“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.”
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!