THE COCAINE DEN
“To-night’s the night,” said FitzGerald to his confederate. “You and I
will creep out in half an hour’s time, and no questions asked. Roscoe
has gone up to Tonghoo about oil; the MacNab is dining at the Pegu Club
with one of his Big Pots and talking Flotilla and finance.”
“All right, I’ll be ready in two jiffs—you won’t forget the coat?”
“Not likely! We will taxi down to the end of Dalhousie Street, and into
the bazaar about half-past nine o’clock, and then proceed on foot. I am
taking two constables—both armed.”
It was a gay and busy scene; Dalhousie Street—which, it is said, never
sleeps—was a blaze of light, humming with noise and excitement and
packed with crowds of pleasure-seekers; a crude mixture of races,
struggling and pushing to their different goals of entertainment.
As the two young men halted for a moment at a popular corner, it seemed
as if the whole town and bazaar flowed past in a wave of colour and
movement. Burmans’ and Shans, male and female, clothed in coloured silk
and satin, the women decked with flowers and jewellery, all smoking and
jabbering in their strange monosyllabic tongue; solid, well-set-up
Germans parading in couples; rollicking sailors; Chinamen; Malays in
great numbers; stately Sikhs and the inevitable Babu filled the scene.
“They are all out to-night,” observed FitzGerald, “lots of shows on;
well, now for _ours_.”
As he spoke he turned into a narrow street that led through an endless
maze of curves and angles and, followed by two stalwart Sikh police,
they made their way into the heart of the China bazaar and plunged into
the worst slum quarter of this crowded, cosmopolitan city—a city, at
least, in wealth, extent, population and importance. They passed
flaring joss-houses, gambling dens and brazenly naked haunts of vice,
and after picking their steps through a particularly noisome
gully—odorous of _napie_ and rotten vegetables—they arrived at an
innocent little door in a high blank wall. After some whispered parley
with an old Chinaman, the pair were admitted and ushered into a large,
low saloon, where scores of gamblers were engrossed in the hypnotic
pleasures of “Fan Tan,” or the “36 animal lottery,” so popular and so
simple!
The adjoining room was a well-appointed opium resort. Here the roar of
the bazaar and pulsing of tom-toms were blurred and almost inaudible. A
reek of _bhang_ and _betel_ hung in the air; there were rows of neat
bunks, lacquered pillows, and small trays containing the opium pipe,
lamp and other necessaries. Everything was apparently carried out
decently and in order; the clients were of a respectable, well-to-do
class—some who had merely dropped in for a pipe of _chandu_, or a jolt
of opium; and Shafto noticed quite a number of Europeans and, among
them, at present asleep, a man whom he knew and frequently met on the
Strand. He had sometimes wondered at his dried-up, withered skin and
lank, dead-looking black hair. _Now_ he understood.
The police officer was not disposed to linger on these premises. A
cocaine den was his goal, and after a short talk with an affable old
Chinaman, who spoke perfect English, he took leave and once more they
were threading the odorous gloom of the slums. They soon came to a halt
and, leaving the two constables outside, after the usual delay and
mystery, were admitted and entered a most evil-smelling den. This was
lighted by two or three smoky oil-lamps, the rank smell of which, with
the sickly reek of squalid humanity, struck them like a blow in the
face. Between forty and fifty victims appeared to be present, all
belonging to the poorer classes, and nothing could be more repulsive
than their appearance. Excessive emaciation and festering sores were
their most marked characteristics. Some were lying on their mats in
semi-stupor, several who had just received an injection were patiently
awaiting their dreadful sleep—one of the chief attributes of cocaine is
its almost immediate effect. Here was a group squatting round a man
armed with a syringe—fatal germ-carrier—busily engaged in mixing the
cocaine and morphia. When the concoction had been prepared, one of the
customers turned up his sleeve to discover—if he could—a spot in which
to insert the needle; but there was not a place, even the size of a
pin’s head, so he rolled up his _lungyi_ and searched for a site on his
thigh; then the needle was produced, its contents were pumped in, and
the man made room for the next victim. This performance held Shafto
with a sort of hideous fascination; the crowd appeared to be entirely
insensible to his presence and only alive to the enjoyment awaiting
them.
At the far end of the room was an iron-bound enclosure, behind which
sat a wily and inscrutable Chinaman who, having received a formal
notice that this visit was “safe and unofficial,” obligingly exhibited
his scales and small packets of drugs—wares to bring rich delights to
the narcotised—which he disposed of in infinitesimal quantities, at
from four to six annas a dose.
Sprawling about on filthy rush mats were numerous Chinese, Burmese and
Indians; also a few women of the lowest class, each and all sunken in
the various stages of an ecstatic slumber.
As FitzGerald was now engaged in whispered conference with a
pock-marked Malay (who was awaiting his turn), Shafto stood back
against the wall, a completely detached figure, acutely sensible of the
chill horror of this unknown sphere—the so-called “underworld.”
He noticed that one or two customers sat round covetously watching the
operation of the syringe—not having the money with which to indulge
themselves; he also observed several who appeared to be in the last
stage of their existence—thin to emaciation, mere wrecks, like
half-dead flies, scarcely able to crawl about the floor.
Quite in the shadow, he caught sight of a tall figure in European
clothes, who was, like himself, an impassive spectator, and, with a
start, he recognised Roscoe’s cousin. To-night he appeared cleaner and
more human; he had shaved recently, and there was an undeniable family
likeness between him and his relative—such a resemblance as may exist
between a dead and broken branch and one still flourishing upon a
healthy tree. On this occasion he was evidently not ashamed to be seen
and recognised, for he nodded to Shafto, then crossed the room and
joined him.
“Ah, so you’ve not taken a pull at yourself yet?” said Shafto.
“No, the cocaine debauchee has no power to resist the drug,” he replied
in a thin refined voice. “I am fairly normal to-night; it is not a case
of virtuous repentance, but merely because I have no money.”
As he made this statement the despairing eyes that looked into Shafto’s
were those of some famishing animal.
“You have the power to raise me from the pit,” he continued in a husky
voice; “you can lift me straight into heaven!”
“Only temporarily,” brusquely rejoined Shafto.
“Even that is something when it offers peace and satisfaction to the
restless human heart.”
“But surely you can free yourself and your restless heart? Why not walk
out of this filthy den with us? Roscoe will help you, so will I. Come,
be a man!”
“It would be impossible for me to regain the normal balance of life,”
declared the victim of the drug; “also, I am no longer a man—I am a
fanatical worshipper of cocaine, and only death can part us. Some day
soon I shall fall out of her train, the police will find me in the
gutter and take the debased body to the mortuary, whence, unclaimed and
unknown, it will be carried to a pauper’s grave.”
“But can nothing be done to stop this hellish business?”
“Nothing,” replied the victim with emphasis, “nothing whatever, until
sales are rendered impossible and the big men—the real smugglers who
are trading in the life-blood of their brothers—are reached and
scotched. As for myself, I am past praying for; but thousands of others
could and ought to be saved—by drastic measures and a stern exposure.
The fellows in this business are as cunning as the devil; the stuff
arrives by roundabout channels and from the most surprising quarters.
Now and then they allow a consignment to be seized, but as a mere
blind, a sop, and trade flourishes; there is no business to touch it in
the money-making line.”
He paused and met Shafto’s searching eyes, then went on:
“It must amaze you to hear a fellow in this sink talking plain
grammatical English, but before the cocaine fiend caught and tortured
me I had brains. Joe Roscoe is a good chap—he has often held out a
helping hand, but it was not a bit of use, I only sank deeper. When I
recall the things I have done, the meannesses I have stooped to, I
squirm and squirm and _squirm_! Well, I am nearly at the end of my
tether, and a hair of the dog that bit me is all I ask. Your friend
FitzGerald here, now looking up evidence from that rascally Malay, is
working his very best to find some clue to the headquarters of the
gang; but they are much too clever and are making their thousands and
tens of thousands; profits are enormous, and the servants of the
company are well paid for any risks or prosecutions.”
“But what about informers?” asked Shafto.
“Oh, as for betraying secrets or giving the game away, the employés
know exactly what to expect. More than one would-be witness has
disappeared; his epitaph is, ‘Found drowned.’ Ah, I see FitzGerald
moving, and so you must take your departure out of this inferno into
the clean upper-world.”
“You come along with us,” said Shafto, suddenly seizing him by the arm.
But Roscoe threw him off with astonishing force and shook his head
emphatically. Nevertheless he followed the pair to the entrance—a tall
wraith-like form moving behind them, a shadow in the shadows.
As soon as the door had closed and the visitors were once more in the
street, the police officer broke out:
“Upon my word, Shafto, you ought to be ashamed of yourself! Didn’t I
see you slip money into the hand of that broken-down Englishman?”
“Yes, you did,” Douglas boldly admitted; “I was obliged to, right or
wrong. If you had only seen his eyes, his starving, despairing eyes! I
believe they will haunt me as long as I live; somehow I feel to-night
as if I had looked through the gates of hell!”