Part 22 (1/2)
”I can so, as one of my subordinates; I am looking for evidence in a murder case; I'll lend you a coat, and all you will have to do is to look wise and hold your tongue.”
”This is most awfully good of you,” exclaimed Shafto, ”and I needn't tell you I'll go like a shot.”
”Oh, I'm good now, am I?” jeered FitzGerald; ”but, joking apart, this will be an experience. Not like puppet plays and dances--but a black tragedy.”
”Yes, I suppose so; I know it's pretty awful.”
”Cocaine smuggling is playing the very devil with the country and there's no denying that.”
”But can't you do something to stop it?”
”Is it stop it? You might just as well try to stop the Irrawaddy with a pitchfork. And it's growing worse; there are some big people in it--the Hidden Hand Company--who keep out of sight, pay the money, employ the tools and collar the swag. They have agents all over this province, as well as India, China and the Straits.”
”Where does the stuff come from?”
”It's chiefly manufactured in Germany, though some comes from England.”
”What, you don't mean that! I always thought it was concocted out here.”
”'Tis little ye know! It is mostly sent in from Hamburg, and in all manner of clever ways; the smugglers are as cute as foxes and up to every mortal dodge. A lot of the contraband is done by native crews, of course without the knowledge of the s.h.i.+ps' officers. Hydrochloride of cocaine travels in strong paper envelopes between fragile goods, or in larger quant.i.ties in false bottoms of boxes, under plates in the engine room, or in the bulkheads.”
”But how can they possibly land the stuff?” inquired Shafto.
”Easier than you think! There are lots of nice, lonely, sequestered coves, where goods can be put ash.o.r.e of a dark night, or dropped carefully overboard, hermetically sealed, with an empty tin canister as a float, and picked up at daybreak by a friendly sampan. Of course, the customs house officers have to be reckoned with from the moment a s.h.i.+p enters till she leaves the port, but sometimes in this drowsy climate a man falls asleep in his long chair, and here is the _serang's_ chance--the _serang_ being the head and leader of the crew.
The contraband is quickly lowered in gunny bags to the sampans and carried off in triumph to its destination. However, not long ago, the customs made a haul of twelve hundred ounces; out here cocaine sells for six pounds an ounce. So that was a nice little loss, and yet only a drop in the ocean--for every grain that is seized a pound enters the market. Oh, I'd make my fortune if I could run one of these foxes to earth.”
”I wish you could,” said Shafto; ”have you no clue, no suspicions?”
”Hundreds of suspicions, but no clue. There's a fellow in a sampan who unnecessarily hoists a white umbrella--I have my best eye on him; and there is said to be a broken-down, past-mending motor-launch in a creek beyond Kemmendine, which I propose, when I have a chance, to overhaul on the quiet. Chinese steamers plying between j.a.pan and Rangoon run stacks of contraband; as soon as one method of landing is discovered they find another; their ingenuity is really interesting to watch. The chief smugglers are never caught--only their satellites, who get about four months' gaol and never blow the gaff. If they did I wouldn't give much for their lives.”
”Do you mean to tell me that their employers wouldn't stick at murder?”
cried Shafto aghast.
”They stick at nothing; a murder done second-hand is quite cheap and easy--just a stab with a _dah_, or long knife, and the body flung into the Irrawaddy; you know the pace of that racing current and how it tells no tales! Well, here we are! You see, for once I can discourse of other things than horses; and, talking of horses, these fellows had better have a bran-mash apiece; but once you get me on cocaine smuggling, I warn you I can jaw till my mouth's as dry as a lime-kiln.”
CHAPTER XX
THE PONGYE
Late one warm afternoon in January, when Shafto was unusually busy on the PaG.o.da wharf--consignments of paddy were coming in thick and fast--suddenly, above the din of steam winches and donkey engines, there arose a great shouting, and he beheld an immense cloud of white dust rolling rapidly in his direction.
”Look out, it's a runaway!” roared a neighbouring worker. ”By George, they'll all be in the river!”
Sure enough, there came a rattle-trap hack _gharry_ at the heels of a pair of galloping ponies. The reins were broken, a yelling soldier sat helpless on the driver's seat and several of his comrades were inside the rocking vehicle. The animals, maddened with fear, were making straight for the Irrawaddy and, as Shafto rushed forward with outstretched arms to head them off, they swerved violently, came into resounding contact with a huge crane, and upset the _gharry_ with a shattering crash. Several men ran to the struggling ponies; Shafto and another to the overturned _gharry_ and hauled out two privates; number one, helplessly intoxicated; number two, not quite so helpless; the third person to emerge was, to Shafto's speechless amazement, no less a personage than a shaven priest--a full-grown _pongye_ in his yellow robe! He looked considerably dazed and a good deal cut about with broken gla.s.s. Waving away a.s.sistance, he tottered over and sat down behind a huge pile of rice stacks. Shafto immediately followed to inquire how he could help him, but before he had uttered a word, the _pongye_, who was much out of breath, gasped:
”Bedad! that was a near shave!”