by Talbot Mundy
Elsa had to ask that question twice. There was a whispered conference with the magician. Then the answer: “Yes. Too much money.”
“In return for the bribes, what did the woman do?”
“Making too much picture magic-making look-see.”
Von Klaus interrupted again: “Das Weib ist eine—”’
“Thanks, we know about her,” said Andrew. “She’s a trance medium. Did you make use of her to communicate with Bulah Singh in India?”
“That’s what I’m getting at.”
“You mean what you would like to get at,” von Klaus retorted. “I tell no secrets. But are you an ignoramus? Don’t you know as well as anyone that the technique of modern intelligence work — espionage and counter-espionage is—”
Andrew cut in. “Modern? That stuff’s older than Jeremiah’s school of prophets! The British began organized experiments in thought transmission during the war in 1915. You Fritzies have been trying it ever since. Hitler keeps his private mediums at Berchtesgaden. Your Gestapo has a whole corps of ’em. Do you admit having used that woman?”
“I admit nothing. You speak from ignorance. You imagine imbecilities. But why do you yourself travel with a special woman? Do you burden yourself in that way for fear of syphilis? Or lest your lack of self-sex-discipline should lead to—”
“Ask that brigand to go on talking,” said Andrew.
The German believed he had scored. He chested himself. While Elsa listened to the brigand he smiled leanly, nodding. He pretended to have lost all interest when Elsa began to interpret. He warmed his hands at the brazier as if he were washing them in the fumes.
“This peling — he means von Klaus — offered to teach and to help Lung-gom-pa by means of a new system of religion — I believe that is what he means — to become Kashgan of all this country.”
Andrew raised his eyebrows: “Of all Tibet?”
“So he says. I understood him to say that. Von Klaus undertook to make him Regent-guardian of the infant Dalai Lama, which would give him all power.”
Andrew grinned. “I guess the wires crossed that time! Or were they tapped! Bulah Singh’s bastard boy-wonder! The bonny pretender!” Suddenly he roared with laughter that made all the brigands and even the door guard laugh too, although they didn’t know what he had said nor why he laughed. The magician’s ape-eyes widened, but, being beyond mirth and grief where dignity forbade, no smile escaped him. Or perhaps he alone understood that Andrew’s smile had been genuine but the laugh was forced. It served its purpose. Von Klaus exploded like a detonated bomb of humorless passion:
“So! A clown, are you? Like an American movie hero! I wash my hands of your Jew-drama!”
He went through the motion of washing his hands in the hot brazier fumes. Andrew kept up the irritation:
“You’re too subtle for me. The way you say it, you sound all steamed up for—”
Elsa stirred: “Don’t, Andrew, don’t!”
But if it was damage it was done. Von Klaus was ready for his supreme effort — his barrage that should break down all resistance. He looked apoplectic. His neck swelled. He screamed, like an enraged parrot, as if rebuking mutineers or Jews in Dachau concentration camp. “You can’t bargain with me! Do you think I will tamely submit to your dictation? You came too late! Bah! Phui! You have no right here! You are an interloper! Try on your worst treacheries! Then see how swift — how remorseless will be die Wiedervergeltung — the reprisal — die Bestrafung—”
Andrew interrupted: “You’re not counting on your little Gestapo gang in Lhasa, are you? Lhasa’s a long way from here. How’ll they learn you’re up against it? Are they using a medium?”
“Bah! You are medium-crazy! You don’t guess how near my friends are!”
That shaft almost got home. If the German’s friends really were near the game was up. It was more than possible. It could explain why the Tibetans waited with such patience. There was no chance — absolutely none — that a party of Gestapo men would do less than steal all Andrew’s loads and ponies. They wouldn’t have to do their own murdering. At half a hint the Tibetans would do that for them. Andrew felt the cold premonition of fear like a chill wind. But then suddenly he felt Elsa’s influence. He couldn’t have explained it. It was warm, and it calmed him. With half-closed eyes, Elsa was leaning back, seeming almost asleep, although her left hand, on the chair-arm, was crushed under his. He realized he must have hurt her terribly. Snatching his hand away, he began framing an apology, but no words came because her lips moved — not speaking to him. He caught the murmur and the rhythm: “Thy kingdom come, Thy will be done—”
He took her hand gently — flexed it to relieve the numbness. “See here,” he said to von Klaus, “you’ve bluffed like hell. But it’s no go If you want my help, you’ll have to come clean. I won’t give you a break if you don’t.”
Von Klaus stared venomously, smiling with invincible arrogance. “Very well,” he retorted. “You have me at disadvantage. Name your Shylock price and I will pay.”
Andrew ignored the insult. “All I want is the truth. What was your deal with these Tibetans?”
Then there appeared and explained itself the reason why von Klaus had been selected for a dangerous, deadly mission. The man’s genius came forth — his gift for snatching a chance and rising like a Phoenix from the ashes of failure, defeat, humiliation. The truth, too, can be venomous, the way he told it — truth about the lies that he himself believed because they fed his conceit. His movements fascinated the old magician. All the Tibetans watched him, breathless, like spectators at a play. He began to pace to and fro beside the brazier. He appeared to be gathering thought, establishing a rhythm, something like that of a dynamo. There were no words. He didn’t mutter to himself. But he was building the mysterious hypnotic force that all spellbinders and all orators use, though none knows what it actually is. They build it until they feel it and then let loose. Andrew heard Elsa’s whisper.
“Andrew, can you be gentle? Can you break it and not add to it?”
He didn’t know quite what she meant, but he knew the German must be deflated somehow. Quite likely he was working up — besides mental passion — strength for a physical leap at Andrew’s throat, to seize Andrew’s automatic. Ridicule seemed the best bet. Andrew tried it:
“The words that you’re pounding your brain to remember are ‘Sieg Heil!’ Shall I spell ’em for you?”
The German stood still — threw an attitude — spoke, gripping his coat with one hand. He held the other clenched fist ready for one of those upward blows at the air that hypnotize because the audience knows they are coming, awaits them in suspense, listens for the magic phrases, that shall make the fist leap upward.”
“Lung-gom-pa says that I spoke of religion. Wahrhaftig! I did. Day after day I have dinned into his stupid consciousness — as I now tell you — the Christian dispensation, as you call it, is done! — dead! — kaputt! It is a burned-out moon! There is nothing more dead than a dead delusion. Jew-Jesus and his ranting hypocrites — his humble parasites — his Peters and Pauls and Popes and other howling dervishes — no longer set the fashion of ideas. There is no law nowadays of offering the other cheek to the smiter. The smitten go down in the dust and the smiter tramples them. The roots of Christianity were in the Sermon on the Mount. Its last fruit was the Treaty of Versailles! And that also is dead! It is a stink in men’s nostrils — a putrid corpse, like Christianity. Dead! And with Christianity died Buddhism. Buddha, the more ancient myth-monger, died drowned like a bee in its own honey! Buddhism is dead! — forever dead! And so is Islam dead. So are all dreamy religions dead that lure their victims into slavery to priests! Heil Hitler! Today’s world shakes off Jew-shackles and Jew-ideology! The power of the shameless hymning feminist humbugs of all religions, died with the death of the Lie of Versailles! Heil Hitler! A new day has dawned! By virtue of the German race — Heil Hitler! — manhood comes at last into its own! — and they shall rule the world who ride the new whirlwin
d, compared to which Genghis Khan and his hordes — Attila — the Huns and Visigoths — Spain — Alva’s infantry — England’s imperial greed and all the Jew-bought liars ganged against Germans in 1914 — are as nothing! I said ‘as nothing’! Heil Hitler! I speak of the new conquest of the world — of the rule of Might — of the law that Might shall prevail — and of the truth — the realistic truth that there is neither right nor wrong, but only that which is expedient. Ends justify means.”
He paused for breath, sweating, breathing, glaring, estimating Andrew’s reaction. He believed he had Andrew half won — or at least shaken — until Andrew spoke:
“But what a hell of an end to aim at!”
Von Klaus gasped as if struck in the face.
Elsa spoke dreamily: “Andrew! Ask what else he said. What did he promise about you and me?”
Her prompting dovetailed so neatly into Andrew’s own thought that he hardly noticed it. Somehow he had to avoid the need of using that automatic that he could feel each time he breathed. He must convince von Klaus that his whirlwind of words had not been altogether wasted. He must string him along.
“Okay, Christianity’s dead. So you flogged a dead horse and betrayed Fu Ling. What has that to do with me and this bag? What are you driving at?”
The German hadn’t time to answer. He was hesitating whether to fling the lie in Andrew’s face or to tell a lie of his own, or the truth, when Elsa sat bolt upright. She clutched Andrew’s hand with both hers:
“Don’t! Don’t! Help me! Not him! Please!”
The dim blue chamber began shaking, as if a fluttering arc light struggled against fog. The black magician’s features, with monstrous red-rimmed eyes, ten times magnified, loomed — leered — leaped — danced in the shimmer. It was like sheet lightning. The Tibetans moaned. The face grew larger — larger — with fingers beside it that clawed air.
Elsa began chanting: “Though I walk through the valley of the shadow of death—”
Her voice was drowned by the Tibetans’ moaning and then, suddenly, by von Klaus’s hysterical laughter — shrieks, yells of laughter, like a maniac’s. Elsa clutched Andrew’s hand. Her nails dug into his wrist. There was a feeling of brain-burst — of terrific tension — and something happened. The black magician extended both arms like long shadows to right and left. Then he failed — faded — and grew small again — natural — lifelike. T he blue shimmering ceased. Von Klaus shouted:
“I told you! He fears me and his own magic! Kill him! I tell you, kill him, before he—”
The magician threw up his arms and screamed like a tortured beast. Two of his Tibetans got up and seized von Klaus, twisting his arms behind him until he shouted with pain. They threw him to the floor. One of them kicked him. He lay still. Then they calmly resumed their seats and suddenly Lung-gom-pa stood upright, seeming to grow taller. Pointing long lean fingers at Elsa and at Andrew, glaring at them, he vibrated as if his bones were springs. Then suddenly his voice burst on the silence, worse than the scream of lammergeiers, in a torrent of malediction.
“Pray, Andrew! Pray! — Thy kingdom come, Thy—”
He recited the Lord’s Prayer with her — twice through, and again, until the black magician ceased screaming and sank, slowly, like a deflated ghost on to his throne. Then there was silence except that the charcoal fell in the brazier. The German lay still, but his eyes shone in the gloom near the floor like a crouched animal’s. Andrew spoke low:
“Did you understand any of that?”
“Yes! The old magician says we’re thieves of souls! Von Klaus has told him there’s enough opium in this bag to corrupt all Tibet! His men have listened to von Klaus — they want the stuff. Lung-gom-pa won’t have it! He says it’s too evil: shall he govern wretches whose souls have left their bodies because of this stuff?”
The magician stood up again — screamed again, staggered with the fury of his anger — then sat down, muttering.
“He says: Whose magic are we using? Shall he bring upon us death from which no magic can protect us—”
Andrew interrupted. “Okay. Tell him I’ll speak. Will he listen?”
Still clutching Andrew’s hand Elsa spoke a few words in Tibetan. There was silence again. The old magician made no sound, no movement.
“Tell him,” Andrew began — but then he hesitated. Elsa’s fingernails were gouging his wrist. She didn’t know it. She was seeing — hearing — gazing at something beyond space and time:
“Andrew! Tell him if he’ll work his magic, we’ll work ours, and all together we’ll save him and his people from this—”
“You tell him. I can’t. Tell him in Tibetan!”
‘‘So Elsa said it in Tibetan. The old magician pointed at the bag on the floor. Two of his men — the same two who had manhandled von Klaus — got up and approached the bag. One drew a knife to cut the canvas. The magician screamed. They hesitated. Von Klaus spoke, down on his knees with his chin six inches off the floor:
“Let them have it. They’ll be drunk on the stuff by morning. Then we’ll—”
Andrew dived into his pocket for his key — found it — held it up.
“Elsa — I want you to translate, word for word.” He faced the German. “Get up!” Von Klaus made no move. “I’ll come and kick you up if you don’t.”
Von Klaus staggered to his feet. He went and leaned against the wall, pretending to be worse hurt than he was.
“Answer!” said Andrew. “What’s in this bag?”
Elsa translated that into Tibetan. Von Klaus answered in English:
“Opium! Enough to poison Tibet!”
Elsa translated word for word. Andrew retorted.”
“How do you know?”
Elsa turned that into Tibetan, and the Tibetans watched von Klaus. He was trying to guess at Andrew’s motive. He was like a chess player with less than ten seconds to play. There wasn’t a move on the board — not for him. He upset the board. One almost saw the imagined pieces scatter.
“Damn you — I know — because you sent a clairvoyant message about it through Bulah Singh’s woman!”
Andrew answered quietly: “I’m not clairvoyant.”
Von Klaus pointed at Elsa: “But she is!”
Andrew waited for Elsa to translate. Then he said to the German: “So you know it’s opium?”
“Yes. Open the bag. Let the magician see it!”
“Elsa, ask Lung-gom-pa: If this should not be opium — if, instead, it’s a present for him, that he needs — then what? Will he help us to travel forward?”
She translated. The magician didn’t understand. She asked a second time. He looked suspicious.
“He says: But it is opium.”
“I asked: What if it isn’t? Does he promise to help us?”
“He insists: ‘But the other peling says it is opium.’”
“Tell him it’s sugar,” said Andrew.
Von Klaus laughed like a maniac. “You fool, do you think you can keep up that bluff! That’s the bag! There’s the mark on the bag! Do you pretend you don’t know what’s in it? Bah! Give me the key!”
“Sure.” Andrew tossed him the key. “Go ahead. Open it.”
The drumbeat in the room behind the magician quickened tempo. It swelled, louder and louder, until it sounded like the muffled thunder of approaching doom.
CHAPTER 38
And so, in the black magician’s dim blue lantern light, Major von Klaus of the Gestapo, on his hands and knees, believing to the last second that Andrew was bluffing in fear of his life, unlocked and opened the brown canvas bag, with Andrew’s key. The truth staggered him. Andrew had told the truth. The exact truth. It was an effrontery. Before he could recover, his chance was gone to invent a string of lies and create a new crisis. Andrew’s voice spoiled it, sonorously:
“My gift — to the lord magician — Lung-gom-pa.”
Elsa translated the short speech quickly into Tibetan. The ten brigands drew in their breath at the reckless use of the magician’s name.
But the old man himself ignored the breach of manners. He was like a big dark parrot on a perch. His red-rimmed eyes became a picture of possessiveness qualified by a secret new fear born of knowledge of evil. Not even a vulture ever had such eyes as those. Perhaps the Sphinx did. They were not totally unlike the eyes of a dog with a bone. He had the bone. Now what?
In the next room his assistants thumped skull-drums steadily. The refrain had changed a little. Now it seemed to beat out the words “Brown cane sugar! Brown cane sugar!”
Sugar, in caravan packages — cotton bags, wrapped in blue paper. Not quite priceless. But at a winter’s end, in Tibet, costlier than tea. Much harder to come by than minted money. Edible brown gold! Then what was the new doubt in the magician’s mind? It was up to Andrew to discover.
Von Klaus had gone berserker or its German equivalent. He had become a Teutonic strafing party on his own, inflicting vengeance for humiliation. In a spasm of wantonness he seized a package of the precious sugar in both hands, raised it above his head and smashed it on the floor. He would have smashed a second one, if they had let him. The magician clucked. Ten brigands howled — rushed — pounced. The scattered contents of the broken package vanished in handfuls — mouthfuls. The drumbeat rhythm quickened, grew louder, faded — and von Klaus lay hurled against the wall, kicked in the groin, groaning. It looked as if he had made his last mistake — ruined his last chance. But he had damaged Andrew’s chance, too, by inviting physical violence.
He had started something. No one could predict the end of that.
Elsa struggled against an impulse to go and help von Klaus. She was scared back to earth again, clutching Andrew’s hand, no vision left, seeing nothing but what the Tibetans themselves could see and hear. They saw red. They smelt blood. If she or Andrew should move toward von Klaus, that might be a trigger, releasing death. There fell a stillness like the breathless calm before animals pounce on a living prey. One spark of an unseen something and they would seize the German, tie him, drag him outside — turn him over to be bloody entertainment for the villagers. Out in the night the villagers were waiting for that outcome.
