by Talbot Mundy
“Are you sure she’s in that case?” asked Tom Grayne. He glanced again at the cyanide bottle.
“Yes, she’s in there. I keep the sides of the case covered because she gets so angry if she can’t hide behind some thing.”
“You damned fool!” exclaimed Lewis. “She isn’t in there! Look! That’s her leg! She’s between the case and the wall! By God, she’s coming for us!”
Tom reached down the cyanide. Lewis held the window-pole like a spear.
“Pretty pussy!” remarked Dowlah. “Now we have to use our guessing apparatus — eh, what?”
Lewis exploded: “God damn! Where’s your shotgun?”
“Don’t kill her! Man alive, don’t kill her! Let’s be scientific!” Dowlah seized the silk shawl that had covered the nearer of the two glass cabinets.
The shang-shang moved. Another leg appeared above the cabinet. Tom set the cyanide bottle on a table and pulled down two drapes from the wall. He offered one to Lewis.
“Bull-ring tactics. If she bites that she’ll waste her venom.”
The shang-shang emerged. Its opal-colored eyes looked rotten with cancered malice. They shone in the electric light like iridescent evil. Suddenly the creature darted up the wall, zigzagged across the ceiling like a silent green shadow, and vanished through the ventilator window. It was hinged along the bottom. It had opened downward when Lewis jerked away the window-pole.
“Sinners and drunkards in care of the Lord!” said Lewis. “Well, we have her!” He used the pole to slam the ventilator shut. “She can’t get out of there.”
“Oh, can’t she? I could cry,” said Dowlah. He let go fathoms of profanity in an unknown tongue. “I hadn’t even photographed her! All I have now is a dead rat, from which to extract poison that the analysts will say is something else! Oh, why am I irreligious? Why haven’t I a God to blame? Oh, damn! You jinxes! You brace of alien intruders! There’s a shaft there that leads to another, larger one that sticks up through the roof.”
“No screen on it?”
“No, double-damn my magnanimity! There was one of those cowls at the top, that spin and suck the air up. It needed repairs. I permitted a delay of three days because the man who had taken the thing to his workshop had a sick son. That was why I kept the ventilator shut. Lewis, you calamity! I know now why the Welsh worship goats and are weaned on onions!”
“Better send out an alarm,” said Lewis. “If she gets out, she’ll be killing some one.”
“Oh, yes? Are you going to say you saw a shang-shang? Even now, you’re known as Crazy Taffy. You’d be sent home and locked up.”
“Remember your manners,” said Lewis.
Dowlah threw himself into a chair and sat with his head between his hands. “Lewis, old thing, I would pay you, or any one else, half a lakh of rupees to bring that shang-shang back again alive! I’d pay a whole lakh if I had it.”
“You haven’t half a lakh,” said Lewis.
“Can’t we climb the roof?” asked Tom Grayne. “If we had a good thick bag that it couldn’t bit through—”
Dowlah interrupted. “Did you see my roof? It’s as steep as a candle-extinguisher. It was built by a Swiss, to keep our lousy Hindu gods from sitting on it. No. I don’t mind being silly, if there’s any sense in it. But I don’t chase a runaway shang-shang. She’s gone, she’s gone. Dammit, she’s gone. She can hide — kill — scoot — she will make for the open country — then the Hills. Whoever sees her will believe his sins have found him out. Snakes will get the credit for any murdering she does. Lewis, you unlucky omen, have another drink, and go away, and leave me alone with my sorrow.”
“I will leave you alone with Tom Grayne,” Lewis answered. “Yes, I need a drink, please.”
Dowlah studied Tom Grayne. He kept glancing at him so intently that he poured Lewis’s tumbler nearly half-full of whisky. Then the soda ran over the top. He handed the drink to Lewis without looking at him.
“Yes,” he said to Tom at last, “I’d like to talk with you. You’re the only man in the room who wasn’t frightened.”
“Hell,” Tom answered, “I was scared stiff.”
CHAPTER 10. “You and I are equally in danger.”
THE Rajah seemed to have collapsed for the time being. He sprawled in an arm-chair, absent-mindedly jerking at the trigger of an empty soda-water syphon. But he was studying Tom, and Tom knew it. There were going to be no preliminaries. There was a tacit assumption already that each man understood the other’s importance. Each wanted the upper hand. There would be a battle of wits, and, like a dog fight, it would begin in the middle.
“I’ve a thought,” said Tom Grayne.
“Drown it then in whisky. I can think of nothing but the loss of my pet. That isn’t thought, it’s emotion. All is lost save honor, which is not an asset.”
“If we should open that ventilator,” Tom continued, “the brute might return. She might try to kill you. We could catch her.” He went and opened the ventilator. “Have you, for instance, a big butterfly-net on a fairly long pole?”
“She won’t come back. She could bite through a muslin net. She’s too quick to be caught. You couldn’t hit her with a shotgun. Don’t talk like a cuckoo.”
Dowlah took a long drink. Then he got up and locked the decanter away.
“Out of sight, out of mind,” he remarked. “Who is that girl who came with you to Delhi? I will save you the trouble of lying. Her name is Elsa Burbage. Who — what — why? You’d better tell me.”
“Why should I talk to you about a girl who happened to be on the plane?” Tom answered. He hadn’t expected that twist. He wasn’t ready for it, but he betrayed no embarrassment.
“You and I,” said Dowlah, “have to understand each other. As a doctor, Lewis is a regular, orthodox run-of-the-mill mediocrity. But are you such an ass as to suppose he brought you here to save a wench’s reputation by being sentimentally evasive?”
“Lewis didn’t tell you about Elsa Burbage. Who did?”
“What’s she good at?” Dowlah asked him.
“Can you see the whites of my eyes?” Tom retorted. “You fire first. If we put that saucer full of meat extract up there near the ventilator, possibly the shang-shang might come down to get it. If she’s hungry—”
“If she’s hungry she will hunt for something she likes better than warm Bovril. What I hope,” said Dowlah, “is that she will go and kill the shaman from whom my servant stole her. That would save me some emotions. My servant should have killed the shaman, but he didn’t.”
“So the shaman’s gunning for you?”
“Yes, but not with a gun. I don’t know why he brought the creature to Delhi. I do know that if he learns who stole her, my number is up. That is why I didn’t send out an alarm. I don’t want a Tibetan shang-shang tamer heaping blessings on me.”
“There may be more than one shang-shang in Delhi,” said Tom. “A man named Thö-pa-ga is rather credibly reported to have seen one through a bedroom window.”
“Oh, that? Don’t be silly. That would be a dummy on a pole. They want to scare Thö-pa-ga back to Tibet in a proper state of dismal-mindedness. Tibetans, even educated ones, believe a shang-shang not only can kill them but hound them in hell after death. There’s a man in Delhi who has come for Thö-pa-ga. He owns the shaman who owned the shang-shang. He’s an anonymous Number One, in hiding. He won’t want you in the way and he doesn’t love me — not if he’s sane, he doesn’t. You and I are equally in danger. But before I play with you I want to know more about you. Who is Elsa Burbage?”
“You tell me,” Tom answered.
There was no longer the slightest trace of nonsense about Dowlah. His yellow turban suggested mustard-gas. His nose was an interrogation mark, his eyes insolent.
“Very well, I will tell you. Elsa Burbage is a girl who holds her tongue too damned well to be innocent. Why won’t she talk about you?”
“Have you tried to make her do it?” Tom asked. He sounded, looked, was casual. There was no ang
er in his eyes, no particular interest. The battle was on.
Dowlah chuckled. “You seem as close as she is! Elsa Burbage can’t be persuaded to talk even with her big toe in a nut cracker. She wouldn’t even yell.”
“If her feelings were any of my concern, you wouldn’t dare to tell me that,” said Tom. “Talk horse. Why am I here?”
No embarrassment. Not a trace of it. Tom’s hands were at ease, unclenched. His voice was level, his eyes cold. Dowlah tried another angle:
“I propose to help you into Tibet, Mr. Tom Grayne. If I do that, what will you do for me in return?”
“Nothing. Why should you help me, if you could get along somehow else? I’m necessary, or I shouldn’t be here.”
Dowlah nodded. “Well, I’ll tell you. I’m afraid of this Elsa Burbage. You appear trustworthy. You have been well recommended to me. But a girl — well, Eiji Sarao has warned me. He says he saw you two together in London. He says Thö-pa-ga has come more or less under her influence.”
Tom betrayed no surprise whatever. He understood the system. He was not being tested to find out how much or how little he knew, but whether or not he would tell what he knew.
“Am I wasting time? Why am I here?” he repeated.
“Eiji Sarao told me you intend to find the Thunder Dragon Gate and to go in.”
“Not he. Some one else told you that.”
“Is it true?”
“Ask your informant. I don’t tell my business without good reason.”
“Eiji Sarao says you know Noropa.”
“If you believe Eiji Sarao, why ask me about it?”
Dowlah grinned. “Why, do you suppose, do I enjoy the confidences of a Japanese cotton-mill representative?”
“Easy. You’re the con man. Probably the Jap secret service people imagine you’re their number one bet on the Indian board. Probably Eiji Sarao trusts you, to the extent that a Jap spy trusts any one. He probably believes you’re a secret enemy of the Indian Government.”
“Not so bad,” said Dowlah. “Now it’s your turn. Who is Elsa Burbage?”
“If I knew, I wouldn’t tell you.”
“Very well then, answer this one. Thö-pa-ga needs very artful handling, if you hope to find the Thunder Dragon Gate. You will have to use Thö-pa-ga. There is no other possible way. Elsa Burbage is reported, by Eiji Sarao, who is a rather keen observer, to have Thö-pa-ga’s confidence, more or less. Thö-pa-ga, he says, shows a tendency — nothing more than a tendency yet — to open up — almost to be in love with her. If so, she might be useful. It ‘ud be devilish risky to use an inexperienced girl, but we could kill her if she made a faux pas. Do you think she’d tune in?”
“How should I know?” Tom answered. “Why not ask her?”
“Very well, I will,” said Dowlah.
He got up, and went out into the hall, leaving the door open. Tom caught a glimpse of him in the mirror behind the case that had contained the shang-shang. Saw him enter a door in the hall. Saw him govern his face as he came back.
“She appears unconscious at the moment,” he said as he closed the door behind him. “I suppose we rather overdid the third degree.”
“You’re overdoing tommyrot!” Tom answered. “Bring her in.”
Dowlah laughed. He returned to the hall. Tom waited calmly. If Elsa had made any bad breaks, she had made them. If she hadn’t, she hadn’t. Nothing to be gained by getting worked up. He would know, in a minute, how she came to be there.
But it was nearly five minutes before Dowlah returned.
Elsa had hold of his arm. Tom watched them in the mirror. She walked beside him as if they were old friends. She was laughing at some joke he had made. A bit pale — a trifle wild-eyed — just a trace excited — but well in control of herself. She looked very small beside the tall, lean Dowlah.
She walked at Dowlah’s right. The fingers of her right hand moved like lightning — shorthand — almost too fast for Tom to read it. He was afraid Dowlah might notice it in the mirror; not that it mattered much, because Dowlah couldn’t understand it, but he glanced at the mirror to make sure. He almost betrayed that he was startled. His blood ran cold. It wasn’t so much that he saw Eiji Sarao’s face peering through the partly open door, disturbing though that was; it might mean anything. But, peering over Eiji Sarao’s shoulder from behind him, was Noropa — unmistakably Noropa — the six-foot eight-inch figure of death, who should be in an English prison. How the devil had Noropa reached Delhi?
Only one glimpse. The Rajah turned to close the door, and Elsa’s fingers kept on furnishing vital information. He had to watch them. She could see Tom in the mirror, but she pretended not to — made no sign of recognition. She was be having splendidly.
Dowlah pretended to be trying the lock. He turned suddenly, to try to catch them making signals, but he couldn’t see Elsa’s right hand. She finished signaling. Tom stood up:
“Well, Elsa Burbage! It hasn’t taken you long to find your feet in Delhi! Pleased to meet you again.”
“Good evening, Tom. I’m less surprised than you are. You’re the kind of man, aren’t you, who turns up in all sorts of unexpected places.”
Dowlah looked amused. “Nothing unexpected about me,” he remarked. “I’m the most conventional, correct and predictable man in the world. And I’m as easy to fool as the income-tax man.”
CHAPTER 11. “But on whose side is Dowlah?”
RAJAH DOWLAH resumed his mask of inconsequential inanity. He giggled as he pulled up an arm-chair for Elsa beneath the ceiling fan and arranged a huge cushion. But he was watching for signals. Tom was quite sure of that. Three times in less than sixty seconds he saw him glance at the mirror behind the empty shang-shang cage. Evidently Dowlah wanted to know too much and to tell too little before committing himself. It was time to unmask Dowlah’s batteries. The weather in the passes leading toward Tibet wouldn’t wait on Dowlah’s moods.
Tom went and unlocked the door without a word. He strode into the hall. He heard Dowlah’s voice behind him:
“Silly ass, he’s jealous!”
Then Elsa’s: “Kindly take your hands off!”
But almost any man can make a girl say “take your hands off!” It’s particularly easy for an oriental to make a white woman say it. Tom didn’t even glance backward.
He tried the door on the left. It was locked, although he could hear some one on the far side. The second door opened readily. He walked into a beautiful room — apricot-hued carpet, travertine walls, indirect lighting — three or four exquisite Chinese vases — modern chairs and chaise longue. Three men: Eiji Sarao, Noropa and another.
A bit of a puzzle, that third man. Tall — obese — a little round embroidered skullcap on a bald head — a full, shovel-shaped beard, dyed with henna — a fine white linen smock be neath a severely cut black frock-coat — long white pantaloons — Persian slippers. Vaguely he resembled a friar, only he lacked the fringe of hair and looked less insolent. He put on pince-nez to stare at Tom, but his gaze was mild, inoffensive, rather bovine.
Eiji Sarao’s eyes glittered amid leathery wrinkles. If he was startled, he didn’t show it. He smiled, stuck his hands in his dinner-jacket pockets and waited for Tom to speak first. Tom didn’t speak — not yet. He went straight up to Noropa, swiftly, as if he meant to hit him. The tall Mongolian, looking more than ever like a figure of death, took a short step back wards. He threw his left hand forward, palm outward, as if to ward off an expected blow. Tom seized his wrist. There was a second’s spasm of jiu-jitsu, but Tom had expected that. Noropa’s arm curled in an agonied knot behind his back; he could obey, or, if it pleased him, lose the use of that arm for ever. He surrendered, speechless.
“So you know that?” said Eiji Sarao. He was still smiling; his hands were still in his side-pockets, with his thumbs outside. “Please tell me why you violate this person.” He spoke as if he were asking the way or something.
“I will tell you in the library,” Tom answered. “Last door on the right at t
he end of the hall. Now, please. I don’t want to have to knock this man cold, but if I have to tackle you, I’ll do it. Turn to the right, then last door on the right — go straight in.”
The obese man in the pince-nez with the henna-tinted beard had got out of his chair. He looked now rather like a father-abbot about to bless some penitents.
“Who are you?” Tom asked him.
“I am the prime minister of Naini Kol.”
“Oh. Pardon the disturbance. Come along if you care to. Suit yourself.”
“I always do,” he answered. Then he wiped his pince-nez on a white silk handkerchief and stood aside to signify that he preferred to walk last. That was all right with Tom; a fat prime minister wasn’t likely to use a blackjack. Poison, yes, perhaps, but not an automatic. Besides, Dr. Lewis had been at pains to describe him; he was very likely all right.
Noropa said never a word. He was nearly a head taller than Tom, and Tom was six feet in his socks. He had the vaguely buttery-smoky smell of a Tibetan, but Tom was more than ever sure he wasn’t one. He had on a more or less European black silk suit, brand new. There was a knife under his shirt, held in place by his belt; he had to hold his stomach tight against the belt to keep the knife from slipping. No Tibetan would have done that; a Tibetan by nature pouches a thing in his shirt as a kangaroo carries her young. He permitted him self to be marched along the hall toward the library. Eiji Sarao opened the library door. They all entered the room in a group, Eiji Sarao leading, in order to signal to the Rajah, as Tom noticed in the mirror. The prime minister came last, closed the door, locked it, but made no signal.
All eyes were on Tom Grayne, so it was easy for Elsa to use the fingers of her left hand; they moved as rapidly as a concert pianist’s and not even Eiji Sarao saw it. By the time his glittering brown eyes had moved to see what Tom was looking at, Tom already had Elsa’s information. Tom pushed Noropa into a chair, removed his long knife, tossed it on the table and then let go his wrist. Noropa’s lips moved, but he said nothing audible; he sat chafing his arm. Rajah Dowlah giggled. Eiji Sarao scowled at him; he looked suddenly bossy, like a Japanese official ordering a tourist not to photograph a barrack gate.