by Talbot Mundy
“See here,” he said suddenly, “I’ll be frank with you.”
“Yes. We agreed we’d do that.”
“I’ve made inquiries about you in Columbus and Cincinnati.”
“Fifty, fifty,” said Andrew. “I’ve the lowdown on you, from unimpeachable sources.”
Bulah Singh looked stung. His voice went a quarter-note higher, sour- sharp: “My information is that you left home in embarrassing circumstances.”
Andrew chose silence.
“You were employed in a law office, in Cincinnati. Is that right?”
“Yes. I got fed up with criminal law.”
“So I have been given to believe. Shall we go into details?”
“Not if you want to continue the conversation,” said Andrew. “There are things I don’t talk about. That’s one of them. Shall I put it more plainly? I mean—”
“Oh no. Sit still. I understand you very well. I wish you to understand me.”
“Maybe I’m too dumb to understand you,” Andrew suggested. “And you’re using marked cards. But go ahead. Try me.”
“Being a secret agent you will have no difficulty in grasping my meaning exactly. I’m an older man than you. I’ve had more experience. But we both know how many beans make five.”
“I’m not in your class,” Andrew answered. “But if you’ll quit walking about like a caged animal I’ll try to get what you’re driving at. Sit down and drink your whiskey.”
Bulah Singh resumed his seat and lighted a cigarette. He looked exasperated, but he evidently needed something too badly to risk taking offense. Andrew offered him no help whatever; he just sat still and waited until Bulah Singh resumed:
“You know as well as I do that from the bottom, all the way up to the top, every policeman and every intelligence officer has his own grapevine, his own informants, who report to him, and, who receive a certain amount of protection — or shall we call it immunity from interference — in exchange for secret information, et cetera. Make a note of that word et cetera.”
“Yes,” said Andrew. “It’s a word like a conjurer’s hat. Go ahead.”
“All governments conduct their secret intelligence service on the same principle,” said Bulah Singh. “The value of the number one man depends on his access to exclusive secret information. On that depends his ability to get things done without revealing his own hidden hand. There isn’t a police or a secret service system in the world that isn’t run on that basis.”
“Well, you should know about that,” said Andrew. “I guess you’ve made a study of it.”
“An intensive study. A lifetime study. But there are other important points. One must be in a position to reward an efficient agent. And one must have such a hold over that agent that he can’t run out, or dare to misinform, or double-cross, or disobey. You get me?”
Andrew nodded. “Sure. Club in one hand, cash in the other.”
The Sikh promptly corrected him: “A club certainly, yes. But information that has to be paid for in currency seldom is worth what it costs. Besides, you don’t need money. I know the amount of your bank balance. The point is that you wish to return to Tibet. And though you deny it, I know you are an agent of the American Government.”
“I do deny that,” Andrew answered. “Want to bet about it?”
The Sikh stiffened. “Perhaps you also deny a special interest in the lady who calls herself Elsa Burbage?”
“No. You’re getting hot now. I’m concerned about her.”
“I, also,” said Bulah Singh. “If it should be made possible for you to enter Tibet — this is confidential, of course, strictly between ourselves — Elsa Burbage would remain here. Do you get my meaning?”
“No. Put it in plain words.”
“You know, don’t you, that Germans, and Russians, and Italians who wish to travel abroad — or who are sent abroad on diplomatic, or on business errands, are obliged to leave behind as hostage to guarantee good faith, some friend, or member of their family — parents perhaps — or a mistress, whose personal welfare is — well, you understand me, don’t you?”
“Use plain speech. Say it.”
“As I reminded you once before, there is no India Office visa on your passport. You can be run out of the country. So can Elsa Burbage, for having entered Tibet without official permission.”
“You’re out of your depth there,” said Andrew. “Elsa’s passport does bear an India Office visa. She can’t be deported.”
“Yes she can. I happen to know that she is Mrs. Tom Grayne, secretly married. So it’s a false name on her passport. And there’s a law against adultery in India. The little question of social morality enters in — nothing important in your eyes or mine — but — ah — a very convenient excuse for dealing drastically with the indiscreet. Adultery, being a public scandal, comes within the scope of police authority. A married woman, traveling in suspicious circumstances, alone with a man who is not her husband; and who is lodged, together with her unregistered baby, in a Buddhist monastery of all improbable places — and whose baby dies conveniently in spite of expert medical attention — comes well within reach of the law. Now — do we understand each other?”
Andrew answered coolly: “I don’t think you understand me or Elsa Burbage.”
Bulah Singh showed his wonderful teeth in a smile that was meant to intimidate. It almost did. For unless Dr. Morgan Lewis should know how to prevent it, Bulah Singh might make sordid accusations stick; and sheer malice might make him attempt it if Andrew should refuse to have dealings with him. It seemed as if Bulah Singh could read the thought behind Andrew’s eyes:
“There is nothing more perilous, and therefore foolish,” he remarked, “than to say no, to a secret proposal, when it is made in good faith by such a person as me. I am not a mere policeman. I am one who foresees coming events. The time for you to have said no was when we began our conversation. Now is the time to say yes.”
Andrew subdued the impulse to use fists and feet and pitch the Sikh into the corridor. The Sikh spotted that. He loved to see a proud man forced to subdue anger. His own dark eyes brightened with amusement.
“What’s the proposal?” Andrew demanded.
“You have heard of the Ringding Gelong Lama Lobsang Pun?”
“Sure. We were speaking of him just now.”
“You have heard also of Ambrose St. Malo?”
“Yes. What about him?”
“Ambrose St. Malo,” said Bulah Singh, “is an incorrigible scoundrel with genius for audacity. He is less scrupulous than a sacred ape. He accepts anyone’s money. At present I believe he is being paid by Japan. But perhaps by Russia. He has crossed Tibet from Sinkiang, and to my actual knowledge he is looking for the Lama Lobsang Pun, who is in hiding. Ambrose St. Malo’s purpose is to make sure of Lobsang Pun in order to capture the infant Dalai Lama and spirit him away into Sinkiang to sell him to Russia or Japan, I don’t know which, and it makes no difference which.”
“And where do you come into the picture?” Andrew demanded.
“It is my opportunity. Yours, too. Do what I tell you, and you may name your own reward.”
“You must take me for a damned fool,” said Andrew. “You couldn’t buy a coolie with that kind of talk.”
The Sikh ignored the comment and went straight to the point. “The infant Dalai Lama is the best bet in all Asia. Do you realize that? Whoever controls him, controls the subtle undercurrents that are the real, as distinguished from the superficial, political forces. Whoever brings the infant Dalai Lama to India, for protection — now do you get my meaning?”
“Yeah — but why can’t you say it? There are no witnesses. You want Johnson’s job. That’s the idea, isn’t it? You think you’ll have a good chance to get it if I’ll do the difficult dirty work, kidnap the baby Lama, bring him here and chuck him into your lap, to prove what a statesman you are. I won’t do it.”
“I don’t want Johnson’s job. And you can’t afford to refuse my offer or my terms,” said Bul
ah Singh. Andrew grinned obstinately: “I’ll see your hand. What have you got?”
“I have you and Elsa Burbage.”
“And a damned small kit of scruples, I imagine.”
“If you go to Tibet on my terms, Elsa Burbage will be well taken care of at this end.”
“By You?”
“Yes.”
“Have you spoken about it to her?”
“Yes and no,” said the Sikh. “I haven’t mentioned your returning to Tibet. Even the best women are dangerous, intuitive creatures. They jump to conclusions and behave unpredictably. She is more than intuitive. She is clairvoyant. I wish to talk to you about that.”
“Well, what of it?”
“Do you happen to have read a book called Man, the Unknown by Dr. Alexis Carrel?”
“Yes, I have the book in this room. One of your undercover men left fingerprints on two or three of the pages when he went through my effects. I wish you’d tell those filthy buzzards of yours to wash their hands before they come trespassing.”
The Sikh smiled. “We were speaking of clairvoyance. Dr. Carrel is, I believe, the first really eminent western scientist who has dared to make the downright statement that clairvoyance is a scientific fact. He isn’t one of those stuffy fools who confuse it with spiritualism and mediumship. He admits it’s a demonstrated truth that clairvoyants can perceive the past, the present, and the future at one and the same time.”
“I’d give a dollar to know what you’re driving at,” said Andrew. “Why don’t you come to the point?”
“The point is this: clairvoyance is the means by which news is transmitted throughout Asia — especially India. There is nothing fantastic about that. It always has been so, and Indians have always known it. There are fully accredited instances of news having been transmitted from end to end of India faster than the telegraph could do it. Even Lord Roberts mentioned it in his biography. I speak as a realist — as a dealer in accurately ascertained, checked and correlated facts. It has been possible in numbers of instances to make an accurate time check and to prove beyond possible doubt that an occurrence, such as an earthquake or a death by accident or murder, and the receipt of the news hundreds of miles away, were simultaneous. So much for perception of the present: time and space, as commonly defined, have no existence for the clairvoyant. It is not known how the thing works. But we know that it does. I know that it does. So do you. So do hundreds of other people, of whom some are scientists, some are crazy with religion, and some are so mad that they have to be locked up.”
Andrew sat still, studying Bulah Singh’s ice-cold fury of concentration. The Sikh was long past the stage of excitement. He was letting flow the stored-up flood of conviction, which made him feel superior to Andrew, whom he suspected of moral cowardice. He wasn’t afraid to manipulate mental dynamite. Andrew was afraid and would have to be forced. Contempt of Andrew as a mere prospective tool of his own higher intelligence blinded him to the fact that Andrew’s contempt was as hot and living as his own was cold and cruel.
“You seem sold on that stuff,” said Andrew.
“Sold? Are you—”
“You appear to believe.”
“Believe? I know. I know more. I speak as a professional criminologist. Exact facts and statistics are my meat, tools, weapons. You may dismiss doubt when I tell you I know scores of instances of clairvoyant reading of the past. To my certain knowledge criminals have used it, and crime has been detected by the same means. The evidence has been obtained that convicted the prisoners. Do you believe it?”
“Belief is easy,” said Andrew. “The trouble with me is that I never believe what I believe, if you get my meaning.”
“You’re a skeptic, are you? Well, that’s in your favor. But listen to this. I speak plainly. I know eighteen instances — I have a record of them, fully documented and attested — of exactly accurate clairvoyant reading of the future. The predicted events came to pass exactly as clairvoyantly foreseen, in every detail. Now then. Do you see what I’m driving at?”
“No,” said Andrew. To have said yes might have stopped the Sikh’s self- revelation. Not improbably Morgan Lewis might —
The Sikh detected the thought. He stood up suddenly and stared down at Andrew: “Understand, Andrew Gunning! I don’t permit my private conversation to be used as gossip. I know how to deal with offenders. Dr. Morgan Lewis is a dilettante — an amateur. He is inquisitive about telepathy. He may ask questions about me. If you value your life — I said life — did you hear me? — don’t answer his questions.”
Andrew grinned into that opening easily, smoothly: “I’d a notion you hadn’t got me right, Bulah Singh. I make no one-sided bargains — not if I know it. There’s only one way you and I can hit it off. Show cards. Make a square proposition. If you’ve something to sell, trot it out and let’s look at it.”
Forced again on the defensive the Sikh changed his tactics: “I can have you arrested.”
“Sure you can. But what for? And can you make it stick?”
“Spying. I have copies of your correspondence.”
“I know that,” said Andrew. “Have you noticed I’m worried about it?”
“I have a list of all your hide-outs between here and that cave near Shig- po-ling where Tom Grayne is waiting for you.”
Andrew laughed: “Hell, you’re not offering to sell me that, are you?”
“I am not selling. I am telling you.”
“Can’t you tell it sitting down?”
Bulah Singh remained standing. His mouth was a symbol of ruthless and now reckless greed. Not money greed, but greed for power. He began taking chances now:
“I have what you Americans call the goods on Mu-ni Gam-po. I can use you as a means to ruin him, use him as a means to ruin you. I can throw your friend Tom Grayne to the wolves by arresting you and seizing the supplies you want to take to him. And I can make things very unpleasant for Elsa Burbage.”
“But you haven’t done it,” said Andrew. “Why not?”
“Because I wish you to go to Tibet. I will arrange your escape across the border. Someone else, whom I have in mind, shall be blamed for it. I have it all thought out. You and Tom Grayne, with or without the co-operation of Lobsang Pun and Ambrose St. Malo, shall bring the infant Dalai Lama to India, and—”
“And what?”
“This is important.”
“Why don’t you come to the point? Are you scared to say it?”
“Elsa Burbage will be the hostage for the fulfillment of your bargain with me.”
“You’ve said that already.”
“I have been unable to persuade her to use clairvoyance in connection with inquiries I am making.”
“Yeah. She said you asked her to listen in on a third degree or something like it. Turned you down, eh? You’ll get nowhere along that line. She detests clairvoyance.”
The Sikh pointed a finger at Andrew’s face and stared along it as if he were sighting a gun: “You will change Elsa Burbage’s mind about that. You will point out to her that your safety, and Tom Grayne’s safety, and the success of our plan, and her own immunity from — call it persecution if you want to — depend on her cooperation with me.”
“What kind of cooperation?”
“She will put her clairvoyance and her telepathic faculty at my disposal during the entire period of your absence in Tibet.”
“What for?”
“For my purposes. She will report to me, exactly, in full detail, every clairvoyant or telepathic vision she receives. And she will obey me in the matter of sending messages at my dictation.”
“And if she refuses?”
“So much the worse for her and for you and Tom Grayne.”
“So that’s it, eh?”
“Yes. And your answer is yes! Or take the consequences! Secrecy, of course, is essential. I warn you, I have made all arrangements to stop your mouth, and hers, too, forever, if one word of this should leak out.”
An auto horn tooted in the street
below the window. Andrew felt relieved. The Sikh looked savage. He thrust out his lower jaw and spoke slowly, in a level voice:
“Here comes Morgan Lewis now, with my car. Drop one hint to him of what I’ve said to you and — well — take the consequences.”
CHAPTER 10
There was plenty of firelight from the hearth. Nancy Strong got up and switched off the electric light. The leaping shadows made the room seem smaller and more cozy. In the dimness Nancy Strong looked younger and less rugged but even more outwardly calm and inwardly alert. She sat down facing Elsa, studied her for a minute or two, then suddenly:
“Elsa, my dear, the meek shall inherit the earth. They always do. But who wants it? The pigs want it. But who else?”
“Pigs?”
“Yes. Poets create their own world. Pigs can’t. The pig in every one of us destroys what the poet creates.”
“What are you talking about?”
“You and the earth. Pigs and poets. Poet — you and pig — you. The earth is a synonym for what the Communists and Fascists and economists sell their souls and other people’s bodies for. That’s what you’re trying to do.”
“Communist? Fascist? Pig? Poet? Me? I don’t want the earth. I don’t own a yard of it. I don’t understand you.”
“You will presently. You must get into your head first that meekness and humility are opposites. You’re meek. You’ve got to change.”
“How?” asked Elsa.
“By turning it inside-out and becoming humble.”
“Show me.”
“Humble as Jesus.”
Elsa rebelled instantly. All she needed was something to set her teeth into. “I don’t like Jesus. Fed up with him. Don’t believe in him.”
“You mean you don’t want to be crucified.”
Elsa turned that over in her mind for several seconds. Then she said: “Nobody wants to be crucified.”
