by Talbot Mundy
Embassies and consulates don’t openly employ a shang-shang expert. It would be an absolutely safe bet that no one, not even the secret service, or Scotland Yard, or Ambleby could prove any connection between “Doctor” Noropa and the Japanese Government. No doubt Eiji Sarao was an eminent man of affairs who represented a Tokyo cotton combine, as he said. But some third person, who knew Noropa, also might know Eiji Sarao. Or possibly Eiji Sarao knew Noropa. Eiji Sarao’s visit to the Foreign Office might have been a mere coincidence; there was no reason why a distinguished foreign visitor to London shouldn’t call there. But it hardly looked like a coincidence that Eiji Sarao booked a seat on that plane to Karachi. It was certainly not a coincidence that he had followed from Robbin’s Hotel to Doby’s downstairs lunch room. He had probably had a spy in the street — perhaps a taxi-driver.
It would be a fairly safe bet that a warning was already en route, in the innocent guise of a commercial telegram, to some confederate in Northern India to keep an eye on Tom Grayne and Elsa Burbage. Not so good.
Some one in Eiji Sarao’s pay certainly would go through Elsa’s belongings at the hotel. Japs excel at that game; in Japan they even open all the letters that the tourist school-marms send home to their sisters and their cousins and their aunts. They wouldn’t learn much from Elsa’s luggage.
Dr. Lewis’s office turned out to be on the ground floor of a hospital courtyard. There was the usual crowd of patients and patients’ relatives squatting on the shady side of the yard; the usual half-obsequious, half-insolent chuprassi at the office door; the usual Chi-chi clerk, inclined to give him self airs; the usual delay, on bent-wood chairs beneath a whirling fan. A vague smell of iodoform. A portrait of King George on an otherwise blank wall. A “no smoking” sign. A painted glass window in a door marked “Private. No admittance.” A spot of glass, from which the paint had been removed, about the size of a half-rupee, at about the height of a man’s eye from the floor.
Tom was aware he was being stared at through the peep-hole for two or three minutes before the door opened and Dr. Lewis came out to greet him. He was in a white suit, white aproned, pulling off rubber gloves. A jolly-looking fellow. Sharp nose. One eyebrow higher than the other. Two or three scars on his face. Straight, unruly, almost carrot-colored hair. Very likely fifty, perhaps older. Half his right-hand middle finger missing.
“Mr. Tom Grayne? How do you do? Come in. This the patient? Some one phoned me from Karachi to expect you. Bring him in and let’s see what’s wrong.”
He motioned Tom to a chair beside a desk and led Thö-pa-ga to another chair beside a window. He got busy at once with a stethoscope.
There was a long counter at one end of the room, burdened with all sorts of bottles, phials, scales and retorts. On the desk was a microscope and a lot of implements. Something that smelt pretty rank was boiling in a covered container over an alcohol burner on a white-enameled table on wheels. There was nothing in the room worth particular attention except Lewis himself, the fact that he had indicated that particular chair beside the desk instead of either of two other chairs — and the radio message that lay on the desk, exactly where whoever should use that particular chair couldn’t possibly help seeing it. Tom’s eyes devoured it:
DR. MORGAN LEWIS
EDITH CAVELL MEMORIAL HOSPITAL
DELHI, INDIA
AWAIT BY AIR MAIL GRAIN CONSIDERED SUITABLE FOR SHANG-SHANG EXPERIMENT AND ALSO NECESSARY MONGOLIAN EXTRACT RECOMMEND BOTH TO YOUR DISCREET ATTENTION BEST WISHES AND KIND REGARDS HORACE O’MALLY
The date tallied. Sir Horace O’Mally had despatched that from London before leaving for Russia — after his midnight interview with somebody in Westminster.
Thö-pa-ga had his shirt off. He was being systematically thumped. The doctor strode to the desk presently, touched a button and returned to the patient. He appeared to doubt one of the lungs. He resumed business with the stethoscope, until an orderly appeared — another Chi-chi, twice as dark as the Tibetan.
“Bath — bed — light diet — observation. Private room. And tell the head nurse I will be up there to study the case in half an hour.”
“Card, sir?”
“I will sign that later.”
“It’s against the rule, sir, to—”
“Do as I tell you.”
Thö-pa-ga, with his shirt unbuttoned, followed the orderly out of the room. Dr. Lewis came and smiled in front of Tom Grayne. He lit a cigarette and offered his case.
“The rules,” he remarked, “are blessed in the breach, like etiquette. But breach ’em at the right time! That thing boiling in there is a gentleman’s liver. He hadn’t sense enough to break a rule. He was too polite. He ate what was put in front of him. We shall know soon what it was he died of, and perhaps who did it — although that’s less likely. Your man will be dead pretty soon if you can’t get him up to the Hills. I can probably put him in shape for the journey. I advise Darjeeling.”
He picked up the radio message, as if he hadn’t known it was there. He put it into a drawer.
“Do you happen to know my friend Horace O’Mally of Harley Street?”
“No,” said Tom Grayne. “I have met him, once, casually, that’s all.”
“Didn’t he leave on a visit to Moscow?”
“I don’t know.”
“Take that other chair, it’s easier, and tell me something that you do know.”
“Well,” said Tom, “I know the road to Tibet.”
“Good. Then you don’t need my advice to be careful what you eat and drink. I’m going to give you some iron rations of my own invention, for emergency use, when you happen to doubt what’s set in front of you.”
“Damned kind of you.”
“No. Merely thoughtful. Have your meals with me while you’re in Delhi.”
CHAPTER 7. “Memo. buy some american chewing-gum.”
“I SPENT eleven years near the Tibetan border,” said Lewis. He wasn’t looking at Tom Grayne; he stuck his hands deep in his pants pockets, leaned against the desk, and talked familiarly, as if to an old acquaintance, as if there was no need to do any thawing whatever. Tom, however, knew that any overt attempt on his part to win Lewis’s confidence would have the opposite effect. He maintained his reserve and let the doctor do the leading.
“Sikkim?” he suggested.
“Yes, and Bhutan.”
“Good country. I bet you liked it.”
“Yes. I made a lot of friends among the lamas. Knew a lot of sorcerers, too — shamans — all sorts of people. Tried to swap facts with ’em. Couldn’t. I spent two-thirds of my pay on medicines and so on, to give to the shamans: cascara, quinine and stuff like that, that they passed along as elementary magic. In exchange they’d tell me pretty nearly any thing I knew already, but nothing more than that. Poisons? Couldn’t get a word from them. Magic? They’d laugh and swear there was no such thing. If you added it up, I daresay I spent a third of my time trying to get what I supposed you’d call the low-down on a shang-shang. I used to write to O’Mally in London. He’s well read. He’s a very intelligent student of the vagaries of the human mind, is Sir Horace O’Mally. But his suggestions of lines of investigation led no where. Our letters on the shang-shang subject alone would make a fat volume. In the end we both came to the same conclusion.”
“That a shang-shang exists in the realm of illusion,” Tom suggested.
“No. It lives and moves and has its being, but the legends about it are lies. That’s why a shang-shang is so damned deadly. And I’m convinced that the Thugs, who used to terrorize India, were rather mild and inoffensive gentry compared to the shang-shang magicians. They’re a very highly organized, intelligent and mysterious gang of terrorists, with no discoverable motive for their practises other than sheer malice and self-importance.”
“Did you happen to hear of the Thunder Dragon Gate?” Tom asked him.
Lewis glanced at him sharply and looked away again. “Yes. I did. That’s where shang-shang sendings are supposed to come
from. I’m convinced it’s an actual temple or shrine of some sort. But I don’t know where it is.”
“Thö-pa-ga is the hereditary Keeper of the Thunder Dragon Gate,” said Tom Grayne.
Again Lewis looked straight at him. “Has he told you anything about it?”
“Nothing that I didn’t know already.”
Lewis nodded. “I might be able to make him talk. Care to come upstairs and see me try?”
“No,” Tom answered. “He’s suspicious of me as it is. I want his confidence. If you can help me indirectly to get that, I’ll reciprocate, if, as and when possible.”
Lewis nodded again. “Where are you staying in Delhi?”
“Don’t know yet. Came straight here.”
“Try Ingleby’s Hotel. It’s a new place.”
“Okay, thanks, I’ll do that. Any suggestions about Darjeeling?”
“Are you acquainted there? Do you happen to know the Ringding Gelong Monastery? The Abbot’s name is — damn, I’ll forget my own name next — well, no matter, it’s in my note-book.”
“Mu-ni Gam-po,” said Tom.
“Oh, you know him, do you? Well, you couldn’t do better than take your man to that monastery. The high elevation, the familiar monastic atmosphere and old Mu-ni Gam-po’s amused arbitrariness should do more to restore him to health than anything else I can think of. How did he react to air plane altitudes?”
“Splendid. At high altitudes he grew almost talkative.”
“To you?”
“No. I didn’t crowd him. I let him talk to any one he pleased. I haven’t asked him a question beyond is he feeling better, or how about a clean shirt or a stick of chewing-gum. I’m not trouble, I’m the lad who pulls him out of it and doesn’t give a damn why.”
“All right. Well, I’ll go upstairs and see him. If you’ll dine with me, I’ll meet you at the Service Club at nine; I’ll be there waiting for you.”
“I haven’t a dress suit.”
“Very well, meet me at Logan’s — know where that is?”
“Sure. I’ll like the grub at Logan’s better. Club grub dulls my intuition. It’s all right when you’ve nothing important to do. Could I have a slip of paper?”
Tom wrote a short note, sealed it in a plain envelope and addressed it to himself at Ingleby’s Hotel.
Memo. Dine to-night at Logan’s 9 P.M. Cancel other engagement by phone.
Memo. Buy some American chewing-gum.
He almost never made written memoranda. He didn’t have to; he had trained his memory. But he gave the envelope and a coin to a filthy-looking Punjabi, who was loafing in front of the hospital. The man offered his services with rather noticeable persistence. He was possibly a spy. Anyhow, Tom hoped so. He told him to deliver the message at Ingleby’s Hotel, and watched him for half a block, until he was quite sure he was being followed by a much better-dressed Punjabi Moslem. That settled it. Tom took a taxi in the opposite direction, made sure that he wasn’t being followed by another taxi, and then drove to one of the new administration buildings, where he had some difficulty in finding the Ethnographic Office. When he found it at last, at the end of an upstairs passage, he was rather guardedly welcomed by Norman Johnson, a man in spectacles, bulky, morose and used to being treated with more deference than Tom betrayed.
“Professor Clarence Mayor of the British Museum suggested I should call on you.”
“Oh, yes?” He didn’t even invite Tom to be seated. The room was lined with evidently much-consulted books. The desk was piled with papers. There was an atmosphere, an emphatic suggestion of too much work to be done and too little time in which to do it. “What does Mayor want? I have a whole file of his letters. He always wants something that he could dig up for himself in the Museum if he had the patience. What is it this time?”
“Nothing that he told me.”
“Aren’t you the man who entered Tibet?”
“I have been in Tibet.”
“Well, I must say it surprises me that Mayor should send you to me. He knows perfectly well it’s forbidden to do what you did. Does he think I’m going to help you to repeat the offense?”
“I don’t know what he thinks, and I’m damned if I care,” Tom answered.
“Haven’t you any other introduction?”
“No.”
“Know any one at the Foreign Office?”
“No.”
“Remaining long in Delhi?”
“No.”
“Where are you going from here?”
“Darjeeling.”
“I may perhaps meet you there. I should be there now, but there was too much work to be done here first.”
“Mail or messages will reach me at the Hindu Kush Hotel in Darjeeling,” said Tom.
“And in Delhi?”
“Ingleby’s. I see you’re busy. I’ll be off.”
“Good of you. Yes, I am busy. I will look forward to a conversation with you in Darjeeling.”
So much for him. Tom chuckled as he walked out. He didn’t expect to be kissed on both cheeks and told what to do. One very famous explorer, officially forbidden to enter Tibet, cooled his heels for months, continually applying for permission and continually rebuffed, until at last he waked up and discovered that a road had been made all clear for him. All he had to do was to pretend he had slipped across the Tibetan border without the Indian Government’s knowledge. No competent secret service has any sympathy for stupidity; and no successful government does openly what is better done left-handed in the dark.
Tom drove to Ingleby’s Hotel, registered and ordered his bag brought from the station. There was no self-addressed message. Good. Pretty stupid of some one. A really smart man would have opened it, read it, sealed it up again and sent it on its way. He took a shower in his room and went down to the broad veranda that faced the street and a row of good green trees. It was already late afternoon. About a dozen people were using the long chairs, drinking. They all stared and immediately lost interest. Tom took a chair at the far end. He ordered ginger-ale — hated the stuff, but you have to order something; it was too hot for tea. He sat still, frowning, doing nothing, mentally reviewing the day’s conversations and wondering about Elsa. He was a bit worried about her. But his frown relaxed when a box-wallah spotted him and patiently worked his way along the veranda, offering cheap jewelry and similar rubbish for sale. Because he expected just that, Tom spotted the legerdermain with which the fellow added a small box of spearmint chewing-gum. As he drew near he placed it in full view on the top tray.
“Melikani tschooin-gum, sahib? Bohut atcha — new-fresh-jus’ arrive by steamer — same as sell in New York, Paris, London — original package — good — cheap — guaranteed.”
Tom bought his entire stock of the stuff. It didn’t seem to have been tampered with. There was no evidence of the wrappers having been disturbed. A moment later he silently cursed himself and laid the box on the floor at his left hand. A very pleasant-looking missionary woman in the next chair on his right leaned toward him and spoke:
“If I had seen the chewing-gum, I would have bought some. Do you want it all? May I buy some from you?”
Well, he couldn’t tell her he suspected it was poisoned. He couldn’t let her go ahead and take a chance and chew the stuff.
“Sorry,” he answered. “It’s for a sick friend. Promised him.” Pretty lame excuse, that. Better touch it up a bit. “I’m going for a stroll,” he added. “If you like, I’ll get some for you. Would you like a whole box?”
“No, no, please don’t trouble. It was just a passing fancy. I haven’t dared to eat any Indian sweets since I was poisoned in Darjeeling.”
She met Tom’s gaze steadily. Gray-eyed, gray-haired. Jolly-looking woman, with a good grim trouble-eating lip line. Good ears. Scarred knuckles. Carried her head right. Licked a whale of a lot of bad grief in her day. Damn her, why didn’t she break ice? Suddenly she did it, quite naturally:
“Are you Mr. Tom Grayne? Some one we both know phoned a few minute
s ago to say you’re going to Darjeeling. So am I — to-morrow morning. Do you know Darjeeling? Perhaps I can be of some use to you there. I keep a school for Hill children.”
She didn’t mention Ethnological growling Johnson’s name, so he’d be damned if he would. How could he check up?
“Do you know Mu-ni Gam-po?” he asked.
“We’re great friends.”
“Give him my kind regards.”
“Would you care to meet him at my house?” she suggested.
Tom hesitated, although he didn’t appear to. The unlikeliest people are on the inside. Equally unlikely people are among the mischief-makers and merely curious who imagine themselves on the inside.
“I’d enjoy meeting Mu-ni Gam-po anywhere,” he answered.
“I am Nancy Strong,” she said. “Does that mean anything?”
“Yes.”
He wondered why he hadn’t guessed it. But a man can’t remember everything. He should, but he doesn’t; a brain doesn’t work that way. He had heard of her scores of times, from scores of people. Even her Christian enemies spoke of her with respectful appreciation. Tom remembered a district judge remarking that the more he hated her the more he liked her. Funny — he had imagined her as a totally different type of woman; he had avoided meeting her for that reason. Had forgotten her for the same reason.
“You will call on me?” she asked.
“Sorry I didn’t long ago.”
“I will look forward to it.”
She got up, so of course Tom did, and she walked away with an air that made her look as likable as one of those rather impoverished county gentlefolk, who, all the world over, keep the good traditions going while the bad ones die. Tom went into the lobby and wrote a letter to Elsa, in code lest Eiji Sarao should see it: