by Talbot Mundy
But we needed the engine’s full power. Time and again a sharp squall almost wrecked us against crags where rescue, if we should by miracle survive the crash, was too improbable for even drunkards to imagine. Coq kept trying to climb higher but the engine refused to exert the needed power and several times it stuttered ominously. Straight ahead of us, the summit of the pass — a mere notch between saw-tooth crags swept clean of snow by shrieking wind — seemed actually higher than ourselves; and to turn and go back was stark impossible in that wind, with mountain walls on either hand. It looked, with that failing engine, as if the luckiest conceivable journey’s end would be a snatched forced landing on the hundred yards of rock — it looked smooth — in the throat of that screaming gap, through which the wind came pouring like winter water through a broken dam.
I don’t know how Coq managed it. I know I thought that we were blowing over backwards — then I believed we were in a tailspin. One terrific bump convinced me, for a fragment of eternity that is not measurable in degrees of time, that we had struck the rock on the summit. Then we worried our way forward with the motion of an artificial minnow being reeled in on a casting line. There were three upward swerves like the swoop of a car on a Coney Island scenic railroad, followed by a sudden, sickening descent that changed into a long, untroubled, gliding motion like the leisurely roll of the water that comes tumbling over the Horseshoe Falls at Niagara. The engine stopped. Rocks — sides of mountains — and then trees sped past us far too swiftly for the eye to measure them. We were coasting, not more than a hundred feet, I think, above the steep northern slope of the mountain. It was almost like a runway underneath us, with walls on each side that prevented our turning. Down that chute we slid, with crags and tree-tops underneath us merging until they seemed as smooth as the top of a billiard table — until at last there was room to maneuver and Coq went into a wide, slow spiral like a vulture’s, seeking for a place to land.
We were above a valley that had no apparent outlet. There was a lake near the eastern end of it — two small villages of stone-built huts — some forest — a wide clearing — then another forest. In the midst of the clearing, buildings in a semicircle. Nowhere but in the clearing was the landing even moderately safe, because where there were no trees there were boulders or else the ground was so irregular that a crash would be unavoidable. Coq headed for the clearing, spiralling downward, using great skill that was, nevertheless, not comparable with his resolute negotiation of the summit. I believe he was tired. Or perhaps like all the rest of us he needed sleep.
At any rate, a squall of icy wind came screaming through a gap between two northern peaks and caught us beam on. We slipped sideways, almost turned over, then nose-dived. Coq came out of that, I don’t know how, but struck a treetop on the eastern edge of the clearing. It damaged our right wing. Then he crashed into the trees to save us from being dashed to pieces on the ground and something struck me on the forehead, so that I don’t know just what happened during the next few minutes. That, however, is the inside story of the mystery that seems to have puzzled newspaper readers the wide world over, of how that record-breaking ‘plane was found within forbidden territory with its aviator missing and no clue as to why it came there.
CHAPTER 36. “I will not be vairee jealous.”
I recovered consciousness with Baltis leaning over me. She was kneeling. I knew she had gone through my pockets. Not that it mattered; there was nothing there of any interest except my small emergency kit, some money and identification papers.
“I think you die,” she said. “I think you shall be Henri de la Fontaine Coq.”
I understood her, as one understands things in a dream. I didn’t even remember where I was, or what had happened, but I understood, nevertheless, that she proposed to leave my carcass lying there with Coq’s papers, and that he should escape with mine. Above her I could see the sky through branches, and I knew I was wedged uncomfortably in some undergrowth.
“A pity I must not shoot you,” she remarked, “but it would make a noise. Nevaire mind. It will be almost painless.”
She had removed a lancet from my pocket-case of instruments. I winced as she slashed at my forearm to sever an artery. But she made her incision in the wrong place, and the pain revived me so that I sat up and hurled her backward into the tangled undergrowth. When she tried to get up I shoved her back again. It was not until then that I remembered everything and saw the smashed ‘plane, fifty feet away, nose downward, jammed between two tree-trunks. I had to look upward to see it. I had been thrown into a depression between rounded boulders. My head ached.
“You are a fool,” I told her.
“Yes,” said a voice behind me. I turned slowly, because if a man has the drop on you it is the silliest thing in the world to give him an excuse to pull the trigger. Dorje stood there, on the nearest boulder.
“Damn you, where is Grim?” I asked him. I was not quite in my proper senses yet.
“With the others.”
He did not look human. He looked like the devil. Like a devil from a Tibetan picture. I felt for my automatic, but Baltis had thrown it away.
“She hash just that much shense,” he remarked. He seemed unable to pronounce the letter “s.” The effect was disgusting. It is mainly little things like that which cause mayhem and murder. Big things are too big for us to get angry about.
“Kill Baltis if you wish,” said Dorje. “You may take that little knife and kill her.”
But Baltis was unimportant. She made the curious mistake of thinking that I spared her life for gentlemanly reasons, or perhaps because I wished to buy her gratitude. The truth is, I was intellectually frozen. I had never suspected myself capable of such concentrated hatred of any condition, thing or person. Baltis was no concern of mine — none whatever. Dorje was a monopolizing obsession.
“He is a doctor. He saves people. He does not kill them,” Baltis remarked — childishly, I thought.
I laughed, inside myself. I could have vivisected Dorje, without qualm or compunction. So much for the veneer we think is manners, and good morals, and a spiritual inward grace. Dorje laughed outright — one humorless, cynical sneer:
“Then you are ash big a fool as she ish. To grow corn, it ish nesheshary to kill weeds and inshects.”
Reason returned slowly. I could feel it almost like a physical reaction. The obvious thing to do was to kill Dorje with my hands before he could have a chance to summon help. I took a step toward him. But I had to climb that boulder; and as I started to do that two faces peered above it, one on either side of Dorje’s legs. They were as devilish as his, but stupid. His seemed all intellect; those other two were like the faces of the men who can be hired, for money for promised paradise, to maim and torture heretics. I picked up my case of instruments and put a plug on my forearm to stop the bleeding, bound that with my handkerchief and held it out for Baltis to tie the knot.
“What next?” I demanded.
“Thish way.”
The two owners of the faces followed him — mongrel Mongols clothed in dyed leather — lean, muscular rogues whose tread suggested secret purposes and confidence in something not yet brought to pass. They had knives in their belts, but no firearms that I could detect. Then Baltis took me by the hand.
“We are fr-r-riends now — yes?”
“Tu m’embêtes!” I answered, paying her in her own coin, with interest.
“Pourquoi? It is obvious that you and I are destined to be useful to each other. Othairwise I could have keeled you. But it is impossible to do what is not destined. Therefore you should do as I do and forget the little difference.”
“Come along,” I answered. I believe she genuinely felt much more friendly than she ever had done; circumstances, from her viewpoint, had made intimacy almost unavoidable. She kept hold of my hand — locked her fingers in mine. I rather liked it.
Dorje paused beside the airplane, stared at it, then turned and smiled at me. The smile wrinkled his face and made him better look
ing. It was the mischievous, tolerant smile of an expert at an amateur’s mistake.
“Petrol!” he said. “Shilly as shtilts! Grow treesh high enough and climb to heaven! Wind blowsh — down you come! Tree breaksh — down you come. And heaven ish shtill a long way off — eh?”
He resumed his stroll into the clearing, walking with his head a little forward as if thought were heavy. He had a strong neck and fine shoulders, but his legs looked spidery and spindly in proportion to his bulk; they could carry him well, but he seemed to dislike using them. I noticed for the first time that his clothing, too, was made of leather, dyed to resemble russet-colored cloth and cut like no garments I had ever seen; they were so evidently comfortable that at first glance one was almost as unaware of them as he was.
In the near distance was the semicircular group of buildings that we had seen from the ‘plane. They looked now rather like farm buildings, but of a far better type than one would expect to find outside the United States or certain parts of Europe. There was a central building that resembled an enormous barn, with silos at one end, only they were too wide and not high enough to be regular silos and there was grass growing on their flat tops, so that whatever their use might be they were certainly not filled from above or from the outside. All the other buildings looked like dwellings or else store sheds. The clearing was possibly fifty acres in extent. There were a few small cows, some goats and chickens.
Baltis and I followed Dorje toward a building at the right of the big central barn. We walked slower than he did because my head was a bit woozy from the shaking up and Baltis, too, refused to be hurried.
“Have you been here before” I demanded, and she shook her head.
“When I came down from Koko Nor it was by way of China. And when I went there it was by way of Russia and—”
She checked herself. She had evidently spoken unguardedly, telling the plain truth — something contrary to habit. She had been thinking furiously of something else.
“Listen,” she said, “I dare not speak of that. While Dorje lives I dare not speak of it. He is too cruel. When he kills he is swift. But when he punishes—”
She shuddered.
“Are you hoping to regain his favor?” I asked her.
“No, no. Impossible. But I am hoping to save Henri.”
“Not in love with Grim now?”
“No. Jeemgreem is too impassionate. Henri de la Fontaine Coq is — oh, he is perfect! I am afraid Henri will laugh at Dorje.”
“What then?”
“Dorje does not enjoy to be laughed at. And what he does not enjoy he abolishes.”
“Use your wits, then. You and Vasantasena might—”
“You listen to me!” she interrupted. “Should Vasantasena keel him, there would be such vengeance on us all as it is impossible to imagine! Such tortures — such prolongation of the agony — such devilish ingenuity! And Dorje knows why she is here. He is no fool. He will use her, and me, and Henri, and us all as arguments to make Jeemgreem submit to him and become his lieutenant. Either Jeemgreem does so, or he tortures us in Jeemgreem’s presence. Oh, I know Dorje! Not for nothing did he give us opportunity to overtake him. He did not need to wait here. Northward from here he can travel by day and none the wiser, since who would believe a story of an airship crossing all those mountains?”
She sat down, pretending to remove a thorn or something from her sandal, since we were near the buildings now and there was more she wished to tell me.
“I know him. I know how he reasons. He would argue that if we are worth troubling about, then we will find some way of overtaking Jeemgreem. And if we have that much ingenuity, then we are worth employment. Me — Vasantasena — he will keel, unless Jeemgreem makes a bargain for us. All you others he will use.”
“Piffle!” I retorted. “If he’s shrewd he’d know we would simply pretend to yield to him, and ditch him at the first chance.”
“Yes?” she answered. “You have not yet seen the punishments! But he will show you. Furthermore, he will do what he did to Bertolini — and to me — and to my sister — and to all the others who know anything about him. He will force you to commit a crime for which there is no forgiveness if the crime is found out. None of Dorje’s intimates can ever turn against him, because always there is that atrocity that never can be expiated. Whether you do it or not, he will construct the evidence. But he can offer such temptation — of such power and excitement — that they are not many who shrink from the practical pledge. He is persuasive.”
“A hypnotist?”
“More. He knows the anatomy of emotions. He can produce them. And he is protected always by his bodyguard, who are devils on whom he imposes discipline.”
Dorje had paused in a doorway. I saw him make a remark to his two attendants. He went inside. They turned back and approached us. Baltis refastened her sandal and took my hand again. We strolled forward and the two men waited for us.
“I love Henri.”
“Aren’t you a bit changeable?”
“I am as lightning that looks for its lover. It flashes this way. It flashes that way. But when it finds its real mate it—”
“Kills him?” I suggested.
“No. You imbecile, it kills those who get in the way! Tell Jeemgreem — he would not believe me — tell him I am truly his accomplice if he only will agree to save Henri!”
“Grim will do what he can to save all of us.”
“Maybe. But you do not know yet. You tell Jeemgreem that I make that bargain with him. Unless he saves Henri for me I will ruin us all. I am not afraid of death. And if it is true that Jeemgreem is my destiny and I am his, nevertheless, there can be interludes, and there are many lives. I will forgive him if he finds himself a temporary love until our destiny unites us. I will not be vairee jealous. Tell him to be generous to me, and I will truly help him against Dorje.”
Dorje’s two attendants were impatient — beckoning.
“Come along,” I answered. “All right, I will tell him. When did you and Henri reach your understanding?”
“Not yet. He does not yet know it. He has only begun to wonder why he is annoyed when I speak of Jeemgreem. Henri is a reincarnation of d’Artagnan, who was the greatest lover in the world. But he does not know that either — not yet. He is a vagrant. He has no loyalties. He is no good. But he is marvelous. I love him and he loves me.”
CHAPTER 37. “Henri — he has genius.”
We entered a long, narrow room, roughly beamed, with two small windows on the northern side, through which there was a view of snow-topped mountains. Across the full width of the western end there was a platform, about three feet high, untidily loaded with Eastern rugs, and on a heap of those sat Dorje, cross-legged, leaning back against a pile of cushions. He took almost no notice of us when a man in leather closed the door behind us — one glance under heavy eyelids and then attention again to a box-like instrument in front of him, as if he were playing chess and studying the next few moves ahead. To right and left of him, lolling but looking insolently capable of violence, were eight men.
Grim, dressed as when I last saw him, sat on a rug on the floor with his back to the wall near a hearth on which a dozen sticks are burning. Grim smiled, nodded, then resumed his far-away stare through one of the windows. He, too, might have been playing chess; his right hand moved at intervals as if he hesitated which line of attack to develop. Jeff sat opposite to Grim, and it was several minutes before I guessed that the movements of Grim’s right hand were signals which Jeff was reading while he pretended to stare at the fire. Chullunder Ghose, near Jeff, was studying the signals too.
Vasantasena had vanished; the only sign of her was a shawl hanging over the edge of the platform, which I thought I recognized as hers, although I was not sure. Henri de la Fontaine Coq, picaresquely amused but looking pale as if he had been badly shaken by the crash, sat watching Dorje, leaning backward against a rough-hewn post that supported a roof beam. There was another upright post, supporting the other
end of the same beam; I went and sat against that, where I could see everyone. Baltis stood in mid-room, facing Dorje, with her back to Henri Coq and me. She was evidently waiting for a chance to speak to Dorje without annoying him by interrupting his train of thought, and I wondered what language she would use. However, Grim spoke first, in English:
“No use keeping up the pretence that you’re the Baltis from Marseilles. I have told Dorje how she died in the Cairo hospital, and that I got the key to his cipher from her. I have explained to him how you changed identity in order to be able to worm your way into my confidence. He had sentenced your sister to death for having made mistakes in France.”
Dorje looked up. He, too, spoke English. I believe he did it to prevent his men from understanding.
“Bad bitch!” She was silent.
“Prinshipal shtreet of Capetown?” he demanded. “Adderley Street.”
“Hotel?”
“Mount Nelson.”
“Which way you travel?”
“Buluwayo — Ujiji — Bukoba — Gondokoro — Khartoum.”
“Liar! Who ish Capetown represhentative?”
“Dorje, I can’t remember his name. You know I always had a bad memory. That is why you gave me the cipher key in writing. She — my sister — stole it from me.”
“Liar! You are the other one.”
“Dorje, you have so many women that you can’t remember!”
“No matter. You are both bad bitches!”
There was evidently something wrong with Dorje. His was not the method or the manner of a super-man who knows his power and decides all issues instantly. I would have betted there and then that Dorje’s brain was worn out — glowing and dying, glowing and dying like the embers of a tremendous furnace — and that Dorje knew it. That might be why he spoke English — afraid to let his men learn what was happening to him. Almost anyone could have tested Baltis’ claim to be her twin sister better than he had done. And Grim would surely not have chosen such a dangerous expedient to save her from Dorje’s wrath unless he had detected something wrong with Dorje’s grasp of things.