Complete Works of Talbot Mundy

by Talbot Mundy

  Bompo Tsering whirled his prayer wheel. Elsa spoke as if at that moment waking from a deep sleep:

  “Andrew! Did you hear what he said?”

  “Sure. I heard him.”

  “Bulah Singh! What do you mean? What are you thinking of doing — to the other child — to the infant Lama?”

  The Sikh grinned: “Oh — as for that — you may have him — when I’m through. Did you happen to notice that Lepcha servant at Nancy Strong’s? He’ll be like that, only rather more so. He won’t remember much. Yes, yes, you may have him. But of course if you don’t care to help, you can’t expect us to—”

  “You mean—”

  “You know what I mean.” The Sikh snapped his fingers. “That useless infant means no more to me than Barcelona babies mean to General Franco and his bombers — or than the hungry Ukrainian babies meant to Stalin.”

  “You said — if we don’t care to help?”

  “Yes. Take him or leave him. Save him or let him die.”

  There came a pounding on the door — not very loud — not importunate. It was the pounding of someone who knew he could not be refused, so was in no special hurry.

  “Time now, anyway,” said Andrew grimly. “We have reached no basis for an understanding, Bulah Singh.”

  “Oh yes, we have! You are a little stupid, that’s all. I will explain it to you. I will make it quite clear.”

  The pounding on the door resumed, a little louder. Andrew addressed Bompo Tsering:

  “Go and open that door. Let them enter, whoever they are.”

  Bompo Tsering didn’t like it. He obeyed slowly — slowly — plucking the arm of another Tibetan to come and keep him company.

  “It is this! It is this!” said Bulah Singh. “You, Andrew Gunning, have been chosen to help me because of your special ability. What you believe is your integrity is only frozen habit, but it will serve our purpose. You, Elsa — I beg pardon, of course I mean Mrs. Grayne! — you have been chosen because of your special faculties. I did not say talent. I said faculties. You can be developed, trained, and used. You shall be. You shall be allowed to reach Tom Grayne, since he is also necessary for our purpose.”

  Andrew interrupted loudly: “Bompo Tsering! Open that door! Let those people in!”

  Bulah Singh continued: “As a reward you two may save the precious infant from the kites and ravens. If you wish to, you may have him. That is a promise. And, as a spur to your compliance with the requirements that are about to be brought to your notice — you are guaranteed that Tom Grayne, and you yourselves and the infant Lama shall die in torment for the least infraction, mistake, or neglect to obey! — And now open that door!”

  CHAPTER 34

  A dark procession entered, ushered by freezing wind that whirled the smoke and made the ponies restless. It was led by a hooded man with a lantern. He had been instructed. He knew what to do. He hung the lantern from a peg on one of the low roof beams and stood still beneath it with folded arms, about fifteen feet away from Andrew. The wavering shadows made him look like one of Torquemada’s men. Two more, who also looked like phantom Dominicans, followed and stood behind him, facing the row of ponies.

  Andrew stood up, expecting the magician Lung-gom-pa. But the magician lingered unexplainably among armed brigands in the dark near the door; there was no doubt who he was, but he was only just visible — a looming, lurking, massive presence, furtive and secretive; a bell tinkled faintly when he moved. The man who came forward to meet Andrew was no Tibetan. His beard and the way he carried his head reminded Andrew of the portrait of Sir Richard Burton, in his copy of the famous forbidden pilgrimage to Mecca and Medina. But he also more than vaguely resembled Lenin of Russia. His eyes were larger and darker than Lenin’s, but he had similar high cheek bones, some of Lenin’s gestures, some of Lenin’s rhinoceros-hided arrogance that couldn’t imagine itself mistaken. He had Lenin’s way of sticking his fist in his right-hand pocket. But on the whole he looked more like Sir Richard Burton, perhaps because of the Afghan turban, which suited him and made him look scholarly. He wore a long, well-fitting fur-lined overcoat. He wasn’t nearly as tall as Andrew. He halted some paces away, so as not to have to look up.

  Andrew spoke abruptly, just to start something: “How do you do.”

  Elsa turned to look. Andrew touched her shoulder. She looked away again.

  The man in the Afghan turban answered with what might be a smile, or it might have been the natural wryness of his mouth that twisted when he spoke: “How do you do.”

  Two Tibetans emerged out of the shadows carrying a short heavy bench — set it down between Andrew and Bulah Singh, spread cushions on it, and withdrew. The door slammed shut. It grew suddenly warmer. The smoke ceased whirling and making the ponies snort. By that time there were not less than thirty people in the room, including Andrew’s men, but most of them were in the dark at the far end. They were all silent. The only noticeable noise was when the ponies stamped and snorted. One squealed.

  “Are you Andrew Gunning?”

  “Yes. Who are you?”

  “I came a long way to wait here for you. I am not an oriental, although my turban may have led you to think so. My name is Oliver Blessingwell.”

  Andrew answered in a low voice: “You wish me to pretend to believe that? Is it your alias?”

  “Sir?”

  “Your real name,” said Andrew, “is Major Hugo von Klaus. You were attached to the Turkish command in Jerusalem in 1915 with Djemal Pasha.”

  “That is a long time ago,” said the German.

  “You were transferred to the diplomatic service after the Armistice and went to Kabul. From there to China. Later to Japan. One of your occasional correspondents calls himself Ambrose St. Malo.”

  Major von Klaus managed to disguise his annoyance, but the effort was noticeable. He smiled, but his smile was slow, it had to be forced. “You appear to be curiously well informed. Are you a medium? If so, that stuff, let me warn you, is far from reliable — especially in this land of tricky magicians.”

  Andrew felt he had the upper hand and was resolved to keep it, masking his thought and not answering what he did not choose to answer. He had never unlearned the American habit of introducing people to each other. It served his purpose now. He half turned toward Elsa.

  “Since we know each other’s real names, I’ll introduce you to Mrs. Grayne.”

  Major von Klaus looked incredulous: “Grayne? You said Mrs. Grayne? Am I mistaken? Is her name not Elsa Burbage?”

  “I told you her right name. Elsa, this is Major von Klaus. He’s an orientalist. He should be famous.”

  Bulah Singh chuckled: “Isn’t the right word notorious?”

  Major von Klaus ignored Bulah Singh. He bowed stiffly.

  “How do you do,” said Elsa. “Won’t you be seated?” She didn’t smile. She was aware of Andrew’s tenseness and of the fact that Andrew expected violence at any moment without previous warning.

  Von Klaus moved around Andrew, walking as if he wore tight military boots, although his feet were actually encased in comfortable felt. His head hung forward a little when he didn’t remember to hold it upright, as if the turban, or else his brain, were too heavy. He sat down on the bench. A Tibetan menial approached from the shadows and wrapped a heavy woolen shawl around his shoulders. Bompo Tsering, feeling that Andrew needed an equivalent attention, came forward and put fuel on the fire. Major von Klaus observed Bompo Tsering, appeared to study him:

  “Your man?”

  “My foreman,” said Andrew.

  “And those others?”

  “Yes, those are my men.”

  “Shall we excuse them? I would like a conversation with you.”

  “Very well. Send your own men away and I’ll dismiss mine.”

  Andrew noticed a heavy ring on the middle finger of the German’s right hand as he gestured to command privacy. That is the rarest thing in Tibet, but he was promptly obeyed. The three solemnities under the lantern retired backwar
ds in token of almost religious respect. Andrew ordered Bompo Tsering away into the dark behind the ponies. The others followed Bompo Tsering.

  “I believe you’ve already met Bulah Singh,” said Andrew.

  The German nodded. He glanced coldly at Bulah Singh but didn’t speak. Then he studied Elsa, governing his face, muscle by muscle, until he had it set in a smile that would have passed muster, beyond footlights, as a symbol of the velvet glove on an iron hand. It was as diplomatic as the edge of a knife or the back of an axe.

  “I know all about you,” he said pleasantly. “Have you enjoyed your journey thus far?”

  Elsa surprised them all, herself included. She enraged von Klaus. “If you know so much, why do you ask?”

  Bulah Singh laughed. That provided the German with a scapegoat for his anger. He turned on the Sikh:

  “As for you,” he said savagely, “I warned you that the slightest—”

  Bulah Singh interrupted. “Yes, and I warned you! Must I say it in German? There’s no one but Andrew Gunning who can manage the girl. And there’s no one but me who can deal with him. If you insist on acting like one of Hitler’s bullies, we’ll all have to shoot each other to avoid being tortured to death.”

  Von Klaus scowled at him: “Silence, you clown!”

  “You go to hell,” said the Sikh.

  “Oh, very well.” The German tugged at his beard with his left hand. His right tapped at his overcoat pocket.

  “Bulah Singh has been disarmed,” Andrew remarked quietly. “Shooting him would be murder. I forbid it.”

  The German pretended not to have heard the word “forbid.” He peered toward the door. “Yes. Murder is unpleasant. We’ll let Lung-gom-pa deal with him.”

  “No,” said Andrew. “I protect Bulah Singh. I told him he could come to me, day or night.”

  “He put it in writing,” the Sikh added. His eyes blazed with excitement. “I have it here in my pocket.”

  The German controlled his anger with an effort. “Are you aware,” he asked Andrew, “that this Schweinehund Bulah Singh has been betraying you right and left for the last several months?”

  “Yes,” said Andrew, “I know all about him.”

  “Did you know he has offered for sale this girl whom you introduced to me just now as Mrs. Grayne? You said Grayne, didn’t you? I happen to know her name is Elsa Burbage.” He let a sneer into his voice. “Why not call her Mrs. Andrew Gunning?”

  “Suppose you try it just once and see what happens,” Andrew suggested. “Mrs. Grayne needs no character reference from me. But she gets no gratuitous insults while I’m around. Are those your own teeth?”

  “Tsch-tsch! We are getting nowhere,” said the German. “We are wasting time. Let us send this Sikh policeman away.”

  “He can’t walk.”

  “He can be carried.”

  “No. He stays here. I won’t have him tortured. I don’t trust him. But I don’t trust you either.”

  “Gunning,” said Bulah Singh, “tell your man Bompo Tsering to give me back my automatic. Then you and I can control this situation.”

  “I control it now,” Andrew answered. “I don’t need your help, or your advice. Sit still and don’t interrupt.”

  The German tried to be tactful: “Come now! Come now! Let us all talk sensibly!”

  “About opium?” Andrew asked. He wasn’t trying to be tactful, he was just plain belligerent.

  “Yes, among other things. Why not? Let us speak of the opium first”

  “Okay. Talk,” said Andrew. “But let me warn you. Among other reasons, I left America because I didn’t choose to defend in court a son of a bitch who’d been peddling drugs. I could have got him off. I wouldn’t. Now you’ve a line on my point of view, so spill the beans.”

  “Can’t we be polite to each other? I wish to speak impersonally,” said the German.

  “Can’t be done,” said Andrew. “The hell with that boloney. I’m one person. You’re another. I’ve a personal opinion of you that ‘ud file the rough off gray iron.”

  “But Gott im Himmel, what do you know about me?”

  Suddenly Andrew knew that he no longer knew in any ordinary meaning of the word. He hadn’t been guessing. He had seen. Now he could no longer see. Less than a second ago he had seen clearly that Major von Klaus intended to become Bulah Singh’s substitute — to get rid of Bulah Singh, by turning him over to Lung-gom-pa, and to come in his place on the expedition. He still knew it, because he had seen and remembered. But it tongue-tied him for the moment to realize he had no evidence. Von Klaus laughed, letting Andrew know that he understood Andrew’s difficulty. Then he tried to smile pleasantly, offering a lie that should serve like oil on troubled water; but a scar twisted his lips so that the smile passed through a sneer and out again — twice — going and coming.

  “Andrew Gunning,” he said, “don’t you think that perhaps the altitude, and exhaustion, and the natural emotion due to a sensation of danger, may have unsteadied your thought?”

  Andrew recognized the motive behind the question. “I’m thinking about you and this opium that I’m sitting on,” he answered. “My thought’s steady enough. It isn’t tricky either. I’m not a diplomat.”

  Bulah Singh thrust straight ahead into that opening. “You fool!” he said to the German. “You conceited ignoramus! Do you think Gunning can’t see through such puerile attempts to steal his confidence? I told you at the gate — he resisted all my attempts to hypnotize him. I can’t read his thought, except when he’s off guard, and that’s rarely. So I’m damned if you can with your stodgy German method. Compared to me, you’re a neophyte — a Lehrling! Stop wasting time!”

  “I will speak to the lady,” von Klaus answered. A look of disciplined cunning stole over his face. Like many and many a middle-aged diplomat he evidently thought himself a charmer of women when he could give his mind to it. But Elsa surprised him again:

  “Please don’t!” she exclaimed. “Please don’t! I’m busy!”

  Her head was resting on the canvas chair-back. Her eyes were shut; the lids looked dark blue in the shadow of leaping firelight. Von Klaus leaned eagerly toward her.

  “Can she be conscious on two planes! Elsa! Tell what you see! I command you! Tell what you see!”

  Andrew growled at him: “You keep away! Do you hear! Keep your distance!”

  Bulah Singh sneered: “She won’t tell you! There’s only one person she will tell. Von Klaus, you’d better take a back seat and leave this to me.”

  Von Klaus, showing his aging teeth through scarred lips, stared at Elsa and then at Andrew. Andrew was seeing again — seeing what Elsa saw. First he saw the Lama Gombaria in his sky-high Sikkim monastery. But for a moment he looked like Morgan Lewis — then it wasn’t Lewis, it was Nancy Strong, on a chair at someone’s bedside. He supposed that was Father Patrick, at the Jesuit Mission; there was a crucifix on the wall. Nancy Strong looked up — straight at Andrew — and grew larger — nearer — changing as she came. She grew hideous. He didn’t recognize her, until suddenly he remembered the bullet-broken photograph of the Ringding Gelong Lama Lobsang Pun — Old Ugly-face. It was he. The face became a maze of wrinkles, nodded. The nose like an owl’s beak twitched. Pure gold, like the background of a Russian icon only brighter than the sun, began to frame the face, until it changed and for a fragment of a second became splendid. Then it smiled and was gone.

  “They are both of them seeing the man whom we want,” remarked Bulah Singh in a voice so harsh that it creaked. “The man only sees him. The girl is talking with him!”

  The German’s voice was as quiet and as earnestly kind as if he were coaxing a child: “Tell what you see! Tell what he said! Elsa! I am your friend! You tell me!”

  Elsa sat upright suddenly. She and Andrew looked at each other, questioning. Andrew nodded. Elsa smiled happily.

  “Andrew! You saw? You did see?”

  Andrew nodded again: “Seemed to me that he gave us the green light.”

 
“You believe it!”

  Andrew nodded. “But I never believe what I believe,” he added. “I’ve got to know. How does one find out?”

  A bell tinkled, in the dark near the wall at the far end. Something rattled. Bompo Tsering howled on a high note. He and all Andrew’s Tibetans knelt and laid their foreheads on the floor. The bell tinkled again, in time to slow footsteps, coming. Gradually, developing like a photographic image on a film, the black magician Lung-gom-pa, the ruler of the village, moved forward toward the firelight. He seemed almost to float on air, effortless.

  CHAPTER 35

  Lung-gom-pa the magician approached slowly, with solemn dignity. Thought moved as swiftly as light. The solemnity made no impression on Andrew. The dignity did. The handsome, professional mystery man — his high-cheeked, slant-eyed, dark face reddened by the firelight — stared at Andrew, disguising thought with experienced skill. There was a faint smile on his lips. It was a lie. But it looked good. It suggested scorn so insolent, and secret knowledge so lofty and sure, that there was no need to let lower emotions enter in. He could afford, said the smile, that rare gift, inscrutable patience. But it wasn’t patience. It was suspicion, on the horns of a dilemma that the magician did not understand.

  Neither did Andrew understand it. But he had studied juries in Ohio, learning to choose and reject by intuition. And he had learned to watch witnesses. He had become very skillful at detecting a lie and its motive. He was no more deceived by the magician’s smile than he was awed by the long necklace of miniature skulls carved from human bone, strung on human sinew.

  He observed the magician’s cunning eyes, that saw cunning where none was. Asceticism, that had made the man lean, couldn’t hide the sensuous greed on nose and lips. It couldn’t mask his baffled yearning for the luxury of more, and more secret power. Barring toughness of skin, color, and some pockmarks, Andrew had seen dozens of faces like that one — politicians’ faces — white faces of bosses and men of affairs — near enough like it, posing as resolute, patient, farseeing, spiritually informed and very worldly wise — all phonies. He remembered, for instance, an unfrocked priest —