Читать книгу Old Ugly-Face - Talbot Mundy - Страница 17

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Bulah Singh looked at his best as he entered Nancy Strong's big living room. The servant who ushered him in switched on the light, but at a sign from Nancy he switched it off again. The Sikh stood framed in the light from the hall, handsome, important, a shade mysterious. But when the servant closed the door at his back and he walked forward, then the firelight that shone on his eyes showed also the shape of his mouth. His stride was vaguely feline.

"I surprise you?" he suggested.

"No," said Nancy. "But didn't Miss Burbage's movements surprise you? I expected you would come here. Please put some wood on the fire before you sit down."

The Sikh complied. He didn't like doing it. Instead of making him feel at ease it cost him some of the tactical aggressiveness that he had studiously built up. He was aware that, behind his back, Nancy and Elsa were comparing notes—eyes meeting silently and uniting their mental resistance against him. He was at pains to look judicial and self-assured when he sat down, facing Elsa. But it didn't quite work. They formed a triangle, with firelight on their faces, high chair-backs behind them, and beyond that darkness. The cat lay on the hearthrug studying the occasional exploding spits of rain that fell down the chimney. Bulah Singh leaned forward and stroked the cat's head.

"A wet night," he remarked.

"Are you cold?" Nancy Strong asked him. "Would you care for a drink?"

"No, thanks. I came on important business. May I speak with Miss Burbage alone?"

"Why alone?" asked Elsa, wondering at herself. It was her own voice, but it didn't sound like hers.

The Sikh looked hard at her. "Because that may be to your advantage," he answered.

"Official business?" Nancy Strong suggested.

"Not yet. I would like to keep this part of it off the record. I am depending on you to be as discreet as I have known you to be on previous occasions."

"You don't want me to listen? Very well," said Nancy. "Shall I leave you alone together?"

"Nancy, I wish you wouldn't," said Elsa. "I've no secrets from you. I'd much rather you'd stay."

Nancy Strong smiled at the Sikh: "But Bulah Singh" she said, "wouldn't trust an old gossip like me. He knows all—tells nothing. He is like Akhnaton." That was the cat's name.

Bulah Singh was in the wrong mood. He didn't like the remark. "I know some secrets," he retorted darkly. "It is my professional occupation to know what is going on. I was told that Miss Burbage was ill at the monastery. She appears to be quite well. Is it a secret why she was brought here by a back route—why the monks have put her luggage in your godown?"

"I advised it," said Nancy. "Has her luggage come? Good."

"If you had consulted me I would have provided transportation, openly and aboveboard," said Bulah Singh. "It is a good thing she is out of the monastery. That place is a nest of intrigue."

"Mu-ni Gam-po," Nancy answered, "has been my friend more years than I care to count. So I suppose that's a dig at me?"

The Sikh smiled ambushed insolence: "I know more than you suspect. Do you forget my offer to exchange confidences? You rejected it. You preferred to force me, instead, to use other means of finding out what it is my duty to know. Even you can't keep all the secrets."

"Flatterer!" said Nancy.

"May I speak to Miss Burbage, alone?"

"What do you want to talk about?" Elsa demanded. She felt rather contemptuous, strangely enough; but perhaps that was a reaction from Nancy Strong's attitude.

The Sikh looked hard at her: "About Andrew Gunning."

"Oh?"

"Yes."

Elsa felt her heart skip two beats. But when she spoke to Nancy her voice was quite normal: "Is there another room we can go into?"

"No, dear, stay where you are. I will go to my office and wait there. I have a letter to write."

"But you'll be cold."

"No, there's an oil stove. I will leave the office door ajar, so just call out to me when you've finished talking."

The Sikh stood until Nancy Strong left the room and the door shut with a thud and the click of a brass latch. Then, still standing:

"Miss Burbage, you are in a false position," he said abruptly. "You make a mistake when you try to keep your movements secret from me. It can't be done. Why are you here?"

He sat down, bolt upright, his face growing gradually more determined, more menacing, as he watched Elsa's. She was curled up in the armchair with her feet under her, because she had taken off her shoes to dry them at the fire and she didn't choose that the Sikh should see the hole in the toe of her stocking. She looked puzzled. Bulah Singh wanted her well frightened. She realized that. But he also wanted to present himself as a magnanimous official who could excuse and protect if properly respected. She understood that, too. She wasn't being clairvoyant in the usual way. The thought behind the Sikh's words was revealing itself as color. It was muddy color, dull red, steel-blue, and gray-green, one appearing through the other and never still for a moment. So she knew he was thinking of several alternatives and hesitating what to say. But she couldn't tell what it was all about, and she felt no alarm.

"I was invited here," she answered.

"Tell me," he said abruptly, "what do you know about Andrew Gunning's past in the United States?"

Elsa frowned, startled, but not frightened, though she felt she should be. There was calculated menace in the Sikh's carefully chosen tone of voice, and in the way his tongue played on his teeth above the outthrust lower lip. She felt that the attack was aimed at herself, not Andrew. Some of Nancy Strong's phrases began flooding her mind. They made no sense, and she didn't believe them, but there they were: proof of evolution—spiritual process —the Lord is my shepherd—milk of human kindness—wake up!

"I mean his history before you met him," said Bulah Singh. "I know enough about your present relationship."

That should have stung, but it didn't. It should have angered her. It didn't. She felt no impulse to answer. T he Sikh repeated the question:

"What do you know about Andrew Gunning's past in the United States? He must have told you. Tell me. It is important."

That instant she saw a vision of Andrew. It was a composite memory- portrait. It included Andrew in a snowstorm, heating water on a yak-dung fire, in the lee of a rock, ready for an unborn baby—Andrew carving portraits of Chenrezi—Andrew and Dr. Lewis and Mu-ni Gam-po— but no Andrew at that moment. She had no idea where he was or what he might be doing.

"He has told me very little about America," she answered. "I know he went to college, and played football, and got a degree, and afterwards studied law. He isn't old enough, is he, to have done much more than that?"

"Did he never tell you about a criminal indictment?"

"No."

"For homicide?"

"No."

"Oh well, if you're not in his confidence," said Bulah Singh, "I'd better let things take their course. It might have been possible to save him."

Now she did feel afraid. "Save him? From what? Bulah Singh, what do you mean?"

"Use your clairvoyance!"

"What are you talking about? What has happened? Is Andrew in trouble?"

"Keep calm. He is in serious trouble. Your clairvoyance might help him. It might."

"Is Andrew hurt? Has something happened to him? Quick! Tell me!"

"Will you help him?"

"Of course I'll help him! What is it? Tell me!"

"Make a definite promise."

"If Andrew needs my help I will do anything I possibly can— anything."

"You promise?"

"That is a promise. Bulah Singh, unless you tell me at once what has happened I will ask Miss Strong to phone Dr. Lewis and—"

Bulah Singh interrupted: "Dr. Lewis has been investigating Andrew Gunning, and you too—as I daresay you will realize—if you cast your thought back over recent events."

"Dr.—Morgan—Lewis has—why, he's Tom Grayne's friend—he's my friend—he—"

"In the secret intelligence service there is no such thing as friendship," said Bulah Singh. "Dr. Morgan Lewis was your secret enemy, and Gunning's."

"Was? You said was?"

"Yes. I have serious news. Lewis knew all about Gunning's past in the United States. He found out every detail of his illegal preparations to return to Tibet. Perhaps you know how he found out. Lewis has dabbled for years in telepathy."

Elsa felt herself grow cold with self-accusing fear.

The Sikh continued: "Lewis learned from Mu-ni Gam-po that Gunning intends to find the Lama Lobsang Pun and help him to reach Tom Grayne. That is true, isn't it?"

"I don't know. I won't answer. What has happened to Andrew?"

"I came to ask you to help him. Lewis was a conceited man. He was jealous of me. He called on Gunning this evening and accused him of having bribed me to be deaf and blind to his arrangements to cross the border into Tibet."

"Has Andrew been arrested?"

"Not yet."

"What did happen? Where is Andrew now?"

"Listen carefully." The Sikh's mouth betrayed greedy triumph. His eyes stared at Elsa's. They didn't move. His eyelids didn't blink. He spoke slowly: "Lewis and Gunning quarreled. Lewis now lies dead in Gunning's room at the hotel."

Elsa came uncurled, bolt upright. The cat fed into the darkness.

"Dr. Lewis! Dead? Where is Andrew?"

"On his way to Tibet."

"You mean he's running away?"

"He can be overtaken, of course. But—"

"But what? Bulah Singh, are you lying? Are you trying to make me believe that Andrew killed Dr. Lewis?"

"Use your clairvoyance."

"I am trying to use it! I see nothing!"

"I left them alone together, in Gunning's room at the hotel. I had hardly reached my office at police headquarters when the news came by telephone."

"From whom?"

"From my man on the spot. Gunning had been seen leaving the hotel. I detailed an inspector and several men to trace Gunning's movements. He has vanished."

Elsa relaxed suddenly: "Bulah Singh, I don't believe one word of it! How could Andrew possibly get away? He had no horse—no motorcar."

The Sikh interrupted: "Gunning is a man of foresight and resource. He had anticipated this. He made his preparations in advance. Weren't you expecting him here?"

"No."

"You are up late."

"Talking, that's all." Then suddenly, staring at the Sikh's eyes: "Bulah Singh, are you lying about Andrew and Dr. Lewis?"

"Use your clairvoyance. Use it! Look!"

"I see the color of your thought! I can't interpret that! I can't see Andrew. When my friends are in danger, I sometimes know it—sometimes —but—"

"Gunning is in no danger," said Bulah Singh, "if you do your part."

"My part? My part? What do you mean?" Nancy Strong's words poured into her mind—no sense to them, but a kind of rhythm like running water: shall not want—dimensions of ideas—human kindness—Lord is my shepherd, I—

"Gunning's fate is in your hands," said Bulah Singh. His eyes didn't move. They were fixed on hers steadily. "Obey me, and he shall escape to Tibet."

"Obey you? What do you mean?"

"You know what I mean."

"I don't know. Tell me! Don't talk riddles."

"You do know. Look into my eyes. Now—obey me—and save Andrew Gunning."

"Obey you? How? Do what?"

"Use your clairvoyance."

"You mean now?"

"Continually. There is no other way to save Gunning from capture, indictment, conviction and death by hanging. Obey me, and he shall get clear away. I am your friend. Your only friend in India. Obey me and save Andrew Gunning."

Elsa was seeing visions, staring wide-eyed into the darkness beyond Bulah Singh. She saw Tom Grayne, in the cavern she knew so well, near Shig-po-ling, nine hundred miles away—Tom Grayne in danger; but she could only sense, she could not see the danger—Tom Grayne, waiting— waiting for the spring and for Andrew with men and supplies. She was hardly conscious of Bulah Singh's voice, speaking slowly in firm monotone:

"It was your fault that Gunning came to Darjeeling—your fault that Lewis found out all his plans—your fault—your fault. And now only you can save him—by obeying me, your friend—always —obeying me—always."

The front door bell rang. The Sikh began to speak more quickly: "Here come the plainclothes policemen to get clues to pursue Gunning. Only I can send them in a wrong direction. You must obey me. Promise to obey me. Say it!"

The bell rang again. The servant hurried along the hallway and undid the clattering chain on the front door.

"You are afraid," said Bulah Singh. "You are afraid for Andrew Gunning. But you know you need not fear, if you obey me. Answer: you will obey me."

The front door opened and the wind blustered in, carrying voices along the hallway.

"Answer," Bulah Singh commanded.

Elsa came out of reverie suddenly, looking straight at him. She smiled: "Yes, I'll answer. If it's as bad as you say it is, Bulah Singh, I will take Miss Strong's advice and—"

The door opened suddenly. Andrew Gunning strode into the room. The Sikh swore under his breath. Elsa stifled what was almost a scream.