by Talbot Mundy
CHAPTER 49
The light had changed; the sun had moved across the gap in the cavern wall. They faced one another in a sort of mystic twilight, in which the rough walls were almost invisible. The easiest face to see was St. Malo’s because he faced the light. It was a fascinating face — decadent, willful, incorruptible by any moral considerations. To that extent it had integrity. He hadn’t shaved for a long time but his beard was as sparse as a Tibetan’s. He had high cheekbones, a dark skin and refined-looking rather Mongoloid features. Now that the opium had begun to work on him even his vicious mouth recovered a kind of charm. His gesture, as if picking up a band of cards and holding them to his breast, looked natural, unconsidered; but it aroused Andrew’s interest; he suspected a weapon; his muscles tightened a bit; he was ready.
St. Malo opened, and drew one card — from underneath him. He had been sitting on it. He flourished a sheet of rather crumpled paper that he had taken from Andrew’s brief-case, crunched it up and tossed it into Andrew’s lap.
“That’s the lowdown on you,” he remarked. “That’s a list of the names of Moscow secret agents between Delhi and Lhasa. You’re on the Moscow payroll.”
Andrew answered: “You took that bait like a rat. How did you come by your rep? I’d heard you were an ace.”
“So I am,” said St. Malo. “So is Tom Grayne. So are you said to be. You must be damned well organized to have kept such a check on my movements. You two seem to know nearly as much about me as I know about you. Let’s say we’re three of a kind and play it that way. Why are we here in Tibet?”
Tom retorted: “One reason is to prevent you from using the United States flag.”
St. Malo stared. He had begun to feel out of his depth. Tom made a gesture to Andrew. Andrew put his arm around St. Malo, pulled him off balance and groped again inside his overcoat. This time, since he didn’t search for weapons, he found what he was after. He pulled out a silk Stars and Stripes about three feet by two and threw it toward Tom; but it came unrolled, fluttered and fell in Ugly-face’s lap. Ugly-face examined it with an expression that might have meant amusement, or curiosity, or guile. He folded it carefully and tucked it away in his bosom. St. Malo grinned at Tom:
“How did you know about that?” He glanced at Elsa, and from her to Lobsang Pun, and back again. “Bulah Singh,” he said, “believed that she’s clairvoyant.” He stared again at Old Ugly-face, who filled the next few seconds with a silence of his own that felt like ponderable force.
Then St. Malo said suddenly: “Take that flag away from him if you value your lives! He doesn’t know the meaning of fair play. He’ll treat you as he treated me. He’ll accept your help and then lead you into a trap. He’ll use that flag against you, somehow.”
No one made any comment, although he waited for it. So after a considerable pause he said: “Oh well, all right. Let’s talk turkey. I’ve eighteen men. How many have you?”
“All the men I need,” Tom answered.
“Mine are well armed.”
“What for? What against?” Tom asked him.
St. Malo stared at Ugly-face. “Lobsang Pun,” he said, “knows English.”
“So do we all,” said Tom.
“Oh! So you’re one of those mystical buggers, are you! Amateur yogi! Sandwiching a word at a time between two silences to make it sound like wisdom! Here’s a fact for you to stick between two noises. My eighteen men are on their way here — eighteen rifles.”
“No, they’re not,” said Tom.
“Guess again! You’d better come to terms with me before they get here,” St. Malo retorted. “If we agree, well and good. I’ll go you fifty-fifty in that case. But if I dictate the terms, you’ll get the lean end. Make no mistake about that.”
Tom looked bored. He answered: “Your phony friend Shag-la obeyed your signal. He crawled away just now to bring your men. But he didn’t get far.” He whistled. Bompo Tsering pitched Shag-la into the cavern. He was an astonishing apparition, as if he had been flung between the darkened flies on to a dimly lighted stage. He rolled into the pool of light and lay still, looking dead, but after a moment or two he recovered and crawled to the wall.
Elsa spoke at last: “Isn’t he hurt? Shouldn’t someone go and look? Hadn’t I better?”
Tom answered: “No. Sit still.”
St. Malo sneered: “Too bad he didn’t break his bloody neck. We’ll have to shoot him soon. Why not now?”
Tom returned to the previous issue: “The point is, your eighteen men aren’t coming. Now what?”
St. Malo didn’t appear embarrassed. “All right,” he retorted. “You win that trick. But what does it get you? I hold all the rest. You’ve got to come to terms with me. Lobsang Pun, too, since you seem to be dealing him in. This man Gunning is your yes-man, I suppose. Well, all right. I’ve eighteen armed men, in addition to the men below here who came with us. If you should lay a finger on me, they’d wipe you out. So let’s be sensible. The Dalai Lama brat is in the Shig-po-ling monastery. We take your men and mine and go get him. We’ll use Lobsang Pun as bait. He’ll have to chip in and play with us, because if they catch him they’ll torture him. We split the profit three ways — if Lobsang Pun is on the level. If he isn’t, we split it two ways, and what happens to him’ll be his business.”
Old Ugly-face didn’t move a muscle or a wrinkle. He didn’t blink. Neither did Tom. St. Malo continued:
“After we’ve bagged the sacred brat will be where the girl friend enters in. She’ll be foster-mother, dry nurse — talk to him in Tibetan and keep him from crying his eyes out. They grow sick, those infant prodigies, unless they’re babied. After that there’ll be three lines of retreat. Three markets. Moscow would pay plenty, but it’s a hard trail and we might not get there. Then there’s Lhasa — lots of cash in Lhasa, and a gang who’d pay through the nose. But they’re treacherous. They’d try to kill us before we could reach the border. India, of course, ‘ud be no good. The God-dams ‘ud talk morals, and keep us waiting, and finally they’d cheat us and themselves too. The best bet, and the safest, and the easiest route, is China. There, the Germans have a secret anti-Russian nest of experts. They’ve plenty of money, and they’ve bought up lots of Chinese. They’ve a party in Lhasa at this moment gunning for what we’re after; but they’d want all the profit for themselves, so we’ll beat them to it and leave ’em howling. We’ll deal with the head gang in China. They’ll see the point of educating the holy child with a view to controlling Tibet later on, when the time comes to break with the Japs. But don’t let’s talk about Japan.”
“No,” Tom agreed. “We might get sort of overextended.”
St. Malo didn’t like sarcasm. He smiled thinly: “Well, there’s the set- up. Now we know what we’re talking about. Your turn.”
Old Ugly-face fetched up another abrupt, thunderous laugh. He left off thumbing his beads, as if prayer had not inspired him and he knew the answer to all riddles:
“Oo-hah-ha-ha-ha-ha-hah! Tum-Glain! Now what? What your saying?”
“I say the hell with him,” Tom answered.
“Too many hells,” said Ugly-face. “Your knowing all about all of them later on. Sinning too much. Thinking too little. Sun-moon-sun-moon-day-week- month-year — all that time, and what your doing?”
Tom looked straight at St. Malo. “You move first. Get out of here.”
Then St. Malo changed tactics. Perhaps the opium had gone to his head. He stood up. He jerked his head at Elsa. He said: “Whose is this woman?”
It was such a shock that he got away with it. Perhaps he had counted on that. At any rate, he noticed the astonishment and took advantage of it, springing another surprise before anyone answered.
“I’d like to speak to her alone.”
Even Old Ugly-face changed expression; his eyes glinted amid the wrinkles. He stared at Elsa. Everyone did — even the discouraged phony lama, who was rubbing bruises in the background, and Bompo Tsering, who was lurking in the dimness at the head of the ramp
that led to the lower cavern.
“Why alone?” asked Elsa.
“It’s that or nothing,” St. Malo answered, looking cocksure. “It’s something I’ll tell you in confidence. I won’t tell them on any terms. That’s why.”
Tom spoke abruptly: “Get the hell out!”
St. Malo stood still. “Is she yours?” he retorted. “You own her?”
“Shall I throw him out?” said Andrew. “Say the word.”
“Oh. So she’s your woman?”
Andrew seized him by the edge of his overcoat to give him the bum’s rush. There came astonishing interruption. Old Ugly-face shouted; he boomed like a clamoring gong: he filled the cavern with protest.
“No violence!” he commanded, in surprisingly good English. “Let go! Stop it!”
Andrew obeyed, stepping back to cut off St. Malo’s line of retreat to the lower cavern. Then Tom protested:
“No violence? I saw Your Eminence capture the Thunder Dragon Gate. You ordered monks flogged by the dozens.”
“Their being louses!”
“This man St. Malo is a louse!”
“Louses having purposes! Also, not being your duty — your not being responsible lama — your being ignorant man.”
“Are you telling me—”
“My telling you that even louses having purposes!”
It looked like locked horns and no way out of a quarrel until Elsa spoke up:
“Is there any reason why I shouldn’t speak to him alone?”
“We could keep watch from the head of the ramp,” said Andrew.
“I am not afraid of him,” Elsa objected. “Besides, I have—”
Andrew interrupted: “Yeah, you keep your automatic out of his reach. Here, you’d better give it to me.”
She gave it to him. He passed it to Tom.
“That’s much safer.” Andrew picked the knife off the floor and passed it to Bompo Tsering. “He could have taken it from you as easily as—”
Tom suddenly interrupted: “What the hell now?” He blinked into the light. Old Ugly-face — His Eminence the Most Reverend Ringding Gelong Lama Lobsang Pun — was climbing the wall! He had passed behind the curtain that hid the gurgling water. From there, he was able to reach a fault in the rock that formed a climbable zigzag stair curving upward to the irregular opening fifty feet above, that let in light. He entered the deep opening, glanced once backward over his shoulder like a huge misshapen owl, and vanished.
“Can he get out that way?” Andrew asked.
“No. But there’s room up there for ten men.”
Tom turned to Elsa: “If you see fit to talk to St. Malo — ?” He sounded stiff, as if he resented having to ask the question — perhaps doubted his right to ask it.
“He said he wants to speak to me,” Elsa answered. “I think he won’t unless you leave us alone.”
St. Malo nodded. “ You bet I won’t.”
Tom’s eyes met Andrew’s. “We could wait on the ramp,” Andrew suggested, “just out of earshot.”
“Yes. But out of earshot,” said St. Malo.
Elsa put a word in: “If they say they will, they will.”
“Honey,” St. Malo answered, “you’re naive. At our trade we would cut each other’s throats for a secret. Yours, too!”
“Gunning and I will go halfway down the ramp and wait there,” said Tom. “Keep your voices low and you can talk without being overheard. We’ll give you five minutes.” He met Andrew’s eyes again.
“Yes,” said Andrew.
So Tom continued: “I’m giving you fair warning, St. Malo. Ten seconds after you start anything, you’ll be shot dead. So don’t start anything.”
“Nuts,” St. Malo answered. “Do you know what that means?”
Tom drew his automatic and cocked it. Andrew drove the phony lama and Bompo Tsering down the ramp to the lower cavern. Then he and Tom followed, halfway. In the dark, on the biggest boulder, that almost choked the short steep tunnel, they sat down and waited.
CHAPTER 50
St. Malo came quietly to the head of the ramp and peered downward. His head and shoulders were very easy to see in silhouette against the light.
“Hop to it,” said Tom Grayne. “You’ve five minutes.”
Satisfied that Tom and Andrew really were out of earshot, St. Malo returned to Elsa. They heard him talking, but they couldn’t hear what he said. Elsa’s voice was even less audible. What made it difficult even to try to listen was the tension between Andrew and Tom. They weren’t friends the way they had been when Andrew started for India with Elsa under his protection. Tom said after a moment or two:
“Why didn’t you kill that bastard?”
“I’m not a killer. You know it. What’s your plan?”
“I had one,” said Tom.
“What was wrong with it?”
“Nothing. It’s gone fluey. Old Ugly-face won’t play. I know the symptoms. He has a plan of his own, and his own use for you and me.”
“He hasn’t said so.”
“No. Why should he? He’ll use us now, just as he made use of St. Malo and then you in order to get here.”
“How did you know Old Ugly-face was coming — and St. Malo too? Your regular spies can’t have told you.”
Tom Grayne chuckled. “It ‘ud make a story for the archives! But they’d call me bughouse. It ‘ud make a book. But who’d print it? All winter long until a week ago, I’ve had a man here who could turn on mental television to beat Jesus.”
“Oh? Who was he?”
“He didn’t say. The name he went by was Hut-sum Samdup. He had me call him Sam. He made a sort of stab at teaching me, but he couldn’t. Seems I’m unteachable — according to him. He said I’m profit-minded — f not ph. But that was only his excuse. He didn’t want to teach. He was using me in some way I couldn’t get hep to — using my energy — tapping it. It was almost like a blood-transfusion. It left me weak now and then — kind of light-headed. I’ll learn how to do it someday. He could make me see anything he saw — hear whatever he heard. But I can’t do it off my own bat — can’t begin to do it.”
“Did he give any reason for making you see things?”
“No. He was long on meditation — short on talk. I doped out he’s a member of the Lodge to which Old Ugly-face belongs. I guess Ugly-face is a kind of younger brother, maybe earning a higher degree. Sam left here the same day we saw you pick up Old Ugly-face’s party in the storm and head this way.”
“We didn’t head this way right off,” said Andrew. “We pitched bivouac.”
“Yeah, I know all that. I knew Elsa was along. And I knew you and she were sleeping together.”
“Hold your horses,” said Andrew. “Let’s get this straight. I don’t want to have to get tough. We were friends, you and I.”
“We can be so yet,” Tom answered. “Elsa told me just now why you brought her back here.”
“She asked to be brought.”
“Yes. She said that. She says she came to tell me I’m in the discard — washed up.”
“Did she put it that way? I mean — I can’t see your eyes in the dark. Are you lying?”
“No. But I guess you’re half right. Maybe I’m rattled. I was adding one thing to another. She did say she came to give me my freedom face to face, and she hopes we’ll part good friends.”
“Since you’re telling it,” said Andrew, “what did you say to that?”
“What do you take me for? What do you suppose I’d say? I told her I supposed you’re the irresistible prince of lovers. Isn’t it true?”
“You’re telling it,” said Andrew. “What did she answer?”
“She denied it. In toto. That’s what has me beat. She was never a liar. She never had cause to fear telling me the plain truth. She said there’s nothing between you and her. She said you’ve never made love to her.”
“That’s the plain truth,” said Andrew.
“Man, listen, will you! I’ve sat in this cave, with Hut-sum Samdup up ther
e on that ledge where Old Ugly-face has stowed himself, and I’ve seen you and Elsa in one bed together.”
“Did you tell that to Elsa?”
“No, I didn’t. She has feelings. I’m supposed to have none. But is it true or false?”
“It’s true.”
“Yeah, I know it’s true. I saw it as clearly as a movie.”
“Did you hear us talking?”
“No. I kind of shut it off. Somehow — I don’t know how. I decided I’d shoot you as soon as you’d get here.”
“Why didn’t you?”
“Changed my mind. Had time to think. The blow-up’s my fault, not hers. We never should have married in the first instance. You be good to her, Gunning. She’s a good girl.”
“Do you think I’ve been bad to her?”
“She says not. She says you were kindness itself. I guess that part’s true.”
“Then see here: the man doesn’t live who can foist off a woman on me. I haven’t as much as kissed her — though I should have done many a time, for the sake of the brave way she faced the journey, and the patience she had with my rough manners. What she has told you is the plain truth.”
Tom Grayne was silent a moment. Suddenly he said: “My God, Andrew! Is she cutting herself adrift in this wilderness without a man to turn to? I can’t let her go that way.”
“It’s between you and her,” said Andrew.
“Sure you’re telling the truth?”
“I’ve said it twice. I won’t say it again.”
“Did she tell you, before she left India, that she meant to break with me?”
“More or less.”
“What did you say to it?”
“I said it was between you and her. Two or three times since, I’ve thought she’d changed her mind. But I didn’t ask. It wasn’t my business.”
“Andrew, you fool, you know damn well you shouldn’t have brought her here!”
“Says you. That was my business. I didn’t offer. She asked. The decision was up to me. I made it. It stands.”
