CHAPTER XXVI
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!”