CHAPTER XXIII
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?