by Talbot Mundy
No answer. No sound outside except wind and splash.
“Perhaps your chauffeur?”
“No,” said O’Mally, “I sent him home. Can you open the door without cooling the stew?”
Mayor pulled a blanket from the bunk behind him and wrapped it around his knees. Tom Grayne tried to open the door only a few inches, against the wind. A hand seized it — wrenched it suddenly. A man crashed into him, thrusting him backward on his heels. The door slammed. It was Dr. Noropa, in his dripping black waterproof. He turned calmly and bolted the door.
“Give me some more of that excellent stew before he murders us,” said Mayor.
O’Mally snorted: “Don’t talk nonsense. Grayne can lick him. I can help, if necessary.”
Thö-pa-ga neither moved nor seemed to breathe; he stared straight in front of him. He looked guilty of something and ready for death. There was silence for probably sixty seconds. Then, from the midst of a circle of rain from his dripping waterproof, the gaunt Noropa spoke:
“I come to tell you Thö-pa-ga is time-is-come. If you know what is shang-shang, you will let him alone. Thö-pa-ga must go home.”
“Well, he should,” said O’Mally. “But who are you?”
“I know who you are,” Noropa answered. He looked at Mayor. “And I know who you are.” Then, at last he met Tom Grayne’s eyes. “You, who should know better, having been in Tibet, do you wish a shang-shang sending?”
“Yes. I never saw one. Send the thing by parcel post. Get out of here.”
Noropa’s death-like face betrayed no emotion. Tom Grayne slid the bolt and Noropa walked out, forcing the door open against the wind with such prodigious strength that he seemed hardly to have to exert himself.
The door slammed. Then suddenly Thö-pa-ga gulped wine and shook off silence. He seemed unconscious of O’Mally’s professional critical gaze. His left hand rested on the table, but he seemed not even aware that O’Mally’s fingers touched his wrist. He spoke, if to any one at all, to Mayor:
“You, who are kind to a stranger, you don’t know. Me they will not kill. Because me they need for purposes. But you they will make away with by magical means. That is to say, if you befriend me. It is therefore not seemly for me to have friends, because I get them into trouble.”
“Oh, come now, come,” said Mayor. “The police at Bow Street showed me your record. You’re an Oxford graduate. You surely don’t believe in magic.”
“You mean, you don’t,” said O’Mally. “Early environment, early associations, ill health, worry, nostalgia, and persecution — don’t overlook that — readily produce receptivity to hypnotic suggestion. Those are words of one syllable, more or less. They’re all in the dictionary. Have you caught cold?”
“No,” said Mayor.
“That was magic. Before you were put into knickerbockers, your mother or your maiden aunt or your nurse told you a hot mustard foot-bath would prevent colds in the head. It won’t, of course. But it did, didn’t it? Don’t interrupt him — go on talking, Thö-pa-ga. Who are you? Why are you in London?”
“I am of a sub-sept of the Josays Sept of the Kyungpo. It is a secret sub-sept, and my father, who was a nobleman, was Keeper of the Thunder Dragon Gate, of which you have never heard.”
“Oh, yes, indeed we’ve heard of it,” said Mayor. “Tom Grayne knows as well as you or I do, it’s a figure of speech. It means a state of consciousness, through which the Arhants have to pass on the Road to Enlightenment. It is referred to in the New Testament as the Eye of a Needle.”
“That,” said Thö-pa-ga, “is what you may have read in books, or what you have deduced. But what I know is other wise, and so I warn you. When my father had died and my mother was made to go into a nunnery, I wished never to become the Keeper of the Thunder Dragon Gate, although they said I had inherited my father’s spirit and his duty also. There was an Englishman who came to Lhasa, a very kind man who represented the Indian Government. I ran away and asked that Englishman to give me work to do. He begged my freedom from the Dalai Lama. There was money. It was simple. I was sent to Oxford for an education, and I have it. But before I reached Oxford, he who had done me that great kindness was already dead — they said, of poison. And at Oxford there began to be a very soon beginning of a shang-shang sending not at all a mystery to me.”
The blinded window-pane above the back of Mayor’s head smashed suddenly — three distinct crashes of splintering glass. The wine bottle broke into a dozen pieces. The mulligan stew-pot fell off the stove to the floor. O’Mally stared at his top hat, on a nail on the wall. There was a hole through it.
“This is London, England,” O’Mally remarked. “Or am I dreaming?”
Tom Grayne took a flash-light from the locker, leaned his weight against the wind-blown door and walked out.
“They will not kill me,” said Thö-pa-ga, “because they need me for a purpose. But they will kill you — each of you and every one.”
“Who are ‘they’?” asked Mayor.
O’Mally reached for his top hat. “Exactly! Who are they? Does a shang-shang spit a soft-nose Webley bullet? Go on — don’t interrupt him, Mayor — tell us. I wish now I weren’t going to Russia.”
CHAPTER 3. “Say it, then, behind his back, to Ambleby!”
A POLICE whistle — three shrill blasts. In rain and darkness there is no other sound like that. O’Mally straightened his tie. The whistle shrilled again. Tom Grayne wrenched the door open and came in, dripping.
“Cops!” he said abruptly.
He had hardly said it when the door thundered to a man’s fist. He uncovered the peephole — peered through.
“Yes, it’s the Law. Shall I let ’em in?”
In response to O’Mally’s nod he leaned his weight against the door. A policeman’s flash-light — foot — knee — shoulder — face beneath an oilcloth-covered helmet — an official voice:
“What’s going on in here? There’s a broken window—”
“Come in — for God’s sake, come in and let’s shut the door!”
Two policemen entered, oilskinned, bulky, suspicious, cautious because they had no warrant.
“Anybody hurt? A fight? Any firearms in here?”
O’Mally answered: “No.”
“May I have your names, please — and addresses.”
O’Mally produced his card. He showed the flap of his wallet, then his new passport.
“Thank you, Sir ‘Grace. And these others?”
“Dr. Mayor of the British Museum and the Home Office. Mr. Tom Grayne, American. Mr. Thö-pa-ga, from Tibet.”
“Ah! How long has he been in here?”
O’Mally gave a telegraphically terse synopsis of what had happened. He described Noropa.
The policeman produced his note-book. “I was asked in—”
Tom interrupted him: “Yes, I invited you in. Take a seat at the table; you’ll write easier.”
He poured them coffee. One policeman stood, sipping noisily. He didn’t like American coffee, but he was polite about it. The other sat, reading aloud what he wrote:
“Nine-eighteen P.M. A man was seen and heard to fire three shots with a revolver in the direction of this shed — occupied by — broken window — broken wine bottle, upset cook-pot—”
“And a top hat ruined,” said O’Mally.
“ — hole in a top hat. Does any of you gentlemen know how it happened, or why? Bearing in mind, please, that any thing you say may be taken down and used in evidence against you.”
Tom Grayne told the whole story. The policeman wrote down the details of Tom’s passport.
“And now what next?” O’Mally asked. “You were tipped off by Bow Street to follow Noropa, and he followed my car. Am I right, constable?”
“I’m sure I don’t know, sir. I’m what is known as acting on information received. I’ve no warrant, but I could get one. I heard three shots, saw one of them, and flashed my light on a tall man in a hooded black waterproof. I saw him throw his revolver into the riv
er. There were other witnesses besides me. I believe it would be best for all concerned if his here Mister Thö-pa-ga (two dots, you said, over the 0) would come with me to the police station — I mean, if he’d come willing — and be locked up for the night, where he’d be safe and warm and comfortable, and we could make enquiries in the morning.”
Thö-pa-ga reached for his overcoat.
“Damn!” remarked O’Mally. “We were just getting his story. Professor Mayor went bail for him. Ask the Professor.”
Mayor glanced at Thö-pa-ga. The Tibetan nodded; he had already buttoned his overcoat up to his ears.
“I don’t understand my legal position,” said Mayor. “You must do as you see fit, constable.”
“He seems willing to come with me, sir.”
“I’ll go with the policeman and Thö-pa-ga,” said Tom Grayne. “There’s plenty more wine. You two make yourselves at home until I come back.”
Mayor nodded.
“Very well,” said O’Mally. “Are they pursuing Noropa?”
“Begging your pardon, sir,” the constable answered, “the man wasn’t identified. He slipped away into the shadows, but I daresay he won’t go far before they catch him. If it should happen his name’s Noropa he’d have more than a bit to explain. There’s a watch being kept on this place; you’ll be safe here until daylight. Or I could phone for your car, Sir ‘Orace.”
“No thanks.”
“As you say, sir.”
It was a long way to the police station. Tom Grayne trudged through the storm in silence beside Thö-pa-ga, who kept stride with the policeman. There was no sense in trying to talk to Thö-pa-ga, who seemed more gloomy than ever — an unusual state of mind for a Tibetan; Tibetans usually laugh at anything. Tom felt baffled. He had already begun to count on this accidental meeting as just the very stroke of luck he had been hoping for for months. Thö-pa-ga might — anything is possible — might help him to reenter Tibet. If not, he might have connections in Tibet who would honor an introduction. No plan yet, of course, but a strong hunch. Busted hunches are more disappointing than broken promises: one expects results from a hunch. This was the wrong kind of result.
At the police station, what with sending out a messenger to find a cigarette slot-machine, and then telling the long tale all over again for the benefit of the sergeant on night duty, nearly two hours went by. There was no sense in making a mystery for the police; the obvious thing to do was to keep them friendly.
So it was after midnight before Tom Grayne returned to the storm-swept hut where he had left his guests. He found O’Mally stoking the stove and arguing with Mayor.
“That is why,” Mayor was saying, “I need your influence.”
“At the Foreign Office? I have none — none whatever,” O’Mally answered. “I’m consulted now and then by the Home Office, just as you are, in special cases. At the Foreign Office I’m an absolute nonentity.”
“How about the India Office?”
“Worse and worse! An Indian Rajah, who got himself into political trouble, was one of my patients. I’m supposed to have advised him how to prove he didn’t poison his aunt.”
“Give him wine, Grayne! Make him drink it. O’Mally, I am not your patient, so you needn’t lie to me. I happen to know you’re on the Foreign Office list. That’s why I invited you here. I repeat: if I should go to the Foreign Office, with a Home Office introduction, and tell that graciously insolent Sphinx Ambleby that Tom Grayne ought to go to Tibet, I should be courteously informed that no one is allowed to enter Tibet. Even as it is, Grayne is on the black book for having entered Tibet and remained there without permission. If you were asked what you think of him, what would you say?”
“I wouldn’t tell him or you that,” O’Mally answered.
“Say it, then, behind his back, to Ambleby.” Mayor sipped wine. O’Mally clipped the end of a big cigar, with a platinum clipper — a personal gift from a crowned head. Mayor continued: “You are Ambleby’s physician. He’s a credit to you. Hundreds of people have wished him dead a thousand times over, but you’ve kept him alive. Oh, yes, I heard all about his being poisoned by a spy, and how you invented an antidote.”
“I didn’t.”
“It was kept out of the papers, if that’s what you mean. And I know, without being able to prove it, that you’re off to Russia on a medical errand of your own, but with a secret errand, too, for Mr. Foreign-Office-Secret-Service Ambleby, who has a high opinion of your gift for bluff innocence and discreet observation.”
“You are guessing,” said O’Mally. “You are talking non sense.”
“If,” said Mayor, “you should go to Ambleby, and tell him what I have just now told you; and tell him your real opinion of Tom Grayne, Ambleby would regard that as a very proper introduction. I tell you, he hasn’t another man to send to Tibet; there simply isn’t one available who has Tom Grayne’s knowledge of the country, Tom’s physique and Tom’s ability to take care of himself. And I repeat: this case isn’t simple. It isn’t merely a Tibetan feud; nor is it just another psychopathic case for you to pause and analyze on your way to a peerage. It’s—”
He hesitated. O’Mally grinned.
“Go on, man! Are you weakening? Say it!”
“I have said it already three times.”
“Grayne know what you think it is?”
“Yes. He and I together deciphered a Japanese document that baffled me until Tom broke the code. If it were known Tom had seen it, I should never be trusted again. It was one of those documents that governments always denounce as forgeries when secret service agents find them in a dead man’s wallet.”
O’Mally looked sharply at Grayne: “What do you think it is?”
“I agree with Mayor.”
“You agree with him because you wish to go to Tibet?”
“No, Sir Horace. I intend to return to Tibet with or with out a Foreign Office permit. You may say so, if you want to.”
O’Mally liked that. He uncorked another bottle of wine. He filled a glass for Grayne, who had hitherto not tasted it.
“Here’s luck to you! So you agree with Mayor? Splendid! You believe, then, that this is a cog in the wheels of a Japanese scheme to get control of China?”
“Sure as you’re alive,” said Tom Grayne.
“I’m alive, my boy. I’m alive and interested.”
“Then do your plain duty!” said Mayor. He was getting short-tempered. He laughed at himself. Then he yawned. “Strong wine — not used to it.” Suddenly he clutched the table.
The wind was howling, but it wasn’t wind that shook the door. O’Mally dropped his monocle — caught it in mid-air — pretended he did it on purpose. Grayne picked up a heavy broomstick.
“Sh-h-h!” said Mayor.
They all listened. One lamp flickered out, short of oil. The river sucked the wharf-piles. The wind howled. The shed creaked. The door thudded again, three times, as if some one kicked it.
“You’re an en-n-t-tertaining host!” said Mayor. His teeth chattered.
Grayne went to the peephole, saw nothing and suddenly opened the door. The other lamp blew out. It was pitch dark, and a gale in the room.
“Duck!” yelled O’Mally. He up-ended the table, crashing everything to the floor. He and Mayor crouched behind the table. The door slammed. The stove belched smoke. Grayne had hold of some one. They were struggling, crashing among upset chairs and broken dishes.
“Hold him!” O’Mally shouted. “I’m coming!”
But he tripped over a table-leg and before he was up the door opened and slammed. A sudden blinding electric torch — darkness again.
“All right, sir, all right, I have him! Has he hurt you?”
“Police?” asked Mayor’s voice. “Sure you’ve got him?”
“Yes, sir, he’s out o’ mischief for the present. Get up, you! Stand over there!”
The policeman held his flash-light steady until O’Mally relighted the lamp.
“Lucky I saw him! Sure you’re not
hurt, sir?”
Noropa, handcuffed, with his hands behind him, stood glaring with his back to the wall. One of Noropa’s eyes was closing up; he was bending a bit forward, as if hit in the wind. Tom Grayne’s coat was torn and there was blood on his lip. O’Mally took a stride toward Tom:
“Hurt?”
“No.”
O’Mally examined the prisoner. The policeman stared at the mess on the floor.
“Did he do all this?”
“No, he didn’t,” said O’Mally.
“Thought he couldn’t have. I was close on his heels. How did all this ‘appen?”
O’Mally laughed testily. “It was a part of my arrangements for going to Russia! I didn’t wish to be shot. You say you followed him here?”
“Yes, sir. The constable on watch at the end of the alley saw him first, but I was on my way here with a message, so I killed two birds with one stone, as you might say. All I saw him do was kick the door. Maybe when they search him at the station—”
“What’s the message?”
“Oh, yes. I took the liberty a while ago of phoning for your auto. Sir ‘Grace. It’s ‘ere already, at the street corner, two ‘undred yards away. We had to phone Scotland Yard about all this. They phoned back ten minutes later to say there’s a gentleman from the Foreign Office—”
“Didn’t I say so?” Mayor interrupted.
“He said, sir, you’d know his name without his giving it, and he’d be very much obliged if, on your way home, you’d drop in and see him.”
“At his office?”
“No, at his rooms.”
“Told you so,” Mayor repeated.
Tom was staring at Noropa. “You’re no Tibetan! You’re not Chinese, either! Are you?”
Noropa said nothing. He glared with one eye; the other was already swollen shut.
“They may need my hat for evidence,” remarked O’Mally. “Lend me one of yours, Grayne — yes, that cap will do nicely, thanks. Are you coming, Mayor? I can drop you at your house on my way to—”
“Victoria Street, Westminster!” said Mayor. “Yes, I know where you’re going.”
The policeman led his prisoner outside. O’Mally waited until the door had slammed shut behind them.