MUNG BAW LIES LOW
In some mysterious manner the cause of Mrs. Krauss’s death was hushed
up; there was no inquest, and the announcement in the Rangoon Gazette
merely stated: “On the 8th inst., Flora, the beloved wife of Herr Karl
Krauss, suddenly, of heart failure.”
Sophy had been carried off to the “Barn” a few hours after her aunt had
passed away, and never again entered “Heidelberg.” The funeral was
large, expensive, and imposing, and included a crowd of rather
unexpected and decidedly shabby mourners, who brought with them
offerings of cheap, home-made wreaths and crosses, and wore faces of
sincere and unaffected grief. Strange to say, the grave prepared to
receive Mrs. Krauss was next to that in which lay the remains of
Richard Roscoe. The two cocaine victims rested side by side in death,
drawn together by the long arm of coincidence.
It had been decided that Sophy was to remain at the “Barn” and
accompany Mrs. Gregory when she went home in August. She quickly
recovered her looks and spirits amid bright society and cheerful
surroundings. There had been an auction at “Heidelberg,” everything was
disposed of; the accumulation of twelve years was scattered to the
winds, the servants were disbanded, and the house was closed.
Herr Krauss sent Sophy a quantity of his wife’s jewels, with a letter
thanking her for all her care and attention, but she only retained a
ring that had been worn daily by her aunt, and returned the remainder,
which was afterwards disposed of in Balthazar’s Sale Rooms and fetched
a handsome sum.
It was said that Herr Krauss had felt his wife’s death acutely; he had
left Rangoon without the ceremony of farewells, departing no one knew
whither.
Time slipped by, and so far had brought no trace of the cocaine gang.
On several occasions Shafto had ridden round by the big Kyoung behind
the Turtle Tank and met with no success—nothing but a shake of the
_pongye’s_ shaven head. On his first visit he had dismounted, given his
horse to its _syce_, and boldly approached the monastery, outside of
which an imposing group of _pongyes_ was assembled. The attitude of
some was lofty and disdainful; others, with a friendly glance,
acknowledged the stranger’s ceremonious greeting. Towering majestically
among his fellows stood Mung Baw, who, throwing them a hasty
explanation, advanced to welcome Shafto with a soldierly tread and a
jaunty swing of his yellow robe. Then taking him aside he began to talk
to him in a cautious undertone:
“I am sorry to tell you I have no _kubber_ yet. If I had some female
acquaintance it would so as easy as ‘kiss my hand,’ but I cannot break
my vow or spake to a woman.”
“So you have no clue?”
“There’s dozens of clues, if I could get hold of one; that’s what
aggravates me and has me tormented. But I’ll worry it out yet, and
that’s as sure as me name is Mick Ryan.”
“I thought it was Mung Baw.”
“So ’tis mostly—and officially, but this business I’m on is a white
man’s job, and if it’s to be done, I’ll do it.” As he spoke he removed
his clumsy horn spectacles, and Shafto realised that the eyes gazing
unflinchingly into his own were those of an enthusiast, and possibly a
hero.
Seen in tell-tale daylight, and without his disfiguring glasses, the
_pongye_ looked years younger; hitherto Shafto’s impression had been
that his strange acquaintance was a man of fifty. Five-and-thirty would
be nearer the mark. His eyes were a shade of deep indigo blue, with
thick black lashes, high cheek bones were possibly a legacy from his
Cingalese grandmother; a square, well-shaped head, firmly set upon a
fine pair of shoulders, a square chin and jaw, and a well-cut mouth
with shining white teeth, were his inheritance from the West.
Undoubtedly if Mung Baw’s religion had not compelled him to sacrifice
every hair on his body—including his eyebrows—he would have been an
uncommonly good-looking fellow, but an absolutely bare face and bald
cranium was a heavy handicap—were he Apollo himself!
At least thrice a week Shafto, in the character of a private inquiry
officer, rode slowly round by the Kyoung and had a word or two with the
tall upstanding priest.
One evening the latter beckoned to Shafto to dismount, and, leading him
apart, assured him that he was creeping on at last. “As soon as I know
what I think I know, I’ll send you a bit of a _chit_. It’s an awful
traffic, this infernal trade, now I’ve seen into it, cheek by jowl;
these drugs is worse and crueller than wild animals, and we can’t kill
them.”
“No, worse luck!” assented Shafto; “they kill us. I say, Mung Baw,
don’t your friends in the monastery wonder why I so often ride round
this way and look you up?”
“Oh, yes, some does be as curious as a cat in a strange larder, but I
have it all explained to their satisfaction.” Then, dropping his voice,
he added mysteriously: “They think I’m _convarting_ you!”
“What—to Buddhism!” And Shafto burst out laughing.
“Faix, ye might do worse.”
“Possibly; but I am all right as I am.”
“That’s a good hearing. Well, I’m not for troubling anyone’s mind,
shure; aren’t we all,” with a sweep of his powerful hand, “shtriving to
reach the same place, and if it’s what I expect, I’ll hope to meet ye?
There’s the gong for prayers, and I must fall in.”
Two days later Shafto received a letter written in a neat clerkly hand.
It said:
“If you will be at the Great Goddema in the woods beyond the Turtle
Tank by five o’clock to-morrow, Tuesday, you may hear news,—M.R.”
The Great Goddema in the woods is a gigantic image in alabaster,
encompassed by palm ferns, and half clothed in flowering creepers. The
day of this particular shrine has sunk below the horizon; worshippers
are absent and the flowers laid around and about are entirely the
contribution of Nature herself. Some day the shrine will disappear
altogether, buried, like many others, in appreciative vegetation.
As Shafto approached the rendezvous, he saw the _pongye_ seated on the
steps, engrossed in a book with a red cover, which he hastily thrust
into some inner pocket as he rose to his feet.
“Ye might not think it, but I’m a great reader,” he explained
apologetically. “It passes the time and is no sin; the saints
themselves were wonderful writers and readers. A friend here gets me
books out of the public library, and then I borrow when I can.”
“What have you got hold of now?” inquired Shafto.
“‘Fifteen Decisive Battles of the World,’ and before that, ‘Jungle
Tales.’ I could tell a good few myself; animals and birds does be very
friendly and confidential with me; but it’s not books I brought you
here to talk about, but cocaine and opium.”
“Yes, rather. Have you any news?”
“I have so. I’ve found out what I may call the head lair of the
divils.”
“Good for you—how splendid! How did you manage it?”
“Bedad, it was a terrible touch-and-go business, as you shall hear. You
see, I should first explain how I get so much liberty to go mouching
round the bazaars and wharves. Being for so long weak in the head—and
also of another country—allowances are made, and I’m looked on as an
oddity, and yet well respected, for I’m clever with cures and language.
Well, I used to poke about among a lot of scum that has no respect for
any cloth whatever—no, nor for life itself; and all the time I felt in
me bones I’d surely find what I wanted among a crew that’s just the
sweepings of creation!
“There was one particular low wharf I used to hang round by way of
watching fellows netting fish; and one warm afternoon, as I was
meditating there, the chance looked my way. Two half-drunken Chinamen
come along quarrelling and sat down near me, and I ‘foxed’ I was sound
asleep. They argued about shares and money, and jabbered away very
angry, telling me all I wanted. By and by, when they cooled down a bit,
they saw me, an’ this was what ye may call a critical moment for Mick
Ryan.”
“No doubt of that. Go on!”
“At first one of them was undecided as to whether I was asleep—or not.
The other brute said: ‘No chance take, stick knife in throat, and shove
into the water.’ You know what these thieves are with their long
blades. I tell ye, Mr. Shafto, they might have heard me heart thumping!
However, my good angel, Saint Michael himself, had his eye on me, for
it turned out that neither of them had a _dah_ with him. Then they come
and leant over me, breathing into me face with their filthy rank
breath, reeking of napie and pickled eggs, and I snored back like a
good one! I snored for my very life, and I done it so natural, they
were well satisfied; and I being such a big man and heavy to shift,
they give up the notion of slinging me into the Irrawaddy and went off
still quarrelling. I stayed on without a move out of me for a full
hour; then I got up yawning my head off, and walked away with the
_clue_ in me hand!”
“Is the den in Rangoon? There’s many a queer place here?”
“No, not in Rangoon itself, but some way up the river; about twenty
miles beyond Prome there is a deserted village that was cleared out by
cholera twenty years ago. They say a big cholera _nat_ lives there, and
no one will go next or nigh it. There’s a pagoda, a Kyoung, and a rest
house, all smothered in jungle, and a nice little bit of a convenient
landing, and ’tis there the Cocaine Company does its business—I learnt
all their tricks. The Chinamen gave me a lot of news; it seems they
smuggle opium, too, and distribute the stuff up and down the river by
boats; on land by pack animals and the railroad. Oh, it’s a wonderfully
handy situation; they couldn’t have picked a better!”
“And what about the people who run it?” asked Shafto.
“Well, the head of them all is gone; he was, as you may have
suspicioned yourself, that fellow Krauss. No one knows what’s become of
him. Some say he’s in Calcutta; more think he’s dead—died aboard ship;
but that may not be true. Them sort of ruffians generally live to a
great age. Someone may have put him out, or rather done him in. There
were two or three chaps what I’ve heard talkin’ terrible bitter agin
him; and one fine young man, Ar Bo, who is back from the Andamans—where
he got sent to for three year, on account of this cocaine business—told
me that he met a lot of clever fellows from all parts of the world; up
to every dodge they were, and one of them instructed him in the way of
killing a man stone dead—and not leaving a spot on him! I believe it’s
some little trick with the head, where it joins the spine. This chap
confessed that he had tried it on several with success, and it wouldn’t
surprise _me_ if he had made an experiment on Krauss!”
“But what about the cocaine?” said Shafto. “How, are we to set about
getting a haul?”
“Ye’ll have to go aisy, or rather Mr. FitzGerald and the polis must
work by stealth; he can take a good few disguised, as it were on a sort
of pilgrimage, but well armed, and passing through this village as it
were accidental; and with a couple of boats on the river I think they
might scare the lot. I’d like to go with them meself, for a bit of
sport—only for me yellow robe, it wouldn’t look well for me to be seen
mixed up with cocaine, thaves and the polis.”
“No, I suppose not,” agreed Shafto. “You have to think of your cloth.
Well, if you will write me down a few details on this slip of paper in
my notebook, I will give it to Mr. FitzGerald at once, and I can’t tell
you how thankful he will be to get hold of it, or how grateful to you
we are.”
“Oh, I don’t want no thanks for what has been a real pleasure. Haven’t
I seen with me own two eyes all the terrible harm this drug-takin’
leads to? And if I’ve been in a small way the means of puttin’ a stop
to some of it, I’ll be a proud man.” He paused to clear his throat, and
continued: “I suppose, you have not seen anything of Ma Chit lately?”
“No.”
“She keeps you from goin’ to the Salters, doesn’t she? She’s always
sittin’ about there on the steps, heart-broken, because she can’t get a
word wid ye! Of course, I’m not surprised she’s took a fancy to ye.”
“Fancy! Rot!” burst out Shafto. “I can’t stand these cheeky Burmese
girls. I only hope I may never set eyes on Ma Chit again.”
“Well, then, as likely as not ye won’t,” remarked Mung Baw soothingly.
“She has a rich relation up at Thayetmyo, and she’s swithering between
love and money. Perhaps, after all, money will carry the day. Well,
now, I must be goin’ to me duties—and me devotions, and I’ll bid ye
good evening.”
The conversation at “Heidelberg” interrupted by Lily had been resumed
on a suitable occasion in the gardens of the “Barn,” and Sophy and
Shafto were now provisionally engaged.
“I’m a wretched match for you, Sophy,” he declared; “I don’t believe
your mother will allow it. I’ve no prospects.”
“Never mind prospects,” was her reckless reply. “We shall have enough
to live on. I have a hundred a year of my own, and I’m quite a good
manager, with a real taste for millinery. If the worst comes to the
worst, I shall open a shop in Phayre Street and make our fortune!”
It was mail day and Shafto, who now dined at the “Barn,” was unusually
late in appearing. He looked rather excited and out of himself as he
entered with many apologies. After dinner he and Sophy paced the drive
in the silver moonlight, and she began:
“I could hardly sit still, or eat a morsel, for anyone could see that
you were bursting with some great news. What is it?”
“I have two pieces of news, and I’ll give you first of all one that
concerns ourselves. I saw in the _Mail_ some weeks ago that my uncle,
Julian Shafto, was dead. He had no family and left no will; and I found
a letter to-day at the office from a lawyer, informing me that I, being
next of kin, am heir-at-law, and succeed to the property and a fairly
large income.”
“Oh, Douglas, how splendid! It sounds too good to be true!”
“I never saw my uncle; he and my father had a disagreement before I was
born, and had no communication with one another. He did not even send
us a line when my father died. I fancy he was a hard-bitten old
bachelor. I’ve not seen the family place, Shafton Court, and don’t know
much about it, except I remember my father saying there were one or two
fine pictures, a fair library, and, what did not interest him,
first-rate partridge shooting.”
“Oh, what a piece of good fortune! Do let us go in at once and tell
Polly.”
“But would you not like to hear my other piece of news, which is even
better?”
“It could not be better; but do tell me quickly.”
“FitzGerald has brought off a splendid _coup_ up the river—run in the
cocaine gang and collared no end of drugs. He is to receive the thanks
of the L.G. and the Government reward.”
“How did he discover it?”
“A man I know really put him on the track. The cocaine lair was in a
village, so deserted and tumble-down and haunted, that no one suspected
it, or went near it. A _pongye_ Kyoung, said to be infested by
malignant _nats_ and hundreds of snakes, was the head office. Rather a
clever dodge.”
“Do you think this will put an end to the traffic?”
“No; but it will give it a tremendous set-back; where there is a
demand, there will always be a supply, but for a considerable time—at
least a year or two—cocaine will be scarce. They caught a good many of
the small fry, but as usual the big fish escaped—all but one wealthy
Mahommedan, but he is bound to wriggle out somehow. Another point in
favour of the short supply of cocaine is the disappearance of Krauss.”
“What!” exclaimed Sophy. “Oh, Douglas, surely you don’t mean that _he_
was in it?”
“In it—I should think so. Up to his neck!”
“Oh, but are you certain?”
“Quite certain! This will explain his many mysterious journeys, the
gangs of natives who were always hanging round his office, and his
suspicious opulence. You may have noticed that he had no friends among
the better class of Rangooner; whether British or German; they all
suspected him of dirty hands. He had no conscience and was absolutely
unscrupulous. It was a strange Nemesis that his wife—to whom you say he
was devoted—should kill herself with the very drug he was smuggling.”
“Yes, poor Aunt Flora,” murmured Sophy; “that is a dreadful tale, which
I shall always keep from mother. I think if she were to know it, it
would nearly break her heart.”