CHAFF
It was Thursday, the Station holiday. A capital paper-chase had
recently engaged the entire community; the pace had been unusually
severe; the obstacles large and formidable—especially the notorious Log
Jump—and casualties were not a few. Shafto and FitzGerald, on hot and
heaving horses, had only halted for a moment at the hospitable
“Finish,” where refreshments were being served, as care for their
precious steeds was taking them and their animals home. After an
unusually long silence FitzGerald exclaimed, apropos of nothing in
particular:
“So—sits the wind in that quarter?”
Shafto turned his head and met a pair of knowing Irish eyes.
“That quarter!” repeated FitzGerald, indicating the red-tiled roof of
the Krausses’ bungalow, where it peeped out from amid a solid mass of
palms and bamboos.
“I haven’t the remotest idea what you are driving at,” said Shafto
impatiently. “Is it a bit of dialogue in the play you are rehearsing?”
“No, me boy, that is fiction—this is fact! In my official capacity I am
bound to take notes, and within the last week I have twice met you
early of a morning riding with Miss Leigh—no third party visible to the
naked eye. In fact, you were there before the rest of the crowd—and, of
course, the early bird gets the worm!”
“And which is the worm—Miss Leigh or I?”
“Oh yes, you may try to laugh it off, but there’s some reason for these
early _tête-à-têtes_. The reason is as plain as the stick in my
hand—no, I beg its pardon, the reason is uncommonly pretty.”
“FitzGerald, you are talking most blatant bosh.”
“Maybe I am and maybe I’m not, and, let me tell you, you’re not the
only string to the lady’s bow; she has as many as a harp! There’s
Fotheringay, the A.D.C.; there’s Captain Howe; there’s Bernhard——”
“Bernhard’s a beast,” burst out Shafto.
“Naturally _you_ would think so—it’s only human nature. But Otto is a
handsome man and has a fine seductive voice; and mind you, music has
charms to soothe the breast, savage or otherwise; as for your
prospects, you may apply to me for a testimonial of character: steady,
sober——”
“There, Fitz, that’s enough—drop it!”
“Drop it!” repeated FitzGerald with a laugh. “Don’t get your frills
out, old boy, I mean no harm; she is by a long way the prettiest girl
in the place.”
“That will do,” exclaimed Shafto impatiently; “leave the ladies alone,
or, if you must discuss them, what about the little American Miss
Bliss? You danced with her half the night at the last Cinderella.”
“Ah! now I suppose you think you’re carrying the war into the enemy’s
quarter, don’t ye? Dancing is not compromising—like solitary rides with
a girl before the world is warm, and Miss Bliss, by name and nature, is
the only girl in Rangoon who can do a decent turkey trot. Now, as to
Miss Leigh——”
“Oh, for goodness’ sake leave Miss Leigh alone and talk about something
else—talk about horses.”
“Talk about horses,” repeated FitzGerald in a teasing voice, “and if he
isn’t blushing up to his ears! I’ll tell you what, young Shafto, it’s a
treat to see a real blush in this part of the world; blushing is rare
in Burma, and I’d just like to have your coloured photograph,”
continued FitzGerald, whose methods of chaff were as rude and crude as
those of any schoolboy.
“Come, don’t let’s have any more of this, Fitz, or you and I will
quarrel.”
FitzGerald grinned from ear to ear, delighted at the rise he had taken
out of his companion, touched his cap, and said:
“All right, yer honour,” but to himself he added, “by Jingo, it’s
_serious_! Well, well! However, he’s as poor as a rat and that’s a
great comfort.”
Comfort was constituted by the fact that, in these circumstances, there
could be no immediate prospect of a break-up of the congenial chummery.
“See here, Mr. Shafto, on your high horse, if you promise not to trail
your coat and frighten me, I’ll tell you something that will interest
you. I know you have been poking round with Roscoe and diving into
queer places—are you as keen as ever?”
“I am, of course,” rejoined Shafto, still stiff and unappeased.
“Well, then, I can show you a quarter where Roscoe has never dared to
stick his nose—a cocaine den.”
“Not really? Surely you couldn’t take me in there.”
“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 ships’ officers. Hydrochloride of
cocaine travels in strong paper envelopes between fragile goods, or in
larger quantities 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 ashore 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 ship
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 Japan 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.”