Читать книгу The Thunder Dragon Gate - Talbot Mundy - Страница 9

Table of Contents

"I SPENT eleven years near the Tibetan border," said Lewis. He wasn't looking at Tom Grayne; he stuck his hands deep in his pants pockets, leaned against the desk, and talked familiarly, as if to an old acquaintance, as if there was no need to do any thawing whatever. Tom, however, knew that any overt attempt on his part to win Lewis's confidence would have the opposite effect. He maintained his reserve and let the doctor do the leading.

"Sikkim?" he suggested.

"Yes, and Bhutan."

"Good country. I bet you liked it."

"Yes. I made a lot of friends among the lamas. Knew a lot of sorcerers, too—shamans—all sorts of people. Tried to swap facts with 'em. Couldn't. I spent two-thirds of my pay on medicines and so on, to give to the shamans: cascara, quinine and stuff like that, that they passed along as elementary magic. In exchange they'd tell me pretty nearly any thing I knew already, but nothing more than that. Poisons? Couldn't get a word from them. Magic? They'd laugh and swear there was no such thing. If you added it up, I daresay I spent a third of my time trying to get what I supposed you'd call the low-down on a shang-shang. I used to write to O'Mally in London. He's well read. He's a very intelligent student of the vagaries of the human mind, is Sir Horace O'Mally. But his suggestions of lines of investigation led no where. Our letters on the shang-shang subject alone would make a fat volume. In the end we both came to the same conclusion."

"That a shang-shang exists in the realm of illusion," Tom suggested.

"No. It lives and moves and has its being, but the legends about it are lies. That's why a shang-shang is so damned deadly. And I'm convinced that the Thugs, who used to terrorize India, were rather mild and inoffensive gentry compared to the shang-shang magicians. They're a very highly organized, intelligent and mysterious gang of terrorists, with no discoverable motive for their practises other than sheer malice and self-importance."

"Did you happen to hear of the Thunder Dragon Gate?" Tom asked him.

Lewis glanced at him sharply and looked away again. "Yes. I did. That's where shang-shang sendings are supposed to come from. I'm convinced it's an actual temple or shrine of some sort. But I don't know where it is."

"Thö-pa-ga is the hereditary Keeper of the Thunder Dragon Gate," said Tom Grayne.

Again Lewis looked straight at him. "Has he told you anything about it?"

"Nothing that I didn't know already."

Lewis nodded. "I might be able to make him talk. Care to come upstairs and see me try?"

"No," Tom answered. "He's suspicious of me as it is. I want his confidence. If you can help me indirectly to get that, I'll reciprocate, if, as and when possible."

Lewis nodded again. "Where are you staying in Delhi?"

"Don't know yet. Came straight here."

"Try Ingleby's Hotel. It's a new place."

"Okay, thanks, I'll do that. Any suggestions about Darjeeling?"

"Are you acquainted there? Do you happen to know the Ringding Gelong Monastery? The Abbot's name is—damn, I'll forget my own name next—well, no matter, it's in my note-book."

"Mu-ni Gam-po," said Tom.

"Oh, you know him, do you? Well, you couldn't do better than take your man to that monastery. The high elevation, the familiar monastic atmosphere and old Mu-ni Gam-po's amused arbitrariness should do more to restore him to health than anything else I can think of. How did he react to air plane altitudes?"

"Splendid. At high altitudes he grew almost talkative."

"To you?"

"No. I didn't crowd him. I let him talk to any one he pleased. I haven't asked him a question beyond is he feeling better, or how about a clean shirt or a stick of chewing-gum. I'm not trouble, I'm the lad who pulls him out of it and doesn't give a damn why."

"All right. Well, I'll go upstairs and see him. If you'll dine with me, I'll meet you at the Service Club at nine; I'll be there waiting for you."

"I haven't a dress suit."

"Very well, meet me at Logan's—know where that is?"

"Sure. I'll like the grub at Logan's better. Club grub dulls my intuition. It's all right when you've nothing important to do. Could I have a slip of paper?"

Tom wrote a short note, sealed it in a plain envelope and addressed it to himself at Ingleby's Hotel.

Memo. Dine to-night at Logan's 9 P.M. Cancel other engagement by phone.

Memo. Buy some American chewing-gum.

He almost never made written memoranda. He didn't have to; he had trained his memory. But he gave the envelope and a coin to a filthy-looking Punjabi, who was loafing in front of the hospital. The man offered his services with rather noticeable persistence. He was possibly a spy. Anyhow, Tom hoped so. He told him to deliver the message at Ingleby's Hotel, and watched him for half a block, until he was quite sure he was being followed by a much better-dressed Punjabi Moslem. That settled it. Tom took a taxi in the opposite direction, made sure that he wasn't being followed by another taxi, and then drove to one of the new administration buildings, where he had some difficulty in finding the Ethnographic Office. When he found it at last, at the end of an upstairs passage, he was rather guardedly welcomed by Norman Johnson, a man in spectacles, bulky, morose and used to being treated with more deference than Tom betrayed.

"Professor Clarence Mayor of the British Museum suggested I should call on you."

"Oh, yes?" He didn't even invite Tom to be seated. The room was lined with evidently much-consulted books. The desk was piled with papers. There was an atmosphere, an emphatic suggestion of too much work to be done and too little time in which to do it. "What does Mayor want? I have a whole file of his letters. He always wants something that he could dig up for himself in the Museum if he had the patience. What is it this time?"

"Nothing that he told me."

"Aren't you the man who entered Tibet?"

"I have been in Tibet."

"Well, I must say it surprises me that Mayor should send you to me. He knows perfectly well it's forbidden to do what you did. Does he think I'm going to help you to repeat the offense?"

"I don't know what he thinks, and I'm damned if I care," Tom answered.

"Haven't you any other introduction?"

"No."

"Know any one at the Foreign Office?"

"No."

"Remaining long in Delhi?"

"No."

"Where are you going from here?"

"Darjeeling."

"I may perhaps meet you there. I should be there now, but there was too much work to be done here first."

"Mail or messages will reach me at the Hindu Kush Hotel in Darjeeling," said Tom.

"And in Delhi?"

"Ingleby's. I see you're busy. I'll be off."

"Good of you. Yes, I am busy. I will look forward to a conversation with you in Darjeeling."

So much for him. Tom chuckled as he walked out. He didn't expect to be kissed on both cheeks and told what to do. One very famous explorer, officially forbidden to enter Tibet, cooled his heels for months, continually applying for permission and continually rebuffed, until at last he waked up and discovered that a road had been made all clear for him. All he had to do was to pretend he had slipped across the Tibetan border without the Indian Government's knowledge. No competent secret service has any sympathy for stupidity; and no successful government does openly what is better done left-handed in the dark.

Tom drove to Ingleby's Hotel, registered and ordered his bag brought from the station. There was no self-addressed message. Good. Pretty stupid of some one. A really smart man would have opened it, read it, sealed it up again and sent it on its way. He took a shower in his room and went down to the broad veranda that faced the street and a row of good green trees. It was already late afternoon. About a dozen people were using the long chairs, drinking. They all stared and immediately lost interest. Tom took a chair at the far end. He ordered ginger-ale—hated the stuff, but you have to order something; it was too hot for tea. He sat still, frowning, doing nothing, mentally reviewing the day's conversations and wondering about Elsa. He was a bit worried about her. But his frown relaxed when a box-wallah spotted him and patiently worked his way along the veranda, offering cheap jewelry and similar rubbish for sale. Because he expected just that, Tom spotted the legerdermain with which the fellow added a small box of spearmint chewing-gum. As he drew near he placed it in full view on the top tray.

"Melikani tschooin-gum, sahib? Bohut atcha—new-fresh-jus' arrive by steamer—same as sell in New York, Paris, London—original package—good—cheap—guaranteed."

Tom bought his entire stock of the stuff. It didn't seem to have been tampered with. There was no evidence of the wrappers having been disturbed. A moment later he silently cursed himself and laid the box on the floor at his left hand. A very pleasant-looking missionary woman in the next chair on his right leaned toward him and spoke:

"If I had seen the chewing-gum, I would have bought some. Do you want it all? May I buy some from you?"

Well, he couldn't tell her he suspected it was poisoned. He couldn't let her go ahead and take a chance and chew the stuff.

"Sorry," he answered. "It's for a sick friend. Promised him." Pretty lame excuse, that. Better touch it up a bit. "I'm going for a stroll," he added. "If you like, I'll get some for you. Would you like a whole box?"

"No, no, please don't trouble. It was just a passing fancy. I haven't dared to eat any Indian sweets since I was poisoned in Darjeeling."

She met Tom's gaze steadily. Gray-eyed, gray-haired. Jolly-looking woman, with a good grim trouble-eating lip line. Good ears. Scarred knuckles. Carried her head right. Licked a whale of a lot of bad grief in her day. Damn her, why didn't she break ice? Suddenly she did it, quite naturally:

"Are you Mr. Tom Grayne? Some one we both know phoned a few minutes ago to say you're going to Darjeeling. So am I—to-morrow morning. Do you know Darjeeling? Perhaps I can be of some use to you there. I keep a school for Hill children."

She didn't mention Ethnological growling Johnson's name, so he'd be damned if he would. How could he check up?

"Do you know Mu-ni Gam-po?" he asked.

"We're great friends."

"Give him my kind regards."

"Would you care to meet him at my house?" she suggested.

Tom hesitated, although he didn't appear to. The unlikeliest people are on the inside. Equally unlikely people are among the mischief-makers and merely curious who imagine themselves on the inside.

"I'd enjoy meeting Mu-ni Gam-po anywhere," he answered.

"I am Nancy Strong," she said. "Does that mean anything?"

"Yes."

He wondered why he hadn't guessed it. But a man can't remember everything. He should, but he doesn't; a brain doesn't work that way. He had heard of her scores of times, from scores of people. Even her Christian enemies spoke of her with respectful appreciation. Tom remembered a district judge remarking that the more he hated her the more he liked her. Funny—he had imagined her as a totally different type of woman; he had avoided meeting her for that reason. Had forgotten her for the same reason.

"You will call on me?" she asked.

"Sorry I didn't long ago."

"I will look forward to it."

She got up, so of course Tom did, and she walked away with an air that made her look as likable as one of those rather impoverished county gentlefolk, who, all the world over, keep the good traditions going while the bad ones die. Tom went into the lobby and wrote a letter to Elsa, in code lest Eiji Sarao should see it:

Not for Mayor. Go as soon as you like to Darjeeling. Any good hotel will do. Soon after you get there call on Miss Nancy Strong, School for Hill Children. Tell her all you care to about Thö-pa-ga but show no interest in me. Everything progressing favorably. Better destroy this.

TOM

He mailed it, stuffed his hands into his hip-pockets, and went for a stroll.