CHAPTER XXV
THE LATE RICHARD ROSCOE
Two days after the ball, as Shafto was passing through the veranda, Roscoe met him, took him by the arm, accompanied him into his room, and solemnly closed the door.
“Anything up?”
“Well, yes, there is,” replied Roscoe gravely, “and I thought I’d tell you when we were by ourselves. That cousin of mine, Dirk Roscoe, has been done for. He was found this morning in a back drain, in one of the gullies, with the stab of a dah in his back.”
“Oh, poor chap!” exclaimed Shafto.
“Well, he hadn’t much of a life to lose, had he? However, such as it was, he laid it down for others.”
“Then I suppose it was he who put FitzGerald on the track of this splendid haul—six hundred ounces of cocaine?”
“It was—yes, although he knew the risk he ran. He sent FitzGerald a line and warned him that there would be two sampans in Bozo creek; that one sampan would be a decoy, loaded with stones, but that they would find what they wanted in the other, which would attempt to clear off whilst they were examining the dummy. It’s a pretty big loss to some people, and cocaine will be scarce for a week or two—and dear.”
“It beats me to understand how these beggars manage to find the money?”
“Oh, they prowl round at night and thieve—and are capable of the most daring theft. I’ve known them steal a whole lot of furniture out of a sitting-room, a man’s evening clothes out of his dressing-room—not forgetting his gold watch and chain and even tooth-brush and tumbler. Once they actually had the cheek to take a pony belonging to the Chief Inspector of Police and sell him over at Moulmein. The small fry take taps, pipes, bits of zinc roofing, rope—anything that will bring in a few annas.”
“What about your cousin? Tell me more.”
“Not much more to tell. He is in the mortuary and, of course, there has been the usual inquest; he will be buried this evening, quite late; FitzGerald and I are going to the funeral.”
“I’ll come, too, if I may.”
“All right, do. Our padre is a brick—he is having a quiet service in the cemetery at ten o’clock; there is a good moon. If it had been a public, daylight affair, lots of questions would have to be asked—and answered.”
At ten o’clock the three Englishmen and the chaplain stood round the grave of a man who, within the last few hours, had arrived at the end of a wasted life—a victim to the drug that deals misery and destruction. As the three chums walked away to where their horses awaited them, Roscoe said:
“My cousin Richard, although he looked any age under eighty, was only thirty-five—two years younger than myself.”
“Look here, Joe,” said FitzGerald, “your cousin was murdered for giving me information. He knew the risk he was running, he knew that there are eyes and ears all over the place, and the chances were ninety to one he would be put out of the way—he hinted as much in his letter. Now then, I’m going to put my back into the business, and if I don’t find out something about this cocaine smuggling, I’ll—I’ll——” he reflected for a moment and added abruptly, “never go to another dance! It’s a syndicate who had this crime carried out; they have their hired assassins like the ‘Black Hand’ in Sicily. Some of the crew are bound to be in Rangoon, for Roscoe’s sentence and execution took place within a few hours. Now it is my aim and intention to discover who they are—and to carry war into the enemy’s quarter.”
“Well, Fitz,” said Roscoe, “I know how you love adventure—and the smoke of battle, and I feel fairly confident that you will do your best and, let us hope, storm and shatter the cocaine stronghold.”