by Talbot Mundy
There were colossal mountains on three sides — north, northwest, and westward. There was no way out of that valley, that the eye could detect, except southeastward, where a rough road curved in a wide arc, away from the mountains. At a point just visible between gigantic boulders it met a better road that curved in search of the highway eastward toward Assam and Bhutan. Andrew was watching the fork where the roads met.
He was in an agony of impatience, trusting no one, not even himself; going over and over in mind the details of his preparations for the dash for the Roof of the World, wondering whether he had forgotten anything that he could not afford to forget. One mile away as an eagle flies — but more than ten miles over almost trackless boulder-hatched ravine and mountain spur — his outfit waited, hidden in a hollow, near the foot of a pass so steep and dangerous that for almost a generation not even the suspicious Gurkhas had troubled to guard it. It crossed a corner of secret, almost unexplored Nepal, so it was doubly outlawed. Three governments in theory barred its use, forbade it, kept it off all but the secret maps; but in fact, it was the only pass that they did not watch and that afforded the slightest chance of undetected trespass into Tibet. According to Bompo Tsering’s information, picked up from a smuggler, it was, some seasons, the first pass to be negotiable because rain and wind bullied the snow from its exposed ledges. Smuggled opium, stored day before yesterday in Lan-dor-ling’s shed, had vanished — probably over the pass. That was the feather in the wind that Andrew counted on.
Once away, there would be small risk of pursuit, or of being turned back at the farther end. The only dangers would be smuggler-bandits, avalanches, lack of fuel, and the hell’s own causeway, where the loads would have to be manhandled, the ponies hauled and lifted, and a miscalculation would mean death on the crags below.
“God, what’s keeping her!”
There was a post of Sikkim police less than a mile away. They had a telephone. They weren’t very likely to do more than glance at a party of monks, northeastward bound in a contractor’s bus toward a monastery near the Bhutan border. But if someone — Bulah Singh, for instance — should have phoned them to be on the lookout for Elsa, not all the ingenuity of Morgan Lewis would be enough to prevent a show-down. Governments can’t look the other way when information comes through official channels and is on the record.
“‘He travels the fastest who travels alone.’ A man’s a damned fool to stand waiting for trouble!”
But Andrew didn’t dream of not waiting. He paced the track, counting his footsteps, turning suddenly for a glimpse of the crossroad beyond the boulders, glancing at the clouds, and at his watch. It was getting late. He would be lucky to reach the bivouac before dark. To attempt to reach it after sundown would be almost madness, even though he had left white phosphorus markers along the trail. He had posted that fool from Koko Nor to lend a hand at the bridgeless torrent, where the ponies would have to be manhandled in, held against the ice-cold water, and hauled out on the far side. But one couldn’t count on the man from Koko Nor. He might have run back to the bivouac, afraid of being haunted by the devil that escaped when his tooth was pulled. — Took some pulling, that tooth.
All right, give Elsa one more hour as deadline. Any later, and they would have to spend the night at Lan-dor-ling’s. Not so good. Andrew didn’t quite trust Lan-dor-ling. He had had to pretend to, but it was risky. Lan-dor-ling was almost certainly a secret spy for the Government — perhaps for all three Governments — Sikkim, Nepal, Tibet — as well as for people to whom governments are like wealthy women, created to be sponged from, betrayed and laughed at. Lan-dor-ling was too rich to stay bought with a secondhand car: much too avaricious to have refused the gift. On the other hand, asking no embarrassing questions, he had smiled with urbane incredulity at Andrew’s hand-out lies, told for Lan-dor-ling’s use in case strangers should be inquisitive.
He suspected Lan-dor-ling of being one of Bulah Singh’s secret correspondents. There was no evidence of it, beyond a yellowing, creased letter signed by the Sikh, appointing Lan-dor-ling to the honorary post of investigator of local applicants for jobs in Darjeeling. It was framed on the wall of the filthy room where Lan-dor-ling’s half-breed clerk kept the accounts. There was absolutely no doubt whatever in Andrew’s mind that Bulah Singh had a well-planned grapevine of intelligence that he could use for or against the Government, whichever might suit his own ambition. Lan-dor-ling was a probable branch of the vine.
True, Bulah Singh had insisted that the way into Tibet was open. So had Morgan Lewis. Both men, each for a different reason, wanted him safely across the border. Possibly — hardly probably — no man could be quite such a fool — Bulah Singh believed Andrew would obey orders, once in Tibet.
“He can’t be such a damned idiot. He can’t be! All the same, he may be kidding himself. He thinks he has the goods on me. Perhaps he thinks Elsa is within his reach in Darjeeling. Good God, she may be, at that! He may have held her up! Jesus! And if he knows she’s on her way — and if she is — and if he’s half awake, he must know — he could have her tracked down and arrested on suspicion of intending to cross the border. Fool! Why didn’t I take chances and bring her with me?”
But the worst danger of all was Morgan Lewis.
“He’s a good guy. But he’s a nut. He plays it like a dime detective. It’s a dog-gone cinch he’ll bungle the show-down with Bulah Singh. He’ll be too tricky about it. Bulah Singh will turn on him and blow the gaff. He’ll accuse Lewis of secretly helping me to reach Tibet, contrary to law and orders, international treaties and God knows what else. Spite is Bulah Singh’s pet motive. He knows he stands to get broke if he’s found out. He’ll make it cost ’em something. He’ll blow things wide open. He’ll involve as many higher-ups as possible in his own ruin — probably all set to do it, in case they spike him. — God, what’s keeping that woman! Why doesn’t she come!”
Thunder, like a barrage by the clock — drum-fire — all heavy guns. Lightning in blinding spasms. Rain in a seething deluge. Hail. The rocks crackled like glass under machine-gun fire. Andrew ran for Lan-dor-ling’s verandah. By the time he reached it Lan-dor-ling had vanished. Andrew sat in the vacated chair watching the forked lightning that rent the storm and made the glimpsed mountains seem to dance to the deafening thunder. He didn’t hear hoofbeats — couldn’t. The first he knew of a horse was its rider, spurred and swinging a riding crop, striding along the verandah, dragging the door open against the wind and letting it slam behind him. Andrew followed. He couldn’t afford not to. Almost any news was likely to be bad news. Better to know it at once than to waste time guessing.
Lan-dor-ling was lighting a kerosene lamp in the low-roofed shop where last year’s odds and ends of trading goods were hung, shelved, heaped in indescribable confusion; he set the lamp on a table and went out by a back door. There were no chairs. The man in spurs and a drenched poncho sat on a heap of gunny sacks, in a pool of his own making. He missed a rat with his riding whip, laughed and said something to Andrew. It was impossible to hear for the din of the hail on the low roof. Andrew went nearer.
“I said: I turned over my horse to your man in the yard.”
He had removed his rain-soaked hat. He was gray-haired, as handsome as President Harding, but weather-beaten and with no trace of softness — no laziness — only a vaguely luxurious ease, like a healthy animal’s, as he relaxed his muscles. His hands were a workman’s — scrubbed. A hard, horsy smile. Blue-gray eyes. At first, second and third glance, an intelligent, obstinate, difficult man with a grim sense of humor. But for his hands he would have looked like high finance on vacation. But his hands could do things.
“Surgeon?” Andrew asked him.
“Yes. Presbyterian Mission. Fifteen miles from here. Riding my rounds. I am John Bobbs.”
“Sir John Bobbs? Baronet?”
“Yes. You may omit the title.”
“Heard of you.”
“Are you Andrew Gunning?”
“Yes.”
Andrew sat facing him, back to the door.
“We have a mutual acquaintance,” said Sir John Bobbs. “Dr. Lambert, Cincinnati, Ohio.”
Andrew froze. Sir John Bobbs appeared not to notice it. “Lambert, and I,” he remarked, “were together at Johns Hopkins. We correspond — exchange notes on pathology — homicide — suicide — lots of other matters of professional interest. It’s a small world. Do you know anyone in Delhi?”
“I have never visited Delhi.”
“But you know Darjeeling?”
“Yes. just come from there.”
“Pleasant drive?”
“More than enough rain. No accidents.”
Sir John Bobbs examined Andrew from head to foot — battered felt hat, raincoat, thin brown shoes and cotton socks, in which no man with any experience would dream of facing the trail to Tibet.
“When you return to Darjeeling,” he said, “would you do me a favor? I have a message that I don’t care to send through the post.”
Andrew thumbed tobacco into his pipe. He felt for matches. Dread was raising goose flesh up and down his spine, but he tried to look calm while he thought like lightning. Sir John Bobbs might be one of Lewis’s secret allies. But he also might not be. He mustn’t mention Lewis. He knew Sir John Bobbs, by reputation, as a holy terror to transgressors of the law. Not a medical baronet, but a baronet who had specialized in surgery. He represented civilized and scientific Christianity — the spirit of the Ten Commandments, slightly edited in favor of His Majesty the King — iodine — soap and water. He was not a magistrate. But, as a missionary with a tremendous reputation for surgical skill, good sportsmanship and piety, he enjoyed the much more powerful role of confidential adviser, off the record, to the men who appoint and demote magistrates. It was hard to tell what to say to him — what line to take. It was certainly no coincidence that had brought him, in a storm, at the zero hour, to drop hints about Lambert of Cincinnati, Ohio. Lambert might have told professional secrets. Do doctors do that kind of thing? Would Lambert do it?
“Have you no one else who could take the message?” Andrew suggested.
“Oh, yes. I could entrust it to the police. They’re not far away. They would attend to it.”
A hint? A threat? Or merely an answer to the question? Andrew felt tempted to tell him to go ahead and use the police. But he reminded himself: silence is the best bet when you don’t know what you’re up against. Sir John Bobbs’s eyes betrayed a hint of cruelty, or something like it. He appeared to be enjoying Andrew’s dilemma. Andrew kept on trying to dope him out, guessing, rejecting guesses, trying to remember every rumor he had heard about him. But he had to say something. Better a half-truth than a lie. Waiting for a friend should be truth enough for —
“To tell the truth,” he began —
Sir John Bobbs whacked at his riding boot. “Truth,” he remarked, “is sometimes easier to hide than to discover. Someone told me those are your ponies in the compound. Your man denied it, and I see you’re not dressed for a ride. I noticed your car in the godown. The obvious inference is that you are about to return south. Don’t deny it. I hate to be treated as if I had no intelligence.”
“Your reputation is too well known for me to make that break,” said Andrew.
“You will take my message?”
“I’m a stranger to you. Aren’t you taking chances?”
“Yes.” Sir John Bobbs eyed him with a glint of humor and a hard smile. “You might betray my confidence. I will risk that. The message refers to a phone call I received this morning. The address is on the inner envelope. You may use your own discretion about opening the outer one; it is merely to keep the inner envelope clean.”
Andrew accepted the long envelope and stowed it in his overcoat pocket. Lan-dor-ling shuffled into the room and blew out the lantern. The storm was dying. It had grown lighter. The thunder was rolling away in the distance. Sir John Bobbs stood up and shook himself:
“Well — I feel fortunate to have met you. It was a lucky coincidence I must hurry away now. I wish you luck on your journey — ah — southward.” He turned to Lan-dor-ling: “You needn’t trouble about finding a messenger. I have one. Mr. Gunning will take my letter to Darjeeling.
Lan-dor-ling stared, smiling, looking stupid.
“Any time limit on opening the outer envelope?” Andrew asked.
“Oh no. Whenever you please. Good-bye, and good luck to you. Will tell the police that I understand you are leaving southward tomorrow morning.”
Sir John Bobbs stalked out, making his spurs jingle on the rough pine floor, whacking the whip on his riding boot.
“Too much that man many often not minding own business,” said Lan-dor- ling. “Sending too much many people into plison too many times.”
Andrew drew the envelope out of his pocket — waited — until through the small window he saw Sir John Bobbs ride away, cantering, on a mud-splashed horse.
“His now going police kana, making trouble for you,” said Lan-dor-ling.
Andrew tore open the envelope. The smaller one inside it was addressed in pencil:
Phone from Darjeeling for Andrew Gunning.
He tore open the inner envelope. It contained a half sheet of plain paper, bearing no date or address. The scrawled, penciled message seemed to have been written left-handed to conceal the writer’s identity:
B.S. disappeared but believed to have phoned Sikkim police to arrest Mrs. G. near border. Have requested medical acquaintance to report your intended movements and to remove one passenger from bus on suspicion of contagious illness. He having no commission, break unauthorized quarantine and get going. Destroy this.
His hunch had been right. Lewis had bungled the breaking of Bulah Singh. The Sikh had vanished. Laid his plans weeks ago — not a doubt of it.
Andrew struck a match, burned the message and powdered the ashes with his heel.
“What that? What your burning?” Lan-dor-ling asked.
Andrew grinned: “I burned a prayer to heaven for the gods to remember me by.”
“My playing your player being too good, two being better than one,” remarked Lan-dor-ling.
Andrew went out by the back way and found Bompo Tsering. “Take two ponies to the crossroad. When you see a bus stop at the police kana, go and offer your services to the doctor sahib. Do what he tells you.”
“That man being Mission dokitar is asking too much many question.”
“Do as you’re told, and hold your tongue. There’ll be saddlebags. Bring ’em. And mount her on your pony, remember.”
“Oh.”
“Yes. Get going.”
“Hot damn!”
“Hurry!”
Andrew went back and shook hands with Lan-dor-ling. “Good-bye, old-timer, and thanks for your trouble. I’m on my way now — to Darjeeling.”
“Your being too much God-damn good liar, my believing you. So goo’ luck — goo’-bye, Gunnigun!”
The rain was almost over. Andrew led his pony down the track, hobbled it with the reins and climbed the biggest of the two huge boulders. Even so he couldn’t see the police kana. He sat there a long time, fidgeting and glancing at his watch. The sun was almost out of sight beyond the mountains of Nepal when at last he saw Elsa riding Bompo Tsering’s pony up the trail. The Tibetan, with her loaded saddlebags, rode behind her. She was wearing a khaki shirt, shorts, and raincoat — looked like a boy in a broad-brimmed felt hat — bare knees — woolen stockings — sneakers.
Andrew glanced at his watch, slid down off the boulder, unhobbled his pony and waited. She almost rode by without seeing him. Then she drew rein, laughing:
“Andrew, I’m accused of bubonic plague!”
With his back to his pony Andrew studied her a moment: “Something’s happened to you.”
“Happened? It’s like a movie! I came in a bus with fifteen monks from Gombaria’s monastery. We were stopped by the police at the crossr
oad just below here. They demanded my name, and I thought it was all up. But I hadn’t time even to pretend I didn’t understand, before a big man in a poncho on a roan horse cantered up and demanded to feel my pulse.”
“Sir John Bobbs,” said Andrew.
“Oh, you know him? Well, he told the police I must be quarantined, in one of Lan-dor-ling’s sheds, on suspicion of plague. Then Bompo Tsering showed up. Sir John Bobbs ordered him to take me and my luggage up the road.”
“How did you shake the police?”
“There were only three policemen. Sir John Bobbs made them stay there and stand guard while he lined up all the monks, to take their temperatures and—”
“Let’s go. This way.”
Andrew mounted his pony and led, between high rocks, along a track that was the bed of a rock-strewn watercourse. It was a-roar with storm water, but presently it left the stream bed, widened, and there was room for them knee to knee.
“What else happened?” Andrew asked.
“Since you left Darjeeling? Thousands of things. I don’t know where to begin.”
“Something happened to you. What was it?”
“Andrew, I can’t tell you.”
“Secret?”
“From you? No. But I don’t know how to tell you. Andrew — honestly — I can’t. I don’t know how.”
“Nancy Strong stuff?”
“Yes.”
“I guessed it. Well, we’ll blow that out of you. Draw rein a minute. Do you see that sharp crag with the lammergeier’s nest near the top? Tonight’s bivouac is just beyond it. You’ll be wet to your skin before we get there, but no matter, there’ll be a fire to dry at perhaps the last fire but one for a week. Now look upward.”
“Andrew, this isn’t the way we came from Tibet, is it?”
“No. Look upward, where I’m pointing. Do you see the last rays of the setting sun, on the snow to the left of that big fellow that seems to stick clear through the sky? That’s the pass. Seventeen thousand three hundred and eleven feet. That’s the way we’re going.”
“Andrew!”
“Yes?”