you act with a man," he said.  "You don't trust men.
Then you met the Chief.  The Chief's good at spotting material, and he
found that you were a natural at the business.  You were rattling
around loose, just the way I was when the Chief found me, and that's
about all."

When he had finished he knew he had been very close to being right,
from the cool suspicious way in which she looked at him.

"Just how did you happen to see my file?" she asked.  "I thought those
things were confidential."

He shook his head slowly.

"No file," he said.  "I've only found out about you by minding my own
business, watching you.  You asked for it."

She was looking at him with a new respect.  At least her antagonism had
gone.  Suddenly she smiled at him, and he knew that they were friends.

"You make me feel naked," she said, "or like the tattooed woman in the
circus.  I didn't know I had everything written on me in fine print.
Actually, in case you want to know, we owned a place in Virginia.  In
fact, I own it still."

"Now, listen," he said, "you don't have to tell me anything more about
yourself.  It doesn't help the general situation, and we shouldn't be
talking like this.  It's too dangerous, Ruth."

She shook her head in an exasperated way.

"You're always damn careful, aren't you?" she said.  "How do you
mean--too dangerous?"

"When you get talking this way you get interested," he said.  "It's
dangerous to get interested, or like anyone too much in the business,
Ruth.  You might have to ditch me, or I might have to ditch you
tomorrow.  You know that."

His hand rested on her shoulder, and she had not moved away, and he was
right that it was dangerous.

"Well, thank heaven you have a human side," she said.  "And I'm glad
we've talked this way, and to hell with the business until tomorrow."
She brushed his hand off and stood up.  "Look, we haven't had anything
to eat.  Call for a room waiter since everything's so modern at the
Imperial Hotel, and these eggs are cold, and everything.  And I have
another flask in my suitcase.  After all, you're supposed to be crazy
about me, Jack."

He was right that the whole thing was dangerous.  He knew all the rules
about women and emotional involvement.  He knew that he was at least
coming very close to breaking several of them, but he had never
realized that the prospect could be so pleasant.  For a moment or two,
at any rate, he felt he was himself again, exactly as he had been on
the outside.  It was a transient sensation, but at the same time, it
was a revelation, because he had never believed that clocks turned back.

"Let's save your flask for some other time," he said.  "I'm having a
good time without it.  In fact--"

He stopped because his training was back with him.

"In fact, what?" she asked.

That twinge of caution was gone when he looked at her.  He knew he was
saying what a great many others had said before him, and yet he did not
care.

"Maybe it won't hurt if we took a little time off," he said.




VIII

A great deal of the business was very dull, but that ensuing Friday was
one of the most irksome that Jack Rhyce could remember.  His hours with
the Asia Friendship League had a fatuous quality that demanded every
bit of his patience in order to fall into the mood of the dedicated
people in the Friendship office, and still not miss a trick.  He could
not tell, in the space of a day, exactly how dedicated all of them
were.  He could get only a general picture in his mind, yet he was
reasonably sure that most of them had honest intentions and felt that
they were engaged in a great work.  His thoughts went back a dozen
times that day to the briefing the Chief had given him in Washington,
on the great American strength and weakness--the persistent belief that
good will and good fellowship could conquer everything.

He wished that he could make up his mind as to whether or not Mr. Harry
Pender honestly shared this viewpoint, but he had to set down the whole
Pender problem as unfinished business.  Mr. Pender made himself so
hospitable and charming that no time was left for analysis.  Besides,
it was a time to be very, very careful, until he had told Bill Gibson
his ideas.  It was a time to be nave and to convey emphatically the
utter harmlessness of himself and Ruth Bogart.  It was a time to be
enthusiastic but dumb, in an openhanded way.  It was also a time to
show by a series of skillful shadings a picture of growing attachment
between himself and Miss Bogart--one of those half-furtive,
half-fleeting romances between two well-meaning people that burgeoned
more rapidly in the Orient than anywhere else.  All these details had
kept Jack Rhyce very busy.

"Of course this is only a very quick fill-in," Mr. Pender kept saying.
"You can't really start getting your teeth into anything until Monday,
Jack."

Inevitably they had reached a first-name basis in a very few minutes.

"I can't wait to get the bit in my teeth, Harry," Jack Rhyce said, "and
possibly to be of some help with the wonderful things you are doing
here.  I had no idea that you had such an inspiring picture to show me,
or such lovely and artistic offices."

"You just wait," Harry Pender said.  "These are only temporary
quarters."

Temporary or not, the Asia Friendship League occupied, already, half
the floor of a postwar office building in the neighborhood of the
Ginza.  Mr. Pender, as the head of the Japan branch, had a truly
beautiful office looking over a large section of the city, furnished
with new Japanese furniture that had been adapted to the European
fashion.  The furniture had been designed right in the Friendship
League; desks, chairs, coffee tables and everything were made by
Japanese craftsmen, with authentic Japanese spirit, but also were
suited to both Easterners and Westerners.  A lot of leading Japanese
artists and merchants had been consulted, and had been generous with
their help, Mr. Pender explained, and the result had surely been worth
the hours of conferences.  All you had to do was to look at the lovely
Oriental woods, turned out along chaste, modernistic lines, to realize
that here the Friendship League had made an important good-will
contribution.  Its furniture was already on display in a number of
Tokyo department stores; several exporters were expressing practical
interest.  In fact, it might very well start a new vogue, Mr. Pender
said, and this was just a small example of what the Asia Friendship
League was up to.  The League's motto might in one word be termed
Interest.  Mr. Pender did not mean financial interest, but an honest
interest in the other fellow out here in the East.  Well, this interest
was now flowing in all sorts of directions.  There was a group in the
office, for example, studying the new Japanese films.  Then there was
the sports group.  And this afternoon, as Mr. Pender had said, there
would be a panel discussion on writing in the conference auditorium.
One of the Foundation's own girls, Miss Kettlebark, was going to
deliver a lecture to some young Japanese writers on the American novel.
It was amazing, Mr. Pender said, how eager these intellectuals were for
American culture.  Just wait--the auditorium hall would be filled half
an hour before the lecture started.

There was not really time, Mr. Pender said, to give a full run-over of
all the projects, but there was one which was a particular pet of
his--the Friendly Pen Pals.  Up to this point Jack Rhyce had listened
brightly, but now his interest quickened.

"What's that again, Harry?" he asked.

"Well, it's an idea that is purely my own," Mr. Pender said, "and I
hope you'll play it up big in your report, Jack.  You've heard of Pen
Pals in the States and Europe?  Well, it just came over me--why not do
it here?  Why not get a lot of these Japanese kids in school and the
universities to swap ideas and news with their own age groups back
home?  It would seem to me to be the very essence of the cultural
interchange we're looking for, and it's working already.  You'd be
surprised."

Mr. Harry Pender was watching him expectantly when he finished,
seemingly waiting for pleased surprise as the idea dawned, and Jack
Rhyce nodded slowly.  He was beginning to wonder how he had overlooked
Mr. Pender in his research back in the states.  The data might be in
his notes at the hotel, but he could not remember the name or
description, and he could not see how the Chief had overlooked him
either.  The idea of Pen Pals was original, and could form the basis of
an excellent message center.

"There's only one thing I don't get," Jack Rhyce said.  "I don't
exactly see how they write to each other without a common language."

"That's right, Jack.  That's the difficulty," Mr. Pender said.  "I
began playing around with that problem just as soon as I took over the
center here, and then it came over me, just a week or two ago--why not
set up a translation post right here in the League--just an informal
unscrambling of the Tower of Babel, and translate the kids' letters?
It's not so tough as you'd think.  You'd be surprised at the number of
Japanese around who can read or write English--and there's unemployment
for a lot of intelligentsia.  The translation center kills two birds
with one stone.  We have two big rooms now.  Would you like to see
them?"

Mr. Pender pushed back his chair, but Jack Rhyce shook his head.  It
was better not to be overcurious, and besides, Bill Gibson knew the
ground.  Bill could never have missed the Friendship League for a
moment, or this new man who was running it, and Bill would give the
orders.

"Thanks, Harry," Jack Rhyce said.  "I would be fascinated to see this
project next week because I can begin to see already what a real
thought there is behind it.  But right now, how about some more on the
organization's setup, before I go after the details?"

Mr. Pender nodded.  "I think you're very wise, Jack," he said.  "Take
the whole thing slowly.  You'll be able to get your teeth into
everything beginning Monday.  Of course, our basic trouble as I see it
is getting personnel out here who are imbued with the right ideas in
the social sense..."

Harry Pender was a good, fast talker when he discussed the problem of
personnel.  As Jack Rhyce listened, occasionally nodding in agreement
when a cogent point was made, he constantly made mental notes of Mr.
Pender's facial expressions and mannerisms.  The type was familiar, the
intellectual, professorial features, the pale skin, the brown eyes, the
receding hair line.  There was a fine photographic collection back in
Washington of all known people in the business, and Jack Rhyce racked
his memory for photographs of the Pender type, but he could make no
identification.  The trouble with the business recently was that new
faces and new talents were continually appearing, and the photograph
files were getting a year or two behind the contemporary parade.

He glanced across the office at Ruth Bogart.

"You're getting full notes on this, aren't you, Ruth?" he asked.

"Oh, yes," she said.  "It's very fascinating, Mr. Pender."

His one anxiety was not to make a mistake, which might disturb the
picture.  That was one of the hardest things to learn--to keep things
quiet.


It was late in the afternoon when entirely by accident Jack Rhyce
picked up another piece of information that interested him.  They had
made a tour of the offices while Mr. Pender poured forth facts.  The
man, Jack Rhyce was thinking, must have been at some time the recipient
of a Ph.D. degree, and he must have worked as an instructor, presumably
in sociology in some college in the States; there was a depth and charm
to his voice that fitted well with the U.S.O. Song Caravan.

"You see," Mr. Pender was saying, "this job here is a real challenge to
me, Jack.  I don't know why Chas. Harrington thought I was suitable for
it.  There I was, just running our settlement house at Pnompenh not six
weeks ago--and along came the news that the League board had selected
me for Tokyo.  It's a big jump from a little settlement house in a
one-horse town to a place like this."

"Pnompenh," Jack Rhyce said slowly.  "I don't think I've ever heard of
Pnompenh."

It was not true, what he had said, but this was not a time to be bright.

"I don't blame you," Mr. Pender said.  "It's in Cambodia, and not many
people get there now; but the Cambodians are very lovable people."

It was also an excellent place from which to communicate with China,
but it was never wise to appear too interested.  Jack Rhyce glanced
unobtrusively at his wrist watch.

"This has been a very full and fascinating day, Harry," he said, "and I
can't be too grateful to you for giving us all this time.  But now
maybe Ruth and I had better leave you and call things off until Monday,
or else we'll lose perspective.  We can get a taxi, can't we?"

"Oh, don't do that," Mr. Pender said.  "Why don't we all go to a real
Japanese restaurant for supper, and see night life in Tokyo?"

Jack Rhyce glanced at Ruth Bogart and shook his head.

"Let's make it sometime next week," he said.  "I think Ruth's still
tired from the trip.  Aren't you, Ruth?"

"Well, yes," she said.  "I am a little, Jack."

"I'll just take her for a walk along the Ginza," Jack Rhyce said.  "I
can find my way all right, thanks, Harry.  I'm curious to see the
Ginza.  It was quite a shambles back in '47."

Mr. Pender smiled at them as they moved toward his office door.

"You won't recognize it now," he said.  "It's everything it used to be,
and more so.  Well--" his smile grew broader and more tolerant--"have
fun, kids, but come back to school on Monday."


The offices of the Friendship League had been air-conditioned, so that
the heat on the street outside made one catch one's breath.

"That office and that damned Aloha shirt," she said.

"It was a fresh one since yesterday," he told her.  "The fish were red
yesterday.  They were blue today.  Did you notice?"

"Oh, yes," she said.  "I'm a dumb girl, but I noticed quite a lot
besides the fish."

"How much else?" he asked.

"Enough to know we'd better be careful," she told him.

"That's why we're walking down the Ginza," he said.  "If anyone's
tailing us ... I agree, we'll have to be damn careful."


Every large city in the world was bound to have a characteristic street
or square, and Jack Rhyce had seen enough of these to make intelligent
comparisons.  It seemed to him that the Ginza was the most vital of
them all; it best expressed the _Geist_--he had to use a German
word--of the people who had made it, although it was not a beautiful
street, any more than Broadway was beautiful.  The only civic
decoration connected with it were the willows on either side of the
thoroughfare that were peculiar to the Ginza district.  He did not know
what they symbolized.  Perhaps they were supposed to illustrate the old
saying of the supple tree bending before the wind, and perhaps they
delivered a quiet, reassuring message of patience and of waiting to the
crowds that thronged past them.  It was a tawdry street, but very gay,
with all the resilience and adaptability of its sidewalk trees.  There
were huge department stores, and smaller shops filled with garish,
highly colored Japanese goods.  There were motion picture houses
displaying the latest Hollywood films as well as Japanese-made
pictures.  There were beer halls, cabarets and billboards, jewelry and
cultured pearls.  There was something for everyone on the Ginza.
Though many of its shops had the impermanent construction which he
associated with a Western mining town, the whole combination was a
tribute to the indomitable spirit of a people anxious to be in the
front rank of what was perhaps erroneously known as progress.  The
startling vigor of Japan was reflected in the burgeoning of
manufactured articles that ran from celluloid and plastic toys up to
vacuum cleaners and electric refrigerators.  And where was Japan going
to sell this glittering and sometimes meretricious output?  This was
one of the world's new, restive questions, and the world's future might
be hanging on the answer.  The motion picture houses, the beer halls
and the cabarets with their beckoning invitations in English also
showed the versatility of Japan.  It was too early for the neon signs,
but once they were turned on, the Ginza would be another Broadway, a
center of national aspirations.  Actually it was more significant than
New York's Broadway of the present, because Broadway was tired,
worldly-wise and cynical, whereas the Ginza was full of a nave,
unfaltering hope.  Now and then you could believe that you were on
Broadway except for the Japanese features and the voices speaking a
strange tongue, and the Japanese characters above the shops.

"It's a little spooky here, isn't it?" Ruth Bogart said.

"How do you mean?" he asked.  "There aren't spooks around at four in
the afternoon."

"I mean, it's half home, and half not," Ruth Bogart said.  "I wonder
whether the Japanese feel any more at home here than we do."

It was one of those interesting thoughts that could never be answered,
and it showed that she was not anybody's fool.  The truth was, he was
thinking, he was growing too interested in her reactions, but it was
pleasant to turn his attention to her after a difficult day.

"The beer halls are air-conditioned," he said.  "Would you like to go
in and have some beer and listen to some jazz?"

"No, thanks," she answered.  "Let's walk.  It's hot as hell, but I like
to see the show.  It isn't like Piccadilly, is it?"

"No," he said, "it isn't like anywhere else.  Would you like some raw
fish and rice?  There must be some good _suchi_ places down the side
streets."

"Not raw fish," she said, "and don't try to be an informative guide
using words for local color.  To hell with the _suchi_ places.  Let's
just walk along."

"I could show you quite a lot if I wanted to use the language," he said.

"I'd say we're seeing enough the way it is," she said.  "I wouldn't say
we had a tail on us.  Would you?"

"No," he said.  "I wouldn't.  Between us we should have spotted one by
now."

She smiled at him, and he smiled back because he shared her temporary
relief.

"Then let's go back to the hotel and have a drink in the bar," she
said.  "And you can make eyes at me in front of the bar boys and the
barflies, just to build the cover, darling--just to build the cover.
They have an air-conditioned bar at the hotel.  Did you know it?"

"We'll go there pretty soon," he said, "but there's one place I'd like
to take you first.  It's quite a distance, but we can get a taxi."

"Oh, no," she said, "not any more sights today.  I never did like
sights."

"It won't take long," he told her, "and perhaps we can pick up some
ideas."

Along the Ginza it was simple enough to find a taxi driver who could
speak a little English.

"Street with all the bookstores," Jack Rhyce said.  He took a paper
from his pocket and pretended to read the name of the district from it,
with a clumsy pronunciation.

"Bookstores?" she said, as soon as the cab had started on its way.
"For heaven's sake, why bookstores?"

"You'll be surprised," he said, "at how many people are reading in
Japan."

There were districts in every city where dealers in new and secondhand
books congregated, but few were larger than the book street in Tokyo.
The bookshops extended for block after block, and, like the Ginza, they
offered a little bit of everything.  The wide-open doorways leading to
the brightly lighted interiors displayed stacks of new paper-backed
editions, translations from all over the world, the classical
literature of Japan, and current fiction.  Also older works were
displayed in the show windows--books of art, court ceremonial and
religious writings--but the books in English were more provocative than
any.  There was, for instance, in one shop window, a handsome set of
leather volumes on the birds of northern Britain, published some years
before Perry had anchored off Japan; an early set of the Waverley
novels; a handsome edition of Emerson's essays; a book on navigation

dated 1810; and _The Parent's Assistant_ by Maria Edgeworth.  These
timeworn volumes each had its untold and unknown story of its ending in
an Oriental bookstall.  You could not help wondering who had first
brought them to Japan.  Had they been owned once by someone in the
British Embassy, or by an American missionary, or had they come from
the library of a once rich Japanese, impoverished by the war?  No one
would ever know the answer any more than one could guess who would
eventually read them.  The past, the present and the future were all
implicit in the bookstores.

Most of them were filled with customers, many of whom were reading as
much of a volume as possible in the hope of getting the gist of it
before they had to buy, but no one disturbed these furtive readers.  No
one interrupted Ruth Bogart or Jack Rhyce either, as they moved from
shop to shop.  The displays of periodicals were what interested him
most, particularly the large numbers that dealt with Russia and Red
China.  These--some in Russian, some in English, some in Japanese--were
crude but effective projections of American formats.  Except for some
scurrilous pictures of Uncle Sam and heavily armed gentlemen with
dollar signs on their waistcoats who whipped starving workers into
factories, everyone was happy in the pictures.  Fat Chinese peasants
were smilingly learning to read.  Farmers were proudly operating
tractors.  Soldiers carrying the Freedom Flag of the Hammer and Sickle
gave candy to little children.

"You see," he said, "how it rounds out the picture of the day?"

"Yes, naturally I see," she said, taking his arm and pressing it
urgently.  "But let's go.  We shouldn't have come here."

"Why not?" he asked her.  "What's the hurry?"

"Buy some cheap American magazine," she said, "and get out of here."

He did not ask her again what the matter was until they stood on the
curb waving to a taxi.

"We're in the clear," he said.  "There was nothing queer in any of
those shops."

She shook her head impatiently.

"No," she said, "but we are.  We were the only foreigners and everyone
remembers foreigners.  Where would you keep a lookout for new
operators?  Put yourself in their position, Jack."

He felt deeply mortified that he had not thought of her point himself.
Too many small mistakes too often added up to something fatal, and
there was no way of knowing how great a margin of error they possessed.
A taxi had halted.

"There are some people looking at us," she said.

"What sort?" he asked.

"I don't know," she answered.  "Little men."

"But, darling," he said, and he laughed loudly.  Then he put his arm
through hers and took her hand.  At least he could leave the impression
of love and dalliance if anyone was watching.  "This country is full of
little men.  Insufficient food in infancy--and the large intestine of a
Japanese is two feet longer than that of his opposite number in Europe.
Did you know that?"

"No," she said.  "How fascinating!"  But she leaned against him and
laughed up at him applaudingly.

When they were in the taxicab he put his arm around her.  As Bill
Gibson had said, there was safety in sex.  They had only been two
people in love looking for a copy of _Hollywood True Romances_.

"Oh, Jack," she said, and she giggled.

The taxi driver, if anyone asked him, would remember.

"Honey," he said, "I'll get you a nice cool drink in that nice cool
bar.  Frankly, I can't wait."

But she had been right.  He had been a fool to be examining Red
literature in Tokyo.

The bar of the Imperial Hotel was aggressively modern and so
over-air-conditioned that Jack Rhyce felt for a moment that they were
locked inside a refrigerator.  They sat next to a sealed plate-glass
window that looked out on a small Japanese garden containing a marble
bust of an elderly man in the top half of a frock coat.  Nearly all the
tables were filled, some with prosperous Japanese businessmen, but most
with rather weary-looking Europeans who appeared as peculiarly assorted
as the English books they had seen exposed for sale.  People were
looking at them with the friendly curiosity with which foreigners in
the Orient regard new strangers.  There was nothing professional about
anyone there, nothing technically disturbing.  It was becoming easier
and easier to appear conspicuously interested in Ruth Bogart.

"What would you like, sweet?" he asked, when the bar boy came to the
table.

"Scotch on the rocks, darling," she said.

They gazed at each other fatuously for a while after the bar boy left,
and then they both began to laugh, and it was the first time in several
weeks that he had been genuinely amused.

"Did you know, sweet," he said, "that rats are very adaptable
creatures?"

"Why no, darling," she answered, "but what makes you think of rats?"

"The extreme coldness of this room," he said.  "Once when I was
crossing the ocean, the ship's captain asked me to a cocktail party.
Have you ever been to a ship's captain's cocktail party?"

"Yes, darling," she said.  "That's one reason why I travel by air."

"Well, this was a very nice ship's captain," Jack Rhyce said, "and he
told an anecdote about a rat.  It seems that this rat was locked up by
mistake in the ship's refrigerator.  He stayed there for four weeks and
he didn't freeze to death.  When they caught him he had a coat as heavy
as mink.  That's why I say rats are adaptable."

"Is there any moral to that story?" she asked.

"No," he said, "no.  It's just an off-the-record story."

"Well," she said, "it's the first off-the-record story you've ever told
to date."

"Yes," he said, "that's so.  I'm afraid you're a bad influence on me."

"I hope I am," she said.  "I really do, and I hope you'll tell some
more."

He realized that he was happy, and happiness was such a rare sensation
that he was suspicious of it, but the more he examined his mood, the
more certain he was that it was genuine.  He could discover no
particular reason for it, and he did not particularly care.  He only
knew that it was something that made the whole day worth while.

"You know," he said, "I think you're a pretty clever girl."

"Why, thanks a lot," she said.  "Coming from you, I must be."

The mood had not left him yet.  He could even enjoy looking at the bust
of the old man in the garden.

"In fact, maybe you are smarter than I am," he said.  "You were right
about those bookstores."

"I like to have you wrong sometimes," she said.  "It shows that maybe
you are human."

"Why, thanks a lot," he said, "but believe me, it's better not to be."

She smiled at him, ironically, but very pleasantly.

"You remind me of a poem of Whittier's," she said.

"What poem?" he asked.

"About the boy and the girl at the schoolhouse," she said.  "'_I'm
sorry that I spelt the word: I hate to go above you, because,'--the
brown eyes lower fell,--'Because, you see, I love you!_'"

"Yes," he said, "but I don't like what comes later.  _Dear girl! the
grasses on her grave Have forty years been growing_."

"I don't like that either," she said, "and I wish you hadn't brought it
up."

But even so, nothing changed his mood.

"You know," he said, "I don't see why we shouldn't have a nice time
going there tomorrow."

When she smiled at him again, it was exactly as though they were on the
outside.

"Please," she said, "please let's, Jack."




IX

Jack Rhyce glanced at his wrist watch as they stood beneath the
porte-cochere of the Imperial Hotel.  The time was 9:05 exactly.  They
had brought box luncheons, and they could make a leisurely trip,
spending the whole day if they liked.  Mr. Moto had done very well with
the car.  It was a vintage Buick limousine, with the chauffeur's seat
separated by glass from the owner's.

"Thirty thousand yen to keep for week end," Mr. Moto said.  "Me,
automobile, and glass for privacy, everything.  It is not too
expensive, I hope."

"Oh, no," Jack Rhyce said, "not for this once.  Everything's just
swell, and here are some yens on account--just so you'll know I've got
them, Mr. Moto."

He laughed heartily, and Mr. Moto laughed back.  There was one good
thing about the business.  Money was never an obstacle, and nobody
audited expense accounts if you happened to get home.  Their suitcases
were locked in the trunk behind.  Everything was ready.

"All right," he said, "let's go"--and he smiled at Ruth Bogart
affectionately for the benefit of the doorman.  "That is, if you've
remembered everything, sweet?"

"Silly," she said.  "Of course I've remembered everything."

The mood of the afternoon before was still with him, and he felt no
sensation of tenseness or discomfort.  He was sure that they were not
being patched or followed, and that they were still in the clear.

"By the way," he said, rolling down the glass partition, "we might stop
for a few minutes at the Memorial Temple--the one for the soldiers, I
mean.  Miss Bogart might like to see it."

She looked at him questioningly, but he was sure that he was right
about the temple.  His asking to go there established them as

sightseers, and for some reason the Japanese felt no resentment at
Americans visiting the shrine of their war dead.  The pine-shaded area
of the temple's grounds stood in one of Tokyo's heavily populated
districts, making a sharp contrast with the surging traffic on the
street outside.

"Wait, please," Jack Rhyce said to Mr. Moto.  "We won't be long"--and
Mr. Moto smiled.

In plan, the temple was typical of all the shrines of Japan dedicated
to the Shinto sect, which was more of a national loyalty than a
religion.  The arched stone-lined causeway leading to the red-lacquer
pavilions, and also the smaller paths that diverged beneath the dark
pines, had undoubtedly been adapted, like so much Japanese culture,
from early Chinese religious structures; but time had added dignity to
this adaptation until Japanese shrines possessed an austere beauty
entirely their own.  There was a Spartan simplicity in the repression
of design, as well as in the repression of the people, mostly elderly,
who moved about the grounds, stopping now and then before a pavilion,
clapping their hands and bowing their heads in prayer.  The ashes of
soldiers who had died for the Emperor were preserved there, and where
there were not ashes there were names.

"I come here," he said, "because I'm responsible for several of these
names."

There was no necessity, he realized, to have given her this explanation.

"How many?" she asked.

"I don't know," he answered.  "Twenty--thirty.  More, perhaps.  You
can't always tell everything that a machine gun or a hand grenade does.
And you see, most of them preferred to die."

They walked back to the car in silence, and he hoped he had taught her
something about Japan that was both important and unfathomable.  It was
hard to realize that all the city streets had been torn by war, and
that every person walking on them had lost some near relation, because
the signs of war had almost disappeared, both from Tokyo and the faces
of its people.  It was valuable to understand that nothing was
forgotten.

Even during the journey, Jack Rhyce knew that he would never forget the
motor ride to Myanoshita.  It was one of those unrelated lapses that
come into one's life when least expected, a sudden unalloyed period of
beauty that became something more than memory.  It was dangerous to
feel as he was beginning to about the girl in the car beside him, but
as he looked back over that long day he could not experience a single
qualm of regret.  Actually there had been no need for any, because
there was nothing that he or she could have done about anything until
they made contact with Bill Gibson at the hotel that night.  There was
no necessity to think or plan, and no immediate harm in being beguiled;
and besides, all they did was part of the cover.

It was part of the cover to be conscious of her nearness and to hope
that the car would soon take another curve so that she would lean
against him.  It was as though they were both on the outside, that day,
and it was more of a fact than an illusion.  It was a part of his
business to know perfumes.  The first instant he had met her he knew
that she used Guerlain's and he had identified the variety, but there
was nothing technical about the Guerlain any longer.  He had
immediately recognized her as beautiful, but now everything about her
was subjective, not objective any longer, just as it might have been on
the outside.  The way a draft of air blew a wisp of hair across her
forehead was beautiful, and so was the austere perfection of her
profile when softened by a smile, and so were the quick gestures of her
strong but delicate hands.  A pair of white gloves lay across her lap,
but she did not wear them, and she wore no rings, no jewelry at all
except a plain gold clip.

"It's just as though we were on the outside," he said.

"Yes," she answered, "and please let's keep it that way."  And she did
not move away when he took her hand.

In a way that ride to Myanoshita had everything.  Later he could unroll
it in his memory as one did a Chinese scroll painting, which should be
seen in parts and never all at once.


Their ride took them past the area of heavy industry that surrounded
Yokohama, then along the sea and finally into the country.  Except for
the heavy traffic on the roads, the disruptions of the machine age were
gone once they reached the country.  The thatched farmhouses, the
jade-green of the rice plants reflected in the shallow water of the
checkerboard squares of the paddies, the bamboo windbreaks, the farmers
in their huge straw hats meticulously tending each rice shoot, the
jagged mountains in the background were part of an eternal picture of a
way of life that could survive all change.  Yes, the ride had
everything.  There was the immense Daibutsu Buddha and the island
Eno-shima, with its crowded inns and its shops of seashell ornaments,
the scene of the most masterly satire yet written on Japan, The
Honorable Picnic.  This was a book which had been banned before the
war, but was now on sale everywhere.  Had the war taught the Japanese
to laugh at themselves?  Like all those questions, there was no
definite answer, except that the humor of Japan was as detailed and
specialized as its ornamental ivories.

Nothing that Ruth Bogart said or did was discordant.  She had great
adaptability, but Jack Rhyce was also sure that they both honestly
liked the same things and were impressed by the same details.  There
were two incidents that day that were more vivid than the rest.  The
first was the sight of two wounded soldiers, on the path leading to one
of the shrines at Kamakura.  Each had an artificial hand, and each an
artificial leg.  They were dressed in well-washed khaki without
insignia.  When he stopped and gave them a fifty-yen note, they came to
attention and saluted, and he had returned their salute before he
recollected that he was in civilian clothes.  They had spotted him as a
soldier, too, and for a second all three of them must have been moving
into the past.  Now that the war was over, there was a lack of
resentment impossible for a Westerner to understand.

Then there was the fortuneteller who had his concession just beyond the
alms-seeking soldiers, an emaciated elderly man who smiled and beckoned
the moment Jack Rhyce and Ruth Bogart betrayed interest.  On a stand
near him was a miniature red-lacquer temple with three small
black-and-yellow birds perched in front of it--goldfinches, Jack Rhyce
believed.  He had never been good about birds.  But, going back to his
early childhood, he remembered tame birds looking just like them that
would sing and fly and return to their cage at a whistle.  The
fortune-teller was clearly used to Americans, because he whipped out
from his pocket a typewritten explanation.

"Give any bird a fifty-yen folded note," Jack read.  "Bird will drop it
in the cash box, fly to temple door, ring bell, enter temple, get
fortune on folded paper and bring back same."

"It might be worth fifty yen," Jack said.

"Yes," she said, "but let me pay for it.  I want it to be my fortune."
She handed the old man a folded note.  He held it in front of one of
the birds, and just as the explanation said, the bird took it in its
beak and dropped it in a tiny money chest.

"Come on, Joe," the old man chanted, "come on Chollie, go on Joe."

The birds and their owner repeated a pattern that Jack Rhyce had seen
in nearly every city in the world.  That act of fortune-telling must
have dated back to temple necromancy, but here the words were new.
They had an unfamiliar ring beneath the hot Japanese sky, telling their
tale of lonely American soldiers on leave, back at home now, or dead
perhaps in Korea.

"Come on Chollie; come on Joe."

The tiny black and yellow bird cocked its head and its beady eye was
remarkably intelligent.  It fluttered from its perch to a tiny ladder
that led to the temple porch.  It pushed a small bell smartly with its
beak, and the bell tinkled with a miniature clarity that completely
rounded out the illusion.  Then the bird disappeared inside the toy
temple and emerged carrying a folded bit of paper.

Then the bird fluttered back to its perch, and Ruth Bogart took the
paper from its beak.

"Don't be afraid to read it," Jack Rhyce said.  "They only have good
fortunes here."

He had meant to speak lightly, but he was disturbed by her intent look.

"Yes, I know it's rigged," she said, "but I want it to be true."

The strip of paper resembled one of those fortunes that one used to
find as a child inside a snapper at a birthday party.  She glanced at
the words and handed it to him.

"Once you were unhappy," he read, "but you are very happy now."

"That's true, you know," she said.  "Absolutely true."

"Well," he told her, "you wanted it to be."

"I don't have to want it.  It's here," she said.  "And you're happy
too, aren't you?  I mean for just now?"

"Oh, yes," he said, "I'm happy."

She laughed.  She was watching the outlines of the rock pines against
the cloudless sky.

"I was afraid you were going to say you were too happy," she said.  "I
love it when you're not careful, and you haven't been all day."

"If you want to know," he told her, "it's pleasant for a change."

"There's only one catch about it," she said.  "It says I'm happy now
but it doesn't say how long, and I want it to be long-term.  Would you
like it long-term?"

She had said she liked it when he was not too careful--and he was not
careful then.  With her standing close beside him in that place, so far
removed from anything that was familiar to either of them, it would
have been impossible for him to measure everything he said, and he
would have hated himself afterwards if he had done so.

"Yes," he said.  "You couldn't possibly know how much I want it that
way."

That was all that either of them said, and it was all that was
necessary.  They both knew that the moment would be transient, but a
weight was lifted from him.  He felt a grateful relief that he was
alive, but this relief had nothing to do with any of the cruder
gratitudes for survival that he had experienced more recently.  As it
happened, neither of them had time to embroider on what they had said,
because he heard a footstep behind them before she did, and he was back
from the outside to the inside, turning slowly and accurately on his
heel.  Nothing was ever gained by appearing startled or suspicious.

He did not know that Mr. Moto had followed them until then, nor was
there any sure way of telling how long Mr. Moto had been behind them or
what he might have heard--not that what they might have said would have
affected any situation.  There was nothing harder, Jack Rhyce was
thinking, than to tread softly on a graveled walk, and only that single
footstep had attracted his attention.

"Oh, hello," Jack Rhyce said.  "Have we been staying here too long?"

"Oh, no," Mr. Moto said, "but there is still a great distance to go,
and many things to see."

"All right," Jack said.  He put a slight edge to his words because he
wanted to make it clear that he had not approved of that gentle
approach.  "Go on back to the car.  We'll be with you in a minute."
When Mr. Moto moved away, Jack Rhyce waited deliberately until the
purple suit and tan shoes were a hundred yards in front of them.

"Have you noticed one queer thing about him today?" Ruth Bogart asked.

"I've noticed several," Jack Rhyce said.  "Which one did you notice?"

"He said he was a guide," she said, "but all day long he hasn't tried
to explain one single thing to us.  Did you ever see a guide like that?"

"That's right," he said, "but he's an A-1 driver.  He has to be, with
all the crazy driving on these roads."

It was one of the few moments when they were both inside that day.

"You're right about his being in the business," she said.

"He was once, anyway," he answered.

"Do you think he knows what we are?" she asked.

"Let's not worry right now," he said.  "We'll know better when we see
Bill tonight.  Let's still try to be happy.  I enjoy making the effort,
as long as you do, too."


They had been in no hurry, and there were long cool shadows across the
road as they began to climb into the hills.  The trees of the carefully
tended forests that had replaced the rice farms in the landscape were
the ginkgo, the feathery cryptomeria, trees that looked out of place
when in a Western land, but fitted perfectly into the Japanese
landscape.  They would be at the hotel at half-past five or six.

There were hot springs at the hotel, and a swimming pool, he told her.
The rooms were very comfortable, and the food and service were very
good.

"But I'd rather stay at a Japanese inn," he said.  "I'll take you to
one sometime."

"I'd like it," she said, but he knew she was thinking of something
else.  "Jack?"

"Yes," he said.

"Jack, will you promise me something?"

"Promise what?" he asked.

"Don't be so cagey," she said.  "If we get out of this, let's try to
live on the outside.  And promise me you'll get out of the business if
I don't come back."

"Listen," he said, "have you got a hunch about something, Ruth?"

"No," she said, "no.  But I'd like to have you promise before it gets
you, Jack."

"Let's talk about it later," he said, "but I'm glad you like me that
much."

"Yes, I like you that much," she said.

It must have been at that moment that the peacefulness of the day
ended.  It was time to drop a curtain on the day and think about the
evening, and it was time to heed the warning of common sense.  He
looked through the plate glass at the back of Mr. Moto's head.  The
man's age, he was thinking again, was about fifty, but his reflexes
were still excellent, and his driving on the switch-back turns of the
mountainous road superb.  Actually Jack Rhyce had not bothered to see
whether the car was wired for sound, because nothing they had said was
of any importance except those last speeches, but even a microphone
would hardly have carried above the outside noises of the traffic on
the heavily traveled road.  He heard her laugh beside him.

"Don't worry," she said.  "The car's all clean."

If she said so, she was correct, and it was not necessary to ask how
she knew, or how she had made the opportunity to find out.




X

The town was on a slope of the winding road that led to Lake Hakone
and, farther, toward the sacred Mount Fuji.  The hot springs and the
scenery had made it a resort for a great many years, patronized by the
old nobility and wealthy people from Tokyo, many of whom had owned
houses there; and the Japanese inns were excellent.  The hotel to which
they drove had been designed as a concession to European tastes, long
before the war; time, plus the imagination of its proprietors, had
given it an exotic Eurasian charm.  Its grounds on the mountain slope
were watered by rills from natural springs that made a continued merry
sound of running water.  The season was too late for the azaleas and
some of the exotic blooms, but the hotel gardens were still very
beautiful.  The Japanese had ancient ways with plants and flowers which
were different from those of other gardeners.  They lavished a watchful
care and patience on every shrub and even on the surrounding trees, so
that everything, even if seemingly wild, was actually in order, even
down to the arrangements of wind- and waterworn rocks.

The spirit conveyed by the hotel was agreeable.  It had frankly been
designed as a place for a happy holiday, and it had brought peace and
happiness to many travelers.  There were highly European swimming pools
and tennis courts, but the public rooms, stiff with formal furniture,
reminded him that even the most adaptable Japanese had trouble in
selecting suitable assortments of Western chairs, tables and carpets.
Yet in spite of a cleavage in taste that was hard to bridge, on the
whole the hotel had succeeded; the reason for its success might have
been its rambling informality, growing from a profusion of halls,
staircases, outside galleries and connecting ells that had happy names
in English with an Oriental lilt--Plum Blossom Cottage, Cozy Nook, The
Peach Bloom.

Due to the crowded week end, the parking spaces along the driveway were
already filled with the cars of United States naval and air force
personnel, and bellboys clad in white ducks were very busy with the
luggage.  The day was still warm but the air was cooler and fresher
than it had been in Tokyo.  Mr. Moto was speaking authoritatively to
the Japanese concierge, and Jack Rhyce was contented to hear him say
that his passengers were good people who would appreciate attention.

"I will take the car," Mr. Moto said, "but I will call later for orders
and to see if all is right."

"You don't have to until tomorrow," Jack Rhyce told him.  "It's been a
very fine day, and thanks a lot."

The sunlight had grown softer and the shadows longer.  He did not need
to consult his wrist watch to know it was somewhat before six, but
there was still plenty of time before dark to stroll about the grounds
and to locate the cottage called Chrysanthemum Rest, where Bill Gibson
would be staying.  Nevertheless, he was afraid it would take more time
than was available to be as familiar as he would wish to be with the
halls and connecting passages of the rambling buildings.

"It's a mixed-up place, isn't it?" Ruth Bogart said, as they followed
the boy with their bags.  Being built on the side of a hill, the hotel
had several levels.  They were passing through an arcade lined with
display cases of silks, lacquer, ivories and porcelains, and
occasionally they encountered a direction arrow pointing to HOT BATHS,
MAIN BAR and DINING ROOM.

"Yes," he said, "this would be quite a place to play cops and robbers
in, wouldn't it?"

He was ashamed of his lack of caution the instant he said it, but it
was not such a bad estimate of the situation.  There were any number of
places where you could lose yourself, and too many exits and entrances
for one ever to be at ease.

As Bill Gibson had said, a room had been reserved for them, very
comfortable, as the clerk anxiously pointed out, with a bath, in a
quiet section of the hotel known as Cozy Nook.  Jack Rhyce did not know
exactly what had been said or through whom the reservation had been
made, but he found the solicitude of the clerk disturbing.  Still, he
only had to tell himself that nobody knew his business better than Bill
Gibson in order to set his own mind at rest.  When they followed the
boy with their luggage along further passageways to the upper level of
the hotel, he realized that in spite of years of practice in many
places, the ground plan of this building was too much for him, and he
greatly disliked the sensation of not being oriented.  In consequence,
his first task, he told himself, would be to get entrances and exits
straight.  Also the friendly smiles of the desk clerks had brought home
to him again the necessity for cover, since the management seemed to be
so clearly aware that he and Ruth Bogart had arrived for an
off-the-record week end.  Although this could not have struck the hotel
staff as unusual for two Americans, it was of the utmost importance to
keep up the illusion.  And now, facing the prospect, Jack Rhyce
encountered in himself an embarrassment that made him very formal,
especially when the boy opened the door to a spacious double bedroom.
There was a 10 per cent service charge, about which Japanese hotel
employees were far more conscientious than their European counterparts,
but still he gave a liberal tip and spoke enthusiastically as the boy
backed out, bowing.

"This is a nice room, isn't it, dear?" he asked.  "I think perhaps I'd
better take the bed by the doorway, don't you?"

It did not help his sense of uneasiness to find that she was laughing
at him.

"And if you want to bathe or anything," he said, "I'll go out for half
an hour and stroll around.  The hot water comes directly from a hot
spring, I believe, in case you'd like to know."

"Listen," she said, "you've traveled around considerably, haven't you?
Haven't you ever been alone in a hotel bedroom with a girl before?"

"Well, yes," he said, "occasionally, now you ask me, but not exactly in
this way, Ruth."

"Well," she said, "I don't see such a great difference and don't take
it so seriously, for heaven's sake, even if your father was a
missionary.  I'm going to take a bath, and you'd better, too.  Do you
snore, darling?"

"No," he told her, and he lowered his voice, "you ought to know I
don't; not in this business, Ruth."

She tossed her suitcase on the bed next the wall and snapped it open.
The easy way that she moved her luggage showed that she was much
stronger than she looked.

"For heaven's sake," she said, but she lowered her voice just as
carefully as he had, "the more we forget the business while we're in
here, the better.  Darling, aren't you going to give me a kiss or
anything, after you've brought me all this way?"

She raised her voice when she asked that last question and looked at
him meaningly.

"Why, dear," he said, "I've been waiting for this for hours."

"Oh, darling," she said, and then she whispered, "there's someone in
the hall outside.  We have the privacy of goldfish in this room."

His first instinct was to tiptoe to the door and snatch it open, but
she held him and shook her head.

"No, no," she whispered, "maybe it isn't anything, but we'd better act
damned silly.  I think this place is spooky, Jack."

She was right about the room.  There was a transom above the door and
he especially disliked transoms.  Two windows at the foot of the twin
beds, both of them open now, looked over the carefully tended grounds
at the rear of the hotel.  The third window in the bathroom with ground
glass obviously opened on the corridor, and now that the bathroom door
was open, a sound of footsteps made a rhythmic beat along the
corridor's jute carpet.  They were the staccato steps of an Oriental,
one of the hotel boys, he was very certain.  Nevertheless, he quickly
closed the bathroom door.

"Thanks," he said.  "I seem to be losing my grip, what with one thing
and another."

It was a mistake, he realized immediately, to have said such a thing
out loud.  He believed in holding a positive thought; as soon as one
became overworried and overanxious, accidents frequently occurred.  He
stepped to the open window, examined the shades and curtains and then
made a thorough inventory of the bedroom, which would have been
unusually attractive under other circumstances.  The Japanese prints on
the wall seemed surprisingly good, although he was not a connoisseur of
that sort of thing: pictures of strange bent-kneed men with staffs and
heavy burdens on their backs, climbing mountains, crossing
narrow-arched bridges, or laboring on farmsteads.  The curtains that
could be drawn before the windows were of heavy cotton, green and
yellow with the bamboo motif so favored by Japanese textile designers.
The twin beds with comfortable box-spring mattresses were in simple
European taste, matching the large mirrored bureau and the taller
dresser.  Each was covered with a yellowish green spread of raw silk,
and the walls had a matching greenish tint.  Whoever had decorated the
room had good taste.  But there was one disturbing feature.  The lock
on the door was an old and clumsy contraption which any well-trained
operator could pick in a matter of seconds.  The bathroom was
commodious, and the tub, made out of marble slabs, gave it an
old-fashioned charm.

Ruth Bogart had turned on the bathtub taps and the noise of the running
water made a cheerful sound.

"I suppose we'll have to look nice but informal," she said, "if we're
going to that dance."  She was taking out clothing from her neatly
packed bag.  "I'll wear my light green silk."

"Better put on the dark green or a dark blue if you have it," he told
her.  "Remember, we are going to go outside."

"Right.  I forgot," she said.  "I wonder whether Gibson's got here yet."

"That's his problem," he told her.  "I'm going out to walk around while
you take your bath."

"You don't have to, you know," she said, "and I wish you'd put on
something else besides that seersucker suit."

"I'll put on my blue one tonight," he said, "but haven't you noticed
that everyone who does kind things for backward peoples customarily
wears a seersucker suit?"

"Oh, dear," she said, and she smiled at him.  "I wish we were really
staying here and that there could be just two people in this room
instead of four.  I'm sick of split personalities."

She was still unpacking and hanging things in the bedroom closet as
though they were going to stay there for an indefinite period.  Her
confident unpacking and the running water in the bath contrived to make
a new bond in their relationship.  The voices from the hotel guests
came gaily through the open windows from the grounds outside.  People
were calling to each other at the swimming pool; army and navy mothers
called to their children, and single men far away from home talked to
their sweethearts.  It was a tolerant hotel, a long way from anywhere,
both moral and amoral, but agreeably enough the voices all sounded
happy.  Up by the swimming pool someone was singing, and then in the
distance someone began whistling a tune that made Jack look at Ruth
Bogart.

Both their faces had assumed their old watchful look because it was the
tune they had last heard before the break of day at Wake Island.

  _You cannot see in gay Paree, in London or in Cork!
  The queens you'll meet on any street in old New York._


"Well, well," he said softly, "our old favorite, isn't it?"

There was no reason, his common sense told him, to be unduly startled.
The melodies from _The Red Mill_ were always cropping up on modern
records, and they were good, despite the lapse of time.

"It's no favorite of mine," she said.  "I told you this place was
spooky."

There was no one outside whom he recognized--only a stream of tennis
players and of bathers coming down from the pool to dress for dinner.

"Well," he said, "go ahead and take your bath.  I'd better go down
there and see what I can see."

She shook her head emphatically.

"I'm not going to stay here alone," she said.  "I'll go right down with
you, and go dirty.  That damn song.  Frankly, it makes me frightened."

They walked around the grounds for a while, arm in arm, hanging on each
other's words, laughing at each other's jests.  They walked up the hill
to the swimming pool, which was almost deserted now that the sun was
low.  They observed the empty tennis courts and the hotel greenhouses
with their potted azaleas and their cyclamen and fuchsias.  They stood
in the shade of a giant cryptomeria which must have been at least four
hundred years old.  They wandered heedlessly past Chrysanthemum Rest--a
small cottage, which sure enough was not much more than a hundred and
fifty feet away from the ballroom ell.  Bill Gibson could not have
picked a better place for a private conversation because, as he had
said, the noise of the orchestra would drown out anything else.  Then
they stopped at the fish pond and watched children feeding bread crumbs
to the giant goldfish.

"You know," she said, "I wouldn't mind being a fish myself, right now.
No wonder they live a hundred years."

"Don't wish that, sweet," he said loudly enough so that everyone could
hear, because there was safety in sex.  "Just compromise and be a
mermaid."

"All right, if you say so," she answered, "you old seadog, you."

He gave an involuntary shudder at her remark, but still, the cover was
not so bad as he thought it was going to be.

"Just don't overplay," he whispered to her amorously.

"All right," she said, "you old seadog, you."  And then she laughed.

There was reassurance in her laughter; it meant that, like him, she had
noticed nothing out of the ordinary.  All they saw were happy people,
young, carefree, many of them handsome, all concerned only with each
other.  It was very much like another musical comedy song--"Love Is
Sweeping the Country"--at that kindly hotel at sunset.

"Hold my hand," she said.  "It looks better, and now maybe we'd better
go up and get ready for dinner."

"Let's go to that place called the Main Bar," he said.  "We haven't
seen it, and there may be something new there."


The Main Bar was on the hotel's lower level.  The inspiration for its
decoration must have been derived from foreign influence close to the
turn of the century, because it had the earmarks of another happier
age, and its spiritual quality, if such a thing could be attributed to
a bar, was remarkable close to the music of Victor Herbert.  Its dark
woodwork was like the Old New York where the peach crop was always
fine.  Its comfortable chairs and tables were not crowded too closely
together.  The bar itself, with its magnificent array of glass, was
almost as long and hospitable as the now mythical bar in Shanghai that
was once believed to be the longest bar in the world.  The only
concession to a changing world lay in the new bar stools, those
importations from the French _bistro_ that had reached America at the
end of Prohibition.  A dozen happy couples, now that the dinner hour
was approaching, were taking over the tables in groups of fours and
twos, and several unaccompanied men were seated at the bar.  Still, the
room was large enough so that it gave a quiet, half-empty impression;
the voices of its patrons were partially absorbed by its spaciousness.

"It's awfully Gothic, isn't it?" she said.  "Like a church."

"I'm not carried away by the resemblance," he told her.  He beckoned to
a waiter.  "Would you like a gin and tonic, dear?"

They had selected a table in a far corner from which the whole room was
visible.  He was already giving the people a mental screening even
while he was thinking that he was tired of this sort of watchful
analysis.

"Scotch and water," she answered, "and I hope we can get bathed and
ready for dinner pretty soon.  Everybody here looks very cool and
comfortable, and though you're smarter than I am, I can't locate any
types."

"Don't try too hard.  Don't forget we're in love," he said.  He leaned
back and sipped his drink.  She was right that there was no one who
showed interesting signs.  If it had not been for that tune, he would
have believed that the place was wholly antiseptic, and of course Bill
Gibson must have thought so, too, or he would not have named it as a
contact point.

"That's right," she said.  "I've got to keep remembering.  You look
handsomer tonight than you did yesterday, but you could do with a clean
shirt, and I'd like it, at any rate, if you could get your seersucker
suit pressed."

"Oh, don't say that," he told her.  "It makes me look informal, feeble
and good-natured.  Nobody cares what happens to a man in a seersucker
suit."

"I care at the moment," she said, "if only because I don't want to be
left alone in this rat-race.  Oh, Jack!  Look across the room."

His glance followed hers to the entrance by the bar.

"Well, well," he said; "now things are looking up."

He had to admit that he felt as Livingstone and Stanley must have when
they encountered each other in the interior of Africa.  At least things
were moving according to plan, because Bill Gibson had entered the
room, and there was no mistaking what Bill was.  He was a tired,
middle-aged American exporter from Tokyo out for a good time over the
week end.  He was obviously having one, and he must have had a good
time at the hotel on previous occasions because he waved to a group at
one table and sat down with a couple at another, putting his arm
playfully around the girl's waist.

"Where's Dorothy?" they heard him say.  "Why didn't you bring Dorothy?"

No one in the business was more consummate than Bill Gibson.  In fact,
his appearance gave Jack Rhyce a slight spasm of professional envy.
Bill's loud Aloha shirt was art.  The paunchy roll of his walk and the
slump of his shoulders were beautiful.  He sauntered in an aimless way
about the room, just as a lonely man with a few drinks should.  He
walked close by the table where Jack and Ruth Bogart sat, and Jack was
exasperated by the obviousness of the contact.  Bill was his senior in
the business, but that was no reason to treat his junior like an
amateur with such a clumsy check-in.  For a second Jack thought he
might be given some sort of signal, but nothing in Bill's expression
changed as he passed the table, no warning gesture, no signal of
anxiety.  The truth was that Bill Gibson could not have noticed
anything off color either, or he would not have moved so carelessly.
His face was flushed as though he had been in the sun by the swimming
pool.  His jowls had their old purplish tinge, his eyes their deceptive
glazed expression.  He passed their table and ambled to the bar,
hoisted himself on one of the stools; Jack heard him calling happily:

"Another Scotch and soda, and make it a double this time, Boy-san."

"Listen," Ruth Bogart said, "school's out now, isn't it?  Can't we
please go up and get a bath?"

"You go ahead," Jack Rhyce said.  "Maybe I ought to stick around here a
few minutes."

"No," she answered.  "All those corridors ... I won't go up there
alone."

"Now, listen," he began, "I don't think there's a cough in a carload
here."  And then he checked himself, and his voice dropped to a
whisper.  "Fasten your seat belt," he whispered, "and for God's sake
let's be natural.  Boy!"  He raised his voice and waved to a bar
waiter.  "Two more, please.  You'll have another, won't you, dear?"

"Oh," she said, "yes, if you'd honestly like me to get tight, darling."




XI

She was a good girl, back in the act again.  She had glanced for only a
fraction of a second at the doorway to the bar, but the instant had
been long enough for her to see what he had seen.  There was no
mistaking the sandy hair, the bushy eyebrows, the clear-eyed glance,
the easy walk, the lazily swinging arms, and the characteristic half
bend of the fingers of the man who had just entered.  Once you had seen
Big Ben, you could not miss him.  He was wearing khaki trousers, army
issue, and he, too, wore an Aloha shirt, and even in that moment of
impact Jack Rhyce made a mental note that the shirt had a fish design
similar to the shirt of Mr. Harry Pender at the Asia Friendship League.

"The fish," she whispered.

"Yes," he answered.  "For God's sake let's be 'natural.'...  You look
awfully sweet tonight, honey."

After all, there were plenty of fish designs on plenty of Aloha shirts,
but still there was the coincidence.  He saw Bill Gibson at the bar
tossing off his double Scotch and soda.  Bill had the description and
Bill never missed anything.  He must have seen, of course; he and Jack
Rhyce must both have shared the same surprise and consternation, and
also the same exalted sense you always had when the game was getting
hot--because anything might happen now, anything, or nothing.  It was
unsafe to rely on intuition, and just as unsafe to discount it
absolutely, but things had gone beyond the intuitive stage in Jack
Rhyce's reasoning.  The coincidences had gone so far that there was
scarcely a reasonable doubt any longer that the man was Big Ben.  His
appearance at the hotel at just this time confirmed the fact.  Bill
Gibson's mind must have been moving in the same channels, but he
continued drinking his whisky without a glance at the doorway.  After
all, there was nothing else to do.  There was only one question hanging
in the air, unanswered by the voices around them: _How much did Big Ben
know_?  Did he know who Bill Gibson was?  Did he know who they were?
There was no immediate answer to those questions, but very soon there
was bound to be one.

There was bound to be because, as Big Ben stood by the door, their
glances met, and Jack saw that he had recognized them.  He could feel
it in the nerves of his neck before his reason confirmed the fact.  The
light was on Big Ben and as far as Jack could see there was no
blankness or surprise.  The face was mobile.  Honest pleasure rippled
over it.  The corners of the wide, expressive mouth turned upward, yet
that was not all.  Big Ben waved to them from across the room.  Jack
Rhyce waved back and beckoned, at the same time lifting his gin and
tonic glass.

"Darling," he said loudly, "just look who's coming over!  Ships that
pass in the night, darling!"  And then he lowered his voice, "Don't
forget, for God's sake, that we're in love."

Big Ben sauntered toward them.  Jack did not like to think that the
physical sensation he experienced was one of fear; in fact, he was
fairly convinced that it was not.  It was rather a state of intense
warning and watchfulness that set all his perceptions at concert pitch,
with the result that he had seldom experienced such complete awareness.
It might have been his mood, which Ruth Bogart had detected when she
had told him once not to take it too big, but he was not unsure of
himself.  There was nothing easier to detect than overanxiety or
overinquisitiveness, but he knew that he would not overplay.  All that
bothered him was the perennial pitfall of an unconsidered word or
gesture; there was nothing which could prevent this contingency except
hoping for the best.  He pushed back his chair and stood up, smiling.

"Well, hello, troops," Big Ben said.

"Why, hello yourself," Jack Rhyce said.  "If it isn't our sweet singer
from Wake.  Remember, Ruth?  _In old New York!  In old New York!_"

He was even able to put the lilt of the tune in his voice.

"I certainly do remember," Ruth Bogart said.  She smiled in just the
right way, invitingly, but at the same time not seekingly.  "It was
terribly romantic out there before dawn, and you had such a lovely
voice."

"Gee, thanks," Big Ben said.  "It was quite a surprise to me to hear
the _boy friend_..."  He underlined the words with gentle humor, and
smiled tolerantly at them.

"Oh, now," Jack Rhyce said, "come.  What an implication!  We were just
out for a stroll at Wake, weren't we, Ruth?"

"... to hear the boy friend," Big Ben repeated with a chuckle, "answer
right back from nowhere--it almost made me jump out of my swim trunks."

"We certainly owe you a drink if I did that," Jack said.  "Take a chair
and take the weight off your feet, and give your order to the waiter.
It ought to be a double or a triple for a boy as big as you."

"Aw, come on," Big Ben said, and his hands relaxed on the table in
front of him and he smiled at them both.  "You're not such a peewee
yourself, fella.  I'll bet you played football in your time."

"Is that so?" Jack said.  "Well, you win, Mr. Holmes, I played right
tackle for Oberlin.  Where did you play?"

"Oh, shucks," Big Ben said.  "I was never in the big time like that.  I
only played for a jerk-water Southern Baptist college."

His words trailed off apologetically, and then he gave his order to the
waiter.

"You savvy what's called Bloody Mary, Boy-san?  Vodka and tomato juice,
nice and cold and big.  Sorry, folks, if I'm unconventional, but you
see, this is my playtime."

Jack had never watched or listened more carefully, but he could detect
no flaw.  The Baptist college explained that Southern accent; there was
no uneasiness anywhere.  He could assume very safely now that he and
Ruth were accepted for what they appeared to be and that they were in
the clear.  He was so sure of this that he had to fight down a rising
sense of elation, because they were in an advantageous position as long
as the position lasted.

"Seriously," Jack Rhyce said, "this is a real pleasure, meeting you.  I
suppose we ought to introduce ourselves.  My name's Rhyce--Jack Rhyce,
and this is Ruth Bogart.  We're just traveling through--out here to
make a survey for one of these foundations."

"Oh, yes," Big Ben said.  "Seems you mentioned the name of it back
there at Wake.  Seems to me it had the name of Friendship in it."

"You really have some memory," Jack Rhyce said, "and it's mighty
flattering that we made such an impression on you during our brief
visit.  The name's the Asia Friendship League."

"That's it," Big Ben said.  "Say, it's a pleasure to meet you two nice
people again, Jack Rhyce and Ruth Bogart.  My name's Ben Bushman.  Just
old Flight Engineer Bushman, at the present time.  Our crew lays over
at Tokyo about ten days out of every month, and Bushman comes up here
for ease and relaxation."  He chuckled happily.  "Just the way Jack
Rhyce and Ruth Bogart have come up to study Asia Friendship.  Am I
right, or am I right?"

"Well now, I don't exactly know how to answer that one," Jack Rhyce
said.  He laughed self-consciously, and so did Ruth Bogart.

"But you must admit it is a friendly place here, Mr. Bushman," she
said, and smiled at him dazzlingly.

"Now, now, honey," Big Ben said, "let's cut out the Bushman part.  You
call me Ben, and just remember I'm tolerant as hell, and I don't blame
Jack here, for one minute, but any time if two isn't company and three
isn't a crowd, just kind of look around for me, will you?  We might
sing some old songs, or something.  I'm nuts for old songs."

"Why, that will be splendid, Ben," Ruth Bogart said.  "Jack loves old
songs, too, and he has a lovely voice, if I do say so ... but if he
gets preachy or tiresome, I'll know where to turn, and two will still
be company, won't it, Ben?"

"Oh, now, Ruth," Jack Rhyce said.  He wished that her flirtatiousness
did not sound so genuine, but she was right as far as the business
went.  "I'm not as bad as all that, am I?  But she's right, Ben.  I do
like a jam session sometimes."

"Well, maybe we can have one tonight," Big Ben said.  "There's always a
few groups here who like to sing, later in the evening.  Just drop down
here into the bar sometime later, say eleven--that is, if you haven't
something better to do."

He smiled in a very friendly way.

"Oh, come," Jack Rhyce said, "you mustn't kid us, Ben."

Big Ben slapped him affectionately on the shoulder and stood up.

"I'm not kidding you, boy," he said, "I'm envying you.  Well, see you
later, I hope.  And now I've got to be gittin'."

"What's your hurry?" Jack said.  "Have another drink.  Don't go."

Big Ben shook his head.

"Thanks," he said, "but I want to get cleaned up for this dancing
party, and maybe I can find a girl myself.  You two make me lonely.
Well, I'll see you later, troops."

Jack Rhyce heard Ruth Bogart sigh.  He drew a deep breath himself, but
his abnormal consciousness of life and motion was still with him as he
watched Big Ben.  The man's walk was lazily loose-jointed, but at the
same time perfectly co-ordinated.  It was the gait of the highly
proficient all-round athlete who could move from an eight-oar shell to
the tennis courts, the boxing ring, the baseball diamond, or the
football field with no need for conscious adjustment.  You could not
help admiring him because he was aesthetically magnificent.  He
sauntered past the bar without stopping, shoulders carelessly squared
and arms swinging easily.  If Bill Gibson had not seen him come in,
Bill had surely seen him by now.  Jack's first instinct was to deliver
some sort of warning, but this would have been superfluous, and besides
it had become more important than ever that neither he nor Ruth Bogart
should be connected with Bill Gibson.  Things were moving so fast that
everything at any moment might pour itself into a barrel and go over
Niagara Falls.

"It was all so natural, wasn't it?" she said, and her words echoed
exactly what he had been thinking.

That conversation with Big Ben had been so frank and real, so entirely
in keeping with the guises they had assumed, and so banal and dull,
that he could nearly believe that it had been true, but actually it had
been interwoven with threads of truth.  Football at Oberlin, song fests
because both of them honestly loved to sing, and even his growing
interest in Ruth Bogart had all contributed to honesty.  That piece
about the Southern Baptist college was especially appealing.  It was
the one bit of really tangible revelation that had come through to him;
its hidden tones had been touching in their frankness.  It had all been
small-time, Big Ben said, and Jack Rhyce could recall a lingering note
of sadness.  The Baptist college must have been true, just as there
must have been some sort of social frustration there similar to what
everyone faced in one's adolescent years, and to which most people had
learned to adjust.  There had been something in that unknown Southern
Baptist college that Big Ben could not handle yet, although later he
had traveled to more sophisticated fields.  Jack Rhyce could see the
place in his imagination.  Small institutions for higher learning were
apt to have a dreary similarity in the South.  He could imagine a
quadrangle of decrepit dormitories, a chapel in bad repair, a lecture
hall, a tiny library with its carefully culled collection of deserving
books, a football field with its goal posts and bare bleachers, and
long-needled pines covering a flat sandy country in the background.  It
all could have fitted into the composition of a Benton picture.  The
pinch of poverty would be over it, but at the same time lines of social
demarcation would be etched more strongly by the poverty, making them
far harsher than any differentiations existing in the North.
Distinction would be more than just the other side of the tracks in
such a place; there was a quality in Big Ben's voice and gait that told
its own story.  _White trash_ was the name for it, that unhappy phrase
which was applied to people living in the clearings behind the
pine-grown old fields, who had not solved for generations any of their
economic problems.  No matter what he had done at football, no matter
about his singing voice, Big Ben had been white trash once; and it was
not hard to project imagination further, and see him in a mill town or
in a great city.  As he put the theoretical story together, Jack Rhyce
believed that the Chief in Washington had been right, if not about the
missionary, at least about the religious background.  Big Ben's father
might very possibly have been one of those itinerant preachers.  The
contagion of pulpit inflection still remained in Big Ben's voice.  It
was a hymn-singing voice which Jack Rhyce could readily identify, since
in many ways he and Big Ben had sprung from a common background,
sharing many of the same repressions and simplicities.  A minister's
son could spot a minister's son.  The saying was not wholly a joke.

He felt her hand on his arm, shaking him insistently.

"Darling, you've got to talk to me," she said--"that is, if we're going
to keep sitting in this damn place, or else if you keep sitting like a
wooden Indian everybody will begin to think we've had a fight.  What
have you been thinking about, Jack?"

"You ought to know," he said, "about You-Know-Who, and you needn't have
given him such a big glad eye."

"You-Know-Whom, you mean," she said.  "At least you don't know
everything, do you, Fearless Fosdick?"

"Maybe Fosdick knows a little about You-Know-Whom," he said.

"And maybe Miss Fosdick does, too," she answered, "and Miss Fosdick
knows she can make him in about five minutes, if necessary.  Maybe we
should have registered as Mr. and Mrs. Fosdick.  Do you think he was
poor white trash, Jack?"

The mere fact that their minds had reached the same place independently
gave his theory added substance.

"Yes," he said, "I shouldn't wonder.  I didn't know you knew the South."

"There were Southern girls in boarding school," she said.  "My roommate
was a Southern girl--deep South, very deep.  People like him are apt to
go off the track somewhere.  I ought to know, because I've been off
myself.  Were you ever off it?"

"I was on two drops into Burma during the war," he said.  "There
weren't any tracks at all there.  I'm sort of used to being off the
rails."

They were leaning toward each other, ostensibly absorbed in each
other's words, and they had waited long enough in the bar.  They both
had known, without saying so, that they should not leave the place
directly on Big Ben's heels.  Jack signaled to a waiter, and paid the
check.

"Well," she said, "thank goodness.  Does this mean we can bathe and
change?  Or have you got some other thought?"


The double bedroom, as she had said, afforded all the privacy of a
goldfish bowl.

"Anyway," he said, "we may be able to talk with your bath water
running."

"And we can talk with me splashing in it," she said.  "You don't have
to look, but I'm going to have a bath."

They were another eager happy couple when they left the bar, as they
walked hand in hand following the signs along the hotel corridor that
pointed to the ell called Cozy Nook.

"You know, darling," he told her, "I was just thinking of another one
of those _Red Mill_ songs.  Ben might just as well have sung it at
Wake."

"Oh, sing it now, dear," she said, "softly, just for me."

He drew her closer to him.  They made a very pretty abstraction,
flushed with their drinks from the Main Bar, on their way to Cozy Nook.

  _Not that you are fair, dear,
  Not that you are true,
  Not your golden hair, dear,
  Not your eyes of blue._


He stopped and laughed.

"It doesn't fit, does it?" he said.  "Your hair is too dark, dear, and
your eyes are grayish green."

"Never mind," she said.  "I approve of the general scheme.  Go ahead
and finish it."

As a matter of fact, when he finished it he approved of the general
scheme himself.

  _When we ask the reason,
  Words are all too few!
  So I know I love you, dear,
  Because you're you._


"I wish to goodness," she said, and her voice had a catch in it, "that
I could be me again, or I, or whatever damn way you want to have it."

It was the old lament again, and there was no solution to it, or
certainly not then.  Besides, there was not time to discuss it then
because they had reached their room door, and he was pulling the clumsy
outmoded key from his coat pocket.

"Why, say," he said in the bemused tone that one should use after a
session with the girl of one's choice at the Main Bar, "it's unlocked.
I thought I'd locked it.  Didn't you think I had, honey?"

"Why, yes, darling," she answered.  "I kind of thought so."  And then
she giggled.  "But I did have other things on my mind."

"Well, it all goes to show," he said, "that I'm losing my memory in my
old age."

They both laughed like two college freshmen.  Then they hastily opened
the door, using the standard Farm precautions.

Mr. Moto was standing in the center of the room.  The dust had been
brushed from his light tan oxfords, his purplish blue suit had been
freshly pressed.  Jack Rhyce was not entirely surprised to see him, but
he hoped that he acted surprised.  The illusion was helped when Ruth
Bogart suppressed a startled scream that sounded technically genuine.

"Well, how the hell did you get in here?" Jack Rhyce asked, assuming
the correct badgering tone of an honest American dealing with a wily
Oriental.

"So sorry," Mr. Moto said, and Jack Rhyce was interested to see that
his hands shook with artificial agitation.  "The door was unlocked.  So
sorry."

The door had not been unlocked, and it was a safe assumption that Mr.
Moto knew he knew it.  The only solution for the problem was to become
more confused, to raise one's voice a hectoring octave higher.

"And if the door was unlocked--so what?" Jack Rhyce said.  "Does that
mean you should walk inside?"

"Excuse," Mr. Moto said, and his hands fluttered placatingly, "but the
door was wide open.  More better, I thought, to wait for your return.
Then things would not be stolen.  Such old-fashioned doors in this
hotel."

"That's funny," Jack Rhyce said in a more reasonable tone.  "I thought
I'd locked that door, but you never can tell, can you?  Anyway, it
doesn't look as if anybody had got into the suitcases, and you had your
handbag down at the bar with you, didn't you, sweet?"

"Yes," Ruth Bogart said.  "My gold clip would have been the only thing
that really mattered anyway.  I think it was very thoughtful of Mr.
Moto to wait here for us."

He wished to heaven that he could place Mr. Moto, who was becoming an
annoyingly loose end to the problem.

"Of course I'm grateful to Mr. Moto too, sweet," he said.  "I was only
sort of startled at first, seeing him there, that's all.  Excuse it,
Mr. Moto.  What did you want to see me for?"

Mr. Moto bobbed his head and rubbed his hands together.  Once more Jack
Rhyce had the impression of a character that was too Japanese to be
true.

"First, may I ask you if all is right here, and proper?" Mr. Moto asked.

It did not alleviate Jack Rhyce's frustration when Ruth Bogart giggled
softly at the word "proper."  He even wondered whether Mr. Moto had
used it intentionally, but then "proper" was a favorite Oriental word
with many shades of meaning.

"Everything is swell, thanks," he answered.

"And your wishes for tomorrow?" Mr. Moto asked.  "So many things to
see.  Might I suggest a picnic and a ride toward the base of Mount
Fuji?  And Lake Hakone is so very beautiful.  But this means start
early."

If it wasn't one problem, it was another.  In the light of recent
events, he should have rented a car and driven it himself, so that it
would have been parked outside the hotel at all hours, if they needed
to get away, but now his mobility was controlled by the Japanese in
front of him.  Bill Gibson, he was thinking, would not approve of what
he had done about the car.

"I tell you what," he said.  "You be waiting outside with the car at
seven o'clock tomorrow morning, and then we'll decide what we want to
do."

"Seven o'clock," Mr. Moto repeated, and Jack Rhyce could not tell
whether it was a repetition or a question.  It was a ridiculously early
hour, out of keeping with a peaceful week end, but it might be that
they would badly need the car.

"Maybe it's a little early," Jack said, "but I was thinking we might
climb some of the mountains."  He smiled at Ruth Bogart affectionately.
"You want to see as much of everything as you can, don't you,
dear--that is, if you're not too sleepy in the morning?"

"Jack," she said, "I honestly don't know how I'll feel in the morning."

Jack Rhyce smiled at her patiently.

"Of course, dear, if you don't feel like it in the morning," he said,
"we can change everything.  But it won't hurt to have him here early,
just in case, now will it?"

"All right," she said, "as long as it's just in case."

"Well, that's settled," Jack Rhyce said, smiling in a man-to-man way at
Mr. Moto.  "Let's make it eight, and thanks, and forgive anything I
said about your being in the room.  I'll see the door's locked next
time."




XII

He stood close to the closed door listening to the sound of Mr. Moto's
footsteps retreating down the hall in a clumsy noisy rhythm wholly
different from the soft step on the gravel by the temple.  The
footsteps indicated as plainly as words that Mr. Moto knew he would be
listening.  Ruth Bogart crossed the room, making a quick noiseless
check of the suitcases.  She shook her head as a signal that nothing
had been disturbed.  He moved to the window and peered out.  The
afterglow had left the sky, and the electric lights had been turned on
along the paths of the hotel grounds.  He drew the curtains carefully.

"Turn on the water in the tub," he whispered.

"Oh, Jack," she called as she turned the water on, "hasn't it been a
wonderful day, darling?"

It was not the right adjective to describe it, and besides, the day was
only just beginning.  She moved close to him and rested her head on his
shoulder, and he was glad to put his arms around her.  He had seldom
felt so grateful for companionship.

"My God," she said, "it's really started now."

"Yes," he said, "it's moving.  What do you know about Skirov?"

"Skirov..." she repeated vaguely.

He could not blame her much when her whole mind must have been on the
present.

"Yes," he said.  "Skirov, the Russian who's running the Communist show
here--the masterminder whom our boy makes contact with.  The Chief
briefed you on him, didn't he?"

"Oh, yes," she said.  "I'm sorry, Jack.  I was thinking about the Jap
and the big goon down in the bar and everything.  Yes, Skirov.  I saw
him in Vienna once--Cossack descent, I think."

"You saw him?" Jack Rhyce said.  "Then you can tell me if I have his
description straight.  Middle forties, five feet five, one hundred
twelve, thin, agile, delicate hands and feet, Mongoloid features."

"Yes," she said, "that's him."

Jack Rhyce lowered his voice, not because he was afraid of being
overheard, but because he dreaded that his idea might not be right.

"All right," he said, "what about this Moto?  Is he Skirov playing a
Jap?"

He was conscious of his anxiety while he waited for her reaction.  It
had been one of those swift inspirations which he had learned to
suspect, but if he were right, they might be able to end the show that
evening, because they would have worked out the whole scheme of the
apparatus.  It would be Gibson's job to make the ultimate decision
regarding Skirov, but from their point of view, the mission would be
accomplished.  The prospect of completing a mission always had its
alluring side; he had never before been so desperately anxious to end
one, not so much because of himself as because of her.

She was still considering his question.  Her forehead was wrinkled and
she gazed straight ahead of her.  He was aware both of her nearness and
her beauty, which annoyed him because his mind should have been
concentrated on abstractions.

Finally she looked up at him, not enthusiastically, but with respect.

"I guess I was wrong in thinking that big handsome boys like you are
dumb," she said.  "I like your thought.  I wish I could buy it all."

He had already developed the thought further, while she was speaking.

"Maybe it's more reasonable than it sounds at first," he said.  "Take
it this way."  He began to speak in a whisper, in spite of the running
water.  "They looked us over in San Francisco.  They've got us down as
innocent bystanders.  They think we're absolutely pure."

"Yes," she said.  "I check with that.  I think we're clear to date.  I
had that feeling in the bar."

"Right," he said, and his enthusiasm rose.  "Then what could be better
than using us as a cover?  Wouldn't you do it if you were on their side
of the fence?  Skirov and Big Ben want to meet.  They know we're
greenhorns.  What's better than having Skirov as a Japanese chauffeur?
That explains his being in the room--just to make a final check."  He
stopped and laughed quietly.

"What's so funny?" she asked.

"The two contacts," he said.  "Us doing the same thing--coming up here
for a meeting.  It's like a convention in Atlantic City, isn't it?"

"Yes," she said, but she did not look amused.  "It's funny if true.
The trouble is, it's too good to be true.  Life isn't made that way.
It's too damned easy, darling."

Her criticism confirmed his own inner dread.  She was right, that life
never ran that way, and nothing ever came easy in the business.

"Besides, Jack," she said, "he simply isn't Skirov."

"You don't know Japs as well as I do," he answered.  "This one's like
something on the stage."

"I've got eyes too, dear," she said.  "Perhaps he's trying to hide his
rank or education, but I know he isn't Skirov."

"Well, if he isn't," Jack Rhyce asked, "who is he?"

She shook her head slowly, and her expression reminded him of the
Whittier's poem about the schoolhouse.

"It's too bad--because it fits--but he just isn't," she said.  "He's in
the business, all right; I can spot that as well as you can--but he
isn't Moscow-trained.  You know he isn't, darling.  You know how that
Moscow school sticks out all over them.  You can spot them a mile away,
as easily as you can a German Volkswagen.  Skirov is a Moscow boy.
This one just isn't."

Jack Rhyce sighed.

"All right," he said.  "But I still want Bill Gibson's reaction.  Since
you can spot them--what about Big Ben?  Was he on the Moscow squad?"

"Yes," she said.

"I don't agree," he said.  "But what makes you think so?"

"You'd have noticed it in the bar," she said, "if you hadn't been
concentrating on the dialogue, darling.  That Paul Robeson, Old Man
River manner, that lift-that-bale, we'll-all-land-in-jail manner.  It's
late Moscow.  It's still being taught there by their prewar American
imports.  They must have rather a quaint American section."

"I've got to watch him some more," Jack said.  "He doesn't look much
like it to me.  He looks as American as all get-out."

He wanted to go on and tell her about his reconstruction of Big Ben's
college days, but it would have to wait until later.

"Of course he's as American as all get-out," she said.  "A lot of very
American Americans have gone to Moscow.  Jack Reed went and he's in the
Red Square now, if they haven't moved him.  Now unzip my dress, will
you?  I'm going to have that bath, but I'll leave the door open, if you
have any more ideas."

He had a number of ideas as he sat in an easy chair near the window and
listened to her splashing in the tub, but he had learned long ago that
it was folly to spread ideas around.  No one should ever know more than
necessary in the business; the less you knew the less you could tell if
they caught you.  It occurred to him that he should not even have told
her his idea about Skirov.  His having done so went to show that he was
talking too much, and besides he might be obliged to revise all his
thinking after his meeting with Bill Gibson.  Bill would have the whole
story straight, while he and Ruth Bogart were still only on the fringes
of it.  Nevertheless, he was already getting his general shape and
structure so clearly that a question of policy was beginning to arise.
Should the apparatus be smashed, or should it be left alone in the hope
of locating Skirov?  But Bill Gibson, not he, would make the ultimate
decision.  The main thing was to get the picture straight.

He wished that he did not have to see Bill Gibson that night, now that
the dangers of the meeting had measurably increased with Big Ben on the
scene.  However, the importance of an immediate meeting had increased
correspondingly, but now the contact must be made more carefully than
ever.  The room was growing dark.  He rose and switched on the light
that stood on the small table separating the twin beds.

"Jack," she called, "are you all right?"

"Yes," he said.  "I'm fine."

"I thought you were going to tell me some new ideas."

"You know that's bad technique, to tell too much," he said; "and you
know the reason, Ruth."

"Yes," she said, "I know."

She was out of the bathroom, brushing her hair by the mirror with
quick, brisk, almost savage strokes.  She was wearing an oldish cotton
print robe.

"I'll buy you a kimono tomorrow," he said.  "You'd look well in a
kimono, green and blue."

"Thanks," she said.  "I'm sorry about the thing I have on.  I didn't
know there was going to be a bedroom scene.  I've started your bath for
you."

"Thanks," he said.  He began taking things from his suitcase, putting
his brushes and toilet articles on the tall dresser, laying his blue
suit carefully over the foot of the bed and his dark black shoes with
their composition soles on the floor beneath it.  Both he and she were
neat as pins, as you were bound to be in the business.

"I was thinking about tonight," he said.

"Were you?" she said.  "Well, you aren't the only one."

They looked at each other thoughtfully for a second.

"You know you're right about that goon," he said.  "From the way he
looked at you I think maybe you could take Big Ben--if you keep on
encouraging him."

"Yes, I know I can," she answered.

"But at the same time it makes me mad," he said.  "But maybe it's a
good thing for tonight."

"Why for tonight?" she asked.

He hesitated before he answered, and she must have guessed what was
running through his mind.  Nevertheless, it was part of the business.

"I want Ben's mind to be off things for about an hour.  You do it and
I'll see Gibson," he said.  "It's necessary to box that boy off.  He
mustn't worry where I am, and only be glad I'm not where he is.  It's
the best way of handling things, don't you think?"

Her face grew stiff and wooden.  She did not answer.

"What is it, Ruth?" he asked.  He spoke more gently.  "Are you afraid
of him?"

"No, I don't think so," she said, "but I hated that mental undressing
way he looked at me, and you'd have to be mighty convincing with a man
like that."

It was the business, it was what she was there for, and they both knew
it, but still he felt his face redden.

"I didn't mean anything serious," he said.  "Just a walk downtown or a
ride up the mountain in his car."

The set expression left her face and she smiled.

"It's nice to know you're human occasionally," she said.  "I'm glad the
proposition doesn't appeal to you personally, but I don't think it
would be a good one, anyway.  It's too damned obvious, Jack, and he's a
very smart man."

"Yes, he's smart," Jack said.

"It's just the thing we'd be expected to do," she said.  "Don't you see
it would tell him right away that there was something wrong with us?
You've got to be jealous and difficult.  It would look better if I
simply let him know he was attractive to me--and made him want to get
me away from you."

She moved closer to him and put her hands on his shoulders.

"Now listen, Ruth," he said, "I'm ashamed I made that proposition, but
it was business, Ruth."

"Never mind the proposition, Jack," she told him, her grip on his
shoulders tightening.  "Just get it through your head that I want to
stay with you tonight.  I don't want to see you get a shiv in your
back."

"If anybody's watching," he said, "it's going to be harder for two to
get up to that cottage than one."

"Jack," she said, and she moved closer to him, "please--all right, I'm
frightened.  I'm scared as hell.  All right, he's scared me, on your
account more than mine, Jack.  I promise I won't let you down."

He bent over and kissed her.  Even as he did so he knew that under any
circumstances he was being very foolish.

"All right," he said, "but put on a dark dress, and let's go down to
dinner."

"Darling," she said again, "I won't let you down.  You'd be surprised.
I'm wonderful in the dark."


Jack Rhyce had often thought that any ballroom anywhere in the world
was interchangeable with any other.  There was every reason why this
should be so, since the ballroom and the dances that derived from it
were a part of Western civilization that should have interested
Spengler.  If you thought of it in purely historical terms, the decline
of the West--and he believed that in many ways the West was
declining--could be interestingly illustrated by ballrooms and modern
music.  The time and place that night made thoughts like those more
natural than usual because the ballroom of the hotel was an
incongruity, like its native orchestra.  The jazz and the people had no
evolutionary place in the Japanese starlit night.  They were only there
as part of the flotsam on the wave of history.  At almost any time the
European dancers might be whisked away, but the dance convention would
be left behind because of its social, sensual and selective attributes.
In fact, with the leisure of the machine age, how could people get on
without dancing?  They are no longer physically tired, and the
imponderables of life are heavier, and with them grows the need to
escape reality.

A great many couples were escaping in their different ways on the hotel
dance floor at shortly before ten o'clock that night.  They whirled
with fancy steps that they had learned on other dance floors.  No one
noticed the elaborate Japanese paper decorations on the high ceiling.
They were all following the uninspired rhythms of the Japanese
orchestra, which did its best, in costume and manner, to follow the
American tradition.  The music was mediocre, and most of it dated, but
everyone who danced lost part of his or her individuality in the
pervading sound.  The girls, both European and Japanese, were pretty.
The men seemed to find it harder to surrender themselves to the
pleasures of the evening.  Their faces, as they danced, looked less
forgetful and more careworn than their partners'.  Tall windows on both
sides of the room opened directly on the hotel grounds so that the
dancing was almost in the open air, but even so the orchestra sounded
surprisingly loud.  Its members, though small men, were eager,
conscientious and vigorous.

She was a light and beautiful dancer, much better than he, but they
were both of them good enough, in that rather pedestrian company, to be
disturbingly outstanding.  Their steps had a professional exactness,
and they both looked well--she in her dark green and he in his
conservatively cut blue suit.  He was aware that they were attracting
approving attention, which was something he could have dispensed with
that night.

"Don't do anything fancy," he told her.  "Just dance in a mediocre way.
You're too good-looking as it is."

"That's what I thought about you when I saw you first," she said.
"You're too good-looking for the business.  You look like the answer to
a maiden's prayer in this crowd."

"Do you see him anywhere?" he asked.

She smiled and shook her head.

"I wish he were here so we could keep an eye on him," he said.  "We've
been dancing about half an hour, haven't we?"

"Yes," she said.  "Don't you like it?"

"I would under other circumstances," he told her, "but Bill's going to
get nervous pretty soon.  I wonder where he is."

"Bill?" she asked.

"No, no," he said.  "The Big Boy.  I gathered he was going to the dance
tonight from the way he was talking in the bar."

He felt her shiver, and she shook her head.

"I wish you'd get him off your mind," she said, "or at least look as
though you were having a good time so people won't wonder what we're
going to do when we go outside.  Hold me closer.  Don't forget, we're
supposed to be in love."

It was another half hour before he saw Big Ben.  He had stepped in from
the grounds outside.  Instead of his Aloha shirt and khaki trousers, he
wore a charcoal flannel suit, black shoes and a dark tie.  He appeared
very young to Jack Rhyce in that formal attire with his unruly sandy
hair, his heavy eyebrows; only his eyes gave his age away.  Eyes and
hands were something that nobody ever could disguise.

"Good," Jack said.  "There he is, coming in from outside."

He felt her shiver again.

"Is he looking for us?" she asked.

"Yes," he said, "I think so."

"If he cuts in," she said, "cut back soon.  Please, Jack."

"All right," he said, "but don't discourage him.  It won't hurt to have
him fall for you."

Big Ben smiled pleasantly while his glance roved over the dancers.
Jack Rhyce noticed that he pulled his coat straight, although it had
not been disarranged.  Then Big Ben took a handkerchief and passed it
lightly over his forehead, though he had not been dancing, and then
made a gesture with his hands as though he were ridding them of
imaginary dust.

"He sees us now," she said.  "He's coming over."


"All right," Jack Rhyce said, "and when he cuts in, smile."

Big Ben was moving toward them through the dancers, a head taller than
most of the men.  A second later he slapped Jack Rhyce on the shoulder.
It was a friendly, good-natured slap.

"Hello, Oberlin," he said.

"Why, hello," Jack Rhyce answered, "Alabama Baptist U."

Big Ben's laugh was easy and infectious.

"Your guessing cap's on crooked, boy," he said.  "Not Alabama,
Mississippi."

"Oh, come now," Jack Rhyce said, "your accent isn't thick enough.
Let's make it Carolina."

"Okay," Big Ben said.  "Carolina Baptist.  And now may I relieve you of
your lovely burden, Oberlin, just for a little while?"

"You mean you want to dance with my girl?" Jack Rhyce asked him.  "All
right, but just remember--only for a little while."

"Oh, now," Ruth Bogart said, "don't pretend to act so jealous, Jack.
I'd love to dance with Ben just as long as he wants."  She sighed,
giving Big Ben another of her dazzling smiles.  "Maybe I need a
change...."

Jack Rhyce walked to an open doorway and watched them.  Like many large
men, Big Ben danced very well, even to the nervous jiggling beat of the
orchestra.

"Hold me closer," she had said.  "Don't forget that we are supposed to
be in love."

You had to be able to estimate degrees of physical attraction, and to
observe and capitalize on the onslaughts of desire, if you wanted to be
successful in the business.  It was a sordid matter, standing there
watching Ruth Bogart and the big man dancing.  He was ashamed of
playing a part in that ugly scene, but it was business.  Seeing them
dance was like watching the merging of two different worlds, a world of
grace, gentility and refinement with another of ruthless, dynamic
force.  It occurred to him that Big Ben might never before have had the
experience of dancing with anyone like Ruth Bogart.  She had never
looked more delicate or more a perfect product of gentle upbringing
than when Big Ben held her in his arms.  He saw her lips move in some
smiling remark.  He saw Big Ben answer, and he did not care to guess
what they had said.

In the beginning he had entertained a technical fear, which she had
expressed in their room upstairs, that her approach might have been too
obvious.  It had been necessary for her to move fast but, at the same
time, Big Ben was a clever man.  There was always the question, in such
encounters, as to the exact moment when intellectual objectiveness
could be discounted.  He realized, as soon as he saw them dancing, that
Ruth Bogart must have considered this matter also.  There was that
saying that the desire of woman is to be desired, and a woman could
instinctively estimate a man's desire.  Rapid though the interplay had
been, and obvious as it had seemed to Jack Rhyce as an observer, from
what he could see as he stood watching Ruth Bogart had been right about
Big Ben.  They were a handsome couple on the dance floor.  He was
certain now that she was something new in his experience.  It was
certain that he would not forget.  Those things did not take long when
certain instincts were in the balance.


In its essence, jazz was not happy music.  It was restless and lacking
in order, reflecting very accurately the spirit of the era which had
brought it into being.  The world was unhappy and Jack Rhyce was in a
better position than most of his contemporaries to know because it had
been his business in many places to observe and deal with violence.
All his generation had been born and nurtured in an age of discontent,
but he was not able to explain the reason for it, unless that a system
or a way of life was approaching dissolution.  Logically there were
less reasons for unhappiness today in any part of the world than there
had been fifty years before.  The cleavage between wealth and poverty
had been greater then, and the voice of social conscience had only been
a whisper.  Communication and industrial advance had been negligible
compared with the present, and so had public health and expectancy of
life; yet back in that harder day the world had been much happier.
There had been security then in that everyone knew what to expect.
There had been strength and order, which perhaps were the attributes
that mankind most desired.  What was it that had palsied the hand of
the political system which had ruled the world at the time of Rudyard
Kipling, in as benign and enlightened a manner as many political
thinkers were attempting to rule it now?  What was it that had opened
the Pandora box and the floodgates of discontent?  What was it that had
allowed minorities to give such a loud voice to their grievances that
they could upset the lives of persons ten thousand miles away?  And
what was the basis of the nationalism that made all nations truculent?
Why, in fact, was it that individuals all over the world were
disturbed, overpopulating the mental institutions, rebelling against
conventions, filling the streets with juvenile delinquents?  Why was it
that no firm hand could any longer quell a social riot?  He knew it had
been different once, before his time, and he knew that the answer to
these questions lay in what was known as the phenomenon of change.

The same questions must have arisen when the Roman Empire was falling.
They had been asked also in the briefer and turbulent dynasties of
China, and in eighteenth-century France.  Volumes had been written
about the course of the disease, but its cause was still in doubt.
There was no doubt at all, however, regarding the ultimate result, and
in the world as he saw it, both in the East and in the West, the result
was just around the corner, eager and waiting.  Anarchy might rule for
a while in North Africa.  Egypt or Persia might upset the Near East
balance.  Neutralism might reign in India, but still the result was
just around the corner, just what it always had been--the ruthless
oppression of absolute rule.  It was now called "the dictatorship of
the proletariat," but its end was the old dictatorship.  The
proletariat, with their agitators and their discontented, would be
whipped back to their places, and order would be restored more
merciless than the order of the Pax Romana or Britannica.  And again
there would be discontent, simply because man was a discontented being.
The cycle would go on.

He realized that it was not the time or place to think of such things,
but at least these thoughts made him a part of the stream of history.
He and his generation were children of discontent.  The drives of
discontent had put him where he was, watching the dancers, and at the
same time looking at the dark hotel grounds in order to memorize the
shadowy places and the plan of the lighted paths.  It was curious to
think that the same drives which had placed him there had acted in such
a different way upon Big Ben, who was still dancing with Ruth Bogart.
Given different childhoods and different backgrounds, he and Big Ben
might easily have swapped places.  Tolerance was one of the troubles of
the present.  You knew, or you thought you knew, so much about human
motivation that, in the end, you could not blame anyone for anything.
And in the end rules and laws lost meaning.  Perhaps it was this
universal tolerance that was weakening the hand of order.


He looked into the night again.  The cottage called Chrysanthemum Rest
was completely visible.  Though its shades and curtains were drawn, he
could see that its rooms were lighted, as was the path that led
straight toward it from one of the hotel verandas.  But if one were to
follow another path up toward the greenhouses, there would be shadow
and concealment.  He could not plan the full approach from where he
stood.  He would have to improvise after he had started.  A glance at
his wrist watch told him it was time--10:20 already.  Ruth Bogart had
been right in believing that it would look better if they walked out
into the shadowy grounds together, and it was time to start now.  He
moved across the room to where she was dancing with Big Ben.

"Okay, Baptist," Jack said, "time for the praying colonels to go to the
showers--the half is over."

"Aw, gee, coach," Big Ben said, "nobody's even blown the whistle.
Well, thanks a lot, honey.  And how about us all meeting in the bar in
a while?  I'm going there right now to drown my frustrations, honey."

Ruth Bogart giggled appreciatively.

"I don't know whether Jack has frustrations or not," she said, "but
whatever he does have, he always seems to be all for the drowning
process.  We'll be there whether I like it or not, won't we, darling?"

"Oh, come on," Jack said.  He put his arm playfully around her.
"You're going to have ginger ale, sweet.  We'll see you down there,
Ben."

"We'll dance a few minutes first," Ruth said, "and then I want to go
out and get a breath of fresh air.  It's awfully hot in here."

Big Ben laughed uproariously.

"And I bet you're getting a headache, too," he said.  "How come?  You
didn't want fresh air when I asked you three minutes ago, honey?  Well,
no hard feelings.  So long, troops."

They danced for a minute or two without speaking.

"He's gone all right," Jack said, "and he hasn't gone outside, either."

"That's so," she said.  "I think you're right.  I don't believe he's on
to us at all."

"What makes you say that?" Jack asked her.

"Oh," she said.  "Girls can tell about those things.  If you want to
know--from the way he tried to make me.  It was an all-out and very
clumsy effort, darling."

"It could be that we're barking up the wrong tree," Jack Rhyce said.
"It could be that he's just a lonely soul on an airship.  The world is
full of them these days."

"It could be," she said.  "But there was one queer thing about him."

"What?" he asked.

"He hadn't been dancing, had he?" she said.  "But he was all in a glow,
wringing wet with perspiration, darling.  Did you notice him dust his
hands and wipe his forehead when he came in?  Whatever he was doing, he
was exercising."

"Maybe he was playing Tarzan in the trees," Jack Rhyce said.

"His hands are so damned big," she said, "and his palms were sweating."

"Well, he's gone now," Jack Rhyce said.  "Let's go out and look at the
moon."

"Oh, Jack," she said, and the music had stopped so that everyone around
could hear her, "who told you that there was a moon?"




XIII

They walked outside and toward the greenhouses, laughing and talking
softly, only one of a number of other couples who were wandering about
the grounds.  While they walked they examined Chrysanthemum Rest from
all angles.  There was a clump of bamboo by its door, which was the
only cover near it.  Still talking softly, they examined the taller fir
trees near the greenhouse.  Jack was as sure as a fallible human being
could be that he had missed nothing, having reconnoitered too many
places not to be intensely aware of atmosphere.  He had been able to
tell for a long while, from his own physical reactions, whether or not
a place was being watched.  There was always a sort of tenseness in the
air and an awareness of other people.  He could swear that
Chrysanthemum Rest was clear.  They sat for a while close together on a
bench in the shadow of an old cryptomeria, two lovers in case anyone
should notice.

"Does it look all right to you?" he asked.

"Yes," she said.  "There's only one offbeat thing.  We've been out here
for fifteen minutes, and have you noticed, no one's moved inside the
house?  Not a shadow against the curtains--nothing.  Perhaps he isn't
there."

"He's being still," Jack said, "because he wants it to look as if he
weren't there.  Bill's a smart operator.  Anything else?"

"No," she said.  "I don't think we're being watched."

All that was left was the unavoidable danger that someone, by sheer
inadvertence, might notice them entering Chrysanthemum Rest, a
calculated risk which the bamboo thicket by the door would minimize.
If they walked affectionately past the cottage, the thicket would
conceal them from anyone standing higher up from the hill, and its
shadow would partially protect them from anyone who would be looking
from the hotel windows.  Of course the door would be unlocked.  There
would only be the crucial second when they crossed the threshold.
Nevertheless, he delayed for a while, with his attention glued on the
Chrysanthemum cottage.  It was a white frame building of European
style, similar to the cottage annexes that surrounded summer hotels at
home.  It stood peacefully at the foot of the slope of lawn that led
from the tree under which they sat.  He wished that he could be sure
that Big Ben was in the bar.  He even thought of making a check, but
his feeling that the cottage was not under observation made him dismiss
the idea.

"Come on.  Let's go," he said.  "We'll know a lot more after we've
talked to Bill."

The brass of the dance orchestra blared across the lawn, interspersed
with its drummer's beat.  They were only a couple returning to the
dance as they walked to Chrysanthemum Rest.  His arm tightened around
her waist as they reached the bamboo thicket.

"Follow me quick," he whispered.

They were inside the house in a twinkling, because they were both
trained operators; the door was closed behind them without a sound and
without a fingerprint on its knob, either.  The place, as he had
observed, was fully lighted.  They were in a small entrance hall
furnished with a European umbrella stand and a row of wooden pegs for
coats and hats.  A single open door showed a lighted room, comfortably
furnished with wicker easy chairs and a couch.  There was a Chinese rug
on the floor and gay Japanese prints decorated the walls.  The room, to
Jack Rhyce's surprise, was empty; so they stood for a moment, breaths
held, listening.  He could detect no sound except the blare of the
dance music.  He raised his eyebrows and gestured to Ruth Bogart.  She
understood his signal and they moved along the wall so that their
shadows would not show on the drawn curtains.  It never paid to hurry.

Later, he never could recall what it was that made him sure that
something was wrong in Chrysanthemum Rest.

"Bill," he whispered.  What with the noise of the music, he might have
spoken aloud, but in any case he already had the conviction that he
would not be answered.

The bedroom door was also open.  The lights were on there, too.  He
tiptoed to the doorway with Ruth Bogart just behind him.  Bill Gibson,
in a clean pair of shantung silk pajamas, lay beneath the covers of his
bed, eyes closed, head resting on his pillow, his clothes neatly folded
on a chair at the end of the room.  A glass, a half-empty bottle of
whisky and a pill bottle stood under the lamp on the bedside table.
His restful posture gave every indication that he was sound asleep, but
he was not breathing.  Bill Gibson was stone dead.

"Okay," Jack Rhyce whispered to her.  He felt in his pocket and drew on
a pair of gloves.  "Better go through his suitcase, Ruth.  Look for
anything.  Anything."  But even as he spoke he knew there would not be
anything they wanted.

While she moved noiselessly about the room, he stood still for a minute
gazing at the body of Bill Gibson, trying to estimate the strengths and
weaknesses of this new situation in much the same way a bridge player
might assess the possibilities in dummy when the cards were on the
board.  Now that Bill Gibson was dead, a whole new line of action was
required.  He was still in the grip of shock, but he was able to see at
once that he was looking at a professional, almost a classic job of
elimination.  If Bill Gibson had been breathing, Jack Rhyce himself
would have thought that it was an overdose of sleeping pills, and after
all, suicide due to strain or melancholia had always been a factor in
the business.  The only trouble was that they had come too early.  Bill
Gibson should have been discovered in the morning for the job to have
been perfect, and doubtless that had been the intention.  This was an
encouraging thought for Jack Rhyce, in that it showed as plain as print
that no one knew that Bill Gibson was there for a meeting.  It meant as
clearly as a certified document that he and Ruth Bogart were not
suspected yet.

There was another plain fact.  The decision must have been made some
time previously that Bill Gibson should be put out of the way, since
the whole job was one that had obviously required meticulous planning.
It also betrayed an anxiety to keep things quiet which was completely
understandable to anyone in the business, where violent ways of taking
out a man, no matter how carefully worked, always offered embarrassing
complications.  On the other hand, the danger of complication at
Chrysanthemum Rest was very small indeed.  Success only required that
the body be discovered in the morning.  Without his being familiar with
Japanese medical procedure, Jack Rhyce did not believe that a doctor
called in the morning would make more than a perfunctory examination
with the evidence before him; no doubt if a more thorough examination
should be made this contingency would have been provided for.  He
picked up the pill bottle, which still held three yellow capsules, a
very pretty touch in itself when added to a glimpse of the cork which
had fallen to the floor.  A drunken man had accidentally taken an
overdose of sleeping pills.  From the color of the capsules, and
without reading the label, he could guess that the drug was one of the
better-known barbiturates of American manufacture, and he could guess
from a minute abrasion at the corner of Bill Gibson's mouth that a
lethal dose was safely in the stomach.  There were several ways to make
reluctant people swallow.

Jack Rhyce set down the pill bottle and sniffed of Bill Gibson's lips.
There was the requisite odor of whisky to explain the half-empty whisky
bottle on the table.  The whisky had been applied overliberally to the
lips, but no one would have noticed in the morning.  Professionally it
was a job which had only one unavoidable drawback, and even this
presupposed the presence of another professional, which indicated again
that he and Ruth Bogart were not suspected yet.  Like every killing in
the business, this one had its signature, and this was ridiculously
easy to decipher once you knew it was a killing.  The job presupposed
enormous and expert strength.  It had required someone who could take
care of Bill Gibson as gently and effortlessly as a nurse might handle
a baby, and Bill Gibson was no weakling.  He touched Bill Gibson's hand
softly.  The body was still warm.  He slipped his hand under the head.
The mark of a hypodermic was barely visible in the hair at the base of
the neck.  If one had not known exactly where to look, the mark could
easily have gone unnoticed.  He lowered the head very gently because it
was all a very private matter in which he and his opposite numbers
shared the same anxiety to keep it quiet, to keep it clean, to keep it
above suspicion.

Ruth Bogart was looking at him from across the room and he nodded
slowly in answer to her unspoken question.

"Yes," he said, "Ben was here all right.  I wish I could have the
privilege of polishing off that son-of-a-bitch.  I always thought a lot
of Bill."

"Yes, so did I," she said.

But when you were gone you were gone, in the business.  His attention
turned to the neatly folded clothes.  Even the shoes by the chair were
in meticulous alignment.  The bedclothes were carelessly disarranged
just as a man who was drunk might have moved them.  The folded clothes
were an error, or still better, an oversight.  Bill Gibson must have
folded them himself.  He must have planned to meet them in pajamas and
a dressing gown.  Jack Rhyce peered into the bathroom.  A burgundy silk
dressing gown was hung from a hook on the bathroom door.  He examined
the back and sleeves.  There was a slight tear at the right elbow, and
the silk was scuffed and a few tiny hairs of woolen lint were mingled
with the fabric.  It was the blue piling from a carpet, and the Chinese
carpet in the living room was blue.

Ruth Bogart had finished with Bill Gibson's baggage and with the
contents of his pockets.  She shook her head when he nodded to her--but
then, Bill Gibson would have been careful to have nothing on him except
cover identification.

"Where did it happen?" she asked.

"The living room," he said.  "He must have grabbed Bill right by the
front door.  I'd like to polish off that son-of-a-bitch."

He walked gingerly to the living room and she followed him.  Of course
there had been a struggle.  How was it she had put it--that Big Ben had
been all of a glow, and he hadn't been dancing?  Yet the signs had been
eliminated, and nothing had been broken.  However, the impersonal
orderliness of the room told its own story of rearrangement.  He could
reconstruct what had happened as though it were going on now before his
eyes--Big Ben in a noiseless bound, towering over Bill Gibson, the jolt
in the solar plexus that knocked out the wind.  Strangulation was not
necessary if you knew the trick.  Big Ben's arms wrapped around the
smaller man's gasping body ... the fighting for breath ... the expert
hands lowering the struggling man to the floor ... The sleeping pills
with the suitable label would have been in Big Ben's pocket.

"When you danced with him," he said to Ruth Bogart, "was there anything
in his coat?"

"I think so," she said.

It would have been the hypodermic, but this would not have been bulky.
The piling of the carpet was scuffed and trampled near the door--not
markedly so, but still the evidence was there once you guessed the
story.

"They don't know about us yet," he said, "or they wouldn't have pulled
it this way, do you think?"

"I think you're right," she said.  "You're pretty smart sometimes,
Jack."

"Okay," he said.  "We'd better get out of here, and brace yourself.
There's one thing more that's going to be tough tonight."

"How do you mean?  What else?" she asked, and for the first time since
they had entered Chrysanthemum Rest he saw that her nerves were shaken.

"We've got to keep in the clear," he said.  "We've got to go and meet
that bastard in the bar."

"Oh, no," she said, "not that."

"Oh, yes," he said.  "Just that, and we'd better be in the mood for it,
too, because he's a smart Joe, dear.  Muss yourself up a little.  Kiss
me.  Put some lipstick on my cheek.  He's got to know we've been out in
the garden making love."

No matter what happened in the business you had to go on with the show.
When they got theirs, you let them go, and the show had to go on, if
only because you knew you had to get yours sometime in some sordid
corner or some cellar of some prison, and you would try to take it
without a prayer for mercy, if you were in the business.  You learned
how to dish it out and to take it, too, if you were in the business.
The scene which had taken place in Chrysanthemum Rest was still in Jack
Rhyce's mind when they left the small detached building.  His arm was
around her, and they stopped and kissed shamelessly directly underneath
a light on the path to the hotel.  After all, the hour--which was just
past eleven now--was growing late enough so that inhibitions should be
breaking if boys were to be boys and girls girls.  But even then he
realized that their abandon had a quality that was partially genuine.

"Darling," he said loudly, "you're adorable."  She giggled.  She was
very good at that girlish giggle which must have been a vestige of the
outside.

"Darling," she said, "not again.  Not here.  Everyone will see us."

She said it exactly as though they were not intending that any even
remotely interested parties should see them.  At some points there were
lighter moments in the business.  But their words and actions were only
a shadow on his deeper thoughts.  He did not have ice water in his
veins any more than she, and he had not recovered from the impact of
that pseudo-quiet death in Chrysanthemum Rest.  His creative
projections into Big Ben's character all added to the acuteness of his
upset.  In his imagination he could hear Big Ben's voice behind his own
and hers, and the gentle drawl had a nauseating quality in his memory.
He could hear Big Ben speaking as he pinned Bill Gibson down, gasping
and helpless.  The voice would be kind, since in the end personal
animosity ought never to obtrude itself in the business, and if your
emotions got the better of you it was time to resign and be a salesman
of fancy motor cars.  Jack Rhyce knew that the scene in Chrysanthemum
Rest was playing on his emotions, which was not right.  He could hear
Big Ben's voice in his imagination.

"You're goin' out in a minute, friend," he could hear Big Ben saying.
"You might as well go out easy and not fight, mightn't you, since
you're goin' out anyway, friend?  Easy's better than hard, isn't it?
And I've got no hard feelings.  I'll he'p you if you go out easy, and
I'll be right with you, friend.  Now swallow these pills.  They won't
hurt nobody.  Just get them down or I have to make you.  Swallow them,
and then there'll be the needle, and you and I know that it won't hurt
at all.  Don't make me be rough, Mac, because it won't gain you
anything.  I know that poison kit you folks carry.  In case you're
curious, it's what you call Shot Number Two."

The soft imaginary voice of Big Ben mingled with the music from the
ballroom, and Jack Rhyce knew it was time to pull himself together.

"I'm against alcohol as a crutch on general principles," he said, "but
I think you and I could do with two good doubles in that bar right now,
don't you?"

"I agree with you for once, darling," she said.  He felt her shiver,
and he shook her in a rough playful way.

"For God's sake pull yourself together," he said.  "The show's on the
road."

"All right," she said.  "So it's on the road, and stop being a space
cadet."

He straightened his blue coat and felt his belt.  He might not be
carrying a weapon but, given the showdown, a properly fixed belt was a
good substitute.  His was fixed.  He wished that he could slash his
belt across Big Ben's face just once.  Twice would be better--twice and
Big Ben's closest relative wouldn't know him.




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 his 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, no," 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 now," 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," he 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 them
that 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 when 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 hand 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 diverted 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 Rhyce 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 Bill
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 what I was sent over from the States for.  Gibson was worried
and wanted help."




XV

Either tell the whole truth or none at all was an almost infallible
business maxim.  Under present circumstances, even though the position
of the Japanese was still equivocal, the only solution was frankness.
At least they were after the same thing.  At least they were all in the
business.

The man on the ground groaned and struggled to his hands and knees.
Jack put his hands beneath his arms and pulled him to his feet.  After
all, there were times when one could afford to be cordial.

"Out like a light, weren't you, Mac?" Jack Rhyce said, and slapped him
affectionately on the back.  "Never mind.  We're all pals now.  Your
gun's right over there."

Mr. Moto laughed in a completely genuine way.

"His English is not good.  Tell him in Japanese."

"I apologize for your discomfort," Jack Rhyce said in Japanese.  "So it
was the tea and the coffee back there at the hotel that gave me away on
the language, was it?"

Mr. Moto laughed again, and both the men in blue serge smiled.
Everything could change very quickly in Japan.

"Oh, no," Mr. Moto said.  "Earlier, Mr. Rhyce."

"Earlier?" Jack Rhyce repeated.

Mr. Moto nodded.

"In Burma, Mr. Rhyce," Mr. Moto said.  "We had your name on file.
Japanese linguist, born in Japan.  I even had a glimpse of you once at
Myitkyina."  Mr. Moto laughed heartily.  "I did not speak because I was
moving the other way, but I remembered you when I saw you at the
airport, Mr. Rhyce."  Everyone laughed heartily.  After all, the war
was over.

"The word always was that you people had good Intelligence," Jack Rhyce
said, "but I didn't know you were working so hard at it now."

"Oh, not so hard," Mr. Moto said, "with shortness of funds and the
misfortunes.  Poor Japan.  We would not have made a mistake such as I
have made tonight, before the war.  The machinery was not bad before
the war."

"Still, there was the German, Sorge," Jack Rhyce said.

"Oh, yes, Sorge," Mr. Moto said.  "Such a nice man, Sorge.  So
intelligent; but don't forget, please, we caught Sorge.  And did you
Americans catch Dr. Fuchs?  And the British who always boast so much
about their Intelligence--did they stop Burgess or MacLean?  So hard,
so very difficult to manage everything."

It was a relief to talk naturally, without being under the necessity of
cover.  That Mr. Moto spoke so frankly indicated more than professional
courtesy.  It showed a colleague's respect.

"It's a tough life all right," Jack Rhyce said.  "It's beginning to get
me down these days."

"Get you down?" Mr. Moto said.  "I wish so much I could visit your
great country more often.  I cannot keep up with the idiom now.  Before
everything was so unhappy, I was over once a year at least, New York,
Washington, or Honolulu.  Even when my duties were in Paris and London
I endeavored to spend a week or two of observation in New York.
Ha-ha....  In old New York the peach-crop's always fine, isn't it, Mr.
Rhyce?"

"I wish I knew where you picked that one up," Jack Rhyce said.

"A song from _The Red Mill_ was sung in the third floor corridor of the
Mark Hopkins Hotel in San Francisco," Mr. Moto answered, "the evening
before you left, Mr. Rhyce."

"You haven't got such a bad setup, have you?" Jack Rhyce said.  "So the
Japanese schoolboy tailed me from Fisherman's Wharf, but you Japs get
things twisted.  I was up on that floor, all right, but I didn't sing
the song."

Mr. Moto sighed.

"So sorry I have been so very stupid," he said.  "He was so sure that
you were Mr. Ben that when he gave the signal, I came myself to meet
you at the airport instead of sending someone else.  I mention it only
so that you will give me some excuse.  But why do we stand out here?"

"That's easy," Jack Rhyce answered.  "Because you haven't asked me in."

Mr. Moto drew in his breath in a loud deprecating way.

"Oh!" he said.  "The work has got me down, too, as you put it, so that
I have lost my manners.  This house is only loaned for a purpose for
which I am so glad is now not necessary, by a very kind Japanese
nobleman.  So really little money now that individuals contribute.
Poor Japan.  He would be honored to know that you have been his guest.
Come in, please, and my associates will warm us some saki.  Do not be
concerned about them.  It is only they and me here, and
unpleasantnesses are entirely over.  Please to enter, Mr. Rhyce, and no
need to take off shoes.  This part of the Baron's residence is
European."


The lights were on in the hall and also in a large room to the right.
It was one of those newer houses, Jack Rhyce could see, that wealthier
Japanese had built in the prosperous years that had preceded the war--a
house half-European, half-Japanese, that had the schizophrenic quality
of so much in present-day Japan.  No Japanese, as far as Jack Rhyce
knew, ever wishfully inhabited his Western rooms except for reasons of
hospitality; and Jack Rhyce did not blame them, because the European
section of such houses was usually as ugly and uncomfortable as its
Japanese counterpart was beautiful.  The house he entered now was no
exception.  The furnishings of the entrance hall gave forth a musty
odor, from age and disuse; but they had been elaborate once, designed
to impress, and perhaps please, the European guest, and also to display
the owner's close acquaintance with Western living.  The hall carpet
was crimson, sprinkled with fleur-de-lis; the wallpaper artificial
Cordovan leather; the mirror bad Victorian; and the chairs golden oak,
upholstered with red plush.

Mr. Moto must have read the thoughts that ran through Jack's mind.

"We used to try so hard, Mr. Rhyce," he said.  "Poor Japan.  The chairs
are equally hideous in the parlor, but Americans like chairs."

Several table lamps that were lighted in the cluttered, over-decorated
parlor revealed oil paintings of English cattle, encased in immense
gold frames, two pieces of artificial tapestry, tapestry-covered
Jacobean chairs and upholstered easy chairs of a turn-of-the-century
design.  There was also a European fireplace with a coal grate, in
which Jack Rhyce noticed a coal fire glowing in spite of the hot night.
The coffee table had been cleared of its cigarette boxes and
impedimenta; on it were knotted strings and leather thongs and a pair
of handcuffs.

"Well, well," Jack Rhyce said, "so you were fixing to have a singing
school."

Mr. Moto laughed boisterously.

"Ha-ha," he said, "so nice a way you have of saying funny things, Mr.
Rhyce."  He called an order in angry Japanese.  "Take these away and
bring the saki and cigarettes.  Please sit down, Mr. Rhyce."

Jack Rhyce sat down in one of the easy chairs.  The saki had come at
almost the moment that Mr. Moto had called, in a jar with a glaze that
looked like celadon.

"Beautiful," Jack Rhyce said, nodding to the jar.

"You appreciate it?" Mr. Moto asked.  "I am so pleased.  It has been in
the Baron's family for many hundred years.  The Baron would be pleased
to present it to you, I think."

"What makes you think so?" Jack asked.  "Maybe he's anti-American."

"Oh, no," Mr. Moto said.  "He is my cousin.  You enjoy the wine?"

He was grateful for the wine from the fragile thimble of a cup that one
of the men offered him.

"These two boys you have with you," Jack Rhyce said, "look as though
they had been in the Imperial Marines--very tough, I mean."

"So nice of you to notice," Mr. Moto said.  "I hope you like the wine."

"I do," Jack Rhyce said.  "It's nice and hot.  I only wish it were a
Texas jigger."

"A Texas jigger?" Mr. Moto said, and he burst into appropriate laughter
when Jack Rhyce explained the phrase.  "Please tell the Marines in
Japanese.  They will appreciate about the jigger.  One of them will
stand beside you, ready to fill the cup."

Even into that European room there had crept an atmosphere of Oriental
hospitality, politeness and good manners.

"To happy peace between the United States and poor Japan," Mr. Moto
said.  "Very foolish men made the war.  Ha-ha.  Nearly all of them are
dead."

Jack Rhyce drank a second thimbleful of wine and held out his cup for
more.

"Judging from my short stay here," he said, "it looks to me as though
Japan is going to make out pretty well."

"You think?" Mr. Moto said.  "There are so many dangers, but I am glad
you think.  It is very lovely to talk to an intelligent American again
who is engaged in my own line of work.  Poor Japan.  We had such a very
lovely Intelligence system before the war."

"We heard you were starting work again," Jack Rhyce said.  "Frankly, I
didn't know it would be so good."

"Oh, thank you," Mr. Moto said, "but only in such a small way now.  So
little money.  Let me see.  There were once such nice men in your
Intelligence in Washington.  Do you remember Colonel Bryson?  He was
such a lovely man.  I was so sorry he broke his neck in Vienna.  Then
there was Mr. Makepeace.  They used to call him Tommy.  What has become
of him, I wonder?"

Obviously Mr. Moto was checking on Jack Rhyce's background, and Jack
Rhyce was relieved that he could come up with an answer.

"He was in Prague six years ago," Jack Rhyce said, "but since then Mr.
Makepeace has not been heard from."

"So too bad," Mr. Moto said.  "Well, ha-ha, you cannot blame poor Japan
for Mr. Makepeace.  So too bad so many lovely people cannot live
forever."

"That's quite a thought," Jack Rhyce said, "but we don't, you know."

The social amenities were nearly over.  Mr. Moto waved to one of the
attendants for a match and lighted a cigarette.

"And you?" he asked, pointing to the box.

"Thanks," Jack Rhyce said.  "I don't use them."

"So right of you," Mr. Moto said.  "So very, very right.  I was taught
that when I first entered the Intelligence.  In the late twenties, it
was.  My Chief, dear old Mr. Naguna, never smoked cigarettes, for they
left untidy traces.  Dear old Mr. Naguna.  Some more wine, Mr. Rhyce?"

"Thanks, I could do with a little more," Jack Rhyce said.

Mr. Moto gestured to one of the men.

"He is stupid," he said.  "I told him to stay near you, Mr. Rhyce, but
in his simple brain he was thinking that you must have had enough, just
as in his simple brain he thought that you would not turn on him as you
did outside, because he had a weapon directed at your back.  Poor
Japan.  We never can understand how you Westerners can drink so much
and not lose your wits.  Confidentially, that is why the German Sorge
puzzled our Mr. Naguna for several years.  It did not seem possible
that Mr. Sorge could be brilliant, with his drinking.  He was like a
figure in a Kabuki play."

"I told you I could do with a drink," Jack Rhyce said.  "I didn't mean
a teaspoonful at a time."

Mr. Moto laughed.  The Japanese sooner or later laughed too much.

"Mr. Rhyce, I like you so very much," he said, "because you are
so--doctrinaire, as the French say, about cigarettes and everything.
That turn on the left foot, out of doors, was very beautiful.  I could
admire it even when I did not know what might follow.  But I did know
that the move was not Russian--at least not what the procedure was in
Moscow before the war, Mr. Rhyce."

"Thanks," Jack Rhyce said.  "They'll be pleased to know that, back
home."

Mr. Moto drew in on his cigarette and passed his hand over his closely
cropped, graying hair.

"When I see someone like you, so bright and young, in the profession,
there is some excuse for my mistakes," he said.  "I have never been
familiar with Western features, but it would be my fallible opinion
that you have a kind face, Mr. Rhyce.  Please, I hope you will treat my
errors kindly.  I did not have the benefit of records because ours were
destroyed in the bombing, and such as remained, which we did not burn
ourselves, were taken over by your General MacArthur.  Such a very nice
man--but poor Japan.  Therefore, I can only rely on memory--but you
were in Japan until the age of five.  You were in Japanese language
school in Colorado, because one of my own young men taught you and
reported you as far above the average.  Please do not make a mental
note.  Your Counterintelligence found him out.  Then you were in combat
Intelligence in Burma.  Reports that came later said that your conduct
with our people was most correct.  Then there is an alert in my
echelon, just as there must have been in yours.  Elements in the
Politburo were moving in.  Poor Japan.  So many people, so poor.  So
much discontent.  The intellectuals so _aprs guerre_.  Orders to look
for a new personality.  An American on file.  The name on the
intercept--Big Ben.  Popular.  Entertainment organizer, like someone on
your stage, perhaps, or one of your motion picture entertainers who
loved Russia.  Look out for this American--Big Ben, with the singing
voice and with the weakness for singing a song from that old
entertainment called _Red Mill_.  I heard it in New York when a very
small boy, when my father was in the consulate in New York."

"That sure dates you," Jack Rhyce said.  "That show opened in 1906 in
old New York."

"Yes," Mr. Moto said.  "But they still had the tune in 1912.  Imagine
my joy to hear of you from San Francisco.  So pleased when I saw you at
the airport.  So pleased about the Friendship League which we have
watched with interest.  So pleased about your week-end excursion, just
where Mr. Gibson was going.  So pleased when you and the pretty Miss
Bogart entered Chrysanthemum Rest--and then to find you are American
Intelligence is difficult.  My mind, I know, was too made up.  I should
have kept an open mind, but you will admit that everything did fit."

Mr. Moto paused.  He had, after all, made his point.

"Don't blame yourself too much," Jack Rhyce said.  "Anyway, you're not
Russian.  I've been worried about that from the first time you picked
me up."

"Not Russian," Mr. Moto shook his head.  "Nationalist Japan Party, Mr.
Rhyce.  Fascist, perhaps, but pro-Emperor, anti-Communist.  So much
trouble--poor Japan.  But when the typhoon ceases, back will spring the
bamboo."

An earnestness in Mr. Moto's words made Jack Rhyce realize that he
might be hearing a true explanation of the Japanese mood and the
Japanese aspirations.

"Are Nationalists anti-American these days?" he asked.

Mr. Moto shook his head vigorously.

"Not now," he said.  "Not enlightened ones.  The United States is so
very useful.  Later perhaps, but not now.  So silly to shoot Santa
Claus, as your politicians used to say when I was in Washington.  You
see, I'm being very frank, Mr. Rhyce."

"I'd say you give every appearance of being," Jack Rhyce said.  But
from his experience, frankness in the Western sense of the word did not
exist in the Orient.  The difficulties among most people always lay in
a misconception of each other's values.  There was always an ultimate
shift of meaning--even between Americans and Englishmen, who thought as
nearly alike as any two nations.

"I am being frank," Mr. Moto said, "because I hope so much that we will
be temporary partners, Mr. Rhyce.  There are groups here on the Left,
and on the Right, too, so anxious to arouse feeling against America.
And the plain Japanese man can change so quickly."

Mr. Moto paused, and while Jack Rhyce waited for him to continue, he
had a moment to speculate on Mr. Moto's background.  He came from the
old aristocracy.  He must have been educated abroad, probably in an
Eastern American university.  There had been all sorts of strains and
cleavages in his mental upbringing, but there could never have been any
wavering in loyalty.  He stood for Old Japan.

"The Left Wing has been growing very dangerously lately," Mr. Moto
said.  "That is the trouble with fanatics.  One should always multiply
their danger by ten or twenty, I believe.  At the moment we are as
anxious as you are to uphold American prestige, and I am willing to

pool information if you are, Mr. Rhyce."

Jack appeared to hesitate, even though the man seated opposite must
have known already that he had no choice.  With Bill Gibson dead, he
did not know the organization, and things were closing in so rapidly
that the only possible hope of achieving success was to rely on outside
chance.

"I don't see why we shouldn't do business," he said slowly, "and maybe
I know a few things you don't."  He paused again.  It was better to
start slowly.  "I had no briefing from Mr. Gibson, you understand.
That was to have occurred up here.  He only told me that he was being
followed, and intimated that he was in danger.  He didn't want us to be
seen together."

"So right," Mr. Moto said.  "Yes, so very right."

He did not blame Mr. Moto for looking discouraged.  It was time to
hurry on and show that he had some value.

"Still Mr. Gibson sent us back a few facts," Jack Rhyce went on.  "This
man, Big Ben, has been meeting a Russian agent named Skirov at
intervals.  Do you know this Skirov?"

Mr. Moto's features sharpened.

"Not prewar," he said, "an _aprs guerre_ Russian, very well trained,
and very dangerous, Mr. Rhyce.  I'm sorry we have not seen him, but I
believe he had been in Japan."

"We rate him above this Big Ben," Jack Rhyce said.  "Skirov has a very
high priority back in our home office."

"He is very well trained," Mr. Moto said, "a man of great potentials.
We have tried very hard to find him."

"This Big Ben might lead him to us," Jack Rhyce said.

"Yes," Mr. Moto answered.  "Why are you smiling, Mr. Rhyce?"

"About this Skirov," Jack Rhyce said.  "I've never seen him, but we
have a photograph and an accurate description.  It might amuse you to
know that when I found you up there in our room I had a hunch for a few
minutes that you might be Skirov."

Mr. Moto smiled politely, but Jack Rhyce thought that he was startled.

"So funny how often people confuse things when they get fixed ideas,"
Mr. Moto said.  "That was my difficulty with you, Mr. Rhyce.  I had
such very fixed ideas.  What other information did Mr. Gibson send back
home?"

"This meeting between Skirov and Big Ben," Jack Rhyce said, "Bill
Gibson believed that there was one coming up, and there was something
so important about it that he was upset.  He had learned something new,
but he did not have time to tell me in Tokyo, and he can't tell us now."

Mr. Moto lighted another cigarette.  "I think I will have another cup
of wine," he said.  "Perhaps I know somewhat more than you about what
was troubling Mr. Gibson.  I am sorry, of course, that you do not know
your apparatus here.  It is a deep disappointment to me.  I was hoping
we could have profitable exchange of facts."

"You mean you won't tell me any more because you don't think I know
anything worth while?  Is that it?" Jack Rhyce asked.

"Yes," Mr. Moto said, "so sorry, Mr. Rhyce."

Jack Rhyce allowed a few moments to elapse before he spoke.  It was
clearer than ever to him that he could achieve nothing unless he had
co-operation.  There was still a risk, but it was a necessary one.

"Okay," he said.  "Suppose I told you I've found Big Ben.  Suppose I
could say that I could finger him for you ... then would you tell me
what you think was on my boss's mind?"  He had not anticipated the full
effect of what he had said.  The Japanese gave a violent start before
he could conceal his excitement.

"How very nice," Mr. Moto said.  "You mean he's here in Japan now?  I
am so anxious for your answer, Mr. Rhyce."

Jack paused again.  Now that they each had something that the other
wanted he was certain that they could do business.

"You tell me what Big Ben and this Skirov are going to do," he said,
"and I'll tell you who this Big Ben is.  Is it a deal?"

"Oh, yes," Mr. Moto said, and there was no doubt that they would do
business.  "This Russian Skirov, do you know him?"

"I know all about him," Jack Rhyce said.

"Oh, yes," Mr. Moto said.  "You were in Moscow in 1946, and you speak
Russian very nicely, do you not?  You made a remark to Mr. Molotov in
1946.  You said all men are brothers."

Jack Rhyce winced at Mr. Moto's words.  It was growing clearer every
minute why Mr. Moto should have confused him with Big Ben.

"Just how the hell did you know that?" he asked.

Mr. Moto's hand fluttered to the lapel of his coat, and his fingers
moved softly over the cloth.

"From a Chinese friend," he said.  "We still have a few contacts.  We
have to know what is happening, as best we can.  Poor Japan."

Jack Rhyce still spoke deliberately.  The value of time was different
in the East from what it was in the West, and it was never wise to be
overeager.

"I'm not so sorry for poor Japan as I was before I met you," he said.
"What is it that's so important about this Skirov meeting?"

A slight shifting of Mr. Moto's glance showed that he did not know all
the answers either.

"We are still trying to discover," Mr. Moto said.  "As you know
yourself, it is hard to break the Communist security.  The date is
three days off.  I'm so afraid that Mr. Gibson knew, or he would still
be living.  Our present information is that they are planning some coup
that would have serious political repercussions that would adversely
affect your country, I am afraid."

Jack Rhyce took his delicate porcelain wine cup from the table.  He
sipped the warm wine very slowly.

"You mean some sort of revolution?" he asked.

He knew that the question was not so preposterous as it sounded,
because in the past there had been political upheavals in Japan, as
sudden and violent as the island earthquakes.

"No," Mr. Moto said, "not Communist revolution.  The picture is not yet
set for that, but something that will cause popular disturbance,
something that we think would be anti-American."  He paused and laughed
in the apologetic way of his countrymen when they were about to impart
bad news.  "I think there will be political murder, Mr. Rhyce, and
afterwards public demonstrations."

There was sense in everything that was said.  Political assassination,
like public suicide, had often been an instrument of Japanese policy.
One only had to turn the clock back as far as 1936 to recall the
killings by the army clique.

"Who's going to get murdered?" Jack Rhyce asked.

"We hope to find out," Mr. Moto said.  "It would be a murder, if I may
venture to guess, that would be ascribed to United States imperialism;
one of a liberal politician; but we do not know whom.  But we do think
we know the date--three days from now."

Bill Gibson must have known the date as well.  Jack Rhyce was trying to
put together again the details of that hurried call on the day of their
arrival, the battered Chevrolet with the Beretta in the glove
compartment, and to connect them with his visit to the Asia Friendship
League.

"Do you know a man named Mr. Harry Pender," Jack Rhyce said, "who is
heading the Asia Friendship League now?  He was transferred recently
from Cambodia, I think."

Mr. Moto raised his eyebrows.

"I know," he said.  "You spent the day with Mr. Pender before you drove
here, Mr. Rhyce."

"That's right," Jack Rhyce said.  "Have you any information on him?"

"He is a very naughty man," Mr. Moto said.  "His alias is Harry Wise.
Hank is his cover name in the apparatus.  Does that mean anything to
you, Mr. Rhyce?"

Jack Rhyce nodded.  The truth was that the name meant quite a lot.

"Washington must know him," Mr. Moto said, "if even our little Bureau
knows him.  What is it you say in the United States?  They have been
moving their first team in here, in the last two weeks.  But now I wish
to hear from you.  Where is Big Ben, Mr. Rhyce?"

"Haven't you guessed?" Jack Rhyce said.  "You said I was singing that
_Red Mill_ song in the bar.  He was right there with me, and you saw us
do that dance together."

Mr. Moto was on his feet before Jack Rhyce had finished.

"Back at the hotel?" he spoke almost in a whisper.  "Describe him,
please."

"Flight engineer on an American airline.  You saw us dancing side by
side," Jack Rhyce said.  "Six feet four.  Weight about two-thirty,
sandy hair, bushy eyebrows.  Expression affable.  In theater business I
think, and loves to sing.  Favorite tune, _The Red Mill_."

Mr. Moto slapped his hand against his forehead.  "Oh, dear me," he
said.  "Oh, yes, I saw you."

"Well, that's the thumbnail sketch," Jack Rhyce said.  "Does he ring
any bell with you, Mr. Moto?"

"Oh, dear me," Mr. Moto said.  "Excuse me, I'm so sorry, Mr. Rhyce.
This is very serious.  I've been so very stupid.  We must leave here
right away."

"Well," Jack Rhyce said, "I'm glad it rings a bell with you."

"Ha-ha," Mr. Moto said, "yes, it rings a bell.  Yes, I shall recognize
him, Mr. Rhyce, because he was the one who fingered you, as they say it
in the United States."

"How's that again?" Jack Rhyce asked, and he was also on his feet.

"Ha-ha!" Mr. Moto said.  "It would be funny if I were not so ashamed.
He said he was United States Intelligence, last night, after you sang
the song, and he was so very, very nice.  He told me you were Big Ben,
Mr. Rhyce."

Momentarily Jack Rhyce must have looked as surprised as Mr. Moto had,
but he regained his composure immediately.

"But when you saw us both together," he said, "and when he spoke to you
afterwards, it must at least have crossed your mind, didn't it, that he
could have been Big Ben?  He answered the description too, didn't he?"

Mr. Moto eyed him solemnly and nodded in slow agreement.

"Yes," he said.  "Oh, yes, it crossed my mind.  I can make no good
excuse for my very great carelessness, except that I was so sure of you
already; but I might say one thing more--if you will excuse it, Mr.
Rhyce."

"I'll excuse it; I'm still curious," Jack Rhyce said.

Mr. Moto hesitated as though he did not like what he was about to say.

"Excuse me, please," he said.  "When in the bar I only felt the more
sure I was right in selecting you.  You were so much more intelligent,
so much more of a trained agent, Mr. Rhyce, so much more
dangerous--while he, if you will excuse me, was so immature, so
harmless, so like so many of your government officials, Mr. Rhyce.  I
believed there was no doubt, but please believe I was astute enough to
recognize my error when you took my man's gun away.  You would have
begun shooting, not have waited to talk, if you had been Big Ben."

Jack Rhyce laughed shortly.  There was no time to continue with
post-mortems.

"That shows he's smarter than I am," he said.

Never to underestimate the methods of an adversary was a motto of the
business.  Never to think with pain of what he had done to you, but to
try immediately to figure what you could do to him in return.  The best
way to achieve this last result was to put yourself in his place, and
to think like him and not like yourself.  Although everyone was
fallible, Jack Rhyce could not believe that he had been wrong in his
more basic ideas.  Big Ben's move had been inordinately clever, but it
was not the time to dwell on the measure of his cleverness.  It was
time to put oneself inside Big Ben's mind to see why he had done it,
and to estimate what he had won and lost.

Had he learned through some fluke who the couple in Cozy Nook were, and
had he taken that method to knock them out of the game?  This was still
unbelievable in Jack Rhyce's judgment.  The nature of the murder
disputed the possibility and so did all of Big Ben's subsequent
behavior.  Life had made Jack Rhyce enough of a cynic so that he was
positive that he could detect sincerity.  Big Ben had shown no
professional interest in them while they had been in the bar, but
something had occurred later to cause a change, and Jack Rhyce believed
he knew exactly what the circumstance had been.  Mr. Moto must have
entered the bar while they were singing, and Big Ben's glance must have
picked out the face in the crowd and instantly have identified it.  Mr.
Moto had been the one who spelled danger, and the improvisation that
Big Ben had conceived, though brilliant, also had a touch of
desperation in it.  It was the red herring across the trail, the smoke
screen that permitted escape.  The idea must have come to Big Ben while
each was following the other in that ludicrous soft-shoe dance.

The truth was that the sight of Mr. Moto must have come to Big Ben as a
stunning shock.  He knew who Mr. Moto was.  He also must have known
that the Japanese were on the lookout for him and had doubtless
obtained some sort of description.  In fact, Big Ben's mind probably
had moved further.  He must have suspected that Mr. Moto had come to
the hotel to make contact with Bill Gibson, the American agent.  While
they were still doing that soft-shoe dance Big Ben must have been
fairly certain that Mr. Moto would visit Chrysanthemum Rest, if he had
not done so already.  Mr. Moto, as a secret agent, would know that it
was murder.  Already, in fact, Mr. Moto might be looking for the
murderer.  It was no wonder that Big Ben had been obliged to move
quickly.

"I think we'd better leave," Mr. Moto said.  "You can continue thinking
while we're moving, Mr. Rhyce."

"All right," Jack Rhyce said; "but let's get our lines straight first.
You saw us go into that cottage.  You were watching us all evening.
Right?"

"Yes," Mr. Moto said, "watching carefully."

"Then you went into the cottage yourself," Jack Rhyce said.  "Right?"

"Yes," Mr. Moto said, "so very right."

"When did you get to the bar?"

"When you and he were dancing," Mr. Moto said.

"And after I left, what happened?"

"He walked over to me," Mr. Moto said.  "He asked me if I were looking
for Big Ben."

"So he knew who you were," Jack Rhyce said.  "He'll be halfway to Tokyo
by now.  He was frightened when he saw you or he wouldn't have thought
so fast.  Frightened people are the ones who think the fastest.  Have
you ever noticed that?"

"Yes," Mr. Moto said.  "I am thinking you are unusually intelligent,
Mr. Rhyce."

"Thanks," Jack Rhyce said, "but let's remember one thing more.  He was
startled when he saw you.  That means he hadn't seen you earlier.  Do
you agree?"

A shadow of doubt crossed Mr. Moto's face, and he shook his head.

"I don't agree," he said.  "It might also be he knew I was following
you all the time.  Both you and he are such very clever men."

It occurred to Jack that ironically enough both their lines of thinking
were academically correct, even though one must be right and the other
wrong.

"I think you presuppose too much," Jack Rhyce said.  "He's good, but
everyone has failings.  Don't forget, he had a lot on his mind last
night.  I don't believe he saw you until you were in the bar, because
of one thing my thoughts keep coming back to."

"You are interesting," Mr. Moto said.  "To what do your thoughts go
back?"

"If he had known that Miss Bogart and I were up there to meet Bill
Gibson, he wouldn't have killed him that way.  Don't forget he knew who
you were.  If he had seen you tailing us he would have made some
guesses as to who we were, too.  He didn't know.  He saw you the first
time in the bar."

Mr. Moto nodded, and at least he looked half-convinced.

"He's going to be tougher to catch now, because he knows you're after
him," Jack Rhyce said.  "I suggest that we drive straight back in the
morning, and I'll see Pender first thing Monday, just as though nothing
had happened.  The name is Ben Bushman.  You can check on him at the
hotel and you can find his airline, but you had better let me try
Pender."

"Yes," Mr. Moto said.  "And what is it that Mr. Gibson knew that makes
him dead tonight?  Fortunately we have people working.  I hope in
another day to have the full details."

"And you'll let me know?" Jack Rhyce said.

"Yes," Mr. Moto said, "with pleasure, Mr. Rhyce."

"I'll appreciate it," Jack Rhyce said.  "I know you've got a lot to
keep you busy, but maybe you wouldn't mind walking back with me until
you can point out the hotel."

"Yes," Mr. Moto said, "we should be moving before it grows too light.
There is only one thing more I have to say.  If you'll excuse me, there
may be much trouble."

"Yes," Jack Rhyce answered.  "We'll have to be ready for it."

Mr. Moto hesitated.  He seemed to be considering the happiest way of
phrasing an embarrassing suggestion.

"Then it might be just as well," Mr. Moto said, and his words were
measured, "if you did not tell Miss Bogart what we have been saying."

"I agree with you," Jack Rhyce said.  "She won't be useful here any
longer.  Suppose we send her home on Monday?"

Mr. Moto nodded.

"With so much pleasure," he said.  "She is a very lovely lady.  And now
we should start back."

It was still dark outside when they passed through the gate to the
road, but a refreshing coolness in the air told the hour almost as
accurately as a watch.  In half an hour the sky would begin to lighten
and the stars would disappear.




XVI

"A very lovely dawn," Mr. Moto said.  "In a few moments I shall let you
proceed alone.  A lovely time for a walk if one has difficulty with
sleeping.  That is what I should say to the hall-boy if you should see
him.  Say it in Japanese.  He will be so interested to see you
returning.  He also is in what you call the business, Mr. Rhyce."

The hotel was dark, except for the lights in the corridors and along
the drive.  A path with steps to break the steepest portion of its
ascent led, through a garden of ponds and tiny cascades bordered with
dwarf pines and maple, to the upper terrace.  He walked up the path
carelessly, as though he had been out for a stroll because of inability
to sleep.  The terrace with its chairs and wicker tables was dark,
except for a light shining over the ell marked Cozy Nook.  He was
halfway across the terrace when he saw Ruth Bogart, and he knew she had
been standing in a shadow watching as he walked up the drive.

"Jack," she whispered, but he was only a hotel guest again.

"Why, sweetness," he said, "were you out looking for me?  I only went
out for a little stroll.  I thought you were sound asleep."

She tapped her foot petulantly.

"I wish you'd told me, dear," she answered.  "It did make me frightened
to wake up all alone, and I couldn't find you.  Are you all right?"

"Oh, yes, dear," Jack Rhyce said, "and I'm pretty sleepy now.  It's
only that I do wake up in the middle of the night sometimes, and I
don't believe in these sleeping pills after what I've read about them.
Instead, I go out for a walk."

"But where have you been?" she said.  "I couldn't find you anywhere."

"Oh, just down the road a piece," he said.  "It's lovely country here,
and such a clear starlight night."

"You honestly should have told me," she said.  "It was mean of you to
make me frightened, dear."

"I'm sorry," he said.  "But let's forget about it now, and sneak
upstairs to old Cozy Nook, or else people will think we've had a
quarrel or something."

"We really will have a quarrel," she said, "if you walk out on me
again."

They had said enough to explain themselves to anyone who might have
been listening, and now they walked carefully up the stairs of the Cozy
Nook ell without another word until they were back inside their room.
From the way she clung to him he knew she had been afraid for him.  It
all went to show how unwise it was for two people in the business to
become emotionally involved.  Instead of planning objectively, his
concern for her threatened to throw other factors out of balance, but
there was nothing he could do about it, except to feel more convinced
than ever that she must be kept free from involvement.  It was no place
for her, and the Chief should never have sent her out.  Although they
were talking in whispers, they might as well have been speaking out
loud.

"What's the matter, Jack?" she asked.

It was a woman's question.  They always knew when something was the
matter.

"It's all right," he answered.  "There wasn't any trouble."

"You made them believe you?" she asked.

"Oh, yes," he answered.

"Did you have to tell them who we were?"

"Oh, I had to tell them this and that," he said.

"But exactly what did you tell them?"

"Oh, this and that," he answered.

"Jack," she said, "did you find out what Bill Gibson knew?"

"No," he answered, "not exactly."

"Jack," she whispered, "you're not being fair.  Why aren't you telling
me the truth?"

"You ought to know why," he answered: "because from now on it's safer
to keep you in the dark."

"I don't care whether it's safe or not," she said.  "I want to stay in
this with you."

It was bad soap opera, but although he was intellectually aware of it,
he was moved by her wish.  That was the trouble with being emotionally
involved.

"Thanks," he answered, "but the thing's moved far enough so that you're
not necessary on the job here any more.  I want you to be back in
Washington ready to meet me at the airport when I get there.  It would
be common sense even if I had not lost my head about you, Ruth."

Yet he could not be sure that he was right.  If he had not cared about
her, it was possible that he might have still thought of her as useful.
Anyone as attractive as she, and as good an operator, always did have
uses.

"This shouldn't have happened with you and me," he said.  "It was all a
great mistake--professionally speaking, Ruth."

"I don't know," she said, "and I don't care.  Anyway, I'm not going
back.  You're going to want me around when you know what I know."

"It's got to be awfully good," he said.

"It is," she answered.  "I know how to get Big Ben, and it's got to be
me, and nobody else.  You were right.  He's fallen for me, flat on his
face.  Now what do you think of that?"

In the realm of Intelligence the first rule was never to underestimate
any individual, but as events developed, another rule crept in--never
to overestimate him, either.  Everyone had his weaknesses.  _The Red
Mill_ was a weakness, and in Intelligence a woman always--or almost
always--made her appearance eventually.  That was the reason for the
Mata Haris.  They were always there for some useful, though seldom
proper, purpose.  They were the ones who finally caught the best ones
out.  At any time any man might become a fool about a woman.

"You mean you've seen our boy again?" he asked.

It was dark, and they were whispering, but still she was able to giggle
in that annoying way that she used so well as cover.

"Am I going home on the first plane out?" she asked.

"Go ahead," he answered, "and tell me about our boy."

"My boy," she answered.  "And he's pretty cute in some ways,
too--wistful.  You're not mad at me, are you?  It was all done in a
business way, and you've been pretty businesslike, yourself."

"I've had to be," he said.  "I'm not able to move from one thing to
another indefinitely."

She giggled noiselessly again.

"That's why you need a girl along," she said.  "You must be awful in a
man's world, Jack, thinking clearly and cutting down everybody by the
numbers."

"Go ahead and tell me about our boy--I mean your boy," he said.

"Well, he was kind of sweet," she answered.  "You see it was this way.
After you left with those people I didn't know exactly what to do.  I
know you told me to stay right here, but I couldn't help being upset,
considering.  We shouldn't let our emotions get involved, should we?"

"No," he said, "we shouldn't."

"Anyway," she said, "I felt I had to do something, and so I went
downstairs, and outdoors and out to the driveway, and who do you think
I saw?"

"All right," he said.  "You got out on the driveway and you saw Big
Ben.  What was he doing?"

"He had come out of the hotel with one of those big army Val-paks," she
said.  "He was putting it in the back of a car."

"It was a dark green Chevrolet coupe with a dented fender, wasn't it?"
he asked.

"Yes," she said.  "Naturally."

"They haven't got much of a car pool, have they?" he said.  "But then,
they didn't know that we'd spotted it.  Was he in a hurry?"

"No, he was perfectly natural," she said.  "That's one thing you can
say about him.  He's always natural.  I didn't think we ought to let
him go away like that, so I walked out into the driveway and said
hello."

"Was he surprised?  How did he act?" he asked.

"Natural," she said.  "He didn't seem surprised at all.  He said, 'Why,
hi, there.  Are you out looking for the boy friend?'  And I said, 'Yes.
A sort of funny thing happened.  A Japanese knocked on the door awhile
ago and asked him to step out for a minute, and he hasn't come back,
and I'm wondering where he is.'"

If he had planned it he couldn't have given her better lines.  She had
said all the right things, and she knew her business.

"He laughed," she went on.  "He said, 'It was only a little joke I
played, honey, and I'm hell on jokes.  He'll be coming back all right.
Why, I was just coming up to knock on your door myself, as soon as I'd
stowed this bag.'"

Putting oneself inside Big Ben's mind, it was barely possible that he
had been amused by the collegiate quality of the episode.  Big men were
more apt to be practical jokers than smaller ones.  It was just as
serious to overestimate as to underestimate.

"I asked him if he honestly meant that he had got you out of the way on
purpose," she said, "and he said, 'It was just a kind of a gag.  But
I'm crazy about you, honey, and what you need is a real man, honey, and
not one of those do-gooders who talks like a greeting-card salesman.'
How do you like that one, darling?"

"I don't like it," he answered, "but it was the way I've tried to talk.
What did you tell him then?"

"What did you expect?" she asked.  "I said I was beginning to like him,
too, and I said that you were always so prim and proper, and that I
liked people with a real sense of humor.  I said I wished he wasn't
checking out and leaving so soon.  I had to say something, didn't I,
Jack?  That's what I'm here for, isn't it?"

"Yes," he said, "I guess you're right about that one, Ruth."

"You see," she said, "he liked me.  In fact, he liked me so much that
he forgot one or two things.  It was important to play up to him,
wasn't it?"

"Yes," he said.  "How much did you play up?"

"Oh, not so very much," she said.  "But never mind it, Jack.  Only,
when he held me in his arms I kept thinking of Bill Gibson, and
wondering where you were.  It was damned unpleasant, Jack.  And if you
want to know, I'm pretty tired of sex tonight."

It helped him only a little to tell himself that of course she had to
do what she had done, and that he had to view the whole business as
objectively useful.

"For just a second I thought he was going to take his bag out of that
Chevrolet and stay," she said.  "But he didn't."

"Not even when you asked him?" he asked her.

"Right," she said, "not even when I asked him.  And if I may say so, I
sounded awfully good.  He honestly did want to stay, but there was
something that made him know he had to go in a hurry.  He kept saying,
'Gosh, I wish it wasn't fixed so that I had to leave here.'"  She gave
a perfect imitation of his accent.

"Yes," Jack Rhyce said, "but anyway, he went."

"But not immediately," she said.  "He kept saying, 'Gee, I'm crazy
about you, honey.'  He seemed to be trying to make up his mind about
something."

"All right," Jack Rhyce said.  "And then he made up his mind?"

"Yes," she said, "he made it up.  He said, 'Honey, this mustn't be
good-by.  Call me as soon as you get to the city.'  Then he wrote down
a telephone number and gave it to me.  If he wasn't there I was to
leave my name and he'd call me back."

After all, when you were in the business you had to give it everything
you had.

"Good going," he said.  "I can use that number."

"Oh, no, you can't," she said, "because I've torn it up already.
Besides, he'll know my voice.  When you want him, I'm the only one who
can talk to him, Jack--and I guess you want him, don't you?"

"Yes," he said, "I'm going to want him all right."

"Then you've got to keep me around," she said, "and now let's stop
being so businesslike, Jack.  God, I wish we both were on the outside."

They were a long way from the outside, but the desire for escape and
humdrum security formed a tantalizing vision that had an unattainable
quality.

"I'm going to talk to you about being on the outside when we get home,"
he said.

"Let's talk about it now," she said.  "We could have a cabin by a lake
like the people in that book who took to the woods.  I'm a pretty good
cook, and you could fish or make snowshoes or whatever they do in the
woods."

"Yes," he said, "but we'd better talk about it sometime later, not now."

"As a matter of fact, you wouldn't have to do much of anything," she
said.  "I have a pretty good income.  You'd be surprised.  We could
travel and see the pyramids or the Taj, or we could go into the Mau Mau
region."

"No," he said, "I'd rather buy a farm."

"A dairy farm," she said.  "You could put on white overalls and a
juniper every time you milked a cow."

"I can milk a cow, as a matter of fact," he said.

"I wish I could talk you into traveling," she said.  "Only think what
it would be like if you and I went to London, and if we didn't have to
check in anywhere, and didn't have to be startled when we saw one of
those damned familiar faces--if we could just be ourselves, having a
quiet breakfast and reading the papers, without having to watch for
anything, without a single damned compulsion."

"Without having to talk to anyone," he said.  "Without having to find
out anything, even the time of day."

"Without having to look over our shoulders once," she said.

"Without a switch-blade in your handbag, dear," he said; "without a
pill, or anything."

"That reminds me, what happened to my handbag, Jack?"

Her question broke the illusion.  They never should have indulged
themselves with talk about the outside, or with the immature wishes
that such talk engendered.

"Moto has it," he said.  "He'll bring it in the morning.  Look.  It's
getting light already.  We're going to pull out of here first thing
after breakfast."

"Going where?" she asked.

"Back to Tokyo," he said.

"Doing what?"

"Doing just what we did before," he said.  "The Friendship League.  Mr.
Harry Pender, all that sort of thing."

"Aren't you going to tell me anything?" she asked.

"No," he said.  "What you don't know won't hurt you."

"You've found out something, haven't you?" she asked.

"Never mind," he said.  "What you don't know won't hurt you, Ruth."

"Is it as tough as all that?"

"Never mind," he said.

"I don't," she said, "as long as it means you like me."

"That's the trouble," he said.  "I like you."

"I won't be any trouble, Jack," she said.  "I'll promise you I won't."

"I know you won't," he said.

"Then let's talk about the outside some more," she said.  "There are
all sorts of things I'd like to tell you--about when I was a girl at
school, about parties, about all sorts of things.  Jack, it's time we
got to know each other in an outside way."

"I know," he said.  "Later--there isn't time right now."

There was never time to think about yourself when you were in the
business.  Externals kept crowding in, each offering its own insistent
problem.  He wished to heaven he could keep her out of it, but it was
too late now, after what she had told him.  You had to move forward.
You never could move back, and outside it was daylight, and the first
birds were singing.  Bill Gibson was dead in Chrysanthemum Rest--an
overdose of sleeping pills--but still the show had to go on.  He would
have known better what to do if he had only known what Bill Gibson had
been prepared to tell him.  Yet even without that knowledge the picture
was growing clearer.  Time was all that was needed.  He wished that he
did not have the feeling that time was running out.




XVII

Jack Rhyce knew a great many stories about the business; and all of
them, when one delved beneath their surfaces, had one thing in
common--a universal element of simplicity.  After all, the framework of
an apparatus could not be complex, if only because too many links and
convolutions threatened confusion, and Communist techniques ordinarily
left their own dreary signatures.  Consequently, later, whenever Jack
Rhyce reviewed his procedures in Japan he was not surprised to find how
little there was about them that was bizarre or even interesting.  A
series of coincidences had given him a lucky break, although the break
had been complicated by the killing.  There was also the mistake in
identity that had arisen between himself and the Japanese element in
the picture, which fortunately had been rectified.  Aside from these
complexities, the picture was like any one of dozens of others that
kept repeating themselves in various parts of the world.  Any trained
agent, Jack Rhyce knew well, could have achieved the final results that
he did.  As soon as he had made contact with the Japanese, the lines
all began to untangle.  It was only the old story of infiltration and
cover.  As soon as he had spotted Mr. Pender and the Pen Pal room in
the Asia Friendship office, most of the rest began to be routine.
There was only one unknown element that made him apprehensive, and this
lay in Mr. Moto's remarks about political assassination.  The balance
of everything in the Orient was precarious.  It was his duty to learn
more, especially if it would have anti-American repercussions.  The
Japanese had their own network of agents and, as Mr. Moto had said,
they doubtless would turn up facts.  However, there was every reason
for him to do some thinking of his own.


After they returned to the Imperial Hotel on Sunday afternoon, he left
Ruth Bogart in her room.  The less she knew, the better off she was.
He told her to sit quietly and to read a good book, but not to leave
the room in case he telephoned.  He and Mr. Moto left the hotel
together in the Buick.  He was the foreigner again who needed a guide,
and if anyone was listening, they had only heard him ask to be taken to
the Mei-ji Museum.  They talked while Mr. Moto drove expertly through
the traffic.  Although the ride was a short one, they were able to say
a good deal by the time they had parked the car in front of the
conventional European building that housed the pictures illustrating
the reign of Japan's greatest Emperor.  The hour was late enough so
that the place was closed, but under the circumstances, it was all the
better.

"I know the guardians," Mr. Moto said.  "They will put on the lights,
and while I telephone you may enjoy the pictures.  I think I can do
everything from here very safely."

It was only a question of Moto's getting the latest news, which was the
province of the Japanese, not that of Rhyce, and so Jack walked alone
up the great marble staircase to the two great galleries.  Granted that
the pictures themselves had little individual artistic merit, together
they made a panorama that illustrated one of the most dramatic life
spans in history.  The Emperor Mei-ji had been born and had spent his
childhood and youth in a feudal Japan, insulated from the world.  The
Emperor had been a figurehead in those days, under the rule of the
great Tokugawa lords.  The early scenes of his birth and coronation
showed the rituals of a country which had hardly changed since its
cultural contacts with the Tang dynasty in China.  It was the
appearance of the American Navy in the early 1850's that had finally
awakened the nation's latent instinct for survival.  There were the
pictures of the Emperor arriving in Tokyo to establish his rule in the
Tokugawa fortress, scenes of war and of incipient rebellion, and the
strangely touching painting of the Emperor's mission departing on
foreign ships to study the civilization and customs of the West.  There
was the Emperor drilling his troops in the European manner; there was
the war with China, the war with Russia, the European costumes and
uniforms, the Europeanized Japanese Navy, the annexation of Korea; and
finally the crowd at the moat by the black wall of the Tokyo fortress
lamenting the Emperor's death in 1912.  If the current of time had run
more swiftly since that year, nothing, not even the atom bomb at
Hiroshima, had presented a greater succession of contrast; for in the
Emperor's lifetime, a nation with smaller resources, more backward and
seemingly less adaptable than China, had become a modern state and a
world power, and its future was still implicit in the pictures.  He
must have examined these for more than half an hour before Mr. Moto
joined him.

"You understand them, do you not?" Mr. Moto said.  "They are our Bayeux
tapestry.  Poor Japan."

He had not thought of comparing the pictures with the tapestry of the
Norman ships embarking their horses and their chain-mailed soldiers,
with their steel helmets and nose protectors, for the battle of
Britain, but it was not a bad comparison.  Under the rule of the
Emperor, Japan had gone through many crises as great as Hastings, and
the story was not over yet.

"Skirov is believed to be here, but cannot be traced," Mr. Moto said.
"There is much activity.  Large quantities of banners have been made
already saying 'Down with American Imperialism' and 'Avenge the
People's Martyr.'  Communists are always so well organized for
demonstrations."

In view of what he had seen in other parts of the world, the news was
normal and not surprising.  The Rosenbergs not so long ago had been the
people's martyrs.

"We will have more definite news by tomorrow, I hope," Mr. Moto said.
"Some of our best people are working tonight.  I shall be out myself.
I should also tell you that they have found the lodging of your Mr.
Ben, but he has not returned."

"Miss Bogart can get him if necessary," Jack Rhyce said.

Mr. Moto shook his head slowly.  "It will not be necessary," he said,
"if he is not hiding."

"You can reach me at the hotel tonight," Jack Rhyce said, "and tomorrow
at ten-thirty I will be there at the Friendship League, talking to Mr.
Pender."

They did not speak as they walked down the marble staircase.  After
all, the business was routine, and the only question to be answered
concerned the reason for the meeting of Skirov and Big Ben.

"I'll drive you to the hotel," Mr. Moto said.  "It will look better."

They did not speak again until they were in the Buick, but both of them
were thinking.

"Is it only your idea, or is it straight information," Jack Rhyce
asked, "that there is going to be a killing?"

"There are the signs," Mr. Moto said.  "Our people have seen them.
'Avenge the People's Martyrs.'  They are meant to be out on the
streets, Mr. Rhyce.  They are not being made for nothing."

He had cultivated a deep respect for Communist agitation.  Although the
art was as old as revolution itself, Communist discipline had
streamlined old processes until a mob could now be organized for any
purpose as neatly as a billboard artist could paint a picture.

"Will it be a large demonstration?" he asked.

Mr. Moto nodded.

"Simultaneous outbreaks in different quarters.  The street fighters are
being given special training.  It will be ugly, I am very much afraid,
but not on the largest scale.  It will be another step forward for
Russia.  Poor Japan."

"It's funny, isn't it," Jack Rhyce said, "to know that riots are being
planned, without knowing what's going to set them off?"

"Yes," Mr. Moto said.  "These people understand my country."  He
cleared his throat in a nervous way.  "You do not, perhaps, remember
the army officers' uprising in 1936 which cost the lives of so many
very nice people in the government?  A very unpleasant time.  Ha-ha.
So many of us were so busy.  A great deal can be accomplished by
assassination."

"Depending on whom you assassinate," Jack Rhyce said.

"Exactly," Mr. Moto said.  "I am afraid they will pick out someone very
good."

"From the slogans on the banners," Jack Rhyce said, "it sounds as
though they were going to take out a left-wing Liberal."

"Yes," Mr. Moto said; "yes, I think."

"Can you name some prospects?" Jack Rhyce asked.

"Oh, yes," Mr. Moto said, "there are several possibilities.  Eight,
perhaps ten I have considered.  I wish so very much your Mr. Gibson
were alive.  Are you sure you only know him and no one else in his
apparatus?"

"I told you once I didn't," Jack Rhyce said.  "Don't you trust me?"

"Oh, please."  Mr. Moto drew in his breath carefully.  "Yes, as much as
you trust me, I'm very much afraid."

"I'm working with you," Jack Rhyce said.  "As long as we both want the
same thing we can keep our cards face-up."

"I am not anti-American," Mr. Moto said.  "I hope so very much that you
are not anti-Japanese, Mr. Rhyce."

"Not at the minute," Jack Rhyce said.  "I'm anti-Communist right now."

Mr. Moto drew in his breath again very carefully.

"Americans are so very nice, but sentimental sometimes.  May I ask what
you intend to do about this Big Ben?"

"It depends on what he's up to," Jack Rhyce answered.

Mr. Moto cleared his throat and sucked in another breath.

"Would you object," Mr. Moto asked, "if my people were to question him?"

"Not if it's necessary," Jack Rhyce said, "but I'd rather have him
followed.  He can lead us to what we want just as easily that way as by
our going to work on him."

"Ha-ha," Mr. Moto said.  "Americans are always so very sentimental when
they are not using flame-throwers and napalm.  Ha-ha.  Excuse me.  If
we cannot trace him tonight, I am very much afraid we should use Miss
Bogart to find him."

"All right," Jack Rhyce said.  "You can use your own judgment.  Maybe
we shouldn't leave him loose too long."

"Thank you," Mr. Moto said.  "I am so very pleased that you trust me a
little, Mr. Rhyce."

"Oh, I do," Jack Rhyce said, "maybe quite a little."

There was not much more to say.

"From now on," Mr. Moto said, "there will be a car and driver in your
name, outside of your hotel.  He will take you to me at any hour.  I am
so sorry that I am so busy."

"Are you sure you wouldn't like me to go out with you and help?" Jack
Rhyce asked.

"So very sure," Mr. Moto answered quickly.  "You would only be
conspicuous, Mr. Rhyce.  And please take care of Miss Bogart.  She may
be so very useful tomorrow.  You understand?"

Jack Rhyce nodded.  It was easy enough to understand when everything
was lapsing into ordinary routine.  Emotion had no value in the
business.  He and Mr. Moto and Big Ben were all expendable pieces on
the squares of Intelligence.  Jack Rhyce was glad to discover that his
momentary desire for vengeance on Big Ben had almost evaporated.  As
matters had turned out, Big Ben was common property now, and after
hearing Mr. Moto speak it was difficult to be under much illusion
regarding Big Ben's future.  The net was around him, and a European was
too conspicuous in the Orient to hide for very long.  The number of Big
Ben was nearly up.  Ben was paying the price of stupidity.  That was
the only way Jack could assess Ben's having given the telephone number
to Ruth Bogart.


She was sitting quietly in her room when he returned, and the adjoining
door was open.

"Is everything all right?" he asked.

"Yes," she answered.  "Everything's very dull.  Have they picked up Big
Ben?"

"No, not yet," he told her.

She smiled at him.

"Isn't it lucky that I'm here?" she said.  "Do you want me to try that
number?"

"No," he said, "not yet."

"Then suppose I put on an evening dress and we go out for dinner," she
said.

"Only in the hotel," he answered.  "I don't want us to be buzzing
around too much right now."


He arrived at the Asia Friendship League offices at half-past ten next
morning to find that Mr. Harry Pender was already seated in his private
office wearing a fresh Aloha shirt.  The light from the window glinted
cheerfully on his spectacles as he waved a welcoming hand.

"Come in, Jack," he said.  "Come in.  Are you ready to pick my brains?"

"I'm all set and raring to go, Harry," Jack Rhyce said, "if you
honestly have time to give me some more fill-in on the League picture."

"Why, all the time in the world, Jack," Mr. Pender said.  "Sit down.
Have a cigarette?"

"No, thanks.  I never use them, Harry," Jack Rhyce said, and he seated
himself in a comfortable, modernistic chair.

He was embarrassed that he had not placed Harry Pender until Mr. Moto
had explained him, but after all, he had only seen the face in a group
photograph, and never in the flesh.  Very little doubt remained with
Jack Rhyce now.  The man before him was certainly the individual who
was known as Harry Wise and who had recently been placed on the
doubtful list at the office, a former American college instructor who
had been holding a Communist card since the late 1930'$, but with no
definite record of activity.  He looked older than his photograph as
Jack recalled it, and since he had not been heard from, he must have
been behind the Curtain for some time.  Conceivably he had been one of
the Americans in Chinese prison camps who had been mentioned by
American war prisoners; conceivably he had been one of the Europeans
who had been mentioned in connection with the germ warfare accusations.
It was a pity to be so far away from source material.

"It sure is nice to see you safe back from that place," Harry Pender
said.  "I see in the Japan _Times_ that one of our fellow countrymen
took too many sleeping pills up there.  I hope it didn't spoil your
fun."

"Oh, there was a little mix-up with the Japanese authorities," Jack
Rhyce said, "but it didn't amount to anything.  You see, we left
yesterday morning and drove around seeing the sights.  I sort of wanted
to get oriented a little--you know, get the feel of the country."

"That's a very wise thing to do," Harry Pender said.  "A first
impression has a lot of value.  You know what people say--either spend
ten days or ten years.  By the way, where's our girl friend?  Ruth
Bogart, I mean."

"She's back at the hotel," Jack Rhyce answered.  The question had
indicated an unnecessary curiosity.  "She wasn't feeling so well this
morning, a little Japanese stomach, but nothing serious."

"Too bad," Mr. Pender said.  "I hope you've given her something for it.
Do you want me to send one of my girls over?"

"Oh, no," Jack answered.  "She's going to be all right.  I just told
her to take it easy.  Well, let's get down to business.  I hope I told
you emphatically enough the other day, Harry, how impressed I was with
your whole layout here, and all the fine things you're doing.  I want
to read up on all the social studies you're making--every one of them."

Harry Pender took off his horn-rimmed spectacles and held them between
his thumb and middle finger.

"Don't read too much, Jack," he said, "or you won't see the forest for
the trees."

"I know exactly what you mean, Harry," Jack Rhyce said.  "But gosh,
I've got to begin somewhere.  Everything can't be as smooth sailing as
it looks around here, Harry.  You must have some pretty big policy
problems."

Mr. Pender allowed his glasses to swing like a pendulum between his
fingers.  He raised his eyebrows inquiringly.

"I mean, for instance," Jack Rhyce said, "problems of personnel.  You
were mentioning this on Friday, I think."

"Oh," Harry Pender said, "of course every office has its turnover.  It
takes time making selections, but on the whole, we have a fine team all
the way down the line."

"Oh, I never meant to say you didn't," Jack said quickly.  "I was just
wondering, well, whether you had any trouble with Communists or
anything like that."  He had intended to bring out the subject with
flat-footed innocence, and from the tolerant way Mr. Pender laughed, he
was rather sure he had.

"Excuse me for laughing, Jack," Harry Pender said, "but that question
of yours is completely characteristic of the point of view that
everyone brings here from the States.  Rumors become grossly
exaggerated.  Why, there's hardly a Communist in Japan, in the sinister
sense of the word--but you will find varieties of liberals.  From my
observation, democracy has a permanent foothold in Japan."

"Well, it's mighty nice to hear you say so, Harry," Jack Rhyce said.
"It's the sort of reaction I hope to fit in my report.  I'm glad, too,
if there's a healthy liberal party here.  I hope they're interested in
putting social welfare on a sensible scientific basis."

He watched the horn-rimmed spectacles moving in a slow, thoughtful arc,
and he was happy to notice that Mr. Pender was giving him his smiling,
friendly approval.

"You'll find liberalism here in the best sense of the word," he said,
"and the leaders are highly dedicated people.  I want you to get to
know some, Jack.  I want you to get this Communism bias thoroughly
washed out of your hair."

"It's curious," Jack Rhyce said, "how distance distorts facts.  Back in
the States we hardly hear about Japanese Progressives, let alone
learning their names.  Who are some of them, Harry?"

He hoped that his interest appeared fatuously genuine.  Mr. Pender's
thoughtful eyes were fixed on him, but he could not detect a glint of
suspicion or any diminution in the current rapport between them.

"I think we can help you there," Mr. Pender said, "because the League
is just doing a pamphlet on the subject, with thumbnail biographies of
eight or ten of the top-flight liberal politicians.  There's Hata, for
instance, and there's Iwara, and Yamashita and Nichiwara.  I'll be
delighted to show you the copy we're preparing."

"Gosh, Harry," Jack Rhyce said, "I'd sure like to see it.  Who's the
best of them, would you say?"

"Oh," Harry Pender said, and as far as Jack Rhyce could see, he was
taking the question casually, "every one of them has quite a following,
but Hata is head and shoulders above the rest.  Noshimura Hata.  I'll
see that you meet him sometime."

"Can you arrange it?" Jack Rhyce asked.  "It would be a real pleasure
if you could, provided he lives around here."

"He does, as a matter of fact," Harry Pender said, "in an attractive
house with a beautiful garden.  His collection of dwarf trees is very
widely known."

"I didn't know liberal intellectuals had large homes and gardens," Jack
said.

"Hata is an educated liberal," Harry Pender answered.  The swing of the
spectacles in his fingers accelerated slightly.  "An Oxford graduate, a
member of a wealthy family, and a philanthropist."

"Oh," Jack Rhyce said, "then he can speak English, can't he?"

Granted that he had picked up the information he had wanted, had the
cost been too great?  Perhaps he should not have pursued the subject so
long after the name of Noshimura Hata had been mentioned, and yet there
had been the danger of dropping the thing too suddenly.

His attention was now riveted on the swinging glasses in the right hand
of Mr. Pender.  There was no doubt that the motion had been
accelerated, and there was always betrayal in unconscious gesture.
Instinct was delivering its message to Jack Rhyce, telling him that a
crucial stage had been reached, the outcome of which depended on the
next few words.  It was time to drop all show of interest, to move on
to something else.

"All you say," Jack Rhyce said, "goes to prove that preconceived
opinions are always off the beam, aren't they?  I had no idea that the
Japanese would be so enthusiastic about sports, for instance.  Now, if
you've got the time, I'd love to hear whether you're dovetailing a good
sports program in with your other projects."

"Sports had a leading priority with us," Harry Pender answered.
"Nothing pulls people together so much as meeting on a playing field.
In fact, I should put sports ahead of any other cultural interchange
when it comes to the promotion of good will..."

At least they were away from liberalism, and embarked on a sea of
verbiage which, to keep the cover right, ought to demand most of the
morning for a crossing.  It was necessary to sit there for an hour or
more mouthing idealistic platitudes, being, as the Chief would say, a
do-gooder in every sense of the word.  Talking with Harry Pender was
both real and unreal.  It was ironic to think that they were each
talking only for the other's benefit.  Did Mr. Pender believe he was
impressing him?  And did his own artificial guilelessness seem real to
Mr. Pender?  He only knew that they both were artists, each concealing
any impatience or boredom he may have felt while they discussed the
Asia Friendship League.

It was quarter of twelve when he ventured to push back his chair.

"Harry," he said, "it's been swell of you to give me so much of your
time.  I have as many ideas packed in my mind as I have reading matter
in my briefcase now.  I guess I'd better take the rest of the day just
sitting in the hotel room boning up on the material."

"It's been a good morning for me, too, Jack," Mr. Pender answered.
"How about a bite of lunch before you start reading reports?  Not more
than five minutes away from here is the best beef sukiyaki restaurant
in the world."

Jack Rhyce picked up his briefcase and endeavored to straighten out the
wrinkles in his seersucker coat.

"There's nothing I'd like better, Harry.  And please give me a
raincheck on that offer," he said.  "But right now I'd honestly better
go back to the hotel and see how Ruth is.  How would lunch tomorrow be,
instead?  Because I'll be right back here tomorrow morning, making a
nuisance of myself with another batch of questions."


She was in her room, reading Terry's _Japanese Empire_.  She looked up
inquiringly when he came in.

"Has anything happened here?" he asked.

"Yes," she said.  "One thing.  Big Ben telephoned."

He tried to forget about her as a person, when she told that news.
Nothing must interfere with the business, and she must have felt the
same way, from the excitement in her eyes.

"What did he want?" he asked.

"He wanted to make a date for five this afternoon," she said.  "I told
him I wasn't sure that I could get away.  I said I'd call back at
three."

"That's my girl," Jack Rhyce said.  "I think the time has come to pick
him up, Ruth.  It's a good thing you're along, all right."

"Thank you, sir," she answered.  "How did you get on with Pender?"

"I wish I knew," he said.  "He worries me a little.  He's in the
business all right.  I think I'd better see the Japs again, right off.
I'll be back in about an hour."

"Aren't you going to cut me in on anything?" she asked.

"Only about Big Ben," he said.  "Don't ask for any more."

"I won't," she told him; "but, Jack--be careful.  Don't be too sure of
yourself."

Frankly, he wished he felt more assured.

He had not been under the hotel porte-cochere for half a minute before
the car and the driver that Mr. Moto had indicated the day before
appeared.  The meeting place was the back room of a curio shop.  Mr.
Moto, still in his blue suit, sat at a table with a telephone in front
of him, drinking a cup of tea.

"No more news than yesterday," he said.  "So sorry."

"I'm sorry, too," Jack answered.

"And how is Mr. Pender?  Did you see him?" Mr. Moto asked.

Jack Rhyce nodded.  "You were right about him," he said.  "We have his
photograph, but he looks ten years older.  He knows a lot about liberal
politicians.  I've been doing some thinking this morning."

"I am so glad to hear it," Mr. Moto said, "and I hope so much that you
will tell me the results."

"We don't seem to know what's going to happen, do we?" Jack Rhyce said.
"You only know that they're making plans for an organized
demonstration, and you guess that there's going to be a political
killing.  We had the same word in Washington.  But it's only a guess,
isn't it?"

"That is true," Mr. Moto said.  "Our people are working, but they have
come on nothing new."

"Then I think we'd better pick up Big Ben," Jack Rhyce said.  "I'm
sorry.  I hate to break up an apparatus."

Mr. Moto nodded.

"No one has seen him," he said.  "He is hiding very carefully."

It was time to tell the news, and time to lay the lines.

"Not so carefully," he said.  "I think maybe we're overrating our boy.
He called up Miss Bogart this morning.  He wants to make a date with
her this afternoon.  She said she wasn't sure that she could do it.
She'll call him back at three."

Mr. Moto stared at the teacup, and his forehead wrinkled and he shook
his head.

"I do not like it," he said.  "It does not sound correct."

"Meaning it doesn't sound like the first team?" Jack said.

Mr. Moto's gold teeth flashed when he answered.

"I am so glad you use the expression," he said.  "I wish that Miss
Bogart would give us the telephone number.  We could have traced it by
this time."

"I told you she wouldn't," Jack Rhyce said, "and I decided not to put
further pressure on her.  The fact is she may be highly useful in
picking up Big Ben, and she was sent over here to be useful.  She'll
call him any time we want."

"She does not want to leave you," Mr. Moto said.  "That is very proper,
Mr. Rhyce, but I do not like it.  I do not like it."

"I agree," Jack Rhyce said.  "A lot of angles in this situation worry
me.  You can trace the number when she calls him.  We may need it if
anything goes wrong, but I don't believe much in tracing numbers."

"May I ask why?" Mr. Moto asked.

"Because it's too obvious," Jack Rhyce said.  "They always use a public
telephone in some public place--a bar or a railroad station."

"If we knew the telephone," Mr. Moto said, "we could be watching and
take him when he makes the call."

"Yes," Jack Rhyce said, "but I don't think our chances would be good.
He's a professional--he would be on the lookout for strangers.  We're
safer to let Miss Bogart call him.  It's better not to be too busy when
we're closing in."

Mr. Moto was silent for a moment.  Then he nodded slowly.

"I think I am inclined to agree with you, Mr. Rhyce," Mr. Moto said.
"I realize that Miss Bogart is a very intelligent girl who has had
training in handling these matters.  I shall call on you at the hotel
at a quarter before three."

"And I'll go along with you later," Jack Rhyce said.  "Trace the call,
then, if you want, but let's catch him where he's waiting for Miss
Bogart.  It will be safer and surer that way.  And I want to be along
when you pick him up--just out of interest, Mr. Moto."




XVIII

Jack Rhyce had played a part in several similar actions in America and
Europe, the details of which seldom varied.  Find your man and keep him
at a given spot.  Get the group distributed.  Have the car ready.
Close in simultaneously from all sides.  This was the one maneuver that
required expert co-ordination and experience.  If properly executed,
there would hardly be a ripple of a struggle.  Often pedestrians ten
feet away did not notice the group around the victim, trussed and
pinioned in the approved style, being half pushed, half carried to the
waiting car.  Even if things did not move quite as planned, a
well-placed blow at the back of the skull could solve the difficulty.
Big Ben was a big man, but he could be handled, given the proper group.
Jack Rhyce was certain that there would be no trouble if he were in the
party.

"Oh," Mr. Moto said, "you do not trust us, Mr. Rhyce?  You will think
differently, I am sure, when you see my people.  Poor men.  They are
not well paid, but they are as neat as your FBI."

The obviousness of the operation was a sufficient explanation as to why
Mr. Moto did not like it, since the use of a woman to lure a man was
among the most shopworn in the sordid bag of tricks which everyone knew
backwards in the business.  Yet it was a trick that worked the most
frequently of them all.  Jack only had to remind himself that he too
had fallen in love with Ruth Bogart freely to accept the motives of Big
Ben.  The repugnance that he felt at having to use her in this
venerable trick only convinced him further of Big Ben's infatuation and
besides, he had seen them on the dance floor.

By the time he and Mr. Moto reached the hotel, the preliminary
preparations were all in hand: the equipment immediately necessary was
packed in Mr. Moto's briefcase.  When Ruth Bogart saw the briefcase she
smiled a thin, Mona Lisa smile.  Jack had never seen her looking
prettier.  The excitement and the exacting demands which would be made
of her in the next few minutes had added to the delicacy of her
features and the luster of her hair.  Even her voice had a new
seductive quality.

"So you boys need me, do you?" she said.  "All right, rig up the
telephone."

When Mr. Moto took out of his briefcase and methodically arranged the
instruments, Jack watched him with approval.  There were right and
wrong procedures in wire tapping, and Mr. Moto knew all the proper ones.

"I suggest that we both listen, Mr. Rhyce," he said, as he handed Jack
Rhyce a pair of earphones of Japanese manufacture.  The Japanese were
able to make anything.

"Are you sure this won't be too big a load?" Jack Rhyce asked.

"Don't be silly, Jack," Ruth Bogart said.  "He knows his stuff."  She
smiled her brightest smile.  "I couldn't have set this up better
myself, and now it is three o'clock, I think.  Perhaps--if you are
ready--I'd better make the call?"

"No," Jack Rhyce said.  "Let him wonder.  Let him sweat it out for ten
minutes."

He never forgot that interval of waiting, or how happy Ruth Bogart
looked.

"Jack," she said, "you're glad I'm along now, aren't you?"

"Yes," he answered, "at the moment, Ruth."

"It's nice to know I'm useful, under the proper circumstances," she
said.  "Maybe that's all any woman wants."

They did not speak for another minute or two, and then Mr. Moto broke
the silence.

"Excuse the question," Mr. Moto said.  "Do you carry a blackjack with
you, Mr. Rhyce?"

"Funny you should ask that," Jack Rhyce answered, "because I was
thinking of it myself.  No, I haven't one with me."

Mr. Moto reached inside his briefcase.

"If you will permit, it will be a pleasure to present you with this
one," he said.  "It may be useful, and ha-ha, it will be easier for you
to reach him, if needed."

Jack balanced the instrument expertly in his hand before he slipped it
into his back pocket.

"Thanks," he said.  "I'll do my best to be neat and clean if necessary."

"I'm sure," Mr. Moto said.  "So very sure you will be.  And now perhaps
Miss Bogart should make the call.  Let us not have the gentleman too
discouraged."

They sat silent while Ruth Bogart gave the number, and there followed,
of course, a moment of suspense until they heard the answering voice.
The connection was very clear.  There was no doubt in the world that it
was Big Ben.

"Gosh, honey," he said, and his voice was plaintive, "I've been settin'
here.  I mighty near thought it was a brush-off."

"Oh, Ben," she said, "I'm sorry, but I couldn't call until I was alone."

"You mean he's back with you?" Big Ben asked.  "Why, honey, I kind of
got the idea he might have left you for good back there in the
mountains.  When did he come back?"

"He said he wasn't able to sleep," Ruth Bogart answered.  "He just said
he went out with some Japanese friends and drank some saki."

"And he's hanging around you now, is he?"

"Ben, don't be that way," she said.  "I told you I was tired of him,
and he's gone now."

"Well, don't forget you're my girl now, honey.  How about say around
six tonight?"

She first glanced questioningly at Mr. Moto.

"Why that would be lovely, Ben," she then said.  "Will you call for me
here at the hotel?"

There was a silence on the other end of the wire.

"Why, honey," he said, "I had some trouble there, last time I was in
Tokyo, and the folks there maybe don't like me too much.  How about
going down to the Ginza and meeting me outside the Cimaroon beer hall?
It's a GI place, honey, with good food and singing and everything.
I'll be waiting by the front entrance, come six o'clock."

"But, Ben dear, I don't know this town."

"I'm going to see personally that you're going to know it and love it
before you're through, honey," he said.  "It's no trouble to get there.
Just you tell the hotel doorman.  Any taxi driver can take you to the
Cimaroon."

"Well, then you be right outside," she said.  "It's spooky alone in a
place where you don't know the language or anything.  Are you sure
you'll be there, Ben dear?"

"Sure as hell isn't freezing.  Just you don't worry.  Take a cab," he
said.

"All right," she said, "but it makes me a little frightened, Ben."

"Aw, now," he said, "there's nothing to be scared of, honey.  Wear
something cute and fluffy.  I only wish it was six already.  Don't
forget--the Cimaroon.  You got it, honey?"

They all had it--the Cimaroon--and the conversation was over, and they
each sat for a moment in a questioning sort of silence.

"How did I do?" she asked.

Jack had been analyzing every pause and change of tone in the speeches.
A voice over the telephone without features or personalities to support
it was a disembodied thing.  Although he had no doubt that the voice
belonged to Big Ben, there was a doubt as to whether it had been wholly
credulous.  In the end, everyone speaking on the telephone always
assumed a new and peculiar personality.  Even Ruth Bogart's voice had
exhibited strain, and the same had been true with Big Ben, but there
had been so little deviation that he could safely attribute it to the
medium of communication.

"You did fine, I think," he said.  "Don't you think so, Moto?"

Mr. Moto was dismantling the wire-tapping device.

"It is not for me to analyze the European mind, but on the whole he
gave me the impression that he wanted so very greatly to see Miss
Bogart."

Mr. Moto snapped his briefcase shut.

"The Cimaroon is a beer hall and night club, frequented by American
soldiers and sailors, a suitable place for him to select," he said.
"It should not be difficult to take him very quickly if he is waiting
on the sidewalk.  I must be leaving now to make arrangements.  The car
and driver will be waiting to take you there, Mr. Rhyce.  May I ask you
to arrive in front of the Cimaroon at half-past five?"

"Let's make it 5:15, if it's all the same with you," Jack said.  "Those
Joes have second thoughts, and get careful and early sometimes.  Once I
had to do a snatch in Paris--one of the first I ever was mixed
with--but never mind it now."

"Thank you," Mr. Moto said.  "I quite agree with 5:15."

"And what about me?" Ruth Bogart asked.  "Am I going with you, or not?"

"Certainly not," Jack Rhyce said quickly.  "There won't be any need,
Ruth."

"If he doesn't see me, he may not show," she said.  "I've known it to
happen, Jack."

As things stood then it seemed safe to discount that possibility.  Jack
was actually experiencing a feeling which was almost one of peace.  As
far as he could see, the Japan assignment was drawing to a close.  If
the ending was not wholly satisfactory, it was effective, and with the
way things were going, they could not beat about the bush forever.  His
main mission had been Big Ben.  He took the blackjack from his hip
pocket, tossed it in the air and caught it, with the same carelessness
he would have caught a baseball on the outside.  It was very nicely
constructed.  The Japanese were always good at detail.

"No, it won't be necessary, Ruth," he said.  "You'll only be in the way
if there's any kind of hassle.  He's a big boy, and he may muss things
up."

"I think Mr. Rhyce is correct," Mr. Moto said.  "I am most grateful to
you, Miss Bogart, and it would be so nice if I could pay you my
respects when this is over.  Perhaps a Japanese supper tonight;
but--ha-ha--not at the Cimaroon, and just with me and Mr. Rhyce.
But--ha-ha--not with Mr. Ben.  At 5:15, then, Mr. Rhyce, and thank you
very much."

The feeling that everything was over still persisted after Mr. Moto had
gone.  It resembled the easing of tensions he had experienced before
when a job was almost finished, and everything was in the groove.  But
this time elation was added to his relief, which he tried to check
because he always distrusted elation.  Finally his conscience troubled
him with a nagging suspicion that he was ending things too quickly, not
following them as far as he might to an ultimate conclusion.  It was
true that he was hedging his bets, but it was better to hedge than
lose, and they were winning enough.  At least they were crippling the
apparatus by taking out Big Ben.

"You know, I feel pretty good on the whole," he said to her.  "When we
get him, we can move the hell out of here and head for home."

Her expression had brightened, too.

"It can't be soon enough for me," she said.  "And why can't we start
being ourselves when we get on that plane?"

"I don't see why we can't from there on in," he answered.

"What do you mean?" she asked.  "From there on in?"

"A lot of things," he said, "and we ought to be able to start
discussing them as soon as I get back here."

"Do you mean you still love me?" she asked.

"It's unprofessional, but I do," he said, "and a lot of other things.
Come to think of it, I wouldn't have missed any of this."

"Even being unprofessional?" she asked.

"Yes," he said, "even being unprofessional."

"Jack," she said, "what's going to happen to him?"

"He's not our problem," he said.  "The Japs will take him over.  But
it's the best we could do under the circumstances, Ruth."  He turned
and strode across the room and back.  "We might have gone further into
this if Bill Gibson hadn't died, but I think it's time now to stop this
show.  I really do."

"It's sticky, letting the Japs take him," she said.  "I wish you and I
weren't in it."

"We're in it all right," he said.

"You're too nice for it," she said, "and maybe I am, too."

"I wouldn't be surprised," he told her, "but let's put our minds on
pulling out of here tomorrow, Ruth."

The interval before his departure for the Cimaroon always remained in
his memory as a domestic sort of scene.

"I don't suppose we'd better inquire about plane reservations yet," he
said.  "No reason for anyone to know that we're checking out, but if
you want something to do while I'm out you might start packing your
suitcases.  There might be space on something tomorrow."

"Jack," she said, "don't you think you ought to wear something heavier
and darker than that seersucker coat?"

"Oh, I don't think so," he answered.  "This won't be night work, and
it's awfully hot outside."

"I wish you were carrying a gun," she said, "just in case.  Wouldn't
you like to borrow my fountain pen gadget?  It doesn't look as though
I'm going to need it."

"I can do fine with this jack," he said.  He was feeling almost jovial
now that everything was set.  "I'm really pretty good at controlling
one of these."

"I think you ought not to wear crepe-soled shoes," she said.  "You
might slip in them.  I don't know whether you ever knew Bobby Burke,
who used to work in Paris.  He slipped making a swing at Oscar
Ertz--you know, the Czech--just outside the Gare du Nord.  He skidded
on the pavement and had a shiv in him before he could recover."

"These shoes are skid-proof," he told her.  "No, I never did know Bob,
but I've heard plenty about him.  Ought I to be jealous?"

"Darling," she said, "I never knew about you, dear, and you never knew
about me.  You won't ever need to be jealous.  Now let me take a look
at you.  You look awfully handsome."

"So do you," he said.  It was time to be going, but he did not want to
leave her.

"Jack," she said, "if you do hit him, follow through.  Let him have it
all.  He's an awfully big man, you know.  Now you'd better kiss me
good-by.  I don't want you to be late."

"Don't forget Moto's coming to take us out to dinner when we get back,"
he said.  "I wish we were going alone.  We haven't had much fun here,
what with one thing and another."

"Oh," she said, "there'll be lots of other times.  Take care, Jack,
please take care."

He remembered those last words most distinctly.  In fact, they echoed
in his memory all the way out of the hotel.  He had a final glimpse of
her before he closed the door.  She was standing smiling, very straight
and neat, and looking very happy.


The taste of the American GI was responsible for most of the
innovations along the Ginza, and it was worth remembering that they
reflected the immaturities of youth--naturally enough, since the age
average was low in the American armed forces.  Thus it was not wholly
fair to be overcritical of the garish beer halls and night clubs, as
full of gay plastic color and light as the jukeboxes at home, for they
filled very adequately an intense demand for release.  In fact, Jack
Rhyce thought the Cimaroon offered everything that he would have wanted
when he was an undergraduate at Oberlin--air-conditioning, cold beer on
draught, an enormous gaudy bar, a jazz orchestra, a Japanese torch
singer, and dozens of tables with pretty, smiling Japanese hostesses.
He half wished he were back in the army.  It had been different in the
paratroops in Burma.

Although it was only 5:15, the Cimaroon was already full.  The brash
notes of the orchestra, the high voice of the singer, and the chatter
of the patrons over their drinks rose to such an intensity that his
transient wish that he were a boy again vanished.  Instead, it occurred
to him that the noise would be an excellent background for a shot, and
it could easily be minutes before anyone would know just what had
happened.  You had to consider seriously such contingencies in a place
like the Cimaroon, as well as check the entrances and exits.  These
were limited, as far as he could observe, to a wide entrance on the
street, and to two doors in back leading to service quarters.  He
stopped making these mental notes only when he reminded himself that he
was not running the party and that instead he was in the guise of a
foreign attach.

Mr. Moto was waiting at a wall table, facing the door--a conventional
position under the circumstances.  He waved a welcome to Jack Rhyce in
an exaggeratedly European manner.

"Beer, of course?" Mr. Moto said.  "It is so cool and comfortable here."

It was cool but noisy, and Jack had a feeling that the Cimaroon did not
belong in Japan or anywhere else.  He took only a sip or two of beer
because he disapproved of drinking before any such event as the one
they were approaching.

"Everyone is posted," Mr. Moto said.  "Ha-ha, we will use the same
Buick in which I drove you."

"Have you looked for him all through this building?" Jack asked.

"Oh, yes," Mr. Moto said.  "No sign.  Are you thinking of something,
Mr. Rhyce?"

"I'm just wondering whether he will be hiding until he sees her," Jack
Rhyce said.  "Maybe we were wrong in not having her drive up."

Mr. Moto thought for a few moments.

"I very much approve your thoroughness, Mr. Rhyce," he said.  "It is
not too late.  We might call her, from the manager's office."

The office was a cubbyhole of a room, only a few paces from where they
were sitting, and it was startlingly silent, once they had closed the
door.  She answered almost immediately.

"Ruth, we've got a second thought," he said.  "Maybe you'd better take
a taxi and come here at six o'clock.  Get out and stand by the main
entrance."

"Okay," she said.  "It's nice that great minds think alike sometimes.
I'll be there."

He felt a momentary qualm as they returned to the table, simply because
he disliked revising a plan on such short notice.  It showed once again
that he was not sure of himself when it came to Ruth Bogart; and
besides, any revision always presented a new set of factors.  Yet he
had not the slightest premonition that he had made an error until it
was six o'clock.  It was six and there was no sign of any American
girl, let alone Ruth Bogart, outside the Cimaroon.

"There is traffic," Mr. Moto said.  "She may have misjudged the time.
Do not let it upset you for five more minutes, Mr. Rhyce."

He had not meant to show his feelings, nor had he thought he would, for
he had believed that experience had made him immune to sudden
reverses--but he had not felt a shock of helpless panic for years
comparable to what he experienced then.  Everyone went wrong sometime,
he said to himself, and this was it for him.

"I'd better telephone and see if she's left," he said.

When he reached the manager's office and gave the number, he noticed
that his hands shook.  It did no good to tell himself that he must
quiet down.  He had never in his life wished for anything so vehemently
as that he might hear her voice answer, but there was no answer.  She
had gone.  Outside the office he was startled at the sight of his own
face, reflected from one of the wall mirrors.

"I think they've double-crossed us," he said.

Mr. Moto looked very grave, and glanced at his wrist watch.

"If so, I share your feelings," he said.  "But wait.  We gain nothing
by hurrying, Mr. Rhyce.  Remember that you yourself made her wait ten
minutes, only not to appear too prompt.  She may be doing this,
too--and please remember just one thing more."

"What's that?" Jack Rhyce answered.

"I am to blame as much as you are, Mr. Rhyce.  And--what is it they say
in America?  The show must go on in any case, Mr. Rhyce."

He did not like the appraising look in Mr. Moto's eyes.  After all, he
was representing the Intelligence of his country.

"Damn it," he said.  "Don't you tell me how to behave."

"That is better," Mr. Moto said.  "I knew I would not need to remind
you, Mr. Rhyce."

Jack Rhyce stood up.

"I'm going now," he said.

"Where, please?" Mr. Moto asked.

He restrained his impatience.  After all, he represented the Service.

"Back to the hotel," he said.  "It's the place to start from, isn't it?"

He still did not like the inquisitive, measuring look in Mr. Moto's
eyes.  The Japanese was waiting to see how he would behave.

"Yes, that will be the proper procedure," Mr. Moto said.  "I shall go
with you.  They have won this game.  He was brighter than we thought
him."

It was accepted practice on any battlefield to draw opponents to one
spot, and then to strike in another.  There were four of them in the
car, two Japanese in front and he and Mr. Moto behind.  They sat in
rigid silence until they were slowed by the traffic at the Zimbashi
station.

"I'm so very sorry," Mr. Moto said.

The remark jangled against the raw edges of Jack's nerves.  The
Japanese were always expressing sorrow which they did not mean.

"To hell with it," he said.

"I did not mean so sorry for you," Mr. Moto said, "as much as so sorry
we both were mistaken.  I am not being personal, Mr. Rhyce."

"Do you think they got her in the room or outside?" Jack Rhyce asked.

"It would be the room, I think," Mr. Moto answered.  "It would have
been worked carefully."

He was relieved by that opinion because, if true, his asking her to
join them was not responsible for what had happened.  The car turned in
the drive of the Imperial Hotel, and the lotus pool and the low
building looked as ugly as his thoughts.

"Let us not appear too worried," Mr. Moto said.  "I shall ask a
question or two and join you in your room.  I think we had better set
up the telephone again."

"Why the telephone?" Jack Rhyce asked.

Mr. Moto gave him another inquiring look.

"Because they will be making contact with you," he said, "allowing only
time for your return from the Cimaroon.  Why else would they have
caught her, Mr. Rhyce?"

What had come over him, he wondered, not to have thought of it before?
He should at least have conceived of the possibility and have taken
suitable precautions.  Instead, he had been drawn off as easily as
though he had been the third team.  What had happened that had made
them able to outguess him?  At some point something had occurred to
give away the show.  It might have been something that night in the
place called the Main Bar, or it might have been something that morning
in the office of Mr. Harry Pender.  Some detail had gone wrong
somewhere, and now it was futile to guess what it might have been.
Play as safe as possible all across the board was another maxim of the
business, and he had disobeyed it by not having her room guarded.

He had certainly acted like the third team.  Neither his mind nor hers
had been on their work.  They had been thinking about the outside.

He never forgot the appearance of her room.  What engraved it so
vividly on his memory was that everything was exactly as he had
anticipated.  The lock of the door had been forced by someone who had
examined the lock before, with an instrument that had made it give
immediately.  The only sign of struggle was an overturned suitcase that
had fallen from the bed to the floor.  Her handbag was gone from the
table.  They must have taken it with them when they left, but they had
not bothered with any further search.  Even with her gone, her
personality was left.  There was the faint scent of the Guerlain
perfume she used, and the bottle was still on her dressing table beside
her gold-backed comb and brush.  He picked up the brush and gazed at
the initials on the back, R.B.  She had started packing, just as he had
suggested, and her dresses and her lingerie that had fallen from the
overturned suitcase still showed signs of careful folding.  Mr. Moto
came in while he was holding one of her dresses.  Jack Rhyce laid it
down gently.

"They were not seen to leave," Mr. Moto said; "but then, no one was
watching.  We should have thought of this and taken measures, but the
conversation on the telephone sounded so very true.  I am so sorry.  I
am also very much ashamed."

"You and me both," Jack Rhyce said.  "Sorry and ashamed.  What are you
doing now?"

Mr. Moto, having adjusted the broken lock so that the door would close,
had opened his briefcase.

"The telephone," he said.  "We must both listen, I think."

"I don't see why you're so damn sure they'll call," Jack said.

"Please, it is inevitable," Mr. Moto answered.  "They would not have
taken her otherwise.  They will call quickly before you go elsewhere.
I have already taken steps to have the call traced, but I fear it will
not help.  They are so very clever.  Excuse.  They know you are in love
with her, Mr. Rhyce."

The words came out brutally in the ravaged room, and Jack felt his face
grow brick-red, but he knew he had no right to be angry.  His rights to
be particular about anything had gone because of his stupidity.

"It was a mistake," he said.  "We both knew we were damn fools--not
that it does any good."

"Please, I am not criticizing," Mr. Moto said.  "It may be a mistake,
but sometimes one cannot help them, Mr. Rhyce."

"Unless it is necessary," Jack Rhyce said, "I'd just as soon not bring
this subject up again."

It was infuriating to have something which should have belonged only to
him and her tossed out in the open to be used as a point in a game.
Mr. Moto's manner was considerate; his voice silkily smooth when he
answered.

"I do not wish to offend," he said.  "I only speak because I think you
should be ready.  I think they will be prepared to make you an
interesting proposal, Mr. Rhyce."

Jack gave a start.  He had been staring at the overturned suitcase, and
his thoughts had wandered from what Mr. Moto was saying.

"What sort?" he asked.

"I do not know," Mr. Moto said.  "So much of our work is always in the
dark, but I think you have come close to finding something that worries
them, Mr. Rhyce."

It was true about working in the dark.  Even when a hand was
half-played you never could be wholly sure where the other cards lay,
but already Mr. Moto's words had aroused a suspicion in Jack Rhyce that
gripped him with icy fingers.  Bill Gibson's cynical statement about
safety in sex flashed across his memory.  He cleared his throat.

"Do you think they're going to propose a swap?" he asked.

When Mr. Moto answered, his voice was soft and measured.

"Yes, Mr. Rhyce," he said.  "I believe they will offer to bring Miss
Bogart safely back if you will agree to leave here.  You see, I think
they are afraid you know too much."

Jack Rhyce felt a spasm in the pit of his stomach and his heart was
beating faster, but still he could notice that Mr. Moto was watching
him very carefully.  He was even able to resent the detached critical
manner and the air of academic curiosity.  Mr. Moto was weighing him in
an Oriental, not a European, balance.

"You will have to make a decision as to whether to leave or whether to
stay," he said; "and I am so very much afraid I cannot help you, Mr.
Rhyce."

Of course he had to make up his mind, and he had the training to do it.

"Damn you"--he said, and the sound of his voice warned him that he must
compose himself--"you don't have to help me."

Mr. Moto was still watching him very carefully.

"So sorry for you, Mr. Rhyce," he said.  "Will you have a cigarette?"

"No, thanks," Jack Rhyce said.  "I told you I didn't smoke."

"Oh, I remember.  Excuse, please," Mr. Moto said.  "When I was a
younger man I, too, was abstemious, in that and in other regards--"

Jack felt his face redden again.  He took a quick stride across the
room.

"That's about all I'm going to take from you," he said.

Mr. Moto watched him without moving a muscle.

"You do not allow me to finish," he said.  "I was about to add that,
even so, one cannot give up everything."

Just then the telephone rang.  The small bell had a laughing, mocking
sound, and he was not prepared for the sound because he had not been
wholly convinced that they would call.  Mr. Moto slipped the earphones
over his head.

"Answer quickly, please," he whispered.  "Seem to be anxious, please."

When Jack picked up the telephone he was steadier.  He even felt a
spasm of annoyance that Mr. Moto should tell him how to act.  He had
had it bad before--as bad as the small man who was listening had ever
had.

"Hello," he said.  His voice was even and agreeable.  He had learned
long ago to give nothing away by voice.  He was playing the old game of
wits, and the fact that the telephone had rung at all confirmed Mr.
Moto's assertion that he had something they wanted.

"Hello."  He recognized the voice on the other end of the line
immediately.  "That's you, isn't it, Jack?"

"Indeed it is," he said.

His response was affable and easy.  He had control of himself again.

"This is Harry Pender, Jack.  You recognize my voice, don't you?"

"Well, well, Harry," Jack Rhyce said.  "It's nice of you to give me a
ring.  I sure do recognize your voice.  I'd know it anywhere."

"Okay, Jack," Harry Pender said, "then let's cut out the monkey
business.  You and I won't have to do our clowning from now on in."

"Thanks," Jack Rhyce said.  "That's a big relief.  Okay.  What's on
your mind?"

"We've got Ruth Bogart here.  I thought you'd like to know."

Though he had anticipated it, he found it hard to control himself, and
the instant while he struggled for calmness could not have been lost on
Mr. Pender.

"Thanks for letting me know," he said.  "I was beginning to be worried
about her."

There was a good-natured laugh on the other end of the wire.

"We thought you might be.  Well, take it easy, Jack.  She's right here,
and we wish you were, too.  And she's happy and comfortable as of now,
Jack.  I'll let you speak to her in a minute."

"Why, thanks," Jack Rhyce said, "thanks a lot."

He heard Harry Pender laugh again.

"You know who I am, don't you, Jack?  I mean you've got me taped by
now?"

"Yes," Jack Rhyce said, "I've got a pretty good working idea, but I'm
quite a ways away from the files."

Harry Pender's laugh had a corroding effect.  He was too brisk and too
excited, obviously on edge.

"I may as well admit," he said, "that I was pretty dumb regarding you.
All of us were.  In fact, we never got wise to you until just before
lunchtime today.  Nice going and congratulations, Jack."

At least it bolstered his ego to know that he had been right in
believing that he had been in the clear over the week end.

"Thanks for the compliment," he said.  "Anybody in our line of work
appreciates a kind word, Harry."

"No reason why we shouldn't all be friends in this thing, Jack," Harry
Pender said, "even if we are on different sides of the fence.  That's
the thought I want you to hold for the next minute or two if you can
manage, Jack.  As I was saying, we have been sort of dumb around here,
but you haven't operated in the East much, have you?"

"Why, no, Harry," Jack Rhyce answered.  "This is my first time out here
on a job, in case the fact is useful."

"Well, that's what threw me, Jack," Harry Pender said.  "And you did
look damn good for what you were, and the boys had cleared you in
'Frisco.  When we heard you'd been looking at the bookshops, I admit, I
should have taken the news more seriously, instead of discounting it.
Maybe you'd still be fooling me, if it hadn't been for a very nice guy
who just blew in here, by the name of Skirov.  Remember him, Jack?"

"The name's familiar," Jack Rhyce said, "but I can't say that I
remember him exactly.  I don't think I ever saw him, but I'm sure I'd
recognize him."

"Well, he remembers you, boy," Harry Pender said.  "He saw you in
Moscow back in '46.  He was a waiter at one of those big parties, and
passed you caviar.  Just as soon as I described you he clicked.  You
were talking to Molotov back in '46.  You were saying all men are
brothers."

Jack exchanged a glance with Mr. Moto.  The Chief had said it was a
damn fool thing to say, and the Chief had been, as usual, correct.
Never try to be conspicuous, the Chief had said.

"Now we're on the subject," Jack Rhyce said, "I was kind of slow in
locating you myself, although I had you down for a phony the first time
you came in.  It's nice to know that Skirov's safe in town, and thank
you for the information, because we're interested in Skirov."

A pause followed and Jack Rhyce, who had never listened harder, was
conscious of faint sounds of others listening on the far end of the
line.

"You've been real busy during your stay here, haven't you, Jack?" Harry
Pender said.

"Yes," Jack Rhyce said, "busy as a bird dog."

"And dogs have their day.  Ever hear that one, Jack?"

He fought down the frustration that was growing on him, and spoke with
patience.

"Let's cut out the hamming, Harry," he said, "and get down to the
point."

"All right, Jack," Harry Pender spoke soothingly.  "We're busy here,
too, as you may have gathered--busy enough so we didn't want Bill
Gibson around, and we don't want you, either, Jack.  Do you get my
drift?"

"I get some vague idea," Jack said.  "Is it a threat or a promise,
Harry?"

There was another silence on the line, longer than the one that
preceded it.

"It's neither, Jack," he heard Harry Pender answer.  "It's a firm offer
that we're making."

His eyes encountered Mr. Moto's half-inquisitive, half-blank stare.  He
felt as though a cord were being drawn tight about his head.  Anybody
in the business could have told what was coming.

"Well," he said, "go ahead and make it.  I've got an open mind."

He had been standing all that time.  Now he would have reached for a
chair and sat down if the Japanese had not been watching.

"I thought you'd have an open mind, Jack," Harry Pender said, and his
voice was placatingly gentle.  "That's why I'm going to such trouble to
have this little chat--because now that we've pooled our notes here, we
know you've a real reputation.  Skirov, for instance, knows about that
job you pulled at Istanbul, and that other one in Athens.  We know
you're a pro, Jack, and not someone off an analytic couch."

"Go ahead," Jack said.  "It could be, if I'm a pro, that I'm tracing
this call, Harry."

"It could be," Harry Pender said, "but it takes time, and we're moving
out of here when I hang up."

"Then let's cut out the hamming," Jack Rhyce said.  "I'm waiting for
that offer, Harry."

It came in mild, insinuating tones.

"You're fond of Ruth, here, aren't you, Jack?  You wouldn't want
anything bad to happen to her, would you?  You wouldn't want to have
her taken to the mainland, for instance, or go through any kind of
drill?  She wouldn't be much fun to see afterwards, would she?  And you
know, they do keep alive--surprisingly often--don't you, Jack?"

Jack Rhyce tried to laugh.  It would have been shameful if he had
betrayed his pain.

"I understand your build-up.  Why don't you get to the point?" he said.

"Don't get mad," Harry Pender said.  "The point is, we're busy here,
and we don't want you monkeying around.  We want you the hell out of
here.  How does that one sound, Jack?"

He felt his heart beat faster.  Mr. Moto had been right.  They thought
he might know something that was dangerous.

"If you want it straight, Harry," he said, "I don't like this town
much, or the folks in it, including you."

"Now you're talking," Harry Pender said.  "I had an idea we could get
together, Jack.  You'd like to have Ruth Bogart back at the hotel
tonight, safe and sound, wouldn't you, and you know what I mean by safe
and sound, don't you?  If not, there's a pal of yours named Big Ben
here who might explain it.  Would you like to talk with Ben, Jack?"

He could hear Big Ben singing at the other end of the wire.  He was
singing "Every Day Is Ladies' Day with Me."  Jack Rhyce put his hand to
his forehead.  His face had grown damp, but he kept his voice steady.

"Let's cut out the technique," he said.  "Consider you've scared hell
out of me.  Yes, I'd like Ruth back safe and sound.  So what's the
proposition?"

"It's easy."  Harry Pender's voice was as warm and as enthusiastic as a
radio announcer's advertising a commercial.  "Half an hour from now
Ruth here will be knocking at your door.  There's a night flight
leaving for Honolulu at eleven, and we have two tickets for you free.
Merely pack your bags, and shut up and go to the airport.  How do you
like that, Jack?"

"It sounds wonderful," he said, and he noticed that there was genuine
relief in Harry Pender's voice.  He was thankful that, under the
circumstances, he could still put two and two together.

"I thought you'd get the point, Jack," Harry Pender said.  "There's
nothing like being reasonable."

"That's right," Jack answered carefully.  "And how do I know we'll ever
get to the airport, Harry?"

"You've got to trust us for that, Jack," Harry Pender said, "just the
way we're going to trust you.  Give me your word--you communicate with
no one from the minute you set down that telephone, and Ruth here will
be back with you in half an hour, with a nice boy from our office to
expedite your passage.  And you have my word, you'll get that plane,
Jack.  How does it sound to you?  Would you like to speak to Ruth?"

"Yes, I'd like to speak to her," he said.  There was a pause, and he
was glad that it was not a long one.  He was trying to think of some
palliation--some way out.  Then he heard her voice, and it was
excruciating agony to hear it.  Her voice was faint and level.

"Hello, Jack."

"Ruth," he asked, "are you all right?"

"I'm all right, Jack," she said, "but don't do it.  Don't--"  Her voice
was choked off in a stifled gasp that ended in a scream.

Mr. Moto was watching him, and Mr. Moto's expression had changed when
their glances met.  Jack could not tell whether the expression was one
of sympathy or surprise.  He only knew that his own expression had
revealed his pain.  It was over in an instant because Harry Pender's
voice was back on the wire.

"Sorry for the interruption," he said.  "Will you take the proposition,
or won't you?"

"Suppose I don't?" Jack Rhyce asked.

"We'll handle you anyway," Harry Pender said.  "Give us twenty minutes
and Ruth will tell us what you know.  Won't you, Ruth?"

Jack Rhyce felt a new wave of nausea sweep over him, and he set down
the telephone.  There was one thing certain--she did not know enough.
He sank down in a chair, drew out a handkerchief and mopped his
forehead.  Then the telephone rang again.

"Let it ring," he said.  "To hell with it.  Let it ring."  For a moment
he felt as though he were going to be sick to his stomach.  For a
moment he could not speak.

"Take those goddam earphones off," he said.  "Excuse me.  I'll be all
right in a minute."  He felt his shoulders move convulsively and he hid
his face in his hands for a second.

"Excuse me," he said.

"That is quite all right," Mr. Moto said.  "Would you like a little
whisky, Mr. Rhyce?"

Jack Rhyce shook his head.

"You didn't think I'd do it, did you?" Jack Rhyce said.

"No, I did not," Mr. Moto said.  "You are a very nice man.  But please
be easier in your mind, for you did what you should have, Mr. Rhyce."

"How in hell can I be easy in my mind," he said, "when we should have
put a guard here?"

Mr. Moto raised his hand and let it fall abruptly to his side.

"It is something that we will regret always--you more than I, I am so
very much afraid," he said.  "But in life we cannot relive regrets."

"That's right," Jack Rhyce said.  "Excuse me again.  I'm all right now."

He was far from all right.  He knew that he would never be the man he
had been an hour or so before.  There were certain things that could
haunt one always--things that time itself could never solve.  But he
had to go on with it.  He had to keep moving straight ahead, and all he
could do was to try to make what was happening to Ruth Bogart to some
extent worth while.

His training had not left him.  He had learned long ago not to forget
words or pauses on a telephone.

"Pender said a boy from the office, didn't he?" Jack Rhyce said.  "That
was a slip, I think."

"I'm not quite sure that I follow you," Mr. Moto answered.

Jack Rhyce was not impatient.  He actually did not care whether Mr.
Moto followed him.  His mind was moving forward to another fact.

"We know right from the horse's mouth that Skirov is in town," he said.
It was Skirov who would be calling the plays, now that he was in town.
It was necessary to give thought to this other personality.  "That's
another mistake of Pender's.  Maybe we can connect with him now.
Anyway, there's no use hanging around here any longer."

"No," Mr. Moto answered.  "We must go to where the call came from.
They will have gone, but there may be traces."

"I wouldn't do that," Jack said.  At least his mind was moving forward
again out of the nightmare of self-incrimination that had entangled it.
Mr. Moto's statement was still true, that they would not have attempted
what they had if they had not been afraid that he knew something, and
Harry Pender had said himself that they had not guessed his identity
until just before lunch.  He remembered the accelerated swing of the
glasses in Mr. Pender's hand that morning when he had pursued the
subject of liberal politicians, and he recalled the exact point in
their conversation when the swing had changed.

All that Intelligence finally consisted of was finding facts,
evaluating them and fitting them together until they formed a larger
fact.  A lot of it was choice and chance.  You often could not tell
whether you were right until the very end, and there were many times
when you had to leave the path of painfully accumulated evidence to
play a hunch.  All he had left was a hunch--not a good one, but one
which at least could fit the circumstances as he knew them.  He was
prepared to play it because it was all that was left, and it was better
to move than to do nothing.

"I wouldn't go chasing down that call," he said again, "and if you do,
I won't go with you.  Did you ever hear of a man named Noshimura Hata?"

"Oh, yes," Mr. Moto said.  "I know Mr. Hata."

"He's a very important liberal, isn't he?" Jack Rhyce asked.

"Yes," Mr. Moto said.  "Where did you hear of him, please?"

"In Mr. Pender's office, this morning," Jack Rhyce said.  "Pender said
he was head and shoulders above any other politician in the liberal
party, and afterwards I think he was sorry that he had said it."

Mr. Moto's gold teeth gleamed, but he was not smiling.

"So--" Mr. Moto said, "so--"

"It's only a guess," Jack Rhyce said, "but maybe it's worth a gamble.
I can only tell you what I think."

"Yes," Mr. Moto said.  "Thank you, and tell me what you think."

"I think they were going to kill this Mr. Hata tomorrow--but now I
think they will do it tonight, now that I didn't take their offer.  I'd
get him out of his house, if I were you.  I'd be delighted to wait
there for whoever is coming to do the job, and I'll bet it will be Big
Ben."

Mr. Moto was on his feet.

"I think that is a very nice suggestion, Mr. Rhyce," he said, "and I
think you are a very nice man.  Let me have the telephone.  We must
arrange to move at once."

"It's only a guess, you know," Jack Rhyce said.

"Yes, but one must always guess," Mr. Moto answered.  "I shall be there
with you, Mr. Rhyce, to wait for whoever may be coming."

Jack Rhyce had a friendlier feeling for Mr. Moto than any he had
previously experienced.

"I don't know whether you are a very nice man or not," he said, "but
anyway, you're willing to take a chance."

"Thank you so very much," Mr. Moto said.  "And now if you will move,
please, I shall use the telephone, Mr. Rhyce."

Mr. Moto spoke in Japanese.  His voice was not strident like that of
most men in authority; instead it was gentle, musical and melodious.
Jack Rhyce stood for a moment listening.  It was a matter of logistics,
men, motors and distance.  As he listened, his own anguish, which had
been dulled for the last few minutes, returned to him again.  He could
control it now, but he knew that it would be with him always.  He
walked to the overturned suitcase and replaced the tumbled-out clothing
very carefully in an order of which he hoped she would have approved.
He walked to the dressing table, picked up the comb and brush and
perfume bottle, and put all three in the suitcase.  He touched his lips
to the back of the brush, and he did not care in the least whether Mr.
Moto saw him or not.  He closed the suitcase and snapped the lock, and,
as he did so, he knew in his heart that he was doing all he ever could
for Ruth Bogart.




XIX

He must have been on fifty similar cases since he had been connected
with the business, although in this one the setting was more
interesting than in many.  Again it was the old matter of waiting.
Again, it was the trap or ambush or whatever technical name you might
choose to give it.  But this time, from the very beginning, there had
been a feeling of promise in the air.  Since so much of Intelligence
consisted of moving tentatively into the unknown and never knowing
exactly when you would finally collide with a stone wall or step upon
the deadfall, it was never wise to leave premonition out of any
calculation.  Again and again in his professional career Jack Rhyce had
experienced the gambler's conviction that the right numbers were coming
up, and if you had it, it was surprisingly apt to be correct.  You
could call it nonsense, or fourth dimension, but it was there--whatever
name you gave it.  He knew as sure as fate that things were going to
work that night.  If you sacrificed enough, he sometimes thought, you
were bound to get something in return, and the only thing that he
wanted just then was to see the job through, and meet Big Ben in the
process.  He had paid down enough for the privilege.  For the rest of
his natural life he had given up peace of mind.  Even though she had
told him to go ahead--and her voice and her scream would echo in his
memory always--he would wonder whether duty had been worth it.  Ever
afterwards his ingenuity would work on belated plans that might have
saved her and still have achieved what they were there for.
Undoubtedly, given time, he would figure out a way.

The actual plan for assassination was conventional and safe.  As it
turned out later, the prognosis was correct that it would look like an
American job.  A stolen American army car was in the picture, and the
only thing that gave Jack Rhyce a shock was that wallet subsequently
discovered on the premises--purported to be his, with excellently
forged identity papers considering the short space of time allowed for
their preparation.  They had said that they would handle him, and they
had meant it either way.

The house and grounds stood in one of Tokyo's most comfortable and
desirable districts on land not far from the palace grounds themselves.
In the old days the great Tokugawa fortress had been surrounded by
concentric ramparts.  Beyond these had been a further ring of houses
occupied by the Shoguns' most trusted retainers.  Further back the
houses of the minor officials had stood, including the land of the Hata
family which had been subdivided toward the end of the last century.
The house of Mr. Noshimura Hata still occupied part of it.  Actually,
as it happened, Jack Rhyce never set eyes on the liberal politician,
because Mr. Hata had been carried to a safer spot before Mr. Moto and
he made their appearance.  So also had the servants, who had been
replaced by operators.  The operation had run with a smoothness that
had impressed Jack Rhyce professionally.

The lights were on by the gate in the small front garden, and the
larger garden with the lawn in back was also lighted by stone lanterns.

"It is fortunate," Mr. Moto said, "that Mr. Hata likes to leave many of
his ground lights on at night.  He is afraid of burglars, which is
amusing I think, when he is such a very liberal man."

After what had happened earlier, rigorous precautions were taken in
case the house was watched; a schedule had been made of the household
routine.  This had all taken time, but it was worth it.  It was
half-past eight o'clock once they were inside the house, and Mr. Hata's
retiring hour was ten.

"First he walks through the garden," Mr. Moto said, "having put on the
kimono and recited Buddhist prayers.  I shall be Mr. Hata, and you may
watch me from the house.  We must all be very careful, but I do not
think the killing will be in the garden."

The austere charm of that house formed a violent contrast to Jack
Rhyce's thoughts.  The sparseness of its furnishings, the bare space of
its walls, gave a balanced beauty to its interior that was a rebuke to
the overcluttered houses back at home.  Space had a more eloquent
appeal in an overcrowded country like Japan.  It was prized more than
material possessions, and Jack Rhyce had never been more conscious of
its beauty than he had been when he stood on the resilient floor
matting in the sleeping room of Mr. Hata's house.  It was a room
intended solely for rest.  Aside from the bedding prepared for the
night and a black lacquer head rest, there were no other furnishings
except a low table and a scroll painting of flowers in a niche sunk
into the inside wall with an arrangement of flowers beneath it.  The
outer wall was formed entirely of sliding glass panels that opened on
Mr. Hata's garden, and on that warm evening the panels had been pushed
back so that the garden with its stone lanterns was a projection of the
room itself.  Although his thoughts were still in turmoil, Jack Rhyce
was not immune to the garden's beauty.  He was vaguely aware of a way
of life different from his own, more serene and more peaceful, and one
deriving pleasure from a few small things rather than from ostentatious
masses of larger ones.  The garden from the standpoint of area was a
very small affair, but assiduous art gave the illusion of its being a
Japanese countryside.  The lawn was a plain, the carefully twisted and
trained pines and the small deciduous trees that bordered it became in
imagination wind-swept forests.  The eccentrically eroded stones that
had been placed in relationship to each other only after hours of study
were mountains and wild country.  The miniature chain of ponds
magnified themselves to lakes.  While watching this miniature
achievement, one could think with sorrow how fast the world was
changing, and how little time might be left, tomorrow, even in Japan,
for a garden like Mr. Hata's.  The garden spelled peace, but it did not
give him peace of mind that night.

Nevertheless, he had not been outwardly restless.  The business had
taught him long ago the patience of a fisherman or a hunter, who could
be alerted at any second--but there was more to it than that.  Patience
in the business demanded an endurance that raised the watcher beyond
self, to a realm where personal consideration meant nothing.  It
resembled an artist's dedication, although it could hardly be said that
the business was an art.  He had not been restless, because of
training; but his thoughts were beyond control.  He was back again
looking at the suitcase that had tumbled on the floor.  He tortured
himself again with what might have been if she had not been left alone,
with how she had looked on that long drive to the mountains, with what
she had said when they were alone at Wake, and finally with the
knowledge that everything was ended and all contact had been cut
forever.  He could not think what was happening to her now, or
speculate on whether she was alive or dead.  It was best to know that
it was absolutely ended.

He was waiting in a corner of the sleeping room when Mr. Moto stepped
through the paneled windows from the garden.

"Is it time to turn off the garden lights?" Jack Rhyce asked.

"Yes," Mr. Moto said, "as soon as I have seen arrangements are
understood, the house will go to sleep.  We may still be a long while
waiting."

It was impossible to know how long they would wait, but by then they
both must have believed they would not draw a blank.  There was a
feeling in the air, a telepathic sense of something already moving.

"When the garden lights go out," Mr. Moto said, "I shall ask you to
step outside, Mr. Rhyce, and stand by the corner of the house.  I shall
rest on the bed.  The windows will be open.  I think he will approach
through the garden and attempt to enter by the windows.  When he is
near enough you may move on him, Mr. Rhyce, but please let us be
patient and wait until he is near, for we do not wish shooting.  There
are so many questions in a neighborhood whenever shots are fired."

It was Mr. Moto's party and not his.

"Don't worry.  I haven't got a gun," Jack Rhyce said, "only the jack
you gave me."

"It is so much better," Mr. Moto said.  "There are others here who will
take the further steps if necessary.  If he enters this garden or this
house, I do not think he will get away from us."

"That's fine with me," Jack Rhyce said.  "I want him out as much as you
do."

Both his tone and his wish showed him that he had traveled a long way
in the last few hours.  He had never waited avidly wanting to kill
before.  The desire was neither practical nor professional in a field
where personal wishes should never have intruded.

"So glad you agree," Mr. Moto said.  "He will plan to use a knife, I
think.  Perhaps you would like one also, Mr. Rhyce?"

"It is not necessary," Jack Rhyce said.  He had a tingling feeling of
anticipation which was premature when there might still be a long
period of waiting.  "He won't cut me.  There's only one thing I want."

"Yes?" Mr. Moto said.  "What is that, Mr. Rhyce?"

"I want you to let me handle him.  I want him to know I'm here."

"It will be a pleasure," Mr. Moto said, "if he comes through the garden
and not through the house, when he will be my responsibility, Mr.
Rhyce."

"Even so," Jack Rhyce said, "I'd like him to know I'm here."

"I can understand your viewpoint, Mr. Rhyce," Mr. Moto said.  "I hope
so very much that he will know we both are here, but there can be no
chances."

"We won't miss any," Jack Rhyce said.

He had learned how to take cover as skillfully as any jungle fighter in
Japan.  When the lights were out he blended into the shadows by the
angle of the house so completely that he was a part of the shrubbery.
The night was as warm as a Burmese rain forest, but drier, and the glow
of the city's lights was reflected in the sky.  The grounds and the
house were peacefully silent in spite of the monotones of the great
city that rose all around them.  The noises of the Orient were more
eccentric and more staccato than those of the West, shriller voices,
shriller music, shriller laughter.  Still, it was possible to attune
the ear to closer sounds.  A stirring of the bushes near the driveway
revealed the presence of one of the guards and Jack Rhyce could hear a
whisper of breeze in the pine trees.


The approach was made with such care and deliberation that Jack Rhyce
had heard the first sound fully ten minutes before Big Ben slipped
through the bushes at the far end of the garden and began his walk
across the lawn toward the bedroom ell.  He moved unhurriedly with a
noiseless, deliberate confidence which showed he was wholly familiar
with the house and grounds.  Once he was on the lawn the background of
the trees and shrubbery combined with the lights reflected in the sky
made him stand out clearly.  He wore a seersucker suit, almost
identical with the one Jack Rhyce had worn earlier in the evening.  He
paused to listen as he drew near the house.  He would have been an easy
target for a pistol with a silencer, Jack Rhyce was thinking, and he
was glad that the idea had not crossed Mr. Moto's mind.  He wanted Big
Ben to know that he was there.  Ben was drawing nearer, lazily,
gracefully.  When he was a few yards from the house he reached in his
side pocket, drew out a knife and switched open the blade carelessly.
Jack Rhyce coughed gently, but loudly enough to hold the other
momentarily motionless.  Then before Big Ben could move, he was on top
of him, and his blackjack had struck the knife out of the hand holding
it.  Big Ben took a step backward; he must have known in that second
that he could not get away.  Jack Rhyce spoke softly, as though there
were actually sleepers in the house.

"It's me, Ben.  It's Jack."  He could not see the expression on Big
Ben's face, but the laugh was all that was necessary.

"Hello, you gum-shoe bastard," he said.  "That girl of yours was pretty
good, but she didn't last for long."

The words, and not the time or place, robbed Jack Rhyce of his
judgment.  He had told himself long ago that it would be unsafe to
close with Big Ben, yet that was what he did; and before he could get a
wrestling hold, Ben had him by the throat.  The feel of the hands was
what cleared Jack Rhyce's head even before the thought flashed through
him that his neck would be broken in seconds.  He was in luck to be
close enough to bring up his knee before Big Ben moved clear, but he
had to strike again before the hold relaxed.  There was a vicious
moment when they rolled together on the ground.  Before Jack was able
to get a full swing to the jaw, he could feel Ben's thumbs groping for
his eyes.  He rolled free and was on his feet while Big Ben was still
on hands and knees.  He delivered a kick with all his force to the side
of the bleeding head, and Big Ben rolled over on his face.

Ruth Bogart had been right about the crepe-soled shoes.  Hard leather,
lumberman's boots, would have been better.  Then he felt arms holding
him, and he heard Mr. Moto speak.

"That is enough, Mr. Rhyce," he said.  "You can leave him to the others
safely now, I think.  It would be so much nicer, as you Americans say,
if you were not killing, Mr. Rhyce.  Perhaps you would feel unhappy
about it later.  Americans are such sentimental people."

He felt his breath coming in gasps that made it hard for him to be able
to speak.

"He's not half dead," he said.

"No," Mr. Moto answered, "but I do not think we need worry about the
ultimate result.  My men are very conscientious, and I am afraid you
will have to wash and rearrange your clothing.  You did very well
indeed, but I was glad I had a knife with which to strike him in the
back.  He was so very strong.  Let us go.  We are not required here any
longer, Mr. Rhyce."

Jack Rhyce's first impression was one of shame that he had not been
capable of finishing Big Ben without Mr. Moto's intervention; but as
far as he was concerned, the thing was over.  It was something that
never would be repeated, and now he had to move on to something else.
Again there was nothing but a hunch to work on, but again he had the
gambler's instinct.  Besides, there was always some return if you paid
a price.

"All right," he said.  "That's one down.  Now let's go and get this
Skirov, or I'll go myself if you're not interested."

It was too dark to observe facial expression, but he heard the sharp
intake of Mr. Moto's breath.

"I shall be very pleased to accompany you," he said.  "But where is
Skirov?"

Although it was only a hunch, it was still based on a line of
reasoning.  Skirov, who always kept in the background, would be in a
quiet place where he would not be likely to be under surveillance.  He
would not be at any headquarters.  He would be in communication, but
removed from the center of trouble.

"It's only a guess," Jack Rhyce said, "but it's an educated one.  I
believe he's in Mr. Pender's office in the Asia Friendship League.
Anyway, it may be worth trying."

"And what makes you think that?" Mr. Moto asked.

"Do you remember Pender on the telephone?" Jack Rhyce answered.  "He
was too damned elated on that telephone.  He was talking about a boy
from the office seeing us off for the airport.  I think he made a slip
when he used the word 'office.'"

He heard Mr. Moto laugh.  He was beginning to understand the various
meanings of Japanese laughter.

"It would be a pleasure to try," Mr. Moto said.  "I think, Mr. Rhyce,
that you are a very clever man."




XX

"So he fell out the window?" the Chief asked.

"Yes, sir," Jack Rhyce answered.  "Eight stories, from Mr. Pender's
office in the Asia Friendship League."

"You're sure he was Skirov?" the Chief asked.

"Yes, sir," Jack Rhyce said.  "There was time to take photographs and
fingerprints before he fell out the window.  This Japanese--this Mr.
Moto--checked them with his records.  I have them with me, sir."

"Moto," the Chief said.  "That's not a name.  It is a suffix."

"Yes," Jack Rhyce answered.  "That's what Bill Gibson told me."

He was having difficulty adjusting himself to the results of plane
travel.  Less than forty-eight hours previously he had been in Tokyo,
and now he still had the feeling experienced by other air passengers,
that some part of him had been left behind, and this illusion was
sharper than it had ever been before.  Certainly, after other trips,
the Chief's office had seemed like home, or if not home, a threshold to
rest and safety; but now it extended no such welcome.

"Oh, yes, Gibson," the Chief said.  "That's a tough one.  It's no fun
sitting here on this job, hearing that people you've raised and been
fond of are gone.  It's no fun because you can't do anything except
send out more.  Maybe you'll face it yourself sometime.  I'm not going
to hold down this desk forever, Buster."

He was still such a long way from home that it had almost skipped his
mind that the Chief sometimes called him Buster.  At another time, the
open hint that the Chief had given him that he might be in line would
have awakened a thrill of pleasure, and his conscience told him that it
should right now.

"I don't think Bill had a hard time, sir," he said.  "I'm afraid it was
different for Miss Bogart."

The Chief picked up a pencil and tapped its eraser end softly on his
desk.

"I've often wished this business were not coeducational," he said, "but
then the score more than makes the trip pay off.  We can scratch Skirov
and this Big Ben character, but what's your evidence on Pender?"

"The word of this Mr. Moto," Jack Rhyce said; "and there was a piece in
the paper before I left that Mr. Pender was struck and run over by a
truck in Tokyo."

"It's a queer thing," the Chief said.  "I used to be something of a
specialist on the prewar Orient, but I never heard of this Moto.  Of
course, they're devious over there."

"You might have missed him because he was abroad, sir," Jack Rhyce
said.  "If you want my suggestion, I would inquire from State.  From
what he said, he would have been some sort of embassy attach.  And I
have another line on him.  He said his cousin is a Baron who owns a
semi-European house in Miyanoshita--that is, if he was being straight.
I can fill out the description and get it in the works."

"Yes," the Chief said.  "We ought to get a line on him.  It's hard to
understand why Bill Gibson didn't know him."

"I have a hunch that maybe this Moto is like you, sir," Jack Rhyce
said, "from one or two things he let go."

"If it's all the same with you," the Chief said, "I'd rather not be
like a Jap.  I don't forget the war."

"I didn't mean it that way, sir," Jack Rhyce said.  "But now you've
brought the matter up, I'd rather be like Mr. Moto than most of them.
I only intended to suggest that he's behind the scenes, like you, in
some dummy office.  I don't believe he steps out front often.  He's
getting on, you know, for the rough stuff, Chief."

"That's right," the Chief said.  "I'm getting on, myself.  As I said, I
won't be warming this chair indefinitely.  It is only a question of
whom I pull out from the rough stuff, as you call it, to occupy it.
But let's stay with one thing at a time.  I'd like to get a little more
of the feel of this Moto, Jack.  I'd almost like to hop a plane and go
over and take a look at him."

"I think you'd find it hard to come up with him, sir," Jack Rhyce said.
"I don't think he'd have appeared at all if he hadn't set me down for
this Big Ben.  One thing else about him--he's as slick as a whistle
with a shiv, and I ought to know."

He felt no enthusiasm for what he was saying, still, he was no longer
being two things at once, as he sat there in the Chief's office.  He
was not a do-gooder any more, enamored of an enthusiastic American
girl, whose profile he could not forget, whose hands were both strong
and delicate, whose loyalty and humor were both impeccable.  He was out
from cover, and far from safety in sex.

"He sounds like a right guy," the Chief said.

"If I were guessing, I'd say he's from the nobility, sir," Jack Rhyce
said, "or in the very high officer class.  He might have been something
in the Imperial household, educated in America, the East coast, I
should say.  But I'll get it all down on my report and put it in the
works."

"Quick with a shiv," the Chief said.  "It always amuses me, this talk
about stabbing someone in the back.  It's ten to one you hit a rib, and
when someone's moving around anatomy doesn't count."

"As a matter of fact, sir," Jack Rhyce said, "the knife was one of
those small samurai blades.  I think it was partly in a rib because it
was still in the back at the time I left."

"Well," the Chief said, "that's enough for a quick runover.  Are there
any other loose ends that we ought to tie up?"

"That's all, sir," Jack Rhyce said, "except for disposing of Miss
Bogart's personal effects.  I brought them with my luggage, and they're
outside now."

"I'll attend to them," the Chief said.  "That's one of the tough things
about where I sit, Jack."

"By the way, sir," Jack Rhyce said, "I suppose Ruth Bogart is a cover
name?"

"The Ruth's real, the Bogart isn't," the Chief said.  "If I were you,
I'd only be inquisitive when you're asked to be, Buster."

He appreciated the Chief's reproof, but also he resented it.

"When you've been in the business ten years, sir," he said, "and
trained on the Farm, and have all your personality knocked out of you
on the road, even so sometimes you can't help being personally
interested if you have to throw in with someone for a while.
Occasionally, in spite of finishing school, you can't help being human,
sir."

The Chief picked up his pencil again, but he did not tap it on the
desk.  From where he sat, he had frequently had to deal with
temperament.  He understood better than most psychiatrists the
inevitable results of long repressions.

"I forgot to remark, you're looking tired, Jack.  I know you've had it
rough," he said, "but I know you, and it's nothing that a couple of
weeks off and some sleep won't fix."

His diagnosis could have been correct some weeks ago, but it was not
right intrinsically any longer.  Something had happened that was new
and different from the moment Jack Rhyce had seen the empty room in the
Imperial Hotel in Tokyo, yet he had not known exactly what had happened
until the Chief rebuked his inquisitiveness.

"Even if I rest up," he said, "I'm afraid I'll still stay human, Chief.
I won't be the old smooth-running machine again."

The Chief smiled at him tolerantly.

"Listen, Buster," he said, "you're in no shape to analyze yourself
right now.  What you need is a shot in the arm and sleep.  The Doc's in
from the Farm today.  He'll take you home and sit with you until you
cork off.  Never mind putting anything in the works until tomorrow
afternoon.  I know enough to get the framework started."

"Very well, sir," Jack Rhyce said, and he pushed back his chair.

"That's better," the Chief said.  "That's my boy.  Anything else on
your mind before you go?"

"Only one thing else, sir," Jack Rhyce said.  "If I can't know her
name, I'd appreciate it if you could see your way clear to giving me a
photograph."

The Chief raised his eyebrows rebukingly and let his pencil drop to the
desk, and the minute disorderly sound it made was an adequate measure
of his surprise.

"So that's the way it was?" he said.  "I wouldn't have thought it of
you, Jack.  I'm sorry for you, son."

Jack Rhyce was glad that the thing was in the open for once, and it
would only be for once.

"That's the way it was," he said.  "We fell in love like a couple of
kids.  We both knew it was a damn fool thing to do, but it didn't spoil
the operation, Chief."

"She wouldn't have wanted it to," the Chief said.  "She was a very good
girl, Jack."

"She wanted me to go ahead," he said.  "She told me to, over the
telephone.  Anyway, we couldn't have found her in time."

"You didn't tell me she spoke to you," the Chief said.

"I left it out," Jack answered.  "Maybe I should have this time.  It's
something that belongs to her and me.  As I was saying, sometimes you
can't help being human, Chief."

He was talking too much, and he despised self-pity.  He wanted the
interview to finish.

"I'll tell you all about her someday," the Chief said, "but I don't
believe now is quite the time."

"Thanks," Jack Rhyce answered, "if it's just the same to you, I'd
rather not know any more about her, except what belonged to us.  I
admit it wasn't very much."

He stood up.  He had not intended to speak his full mind, at that
particular interview, but that brief talk about her had crystallized
his thoughts.

"As I say, it wasn't much," he said.  "We both knew we were being
foolish, and we didn't have many opportunities to talk, but we both
decided that we'd go back to the outside when we came home.  She isn't
here, but I'm going, anyway, sir."

"Now, wait a minute--" the Chief began--"this is all on the spur of the
moment.  Is it anything I said that made you come up with this?"

"No, sir," Jack Rhyce answered, "nothing you said, but I'm going to
hand in my resignation, sir."

"Now, Jack," the Chief said, "you can't do that.  You're the best man
in the office.  You're in line to follow me here.  I as good as told
you, didn't I?  You'd be like a fish out of water, on the outside.  You
can't do this, Jack."

He was aware that what the Chief said was true.  He had intended to
talk it over and think it over, but instead it was done already.

"I've got reasons, sir," he said.

"All right," the Chief said.  "Just name the reasons."

Jack Rhyce squared his shoulders and pulled his thoughts together.

"Things happen sometimes," he said, "that you can't put into words,
sir.  After what happened over there, even if I stayed on the job, I
could never be the man I used to be.  I felt it coming over me in
Tokyo.  Being with her made me too human, Chief, and when you get too
human you get fallible, and when you get to thinking about the outside
you get forgetful--part of you is on one side and part of you is on the
other.  Part of me's back there.  I've lost something, and I'll never
get it back."

The Chief was also on his feet.  "You're talking off the top of your
head," he said, "and everything you say is specious, Jack."

"You may be right, sir," Jack Rhyce said.  "It isn't so much what I say
as what I feel.  And besides, she wanted me on the outside.  She asked
me to promise."

"Jack," the Chief said, "give yourself a chance before you start
crossing Rubicons.  You're going through what everyone in the outfit
goes through periodically.  I've seen it and heard it all.  Sure,
something chips off you every time you go through anything, but you're
the kind it only makes sharper, Jack.  I'm willing to make you a bet:
in a week or so you'll want to stay in the business on account of her,
and not leave it because of her.  You've got too much Moxie to take a
step like that.  Now don't interrupt me."

Jack Rhyce had cleared his throat but he had no intention of
interrupting.

"I just want two promises from you," the Chief said.  "Don't say
anything to anyone about this talk, and promise me you won't make a
decision until you've had that shot in the arm and two weeks away
somewhere."

"All right," Jack said, "if that's the way you want it."

At any rate, he had said exactly what was on his mind, and he believed
that he was right in everything he had stated, and he felt closer to
her, now that he had spoken, than he had since she had gone.  He knew
as sure as fate that he was not coming back.




[End of Stopover: Tokyo, by John P. Marquand]
