by Talbot Mundy
“But, God Almighty, man, what’s to be done? She says she won’t come back to me — won’t even think of it! What can I do with her? We’ll have to tell off two men that we can’t spare to protect her. In the mood she’s in now she’ll be no use — not even clairvoyant — she never is when she’s—”
Andrew interrupted: “Can you see anything now?”
“No.”
“Try again. Keep your eyes wide open. Stare.”
“Say, what do you know about seeing things? I thought you were a skeptic.”
Andrew growled at him: “Look! Listen! Keep your mouth shut! Stare into the dark!”
There was at first a confusion of attention — something that wasn’t quite like far-away sheet lightning. It shimmered from plane to plane of consciousness. It was something, but not quite like flashbacks from a partly remembered dream, recognizable as experience but not translatable into symbols of waking thought.
“This is it! This is it!” said Tom Grayne.
“Shut up!” Andrew growled. “Don’t break it. Quiet!”
Speech had broken the spell. But it came on again, stronger than ever, steadier, less dream-like. Old Ugly-face appeared, faded, came in again — seen through the rock. Except that nothing was reversed, it was like a reflection in a still pool; but it wasn’t fixed in space; it was the same whichever way one looked — Old Ugly-face, seated like an image of Chenrezi, with his legs crossed and his hands on his thighs, palms upward, smiling.
Imperceptibly, and yet quickly, as in a dream, it changed. Old Ugly-face was gone, though one knew he was still there. Now one was seeing through him — through his consciousness. In his place were Elsa and St. Malo, on the cavern floor, standing, she with her back toward the canvas curtain, both of them clearly revealed in rather dim light from the break in the cavern wall. In the background beyond them there was a little vapor rising from the warm flowing water. The vision was more luminous than the light through the gap. The light was subordinate to it. It had its own light. As in certain kinds of dreams, one knew it was real and yet unreal, at one and the same time.
And then voices — soundless when remembered afterwards — inaudible dream voices that reached inner perception and conveyed their meaning without the actual use of words. T here was a baffled sensation now — almost a feeling of guilt, as if it were barbarous ignorance not to be able to hear accurately. It was like watching a play in a foreign language, reading meaning from the action and from book memory. The meaning was quite clear.
Elsa, under no temptation, but under the tremendous pressure of St. Malo’s trained will, was resisting hypnotic assault. It was like the pressure brought to bear by gangsters upon lonely women to force them to become prostitutes — threats, coaxing, realistic logic, lies, false sympathy:
“Honey, you know you’re not so sore at those two big boobs that you’ll let ’em be killed when you can prevent it. They were your friends once. One’s your husband. The other wasn’t so bad while it lasted. Now it’s all over and they’re both through with you, you needn’t take it so hard.”
“It is not your business, Mr. St. Malo.”
“Oh yes, it is my business. I know how to save those two men. Come now, honey. Won’t it give you any satisfaction to have saved their lives? And see here — there’s a fortune for all of us. Those two intend to boot me out of here. You come and join me as soon as it’s dark.”
“No.”
“But, honey—”
“Keep your hands off — please! Don’t touch me. I won’t have it.”
“Honey, have you ever heard of love at first sight? Have you ever heard of a woman reforming a man by just being what she is — by being sweet and good and—”
There came an astonishing interruption, in a hard voice, that could not possibly be Elsa’s. Nor was it Old Ugly-face’s voice. It sounded more like Andrew’s, or Tom Grayne’s — or perhaps both their voices merged in one. Yet neither of them spoke:
“You swine! It’s more than eighteen months since you’ve been with a white woman. Just now you were peeping through a hole in the curtain. You’ve taken opium. You’re sex-crazy! You’re—”
St. Malo again: “Come with me, honey. If you do, you’ll save your life as well as theirs. If you don’t, they’re as good as dead now — and you’ll be mine then anyway. For then I’ll have to protect you. So make the best of it now. I’ve eighteen men. You heard Tom Grayne say they’re not far off. Use your second-sight — I’ve a bit of my own — we’ll work together and dope out their plan. We’ll either force them to make terms with us, or beat them to it.”
“I’ll go kill him,” Tom said suddenly. His voice broke the spell. The vision vanished. It was like waking from a bright dream in a dark room. Andrew laid his hand on Tom’s arm:
“Take it easy. You’re rattled, and who’s to blame you. Don’t let on what you know. This is Old Ugly-face’s doing.”
“The damned old bastard,” said Tom. “I believe it’s he who psychologized Elsa.”
“Don’t kid yourself,” said Andrew. “He hardly spoke to her on the way here.”
“Hell. What difference does that make? He’s a wizard. He’s the only man who can save Tibet, or I’d—”
“Easy,” said Andrew, “easy. Let’s go back up there and turn St. Malo out before it’s too dark for him to find his way.”
“I should kill him,” Tom answered. “I should. Anyone else would.”
“Nuts,” said Andrew. “Did you get that line of Old Ugly-face’s about ‘louses having purposes’? I bet that was a hot tip. If you saw and heard just now what I did, you’ll turn St. Malo loose to strut his stuff. Let’s see what happens.”
“All right. Have it your way. It sounds like horse sense. I was rattled. Let’s go do it.”
“We’re agreed then?”
“Sure.”
“Mum’s the word about what we’ve just seen?”
“Yes, mum’s the word.”
“Okay,” said Andrew. “You’re the top man around here. You go first. I’ll be behind you.”
CHAPTER 51
Elsa stood wondering what to say-what to do. There were no signs of peace or the making of peace. Tom came near enough to St. Malo to hit him if necessary. “Time’s up,” he remarked. “Get moving.”
Andrew looked worried. St. Malo smirked at Elsa. He quoted a scrap from his heterogenous mass of what undoubtedly was culture of a sort — if there can be culture without morals:
“Manners maketh man. Did you ever hear that proverb? It’s a good one.” Then he noticed Tom’s fist. “So long, sister. Don’t forget now: what we’ve discussed was for your ears and mine! Don’t repeat it!”
He oozed away, like an experienced boxer melting out of range of a slugging adversary; but, in his black overcoat like a soutane, he really more resembled an elusive monk avoiding treading on an idol’s shadow. When he reached the head of the ramp he turned and smirked again, this time at Tom and Andrew:
“So long, asses! Auf Wiedersehen! Au revoir!”
“Take your lama with you, and get the hell out!” Tom answered. Then he muttered: “If they are his eighteen men, let’s hope they kill him for their back pay.”
St. Malo vanished. He made plenty of noise on the way down. Andrew volunteered:
“I’ll go down and see he clears out.” He started for the ramp. Tom called him back:
“No. Stay here.”
“But the phony lama and his gang are down there and—”
“They’re disarmed — outnumbered. Trust Bompo Tsering.”
“St. Malo is making that noise to warn them. It won’t take me long to go down there and—”
“No. I want you to listen to this.”
Andrew shrugged his shoulders. He came back and stood facing Elsa. They formed a triangle. Elsa didn’t flinch from either man’s gaze. She didn’t seem afraid or unwilling to speak. She looked tragic. She wasn’t pitying herself; she was sorry for Tom. Tom spoke, trying to force his voice to sound n
atural:
“Sit down, Elsa. Let’s hear what St. Malo had to say.”
She shook her head: “It was nothing — really nothing — not worth repeating. Perhaps he’s light-headed. He behaved like one of those French nuisances who nudge you on the street.”
“Opium,” said Andrew. “Light-headed is right.”
Tom agreed: “Let’s call it that, anyhow. See here, Elsa. I’m sorry I was mean a while ago. What you said caught me off guard. I guess it hurt, and I squealed. I shouldn’t have. I’ve talked with Andrew, and he confirms what you said.”
“Do you believe him?” she asked.
“Yes. I do believe him.”
“Tom, you might have believed me.”
“I know it.”
“It was Andrew — when I consulted him in Darjeeling, but not until then — who pointed out the unfairness to you — I think he said the indecency—”
“No, I didn’t,” said Andrew. “You must have thought of that word.”
Elsa smiled: “ — the cowardice, then—”
“I never called you a coward.”
“ — of sending a letter to claim my freedom and give you yours. I did write such a letter. But I burned it. After that I asked Andrew to take me with him. And he agreed.”
“Is that the whole truth?” Tom asked.
“No. But it’s the truth about Andrew’s kindness to you and me. No one can tell the whole truth to another unless there’s true love. You and I don’t love each other, Tom — not that way. What happened has been all my fault — not yours — my fault. I came to say so.”
“Don’t let’s argue that now—”
“Tom, there is nothing to argue. It was my fault. I accept full blame. And if it’s possible to make amends in any way, I will do it.”
“But, Elsa, be reasonable. See here—”
“Tom, is it unreasonable to wish to—”
“Elsa, what about you? What are you going to do with yourself?”
“I am not thinking about me.”
“Then begin thinking, right now! You might do that out of fairness to me — to say nothing of Andrew.”
“You may forget me,” said Andrew. “Leave me out of the picture.”
Elsa smiled, not meeting Andrew’s eyes. There was a trace of a catch in her voice as she answered: “It is I who should be forgotten, if anyone should be. But we haven’t been indifferent to one another or intentionally cruel. Have we? One can forget unkindness — kindness never — not true kindness. No, Andrew, I won’t even try to forget you.”
Tom ground his teeth. “Oh God! What can you say to a girl when she’s in this mood.”
“I’m a woman,” Elsa answered. “I was a girl when you knew me. Now you don’t know me. It isn’t your fault. Tom, I am sorry with all my heart for any anguish I have caused you. The very least I owe you is freedom. It’s yours. You are no longer responsible for me, or beholden to me, in any way whatever. You may divorce me when it suits you.”
“Elsa, listen. Barring Andrew and me, you’re a thousand miles from even the vaguest kind of protection or—”
“Tom, I know you believe that or you wouldn’t say it. But you’re mistaken.”
Tom’s eyes hardened. “Protection?” he said. “Whose?”
Ten words would have resolved that crisis. Elsa knew it . She hadn’t actually meant to say what she did; words had almost said themselves. But she let them stand. She added to them, using truth as a reagent to compel suspicion to reveal its motive. She liked herself no better for being more clever than she had supposed she could be, but the words were said before she could recall them:
“Surely, Tom, you don’t think that unless I knew to whom to turn, I would—”
His savage gesture silenced her. Rebellion against even the least binding marriage’s restriction of his freedom to go, do, eat, starve, live, die as he pleased — imprisoned within him and dark-dungeoned into silence during lonely months and months by an iron will — now broke loose. It commanded every part of him except his manners. Those, like his will, were of iron; not gracious, but toward a woman incorruptible by anger.
“Very well. Then we’re through, you and I. Thank you for my freedom. You have yours, too. You may do as you please. I wouldn’t have believed it could happen this way. But here it is.”
Andrew almost interrupted, but thought better of it. He had caught a glimpse of Old Ugly-face peering down from the cleft in the wall, through which the light poured dim and watery as the sun sank westward. Elsa said nothing. She couldn’t speak. Tom continued:
“Now that’s settled — I mean now you know you’re free — will you listen?”
“Yes, Tom. Of course I will listen.”
Tom gathered self-control. It came hard. He forced back anger within him until its concentration froze all personal sensation. He became governed by one motive, with one objective. First he turned to Andrew:
“Are you going to stand by?” he asked.
“Sure. That was the agreement. As long as you need me I’ll see you through.”
“Thanks.” Tom faced Elsa again. “This man is simply a friend by coincidence. He has nothing to gain from me. He isn’t paid for all this. As far as I know, he is spending his own money, taking his own risk. But you heard him. He stands by.”
Elsa almost broke down. She felt she must say something. Her voice trembled:
“Andrew could never desert a friend. It isn’t in him.”
Tom pounced on that. It was the very opening he craved: “I’m asking you to take example from Andrew. My job is to save Tibet from anarchy by restoring the infant Dalai Lama into the hands of his rightful guardian, His Eminence Lobsang Pun. That’s a tall order. It means capturing the monastery. It calls for intimate cooperation. One false move by any of us, you included, might ruin everything. Please think that over.”
He gave her no chance to answer. He turned away and headed for the ramp. Andrew started after him, then turned back. Tears were streaming down Elsa’s face. He didn’t know whether she saw him or not. She didn’t look at him. Her shoulders trembled with lonely misery. At last she yielded to it — sat down on her own bedding roll, and sobbed into her hands. Andrew stared, swore, hesitated. Old Ugly-face peered down at him like a gnome — a gargoyle; out from the shadowy mass that was his body one hand became visible. It moved with the force of authority, like a policeman’s, sideways. It commanded Andrew to be gone.
But he was minded to speak to Elsa. He would have done it, in spite of Old Ugly-face. But Tom shouted from below:
“Hi! Andrew!”
He ran to the head of the ramp. He heard a roughhouse below — crashing — thuds — no shouting — a deadly, grim noise. He went down the ramp like a fireman, heels first. At the bottom it took him a second or two to accustom his eyes to the different light. First he saw Bompo Tsering, coming into the cavern on the run; he must have gone out to change the guard. All the ponies were kicking. One yak had broken its tether and was charging all over the place, with three or four men trying to corner it, making it wilder. At last he saw Tom — down — in a shadow — fighting for life.
He waded in. It did him good. It was what he needed. The phony lama had found another knife somewhere. He was stabbing at Tom. Tom held his wrist, but the stabs were getting closer — ferocious — two or three a second. St. Malo, underneath Tom, clung to him, trying to throttle him. Three men of the phony lama’s party stood by to prevent interference. Andrew tackled them first and they went down like ninepins, one punch to a man, left, right, left, rolling in agony. He didn’t know until then that they had knives. Bompo Tsering gathered up the knives. Andrew kicked the phony lama unconscious. He hurled him half across the cavern floor, then stooped to grab St. Malo — too late. Tom seized Andrew’s arm to pull himself to his feet. He almost pulled Andrew down. St. Malo yelled. Three more Tibetans rushed Tom and Andrew. They were sent staggering back toward the ponies, where Bompo Tsering’s men knelt on them. But St. Malo, as quick as a snake on hands a
nd knees, had writhed along the wall-escaped. When Andrew looked for him he was standing with his back to the light in the cavern entrance, steadying himself against the wall.
“Kill him! Quick!” said Tom, out of breath, gasping. “The son of a bitch! He’s got my automatic!”
“Easy,” said Andrew, “easy. No one’s dead yet.”
St. Malo smiled. There was nothing even mock-heroic about him. He wasn’t posing. He was figuring the odds: a gambler.
“You two — have fools’-luck,” he said, breathing hard. “I can kill one of you. So shall we shoot it out, or—”
Tom was whispering to Andrew.
Andrew turned sideways, concealing his right hand. St. Malo aimed at him — squeezed the trigger. He had forgotten the safety catch. He found himself looking straight at the muzzle of Andrew’s Luger.
“Drop that automatic!” said Andrew. “Drop it!”
“Hell! You wouldn’t shoot,” St. Malo answered. But he tossed the automatic. Tom caught it. “Neither would I have shot. I’m no killer. Let’s not act like children. Let’s make one more try to reach agreement.”
He folded his arms, crossed one leg in front of the other and relaxed against the wall, watching with amused eyes the Tibetans’ efforts to catch the hysterical yak.
CHAPTER 52
Perhaps St. Malo had seen a signal and knew where to find his eighteen men. Perhaps he didn’t. He wasn’t saying. Old Ugly-face had come neatly halfway down the ramp and was listening in. Andrew knew that because St. Malo caught sight of him and Andrew turned his head quickly to see what St. Malo was looking at. There was no sign of Elsa. St. Malo’s eyes were moving in all directions, watching the Tibetans. Shrewdly he seemed to suspect they would attack him next, in revenge for his having coaxed them into such a fiasco. No one spoke until Bompo Tsering and another man roped the yak at last and threw it to keep it quiet. Then St. Malo spoke:
“Hell. You’re mean. You haven’t even offered me a drink. I know you’ve got liquor.”
“Stick to opium,” Tom answered. “That stuff doesn’t mix with liquor.”