FITZGERALD IMPARTS INFORMATION
Up to the time of the murder of Roscoe, Shafto had kept his experience
to himself; even with the evidence of his own eyes he shrank from
suspecting anyone connected with Sophy. After all, there were plenty of
Shan ponies in Rangoon, and Krauss’s inquiry about the tiger might be
just a mere coincidence; but now facts were forming up in stern array,
despite his reluctance to face them. There was no doubt that Krauss had
spies and tools, and if that was his grey pony “Dacoit,” what was
“Dacoit” doing in the jungle, thirty miles from Rangoon? It was
suspiciously strange that, after Miss Bliss’s mention of a loafer who
had given information—a loafer toasted by Krauss—an individual
answering the description had so promptly disappeared. Well now, Sophy
or no Sophy, FitzGerald must be told!
Shafto found his opportunity the following night, when he and the
police officer had the veranda to themselves. Roscoe, with an actor’s
unquenchable ardour for the theatre, was patronising a play. The tour
of “Charley’s Aunt” had reached Rangoon. The MacNab was dining with the
Presbyterian minister.
After the table had been cleared and cheroots produced, without any
circumlocution or preface, Shafto plunged into his subject and laid his
information and suspicions before his friend who, to his amazement,
replied:
“Oh well, I’ve had my own ideas for some time, me boy. I have noticed
that Krauss is one of the loudest in crowing whenever we make a haul of
contraband; it has struck me that his enthusiasm is a bit overdone. I
believe he is in with a pack of swindlers, but has a wonderful knack of
safeguarding his own ugly carcass. His wealth is a well-known fact, but
its source is distinctly mysterious. He is not like the usual business
man, who puts by a few thousands every now and then, made in teak or
paddy; Krauss has a share in everything that’s any good. Oil, rubies,
trams, wolfram, rubber, and so on. The capital he invests in these
concerns cannot come from ordinary speculation in rice and teak—so the
question is, where does he get it?”
As Shafto made no reply, FitzGerald put down his cheroot, drew his
chair closer to the table and, leaning over to his companion, said:
“Look here, me boy, you are a thundering good sort, and I’d like to
tell you one or two small things—and give you a bit of advice that may
be useful. From what you say, I have no doubt that Krauss suspects that
you have seen something of his game—how much he cannot be sure; but one
thing is absolutely certain—he won’t trust you, and you’ll find that,
in some way or other, he’ll have his knife into Douglas Shafto.”
“Same as the late Richard Roscoe?”
“Let us hope he won’t feel obliged to take such strong measures; but I
wouldn’t put it past him to do you a devilish nasty turn.”
“This is pleasant but indefinite.”
“Well, let me advise you to take cover; do not go about alone after
dark, or on foot.”
“I never do, except over to the Salters.”
“Don’t stir, even over to the Salters, or when you do go, take Roscoe;
he and Salter are birds of a feather—a couple of philosophers, clever,
deeply-read cranks. I shall notify to my men to keep a sharp eye on
you.”
“So then I’m to be under police protection, am I?”
“I am afraid it will be a distressing necessity; but the fact will
naturally be known only to you and me.”
“So you honestly believe that Krauss is not on the square?”
FitzGerald nodded and then replied:
“He does not associate with the best German people here—I think they
smell a rat; and the English give him a fairly wide berth. His manners
are impossible; even in Rangoon money is not everything, and his record
is peculiar. He came away from China stony-broke, picked up a few
thousands in Singapore and then settled in Rangoon about twelve years
ago—and Rangoon has suited him down to the ground. When they first
arrived Mrs. Krauss was an extraordinarily handsome woman, popular and
lively; could keep a whole dinner-table going and was always splendidly
dressed. On the whole, a valuable, but unconscious tool! Latterly her
health has failed and she has subsided. Besides his German hangers on,
the oddest sort of guests collect at ‘Heidelberg,’ though you and I may
not meet them—men from Calcutta, the Straits and even China. Not long
ago I came across Krauss’s brown motor in a block in Phayre Street. I
happened to glance inside; there was Krauss himself and two fat
natives, one a notorious _budmash_, and I noticed that, after I had
passed, a hand _pulled down the blind_. Why? In a place like this, and
indeed everywhere, a man is judged by his friends. Krauss tries to keep
in with Rangoon society and poses as a brusque, eccentric sort of a
fellow, with a rude manner and a good heart. The days of his grand
dinner-parties came to an end some time ago. Now the fat grey spider at
‘Heidelberg’ has to rely more or less on his wife’s pretty niece; she
is bright and popular and attracts a lot of useful people into his web.
To see that girl pouring out tea, or sitting at the piano, making
delicious music, who would suppose that ‘Heidelberg’ was the
headquarters of a gang of thieves? Mrs. Krauss is a back number, her
health has gone to pieces, and lately I believe she is in a bad way.”
He paused, and surveying Shafto with half-closed eyes, added:
“I suppose you don’t know what her complaint is?”
“Oh, yes—acute neuralgia.”
“Acute grandmother!” scoffed FitzGerald. “Guess again!”
“Well—what?”
FitzGerald leant over, took a long breath, and whispered the word
“Cocaine.”
“Oh, nonsense!” And Shafto burst out laughing. “Why, man, you’re mad!”
“Mad—not a bit of it! I happen to know where she gets the stuff and
I’ve known for a good while, Krauss has no idea that his wife drugs;
it’s all so artfully managed. That Madras ayah is a rare treasure and
as cunning as the devil; she ought to be in our Secret Service. I
needn’t tell you that she is extravagantly paid.”
“Well—but, Fitz, I don’t believe it; no, and I won’t believe it.”
“All right, then. Look here, have you never noticed how brilliant and
lively Mrs. Krauss is at times, with shining eyes and a colour in her
cheeks? Then on other days, if she does appear, she is limp as a wet
rag, depressed and old; there is a complete lack of all vital force.
Now tell me how you account for that?”
“Her illness,” stammered Shafto; “the climate.”
“Neither the one nor the other. But bar the cocaine habit, Mrs. Krauss
is all right and straight; she has no suspicion of her husband’s ill
practices, nor he of hers.”
“And you suspect both?”
“Why not? Suspicion is part of my trade. I think you and I had better
be seeking our beds; I have seen the _chokidar_ peering round the
corner of the staircase; I don’t know what he is up to; he may imagine
that we are hatching mischief. I caught his eye when I was whispering
just now, and it is more than likely that he has suspicions of us
both!”