Complete Works of Talbot Mundy

by Talbot Mundy

  “Why did you get up? Sit down again. How did you get here?”

  She took a chair beside Elsa facing the fire. The cat leaped into her lap.

  “Dr. Morgan Lewis brought me, in a car belonging to the Chief of Police.”

  “Is the man mad? Did he let Bulah Singh’s chauffeur know where you are?”

  “Oh no. He sent the Indian chauffeur away on an errand and drove the car himself. He set me down before we reached the front gate, so as not to be seen.”

  “Take off your shoes and dry your feet at the fire: Does Mu-ni Gam-po know you’ve left the monastery?”

  “Yes, I feel sure he knows. He sent his doctor and two other monks to lead me through a tunnel I’ve never seen before to a building quite a long way off, and out through a door in a wall to where Dr. Lewis was waiting with the car.”

  “And your luggage?”

  “The monks will bring it. It was being wrapped in burlap, to look like bundles of rags for the carpet makers, when I came away.”

  “No need to worry about that then. It will be in the godown before midnight. Well, I suppose this means that Andrew Gunning has his marching orders.”

  Elsa nodded, too excited to answer. There was no need to say that she was going with Andrew. The news exuded from her. Nancy Strong shook her head so vehemently that a couple of hairpins fell out and she had to rearrange her gray mane. She spoke with a hairpin in her teeth:

  “That man Morgan Lewis is worse than Johnson. Much worse. There’s no limit to Lewis’s masculine romanticism. The weaker sex should set us women an example of restraint. But they don’t. They know we’re realists. They egg us on to do the things they can’t do. Lewis is dangerous. It’s too bad that we can’t get along without dangerous men.”

  Elsa rallied to the challenge of injustice: “Dr. Lewis isn’t responsible for my going back to Tibet. He thinks I’m going to stay here with you.”

  Nancy Strong’s face flickered with the humor that had made her famous as a teacher beyond praise. “Do you think he believes you could teach my orphans to make carpets?” she asked. “Lewis is a Welsh romanticist whose ancestors were Druids. He would rather turn the corners than come straight to the point. He thinks ten minutes’ notice is too much.”

  Elsa protested, a bit hotly: “Shouldn’t I have come? I understood that you knew all about it. Dr. Lewis asked me to come here because Bulah Singh has been spying on Mu-ni Gam-po. I’m not sure, but I think Mu-ni Gam-po asked Dr. Lewis to smuggle me out of the monastery.”

  “My dear, you are more than welcome. If you hadn’t come here, I would have felt sorry. Stay as long as you please. But you must stay indoors because Morgan Lewis has spread a rumor that you’ve had a relapse. I’ve already heard it over the phone from two infallible gossips. You’re supposed to be in bed, in the dark, at the monastery, behind curtained windows, suffering from fever due to overwork translating Tibetan folios. You may even be dead by tomorrow, if Morgan Lewis is in good form and tongues wag fast enough.”

  “But if Bulah Singh should discover the truth, what then?” Elsa asked, suddenly frightened by the thought.

  Nancy Strong noticed it: “Don’t feel afraid of Bulah Singh, my dear. He is a mere policeman who would love to be a story-book devil. He would skin truth for its hide and tallow, if he knew how.”

  “Isn’t he Chief of Police?”

  “Yes.”

  “Can’t he interfere with Andrew, if he finds out?”

  “Perhaps. He is said to have some talent for police work. But he suffers from intellectual indigestion. And he is as superstitious as an old-fashioned witch-finder. Has he bothered you at all?”

  “Yes and no. He was very polite. He called on me at the monastery, several times. Brought flowers.”

  “Tell me.”

  “I disliked him, first go off. Later, when Andrew told me that he reads my mail before I get it, I disliked him thoroughly. But I couldn’t avoid seeing him when he called. And he made himself so extremely civil that it was quite difficult to refuse to do what he asked.”

  “What was it?”

  “Well, he knows I speak fluent Tibetan. And he said he has a Tibetan prisoner in the jail who won’t answer questions. He wanted me to hide behind a screen at police headquarters while that prisoner is being questioned and to use what he calls my subconsciousness to read the prisoner’s thought while he is being questioned. He wanted me to do it without telling anyone else — especially Andrew or Mu-ni Gam-po.”

  Nancy Strong chuckled. “I told you, didn’t I, that Bulah Singh is superstitious.”

  “He calls himself a psychologist,” said Elsa.

  “Bluff! He’s an ambitious coward who believes that blackmail is a science and that double-crossing is a fine art. Did he offer you any compensation for your trouble?”

  “He hinted that as Chief of Police he could probably smother — I think that was the word he used — the inquiries that were being made in certain quarters about my being a guest at the monastery and about my right to remain in India.”

  “Ah! I suspected as much! There are too many like him — far too many, always trying to trade on people’s weakness. The key is that use of the word subconsciousness. Minus-minds. It’s only plus-minds that aren’t afraid of superconsciousness. Minus-minded people like Bulah Singh call everything they can’t understand, subconsciousness. That makes them feel superior and scientific. Down in the recesses of his dark mind Bulah Singh believes in black magic, but he doesn’t dare to admit that, even to himself. He wants to pile the faggots and watch you burn in your own flame. I want to talk to you about that.”

  Elsa protested, frowning. “Oh, Nancy Strong, I wish you wouldn’t. Do let’s talk about something else. There are so many things I want to—”

  “Child, sit still and listen. I don’t in the least mind your coming here at ten minutes’ notice. In fact I’m very glad to have you. But you will either listen to me, or else go to your room. And I warn you: if you do go to your room you will miss the only chance I shall have to save you from making a fool of yourself. Which shall it be?”

  She stroked the cat until it purred like a tea kettle. Elsa sighed:

  “Very well. But I’ve had so much of it. And I do so hate it. Nancy, I’m returning to Tibet — secretly! Can’t we talk about that? I have Andrew’s full permission to answer any questions you ask.”

  “How did you get out of doing what Bulah Singh wanted? What excuse did you give?”

  “You insist! Oh, very well. I told Bulah Singh what I have just told you: that I hate and detest clairvoyance. I told him it’s bad enough not being able to help seeing things that you’d rather not see; but that to go ahead and do it deliberately, just for the hell of it, would be like doing something unclean.”

  “What did Bulah Singh say to that?”

  “He laughed. He looked cruel. He called me superstitious, and he hinted that I’m a hypocrite. He said he was surprised that a girl who had come through my experience should be afraid to make use of a natural gift.”

  Nancy Strong reached for a cigarette and pushed the carved silver box across the side-table toward Elsa: “Reach for the matches, will you? I don’t want to disturb the cat.”

  They smoked in silence for a minute or two. Elsa got up, poked the fire, put on a lump of wood and sat down again.

  “You were a brave little fool in the first place,” said Nancy Strong, staring at the end of her cigarette. “I did my level best — my fighting, interfering, irritating female damnedest to prevent you from going to Tibet with Tom Grayne. When I was secretly consulted, I went all the way to Delhi and back at my own expense to tell Johnson to stop you from going. And I tried to talk Tom Grayne out of it, during a whole afternoon on a train. I knew all about your secret marriage to Tom Grayne, and about your agreement to keep it on a business basis. You two ignorant children held out longer than I thought you would. There’s a note in my diary that I made at the time. I’ll look it up presently. I think I allowed Nature three mont
hs less than Nature actually needed. I didn’t allow enough for your ingenuousness or for Tom Grayne’s obstinacy.”

  “It was not Nature. And it wasn’t Tom’s fault. It was me,” Elsa insisted. “I did it. I seduced Tom.”

  Nancy Strong swept that aside with a gesture. “N’importe. Never mind for the moment whose fault, if fault it was. Il y a toujours un qui aime et l’autre qui se laisse aimer. But the stuff that I packed into your first-aid kit? Where was that when that weakling let you lure him into sin?”

  “I forgot it. I mean, I never thought of it.”

  “Elsa, my dear, it is no use your lying to me. You did think of it. You thought I was a nasty-minded female. Tell the truth now: didn’t you throw it away?”

  “Well, I didn’t want Tom to know I had stuff like that with me. What could he possibly have thought if he’d found it? And besides, I didn’t want an excuse or a temptation or a—”

  Nancy Strong interrupted: “The trouble with you, my dear, is that you’ve got sex, and love, and religion, and loyalty all mixed up together with superstition and bravery in one bottle. Shake the bottle, and out pops human nature, cork and all. Added to that, you’re clairvoyant and can’t understand why other people don’t see what you see.”

  Elsa curled up in the big chair, growing angry but doing her best to conceal it. “Oh well, I’m not natural. I know I’m not. I’m a freak.”

  “We’re all freaks,” Nancy answered. “Every last one of us. I’ll tell you about me one of these days when I’m feeling reminiscent. But tell me about Tom Grayne. Does he expect you back in Tibet?”

  “No, he doesn’t. He told me to stay in Darjeeling.”

  “But you’re going back to him?”

  “Yes. I asked Andrew’s advice, this evening.”

  Nancy stroked the cat the wrong way. The cat sought solitude, at full speed around the bookcase and under the grand piano. “Goon,” said Nancy. “Tell me about it.”

  “But there’s nothing to tell. Andrew told me to do my own thinking. I couldn’t get him to say what he thought I should do. But when I asked him to take me back to Tibet, he agreed instantly and said it was the only possible answer if I wanted to play it straight.”

  “Play what straight?”

  “He meant I should keep my bargain with Tom. He called it unfinished business. He made me feel like a thing without any will of my own — like something invented by Tom and Andrew.”

  “You mean you’d rather not go?”

  “I’d rather go than do anything else on earth that I can think of. But I tried to tell you what it felt like when Andrew agreed to let me go with him. I can’t really tell it because there aren’t the right words. After my baby died, I did nothing but think for days and days and weeks. Even when I got well enough to work at Tibetan translation, one part of me was thinking, wondering what to do — what I should do — what was the right thing to do—”

  “It didn’t occur to you at any time to return to Tom?”

  “Yes, of course it did, thousands of times. Hundreds and hundreds of times I saw him, clairvoyantly, just as clearly as I see you now — more clearly, because it’s different. And I know Tom was thinking of me. But how could I get back to him — more than nine hundred miles — across that terrible country, without money or a permit to cross the border?”

  “Terrible country? Then you don’t like Tibet?”

  “I love it — perhaps because it is terrible. Perhaps it sounds incredible to you, Nancy: but I loved every minute even of that agony when my baby was born in the snow. Go ahead: call me a romantic liar if you want to. But I tell you it’s the unadorned truth.”

  “I never had that experience,” said Nancy. “Now I’m too old, so I’ll take your word for it. You make me wonder what I’ve missed: Did you quarrel with Tom?”

  “No, of course I didn’t. Tom doesn’t quarrel with people. I do. But even I can’t quarrel with a man who just gets thoughtful and says nothing.”

  “Umm. Did Tom and Andrew quarrel?”

  “No indeed. Andrew was with us in Tibet for several months and there was never a cross word between them. We three were very happy together in that cave in the mountains. There was lots of hardship, and it was dangerous, but we all three loved it.”

  “So it amounts to this: that Andrew Gunning did what he did to oblige Tom Grayne?”

  “Oh, if that’s what you’re driving at, I can give you a very quick answer. I believe Andrew hates me. I can’t see why he shouldn’t. I forced him to upset all his plans to return for supplies by way of Chwanben. I caused him unimaginable trouble. No one who hadn’t seen it could imagine what Andrew had to do to get me safely to Darjeeling. Mind you, he had to deliver my baby in a blizzard. And he isn’t a doctor! And even after we got here, and I was safe in the monastery, I couldn’t help making things far more difficult for him than they would have been if he had come alone. People even think it was his baby. I’m not quite sure that Mu-ni Gam-po doesn’t think so. I know Bulah Singh suspects it.”

  Nancy Strong tossed her cigarette into the fire and lighted another one. “The night is young,” she remarked. “Long live the night. Go ahead. Tell me more.”

  “Tell you what?”

  “About Andrew Gunning.”

  “I know very little about Andrew, except that he came from Columbus, Ohio, by way of Shanghai. He isn’t a silent man, and he’s well educated, but he doesn’t talk about himself. I think he’s the kindest man I’ve ever seen or heard of, but he resents being thanked, it makes him brusque and rude. And he’s as cruel as all Tibet if he thinks you’re being unjust or trying to sidestep responsibility. What do you know about him? He speaks very highly of you.”

  “Yes, they all do that,” said Nancy. “Even Bulah Singh does. It’s a habit, like driving on the right side of the street. You see I know enough to hang most of ’em. So they reward me for discretion by praising my chief fault.”

  “Nancy, why do such people as you, who have really accomplished something, always speak of themselves contemptuously? This school of yours is famous. So are you. And you know it.”

  “Never trust reputations, my dear. The difference between precept and practice is what makes men flatter me behind my back. They hope to God I won’t tell what I know.”

  “Well, tell me what you know about Andrew Gunning.”

  “May I tell him what I know about you?”

  “Yes, if you want to.” Nancy Strong chuckled: “Smart girl. A disarming answer. However, I won’t tell you about Andrew.”

  “He has told you his story?”

  “They all do it. That’s what makes life so interesting. I’m a sort of she- priest. An auntie-confessor. They all tell me sooner or later whose wives or husbands they’re in love with, or tired of, or afraid of, and why.”

  “Why did Andrew leave home?”

  “Why should I tell you? Can’t you ask him?”

  “I did. Of course I did. How could one help being interested in anyone who’s as kind as Andrew has been to me. I played fair by telling all about me. But when I asked about him, he just dried up and I knew he was angry, although he tried not to show it.”

  “When did you ask him?”

  “In Tibet, on the way here, before my baby was born. For days and days after that he broke the trail as if he were fighting a battle. He was furious. He made me think of one of those Vikings in the Scandinavian Sagas who fought because fighting was their religion. He seemed to me to be fighting invisible things:”

  Nancy Strong probed cautiously: “That second-sight of yours. Did that tell you nothing?”

  Elsa shuddered. “It’s too much like dreams. It’s worse: it’s like peeping through keyholes, only more disreputable, because you don’t risk being caught at it.”

  “Ah. But what did it tell you about Andrew Gunning?”

  “Not much. Because I so hate it I nearly always shut my mind against it and try to think about something else. Don’t ask me.”

  “But I do ask.”
>
  “I believe you can read my thought. Oh, very well, if you insist. Something dreadful happened in America that Andrew can’t bear to think about. He can’t go back home. Or he won’t. I’m not sure which.”

  “But you’re not afraid to go with him to Tibet?”

  “What do you mean? Why should I be afraid?”

  Nancy Strong, with her chin resting on a clenched fist and her elbow on the chair-arm, studied Elsa for about sixty seconds. Then she asked suddenly: “Has anybody ever told you how naive you are in some ways and how shrewd when one least expects it of you?”

  “Yes. Andrew said it.”

  “When?”

  “This evening.”

  “Well,” said Nancy, “there’s one point on which Andrew and I are agreed.”

  “Oh. Don’t you like Andrew?”

  Nancy Strong chuckled: “My dear, it is I who am setting the trap for you, not you for me. I have cross-examined too many hundred children — some of them were famous men, and some were Tibetan orphans, and some were scoundrels — to let anyone turn the tables on me. I won’t tell you what I think about Andrew Gunning. But I’m going to say what I think about you. — Now, would you like some tea before we begin?”

  “No, thanks.”

  “I won’t offer you whiskey, because I want your undivided attention and no back alleys open for your thought to slide away into and hide. I’m going to make you face yourself.”

  “Nancy, I believe that fundamentally you’re cruel.”

  “No. I despise cruelty. If you would rather go to bed, now, and—”

  “And be despised as a coward! No, Nancy, you may go ahead. But it feels in advance like having to face an operation without anesthetic.”

  The cat, whose face resembled Lobsang Pun’s, returned and sprang into Nancy’s lap, purring like a kettle.

  CHAPTER 9

  There was no sound but the splashing of rain through the open window. Andrew leaned back in his chair and watched Bulah Singh with an expression that puzzled the Chief of Police, who was accustomed to reading fear or treachery or insolence, or all three, on the face of a victim. He intended to victimize Andrew. Andrew knew it. But both men were puzzled. Neither tried to make a secret of it. It was better tactics not to. For a few moments the Sikh walked around the room like a wrestler pondering which hold to try next. He even flexed his shoulders.