“Cocaine smuggling is playing the very devil with the country and there’s no denying that.”
“But can’t you do something to stop it?”
“Is it stop it? You might just as well try to stop the Irrawaddy with a pitchfork. And it’s growing worse; there are some big people in it—the Hidden Hand Company—who keep out of sight, pay the money, employ the tools and collar the swag. They have agents all over this province, as well as India, China and the Straits.”
“Where does the stuff come from?”
“It’s chiefly manufactured in Germany, though some comes from England.”
“What, you don’t mean that! I always thought it was concocted out here.”
“’Tis little ye know! It is mostly sent in from Hamburg, and in all manner of clever ways; the smugglers are as cute as foxes and up to every mortal dodge. A lot of the contraband is done by native crews, of course without the knowledge of the ships’ officers. Hydrochloride of cocaine travels in strong paper envelopes between fragile goods, or in larger quantities in false bottoms of boxes, under plates in the engine room, or in the bulkheads.”
“But how can they possibly land the stuff?” inquired Shafto.
“Easier than you think! There are lots of nice, lonely, sequestered coves, where goods can be put ashore of a dark night, or dropped carefully overboard, hermetically sealed, with an empty tin canister as a float, and picked up at daybreak by a friendly sampan. Of course, the customs house officers have to be reckoned with from the moment a ship enters till she leaves the port, but sometimes in this drowsy climate a man falls asleep in his long chair, and here is the serang’s chance—the serang being the head and leader of the crew. The contraband is quickly lowered in gunny bags to the sampans and carried off in triumph to its destination. However, not long ago, the customs made a haul of twelve hundred ounces; out here cocaine sells for six pounds an ounce. So that was a nice little loss, and yet only a drop in the ocean—for every grain that is seized a pound enters the market. Oh, I’d make my fortune if I could run one of these foxes to earth.”
“I wish you could,” said Shafto; “have you no clue, no suspicions?”