by Talbot Mundy
“Just one moment. You, Mayor. And you, Grayne. If either of you should mention my name, in connection with this night’s work, or for any other reason, at the Foreign Office, it would be breach of confidence, an unfriendly gesture and a damned serious indiscretion. Have I made myself clear? Very well. Thank you, Grayne, for supper and entertainment. Both were excellent. Good night. See you again some day, I hope.”
“Good night, Tom,” said Mayor. “How early can you be at my house in the morning?”
“Much too early for you. I’ll be waiting for you down stairs.”
Mayor winked twice behind his gold-rimmed spectacles. He jerked his respectable gray head toward O’Mally’s back. Grayne let them out.
He had cleaned the place and was asleep on a bunk within ten minutes.
CHAPTER 4. “If you can do it!”
IT was like any other door in the long, dim, draughty corridor, except that a man in blue uniform stood outside and asked Tom Grayne’s business. The Foreign Office is like all the rest of Whitehall; comfort hadn’t been invented when they built it. On the other hand, tradition was already ancient; it grows older, but it never dies, in that kind of building. The muscular, military-looking man in blue tapped on the door as if a lady were asleep within, opened the door cautiously, tiptoed in, murmured, and came out smiling. A neatly dressed Japanese gentleman walked along the corridor from behind Tom Grayne and turned the corner at the far end.
“Go right in, sir. Mr. Ambleby expects you.”
Tom Grayne circumnavigated a beautiful old Spanish leather screen, so arranged that whoever stepped into the room presented his face to the desk in profile in the light from a high window. There was a coal fire, in a hideously dignified Georgian fireplace. Over the fireplace was a three-quarter length mirror — new glass in an antique frame; it very clearly reflected whoever entered the room, but it did not reveal the desk to him who entered.
Against a background of books, in the dimness behind a big, antique desk, sat Arthur Tremaine Ambleby. An astonishing man, because he was so different from what one expected. He stood up as Tom Grayne entered and without a word, but with a very gracious gesture, offered him the chair beside the desk. That placed Tom in the light from the window.
Ambleby looked like a poet, or perhaps an editor of a very learned review. He looked capable of having written Locksley Hall, or he might have translated Homer into English elegiacs. Gray hair. Wise eyes. A clean-shaven, courteous, civilized face. A dark leather bow tie. A leather waistcoat. An immaculately tailored jacket of a color that couldn’t be guessed exactly against the background of books in the dimness. A man of perhaps sixty, who looked fifty and conveyed, without the slightest trace of self-importance, the impression of knowing all the secrets in the world and thoroughly enjoying them.
“Professor Mayor told me to come and see you,” said Tom.
Ambleby nodded. There was nothing on his desk. No notes. No papers. Nothing that suggested that the room might be the exact center of an invisible spider-web of secrets that reached all over the world, into men’s minds, hopes, ambitions, histories, forgetting nothing, overlooking not much. There were no files in the room. There was not even a door leading into another room where files perhaps might be.
“Yes,” said Ambleby. “I spoke with Professor Mayor at three o’clock this morning and we discussed you. You have helped him, I believe, to decipher some curious documents in Tibetan and — er — and other languages.”
Tom Grayne kept silence. He liked this man, right off the bat. He was just the kind of man he did like. Knew his stuff. Nobody’s fool. But Tom was thoroughly on guard against him; he anticipated one of those simple, utterly in nocent traps that are much harder not to fall into than the complicated sort. It appeared:
“You have an acquaintance in Harley Street?”
“No.”
“Wasn’t he with you last night?”
“Man who wears a monocle and spats? Oh, yes, I’ve met him. That’s all. He doesn’t know me. I don’t know him.”
“You have visited Tibet?”
“Yes. I intend to return.”
“And you use an American passport?”
“Yes.”
“How do you propose to do it? You understand that the terms of a treaty between the Tibetan and Indian Governments preclude our supplying you with anything in the nature of a permit?”
“Yes.”
“We couldn’t even give you unofficial recognition. Quite the contrary.”
“Yes, I understand that.”
“How then do you propose to enter Tibet?”
“That, sir, is my secret. Short of locking me up or shooting me, I’m fairly confident that nobody can prevent my getting in.”
“I know how you got in, as you call it, last time.”
“Yes, but I’m not an animal. I don’t try the same trick twice running.”
“What do you propose to do in Tibet?”
“Study the country. It’s my subject.”
“Some very interesting books have been written about Tibet,” said Ambleby. “Which particular field will your book cover?”
Tom avoided that trap also. “I don’t write books. The British Museum is crowded with information about Tibet that needs checking. Anything I learn for a fact I’ll report to Mayor. He can do as he likes with it.”
“Does he supply you with funds?”
“No, I have enough money of my own. I don’t need much, the way I travel.”
“You know a Tibetan named Thö-pa-ga?”
“Slightly. I know where he is. Professor Mayor withdrew bail at the request of the police, so Thö-pa-ga is either on his way from Kew or else already in a cell at Bow Street.”
“Do you know a Tibetan named Noropa?”
“Yes. He isn’t a Tibetan.”
“You surprise me. What do you think he is?”
“I know. He’s half-Jap, half-Chinese — I’d say a Chinese father, and that’s unusual.”
“He bears a bad reputation,” said Ambleby. “Who is the person named John Sinclair, who was in the place where you live when the reporters called early this morning?”
“Oh — that’s me. I invented that name. Old friend, phoned for by Tom Grayne to come and occupy the place in his absence. — Hadn’t seen me recently — hadn’t had time to talk over the phone — just hurried over — didn’t know where I was, or when I’d be back.”
“Well, Mr. Grayne, I am not in a position to do anything for you officially. You are well recommended. As far as I am concerned, there is no objection to your entering Tibet, if you can do it. But, of course, that has nothing to do with my office. I have been in communication with the Home Office, and with Scotland Yard. I know what took place yesterday. Would you object to telling me, in confidence, what you think it all means?”
“Thö-pa-ga,” said Tom, “is wanted back in Tibet. Noropa has been sent to hound him back there. That’s as clear as daylight. Probably Noropa pestered him with shang-shang magic, until he went into hiding. Then Noropa tipped him off to the police for not registering a change of address, and got him locked up, so he’d be deported.”
“Yes, that seems clear. But why should Noropa fire three bullets through your window?”
“Simple. It costs money to return to Tibet, but if you’re deported you travel free. Maybe, too, he wants to return on the same ship with Thö-pa-ga. He was careful to throw his pistol into the river. It would be pretty difficult, I imagine, to convict him of anything serious. And-”
“Yes? And?”
“If Noropa were deported by the British Government, that wouldn’t compromise any foreign legation that other wise might have to get him visas and supply the necessary funds, and all that.”
Ambleby listened as if he were being told something that he didn’t know. He looked vaguely, politely, not exactly incredulous but non-committal. Tom Grayne knew he was being studied, parsed, analyzed, doped out, criticized, considered — all behind a mask of courteously guarded int
erest.
One thing was already quite clear in Tom’s mind: if he wanted Ambleby’s help in any way, for any purpose, he had first to demonstrate his own value, and even so the help would not be openly done or acknowledged. Ambleby would tell him nothing more than he already knew.
“Hell!” Tom said suddenly. “Mayor gave me a hint who you are, so I’ll talk horse. The Japs will have to starve and even cease to be a nation if they can’t grab China. There’s nothing else for them to do. Therefore, China it is. And China used to own Tibet. The new ruler of Tibet will be a young child in the hands of regents. That’s to say when they’ve found the right child, and they haven’t yet, though they pretended they had. But the Tashi Lama is another story. He’s the religious head of things. His influence, under a semi-political mask, still reaches all through China, along Buddhist channels. The Japs thoroughly understand the Buddhist psychology.”
“Do you think they do?” asked Ambleby.
“Sure. Lots of Japs are Buddhists. They understand it, any how, a damned sight better than the Germans understood the rest of us in 1914. There’s a secret sept in Lhasa called the Wishful-ones-who-stand-in-awe-before-the-Thunder-Dragon-Gate. It’s one word. They are reputed to be black magicians. They’re said to be (and I think it’s true) the only Tibetan really secret sept who will admit Chinamen into their ranks. Thö-pa-ga’s father was the figurehead lama known as the Worshipfully-born-Keeper-of-the-Thunder-Dragon-Gate. That is also one word. Most lamas are forbidden to marry, but that particular lama is obliged to marry. He has to marry a woman selected for him by the men in the dark, who have the real power. They are known as the Worshipful-name- less-ones-in-the-dark-who-see-the-light-that-is-coming. That again is one word. The Keeper of the Thunder Dragon Gate is merely their mouthpiece, but he issues oracular messages, prophecies and commands, that filter through, in writing and by word of mouth to wherever Buddhism has any influence open or secret. The office of Keeper of the Thunder Dragon Gate descends from father to son, which is another thing unusual in Tibet. Every thirteenth one in succession is always named Thö-pa-ga. The name means ‘Wonderful-to-hear.’ And there’s a tradition, thoroughly believed, that the ones named Thö-pa-ga are more important than the others: that their coming always coincides with great changes.”
“Yes, I know all that,” said Ambleby. It was a rather surprising admission from him.
Tom continued:
“Well then, what is there to stop the Japs from getting control of the Keeper of the Thunder Dragon Gate? If he’s a shang-shang victim — that’s to say if he has been thoroughly well voodooed — they can make him send out propaganda, by word of mouth and secret writing, that should favorably influence quite a lot of Chinese in the matter of Japanese designs on China.”
“Do you think the Chinese might be influenced in that way?”
“Just as readily as we Americans were coaxed into the World War. Why not? Artfully managed propaganda can accomplish anything. But it has to be artful. The Japs understand that perfectly. That’s why they prepared a throne in Manchukuo for the ex-Emperor of China. That’s again why about thirty million Chinese have already emigrated into Manchukuo. The Emperor isn’t a Chinaman, he’s a Manchu. They know it. He has no power. They know that. But he means something to the Chinese mind that can’t be substituted. All the Japs have to do after that, is to provide a tolerable government, for which the Chinese give the puppet Emperor the credit.”
“So you think Thö-pa-ga is being hounded back to Tibet to become the mouthpiece of Japan?”
“Yes, to about a hundred million people — some of ’em in India, some in Ceylon and Burma — some in French Indo-China — many of ’em in Malaysia and the Dutch East Indies — but the great majority in China.”
“But why, Mr. Grayne, should they go to all that trouble? For instance, supposing young Thö-pa-ga should have been shot dead in your dwelling last night, why couldn’t they put a substitute in his place?”
“That’s exactly what they will do — and they’ll pick an obedient nitwit, some one they have thoroughly psychologized to do the job, if they can’t get hold of the real man. But if you know the first thing about Tibet, you’ll realize they’d prefer the right man. Those people believe their own medicine. A substituted Thö-pa-ga would undo their own belief in themselves and their magic. This man probably has well-known birth-marks. And besides, they’d have to murder him before they could put in a substitute. They’d have a job on their hands to bring the substitute in from abroad, because it’s common knowledge in Lhasa that Thö-pa-ga was sent to England for an education. The Dalai Lama’s regents, who hate the Tashi Lama like the devil, would be pretty sure to try to expose and denounce a substitute. The Japs wouldn’t have any faith in a substitute, either.”
Ambleby betrayed no other emotion than courteous interest.
“It does sometimes happen,” he said, “that certain governments employ a strictly unofficial means toward an undeclared objective. I have, of course, no knowledge of Japanese methods. However, there is a medical report to the effect that Thö-pa-ga might die soon, if he were permitted to remain in England. In the circumstances, since there is a balance to the credit of the fund that was sent from Tibetan sources for his Oxford education, it might be quite the proper thing to send him home in charge of some one. Are you willing to undertake that? Could you leave, say, day after to-morrow, from Hendon?”
“Oh, yes.”
Ambleby’s next remark withdrew the corner of a veil from undercover statecraft:
“Dr. Noropa will be deported, I am told. In England there are legal difficulties, but in India he can be detained for enquiries, under an Order in Council that provides for such contingencies. You are unlikely to be troubled by Noropa. — Do you happen to know any one in Delhi?” The question sounded quite casual.
“Oh, yes.”
“For instance?”
“Oh, lots of people.”
Ambleby smiled. “It wouldn’t help you in the least,” he said, “if you should mention me. But when you reach Delhi, if you should call on Mr. Norman Johnson, of the Bureau of Ethnology, and mention Professor Mayor, you might find Mr. Norman Johnson helpful. He would be interested to meet Thö-pa-ga. With his help, I imagine Thö-pa-ga will be able to reach Tibet.”
“Okay.”
“Could you leave your passport with me? I will have it visaed. I am informed that the police have saved your effects from being put out into the rain by your landlord.”
“Oh?”
“Yes. It appears the wharf is unsafe. Where would you like your things sent?”
Tom smiled. All his private papers were locked in a bank vault.
“Robbin’s Hotel,” he said, “Golden Square.”
“Very well, Mr. Grayne. Thö-pa-ga will meet you at the plane, at Hendon, day after to-morrow. Your ticket as far as Delhi and your passport shall be handed to you at the same time. Keep away, please, from Professor Mayor. No harm, I think, in phoning to him, provided you use discretion, but don’t be seen at his house or in his company. I think that is all for the present. Should you ever return alive from — er — Delhi, drop in and see me.”
“Thank you. Yes, I’ll do that.”
It was raining like the devil. Tom took a taxi. It was followed by another taxi to Robbin’s Hotel, an old-fashioned place, recently redecorated, of the type that Americans dread but the English permit to survive. Tom went straight to the desk and signed the register. A very well-dressed Japanese followed him into the hotel, asked for mail, received it and stood reading it near the desk.
“Can I have my usual room? Any mail for me?” Tom asked.
“Yes, the same room. No, Mr. Grayne, no letters.”
“Is Miss Burbage in? I will speak on the phone.”
“Booth One, sir.”
“Hello Elsa.”
“Hello Tom. Did you read the morning paper?”
“No. Why should I?”
“You’re on the front page.”
“
That’s no reason. Get your facts from him as knows ’em! Listen: you’ll need your cheque-book.”
“Tom, are you in trouble?”
“Hell, no. Have you your passport? Indian tourist visa?”
“I have had it in my purse for six weeks.”
“Cut along down to Cooks and buy yourself a reservation on the plane for Karachi, day after to-morrow. Better go to the bank first. — Yes, about that much — draw out plenty — fifty pounds more would be better. After you’ve made your reservation, meet me in the downstairs room at Doby’s.”
“All right, Tom.”
He returned to the desk. The Jap was still there, writing something. “I’m expecting a couple of suit-cases and a load of junk from Kew. Put the junk in the cellar — everything else into my room.”
“Yes, sir. Did you see your name on the front page?”
“Sure. I spelt it for them.”
They had spelt his name wrong, which was all to the good. He turned up his overcoat collar, thrust his fists into his pockets and walked out, striding like a man who meant to walk around the world. As he turned the corner he saw the Jap standing in the hotel doorway — saw him nod to a taxi-driver. The taxi drove away, slowly, and turned the same corner. It might mean nothing. But he was the same smart, well-dressed Japanese who had walked along the corridor in the Foreign Office.
CHAPTER 5. “They should rate you AAA One Hundred Plus.”
“Ton, I don’t look excited. I swear I don’t! Yes, I got the last seat there was. They had just sold the last-but-one. I have twelve hundred pounds in the bank. I have kept a small trunk packed ever since you warned me to be ready. And I’m so sick of Robbin’s Hotel — no I’m not, I love it! — I will kick it good-by, and come back a couple of years from now and love it all over again!”
“Kick your trunk good-by,” he answered. “Stick some doodads in a handbag. Buy all the rest of the stuff in India.”
“Tom, this isn’t true! It simply isn’t.”
“It won’t be, if you don’t listen carefully. The least slip, and it’s all off. They’d cancel everything.”
