Complete Works of Talbot Mundy

by Talbot Mundy

  “Angry answer being now arrested on the lips of emotion, opportunity to gather knowledge before leaping blindly may be indicated.”

  “We were talking about duty and sin,” said Andrew. He felt he had to say something.

  “There is danger in another’s duty — also duty in another’s danger,” the Abbot remarked. “Sin is the result of conceit; it has no other basis. To discuss it is to argue about nothing, with vain words, in a void created by imagination.”

  The Lord Abbot sat down on the seat that Andrew had vacated. He motioned to Andrew to take the teak chair on the far side of the brazier between himself and Elsa. The old man looked almost Chinese, roguish and yet unworldly; humorous but serious nevertheless; humble, gentle, and yet full of dignity. After a minute’s silence he spoke again in Tibetan, in a voice creaky with age but curiously vibrant with the unselfconscious habit of authority.

  “Self-revelation, self-expression, seldom is attainable by such beginners as ourselves. It is invariably wise through meditation to permit reflection to reveal reality. We thus perceive ourselves in one another. Wisdom lives in silence.”

  Fact number two had presented itself. The Very Reverend Lord Abbot Mu-ni Gam-po was suggesting in his own elaborate way that a time for not talking too much was at hand and that the reasons within reasons for discretion would reveal themselves, if one only would have patience. And even patience was not strained too much. The gong boomed again at the far end of the corridor. A moment later the thick door opened. A monk moved in, barefooted, silent. He stood flicking his beads. The Lord Abbot nodded. The monk opened the door wider. Footsteps on carpeted stone came echoing forward. The atmosphere, the feel of things changed subtly. The dream sensation vanished. Something more like actuality replaced it. Dr. Morgan Lewis walked in and the monk closed the door, standing with his back to it. For a moment the flicking of the monk’s beads was the only sound in the room, very distinctly heard against the splashing of rain in the outer night as Dr. Morgan Lewis glanced from one face to the other.

  “Kind of you to let me come,” he remarked, bowing to Mu-ni Gam-po and then to Elsa. Then he strode forward and shook hands with Andrew Gunning, carefully because a finger joint was missing from his right hand. Andrew had a reputation for sometimes forgetting his strength. One eyebrow perpetually higher than the other gave Lewis a quizzical look that was increased by untidy graying red hair, carefully clipped and groomed but always being ruffled by his restless fingers. He was a man of fifty with scars on his face and a wry, skeptical smile. But of what he was skeptical didn’t appear.

  “Well, what’s the news?” he asked suddenly.

  No one answered. Mu-ni Gam-po produced horn-rimmed spectacles with large lenses which he polished carefully before putting them on.

  “I seem to have interrupted you at prayers,” said Lewis. “Let me join in — I’ve brought the smell of hell with me — from Delhi. I snaffled a week’s leave. Just got here — at least, that’s the story. Must I operate to start the conversation flowing? How are you, Elsa?”

  “Thank you, Dr. Lewis, I’m incredibly well.”

  Lewis stuck a monocle into his right eye. He was wearing a careless- looking tweed suit, but by a strange kind of circumstantial magic the scrap of glass in his eye suggested military uniform and official secrets. It made him look dapper, smart, almost impudent. He walked toward Elsa.

  “Good girl. Been obeying orders. Sleep. Rest. Plain food. But take a tip from me and don’t get well too quickly.”

  He sat down beside Elsa, on the edge of the basalt throne, where he could watch Andrew Gunning beyond the brazier and be watched by Mu-ni Gam-po. His right hand drummed a signal on his knee in full view of the horn-rimmed spectacles. The Lord Abbot asked in English:

  “Not too quickly? Does my patient need other treatment?”

  “Well, I’ll tell you,” said Lewis. “As you know, I happened to be in Darjeeling soon after she arrived from Tibet a couple of months ago. I took the opportunity at that time to—”

  Elsa interrupted. “Doctor, you came all the way from Bombay, by airplane, just to make sure I was getting proper treatment. That’s true, isn’t it? Please don’t try to make generosity seem like an accident!”

  Lewis glanced at her swiftly, then at Mu-ni Gam-po. He grinned wryly. “I admit that the Government paid for the plane. It’s less than once in a thousand years that a girl of your age suddenly arrives from Tibet and knows how to hold her tongue. Besides, you sent for me.”

  “Dr. Lewis, I didn’t!”

  Lewis adjusted his monocle. He glanced at Mu-ni Gam-po, and at Andrew Gunning, then stared at Elsa. “Young lady, we’re among friends. Strictly between ourselves, I got your telepathic message. It was my first convincing evidence of clairvoyance. I said: convincing evidence. Tell the truth now, you asked me to come!”

  “But I didn’t! You were the only doctor I knew in all India. And I was ill and unhappy. They told me my baby was dying. So I remembered you, and thought about you, and—”

  “And I saw and heard you,” said Lewis. “Clear case of telepathy — but I’d be drummed from the medical ranks if I dared say so in public. The baby was dead before I got here. They’d call that proof that I’m a liar. But we pulled you through your trouble. — Tell me: what impression do you get now?”

  Elsa hesitated: “You don’t mean things in Europe? Hitler? Mussolini?”

  “God forbid!” said Lewis. “What do you see here — now?”

  “I’ve a strong impression that you’re warning me of danger.”

  “Well, now. That’s damned interesting.”

  “Did I guess right?”

  “It wasn’t guesswork. You saw it. Let’s put it this way, talking in words of one syllable because I wish to be understood. One man’s meat is another’s poison. Facts are nothing but symbols of a metaphysic that we don’t understand. Science, medicine included, is a scandalously overrated system for misinterpreting ascertained facts. And as a medical man it’s my duty to say that Mu-ni Gam-po’s medicine is an unscientific mixture of herbs that aren’t in the pharmacopoeia and its use would be illegal in any civilized country.”

  “I don’t want to be rude,” Elsa answered, “but Mu-ni Gam-po’s medicine made me feel well, and yours didn’t.”

  Lewis laughed. He caught the Lord Abbot’s eye, and the Lord Abbot smiled. Lewis shook his fist at the Lord Abbot. “Charlatan!” he said. “Quack! Heretic! Johnson used to let you dose him, and now where’s Johnson? Gone! Gone home to England, where he’ll die, one of these days, just as surely as my name’s Morgan Lewis.”

  Andrew Gunning almost upset the brazier. “Johnson? Of the Ethnographic Survey? Gone? You mean he’s left India?”

  “Yes,” said Lewis. “Irish promotion. Sent home in a hurry to advise the India Office and be made a baronet and be snubbed to death. I’ll send flowers — perhaps cabbages. I didn’t like him, but he was a very first-class man.”

  Andrew looked worried. “Who has taken Johnson’s place?” he demanded.

  “For the time being,” said Lewis, “there’s an abhorrent vacuum in process of being naturally filled with rumors. Bulah Singh is playing locum tenens, acting-Satan so to speak, but not as likely as he thinks he is to inherit the throne of hell. He lacks the incorruptible integrity. Bulah Singh might try to snatch some credit for himself by getting after unorthodox practitioners of medicine. You see, if Bulah Singh could tamper with Mu-ni Gam-po’s medicine and create a scandal, he might sell his own brand of brimstone and treacle. I advise you to change doctors, young woman. Do you get what I mean?”

  “No.” Elsa stared at him, worried. “You’re talking nonsense just to test my ability to read thought. But it doesn’t work. I don’t know what you mean.”

  “I’ll try again,” said Lewis. “Bulah Singh is rather competent but can’t be trusted to deny himself the luxury of malice. He’s a great man for detail — studies such curiosities as smoke against snow on the sky line and the contents of the loads
of ponies getting ready to go northward. He thinks tactics and strategy are the same thing.”

  “Thanks,” said Andrew.

  Lewis readjusted the monocle, stared at Andrew and continued. “Bulah Singh is a rather cat-like fellow. I should say his weak point is that he might watch a mouse hole too long. He might even watch two or three mouse holes. If the mouse used something other than a hole in a wall, Bulah Singh’s patience might make him look more like a stone Sphinx than an active cat. — By the way, do you find the view good from the monastery roof?”

  “Grand view,” said Andrew, “except when it’s hidden by clouds; and that’s most of the time.”

  “I am told,” said Lewis, “that lots of people are watching for signs of the coming of spring. You’ve no news, I suppose, from Tibet?”

  “It’s got whiskers,” said Andrew. “Came by the long route. Runner to Sinkiang. Radio to Shanghai, spatchcocked into Chinese bulletins intended for a Jap who has a Chinese mistress in Macao. Steamer to Hongkong. Third-class passenger to Pondicherry. Last lap secret.”

  Lewis grinned: “I could tell you the secret!”

  “When in doubt, don’t,” said Andrew. “What do you want to know? I’ll tell you.”

  “You say it’s old news? Even if it’s ugly news, I can face it.” Lewis stressed three of the words with more than necessary emphasis. Then he felt Elsa’s pulse with a professionally absent-minded air of having nothing else to do.

  Andrew grinned. “That’s a good cue. Right. Old Ugly-face is said to be a fugitive from Lhasa. He’s reported to have lost his fight to control the young Dalai Lama and has had to go into hiding.”

  “Chapter one,” said Lewis. “Chapter two, I suppose, gives more details.”

  “Sort of regular subscriber, aren’t you? Yes, there’s more of it, seeing it’s you. Ram-pa Yap-shi, the Lord Abbot of Shig-po-ling, is top dog at the moment. He got away from Lhasa with the young Dalai Lama and all the cash in the treasury. He has fortified himself at Shig-po-ling, and has offered a big reward for the capture of Ugly-face dead or alive.”

  “That checks perfectly,” said Lewis. “What else?”

  “Not much else. Have you heard of Ambrose St. Malo?”

  “Who is he?”

  “I asked because I thought perhaps you know,” said Andrew. “I’ve been warned to watch out for him.”

  “Ambrose St. Malo, eh? Where is he?”

  “Somewhere in Tibet.”

  “That’s vague.”

  “So is he vague.”

  “Bad egg?”

  “Rotten. I’m told he stinks.”

  Lewis stood up. “Well,” he said, “don’t catch a chill on the monastery roof. And as for you, young lady, take my advice and change medicine. Mu-ni Gam-po’s mysterious stuff isn’t good for you any longer. You’ve had enough of it — more than enough. Try a change.”

  “But where should I go?”

  “Try Nancy Strong. Even Bulah Singh wouldn’t dare to fossick in Nancy Strong’s medicine chest. Well, so long. See you again soon. Thanks for the information.”

  He bowed before Mu-ni Gam-po to let the old Abbot touch the crown of his head with a special blessing. Andrew Gunning noted that they whispered to each other. Lewis walked out and the monk shut the door. Elsa spoke in a horrified whisper:

  “Andrew! Why did you do it! Why did you tell him!”

  The Lord Abbot Mu-ni Gam-po got up and bestowed a murmured blessing. The attendant monk opened the door, followed the Lord Abbot out and left the door slightly ajar. Andrew closed it tight and listened for a moment.

  “Andrew, why did you tell Dr. Lewis — ?”

  CHAPTER 4

  Andrew’s face glowed red as he poked at the coals in the brazier with bronze tongs. He carefully placed lumps of charcoal in the burned-out spaces and then stood away from the fumes.

  “Snow!” said Elsa. “Blizzards! — Rain! — Wind! — I can see them.” There was a change in her voice. “Sometimes it’s easy to tell what you’re thinking about, Andrew. Only sometimes. Not often.”

  He turned and faced her. “Yes. It’s too early. But that was the last call. Now or never.”

  “Marching orders?”

  “Yes. You heard him. Morgan Lewis was warning me to get going if I don’t want to be stopped by Bulah Singh.”

  “But, Andrew, why did you tell Dr. Lewis what you did, about Lobsang Pun and the Abbot of Shig-po-ling! Those are Tom’s secrets. Tom warned you to tell no one except—”

  “Except Johnson. But you heard that too. Johnson has gone — home to England. If Morgan Lewis hasn’t taken Johnson’s place, as head of the Tibetan section of the secret intelligence, I miss my guess badly. But Bulah Singh doesn’t know yet — or I guess not — I think that’s what Lewis meant.”

  “But Dr. Lewis is in charge of a hospital—”

  “Johnson was in charge of the Ethnographic Survey. There weren’t fifty people in the world who knew what Johnson’s real job was. Probably not more than ten people know about Lewis — yet.”

  “But shouldn’t you have known for sure before you—”

  “Nothing for nothing in this world, Elsa. Pay as you go. Grabbing at something for nothing is the sure sign of a man who can’t be trusted. Lewis told me his news, so I told him mine, although he knew it before I told him. He even knew about Ambrose St. Malo. The secret intelligence trick is to check one report against the other. One rumor, or even one fact means nothing; but if three, four, five, six rumors all check, that’s different.”

  “But, Andrew, should you have told how you get your news?”

  “Why not? Lewis wanted to know where Tom is. So I gave him a chance to put two and two together.”

  “But why tell him where Tom is?”

  “Because he offered to help me to reach Tom.”

  “But, Andrew, he didn’t. I heard everything he said.”

  “Elsa, sometimes you’re so naive that it’s hard to remember how smart you can be when you’re in the mood. If Lewis doesn’t mean to help me to get into Tibet, why in thunder do you think he’d tip me off that Bulah Singh is on the watch to prevent me?”

  “But if Dr. Morgan Lewis has become the head of the secret intelligence, surely he can give orders to Bulah Singh, can’t he? He can tell Bulah Singh to look the other way, while you—”

  “Don’t be ridiculous. If Morgan Lewis should make that mistake, Bulah Singh would obey the letter of the orders, but he’d watch more alertly than ever. From then on, he’d have an insider’s nuisance value. Nine-tenths of the secret intelligence trick is to keep your subordinates mystified. Bulah Singh has orders to prevent anyone from getting into Tibet. Those are standing, routine orders. But I’ll get through. And Bulah Singh will be reprimanded; if he’s ready for the trash can he’ll be transferred and left wondering who did it to him. But he’ll know why. Bulah Singh should have let old Mu-ni Gam-po alone. I’ll bet that’s where he slipped up. Mu-ni Gam-po is a philosopher who thinks in terms of centuries and has a sense of humor. Bulah Singh is a modern wise-guy who thinks he knows all the answers. Calls himself a skeptic. Actually he’s a superstitious fool.”

  “Bulah Singh superstitious?”

  “Sure. That’s why he’s so eager to prove he isn’t.”

  “I think you’re being overconfident, Andrew. Bulah Singh has the reputation of being anything but a fool.”

  Andrew governed his voice down to the note that flatly indicated patience. “You who can read thoughts! Can’t you read between words? Lewis told us, as plainly as he dared, that Bulah Singh has been trying to get Mu-ni Gam-po into trouble for letting me use the monastery roof to watch for smoke signals telling when the pass is open into Tibet. That’s why I call Bulah Singh a fool.”

  “But, Andrew, isn’t it true that you—”

  “Sure! And Bulah Singh fell for it — hard! Fell, too, for the ponies in the monastery stable.”

  “Well, they’re your ponies. I think you’re—”

  Andrew stopped her wi
th a gesture. “Listen: my ponies have been getting fat all winter, nearly a hundred miles from here. The loads are ten miles away from the ponies. The men are ten miles away from the loads.”

  “But, Andrew, it was only three days ago that I saw a big heap of loads with your name on them, piled up in two empty stalls in the stables in this monastery!”

  Andrew grinned: “I don’t know whether Mu-ni Gam-po knows my name is on them. Those are monastery loads — routine supplies for Tibet. Bulah Singh’s spy will be watching those loads, and watching for my smoke signals too, long after I’m over the border, unless I miss my guess about Morgan Lewis.”

  “But if you’re not really watching for smoke signals, how will you know when the snow has melted enough to make it possible to get through?”

  “That was Bompo Tsering’s job. He’s done it. He brought word last night that there’s only one bad place left, and that’s negotiable.”

  “Where is Bompo Tsering?”

  “He was ten miles away from the ponies, being watched by one of Bulah Singh’s undercover men, who has lost most of his pay to Bompo Tsering at a game that they play with a board and sheeps’ knuckle-bones. Just now Bompo Tsering is buying odds and ends and fretting to get away tonight instead of tomorrow.”