MYSTERY AND SUSPICION
One evening after dinner the four chums—unusual circumstance—were all
present; MacNab, seated at the big round table, engaged in putting up a
remarkably neat parcel, the others lounging at ease, smoking and
talking.
“Bedad, I know the address of that!” drawled FitzGerald from his long
cane chair, “St. Andrew’s Lodge, Crieff, Perthshire, N.B. Ahem—presents
endear absents.”
“N.B.,” retorted MacNab, “_you_ don’t send many!”
“Why, man alive, it’s all I can do to keep myself in boots! And you’re
wrong about presents, for I did send my sister a ruby ring out of
‘Top-Note’s’ winnings. Things are getting so bad with me
financially”—here he struck a match and then went on—“that some day
I’ll be obliged to make a present of myself!”
Shafto, who was reading, looked up over the edge of his book and said:
“How do you know you won’t be declined with thanks?”
“I will take an observation and make sure, me boy—I’m not a confounded
fool. Talking of fools—what about your crazy expedition to-morrow? I
say,” addressing himself particularly to Roscoe and MacNab, “did you
know that this fellow is going out tiger shooting? Tiger shooting, if
you please! Tiger shooting is to be his way of spending the Sabbath;
what do you say to _that_, my stiff-necked Presbyterian?”
“Tiger shooting where?” inquired Roscoe.
“Somewhere near Elephant Point, with Stafford of the Buffers,” replied
Shafto. “We have got leave, a pass and two trackers.”
“You’ll find it a pretty expensive business,” remarked the canny
Scotsman.
“Worse than that!” supplemented Roscoe. “There will be no bag, no tiger
skin, claws, whiskers, or fat. As long as I’ve been in Rangoon—and
that’s some years—I’ve been hearing of this same tiger. Dozens of
parties have been out after him, with no success; he is still living on
his reputation—just a myth and a fortune to the trappers. Lower Burma
is much too wet a district for the great cat tribe.”
“But I am told that there are plenty of elephants and tigers in this
district,” argued Shafto. “And what about the tiger that was actually
crawling on the Pagoda not so very long ago! Why, hundreds of people
saw the brute; it was shot by a fellow called Bacon.”
As this was a hard and unanswerable fact Roscoe was for the moment
silenced. After a short pause he continued:
“All the same, I don’t believe in the Elephant Point tiger; the other
was no doubt a pious beast—who came from Chin Hills to make a
pilgrimage.”
“You’ll have a fine, rough journey, me boy.” said FitzGerald; “nasty
deep swamps, terrible thorn thickets, grass ten foot high—it wouldn’t
be _my_ idea of pleasure.”
“No,” retorted Shafto, “tiger shooting and turkey-trotting are widely
apart.”
“But look here,” exclaimed FitzGerald, as if struck by a thought and
now sitting bolt upright. “Mind you keep your eyes skinned and your
ears pricked when you are down there,” and he threw his friend a
significant glance; “you never know your luck, and you might happen on
valuable _kubber_—and start some rare sort of game.”
FitzGerald’s warning was amply justified; the tiger-shooting expedition
proved a much rougher business than the sportsmen had anticipated. Once
they quitted the roads and foot-path, vegetation became rank and
overpowering and in places impassable. Swampy ground, dense thorn
thickets and elephant grass made progress enormously difficult—the
jungle guards well its many secrets and is full of dangers to mankind.
It was a bright moonlight night when Shafto and his companions alighted
at the selected area and tossed for posts. These were at a considerable
distance apart, each in a tree, over a “tie-up”—which, on this
occasion, happened to be a goat.
The hours dragged along slowly; Shafto, doubled up in a cramped
position on a _machan_, felt painfully stiff and was obliged to deny
himself the comfort of a cigarette. There was no sound beyond the bleat
of the victim—unwittingly summoning its executioner, the buzz of
myriads of insects, the bass booming of frogs and the stealthy,
mysterious movements of night birds and small animals. Then by degrees
the moon waned and the stars faded—though the sky was still light. It
was about three o’clock in the morning and Shafto was beginning to
agree with Roscoe respecting the tiger myth and to feel uncommonly
drowsy, when his ear was struck by a far-away sound, entirely distinct
from buzzing insects or booming frogs.
The spot which had been thoughtfully selected by the trapper, was
within a few hundred yards of a small cove, chosen as an inviting place
for the tiger to come and slake his thirst. The distant sound came from
this direction and, by degrees, a faint but definite pulsation grew
more audible and distinct, and finally resolved itself, into the steady
throbbing of a motor-launch. It was approaching.
Then from the back of Shafto’s mind he dragged out a memory of
FitzGerald’s mention of a broken-down petrol boat. Here was probably
the very one—by no means a derelict; on the contrary, a fast traveller.
For a moment he was startled, then promptly made up his mind. This was
a chance, perhaps, to secure some really valuable _kubber_. More than
once he had heard it rumoured that, in these distant creeks and bays,
some of the smugglers had discharged their valuable cargo. Well, if the
cargo was now about to be landed, here was his opportunity! As the
bleating of the goat would undoubtedly give him away, he must get rid
of the animal immediately, so he quickly shinned down the tree and
commanded the trapper to remove it.
“Tiger not coming to-night,” he explained to the astonished Burman, who
rejoined:
“Tiger coming soon, soon, now; after the waning of the moon.”
“Oh well, never mind,” said Shafto impatiently, “you take away the
goat. Look sharp—take him quickly, quickly and _keep_ him.”
This was an extraordinary _thakin_, who, at the very climax of the
tiger hour, climbed out of the _machan_ and liberated the bait!
Certainly these English folk were mad.
“You go towards the camp,” he ordered, “and take my gun.”
The Burman, still completely bewildered, obeyed; he could not
understand the situation, but he felt bound to do what he was told, and
presently he disappeared, moving with obvious reluctance, leading the
goat and carrying gun and cartridges. His employer did not immediately
follow, but remained for a considerable time motionless—listening. The
pulsation had almost ceased—evidently the motor-boat had arrived at her
destination, which was unfortunately not in his immediate vicinity. He
crept stealthily along in the direction of the possible anchorage,
fighting his way through roots and undergrowth; it was all of no use—a
barrier of morass and elephant grass proved absolutely impassable, so
he turned back towards his camp, pausing now and then to listen. He
could make out voices—one in an authoritative key summoning “Mung Li.”
Well, he had at least discovered something definite—he was in the
vicinity of smugglers. In a short time he discovered something else;
through a breach in the undergrowth he caught a glimpse of a Burman
leading a stout, grey pony carrying a European saddle and—unless his
eyes entirely deceived him—the animal was Krauss’s well-known weight
carrier, “Dacoit.”
Two evenings later, at the Gymkhana Club, Krauss lounged up to Shafto,
who happened to be looking on at a billiard match. Taking a cigar out
of his mouth he astonished him by saying:
“Well, so you had no luck after that tiger down the river!”
This was taking the bull by the horns indeed. “No,” replied Shafto,
“but Stafford saw him and got a shot. He is there all right.”
“Perhaps you will have another try?” suggested Krauss.
“Perhaps so—but not for some time.”
“Too much work, eh? Gregory is doing a big trade just now.”
“Pretty well,” rejoined Shafto, who was secretly surprised that Krauss
should accost and talk to him in this way. Hitherto their acquaintance
had been slight and, when he had been to tea at “Heidelberg,” the
master of the house was invariably absent.
“How is Mrs. Krauss? I hope she is better.”
“No, she has been pretty bad the last few weeks—her niece is coming
home in a day or two and that will cheer her up.” As he concluded he
gave Shafto a nod and a curious look and then, with a sort of
elephantine waddle, lounged away.
So far Shafto had never spoken of his _kubber_; even with the evidence
of his own eyes he shrank from suspecting anyone connected with Sophy
Leigh; but links were joined in spite of his reluctance to face facts.
How could Krauss have known that he had gone tiger shooting? Surely the
affairs of an insignificant fellow like himself never crossed the
mental horizon of such a big and busy person as Karl Krauss? There was
no doubt that the animal he had seen near Elephant Point bore a
suspicious resemblance to Krauss’s weight-carrying grey pony! What was
“Dacoit” doing in the jungle, thirty miles from Rangoon? He could make
a pretty good guess. Krauss had motored down, sent the animal on ahead,
and ridden through the grass and jungle in order to superintend the
landing.
Could this be a fact? Or was the whole thing a mere coincidence? Was he
obsessed by FitzGerald and suspecting an honest man, who might have
been shooting in the swamps—why not?