Part 8

"All right. Keep it to yourself. I am much obliged to you for the lesson, and in future we will work together. Produce the clocks, and make up any story you like as to how you found them. The thief, of course, must have cleared out, and these burglaries must go in the crime book as 'Undetected: property recovered.' Oh, I forgot. How did you manage to open the doors?"

"That is very easy, Tuan," he replied, and he proceeded to show me. It was the simplest thing imaginable, but I am not going to give it away, for obvious reasons. Perhaps they have not got locks on the doors out there yet. I do not, however, mind telling a brother police-officer.

I have never told this yarn before; it would not have been fair to Cassim while he was in the service. It happened over fifteen years ago, and he must now have retired on pension. I hope it is the highest he could get, and that he is enjoying life under the shade of his own coco-nut plantation, for he was a thorough good fellow. No doubt he sometimes chuckles when he thinks of how he taught the Tuan Superintendent a lesson, not only in dignity, but also in the art of detecting crime.

Meanwhile the two gang robberies, which were the cause of Sergeant Cassim's little joke at my expense, seemed as far off discovery as ever. They had taken place within forty-eight hours of each other and less than five miles apart; and, so far, not a vestige of a clue could be found to work on.

"Look here, Cassim," I said, the morning after his exploit at my house, "something has got to be done. It is absurd, our being beaten like this. I don't want the Tuan Besar to report to the Tuan Governor that the police have not been able to do anything in the matter, or someone will get into trouble about it."

Cassim was as much bothered as myself, for complaints would probably mean the loss of his stripes, if nothing worse. An undetected crime of any magnitude was an unpardonable offence.

"Shall I read the Tuan my notes on the robbery at Ah Sing's again?" he asked.

"Yes. We may find we have overlooked something."

He got out his note-book and proceeded to read.

"Towkay Ah Sing reports that shortly before midnight on Thursday he was awakened by the door of his house being broken open. He was sleeping in a small room at the back, and his two coolies were asleep in the kitchen. He rushed out to see what had happened, and found the front room full of men; he thinks there were about a dozen. Their faces were blackened, and he could not recognise any of them; one had a lighted torch in his hand. The two coolies came in almost at the same time as himself. One of them had a stick, which he raised to strike a member of the gang, but he was stabbed in the side with a knife. Ah Sing and the two coolies were then knocked down, their hands and feet tied, and they were carried into the kitchen and thrown upon the floor. After about ten minutes the robbers left. One of the coolies managed to free his hands, and he unbound the other two. The gang took away a box containing clothing and jewellery from the front room, and another containing seven hundred dollars which Ah Sing kept under his bed. That is all, Tuan."

"And you found no traces of the robbers in or round the house?"

"Nothing except the extinguished torch."

"Ah Sing gave you a full description of all the articles stolen?" I asked.

"Yes, Tuan. He also says the money was in rolls of a hundred dollars, and that each roll had his 'chop' (private mark) on it."

"Well, he can say good-bye to his dollars," I said. "The robbers won't be such fools as to keep the 'chopped' papers they were wrapped in."

"The only other thing Ah Sing could state was that the men spoke the Fuhkien dialect," said Cassim.

"That is not much use as a clue, I am afraid. There are hundreds of Fuhkiens in the State. I will give a hundred dollars to the detective who can clear up this case. Why not try and earn them yourself, Cassim?"

"I will try, Tuan," he replied. "Shall I read the notes of the other robbery?"

"No; one at a time is enough. If we discover this one it may help us with the other."

As he left the office my Chinese clerk came in with a number of passes for me to initial.

In order to protect employers of Chinese labour, no coolie was allowed to leave any of the native States without a pass. Before a man could obtain a pass he had to produce from his employer a certificate giving his name and province and stating that he owed nothing to the mine or estate. This was attached to the pass, which was in English and Malay, and signed by the chief police-officer. On every road, at its junction with the neighbouring State, was a police-station, where all passes were examined.

"So-and-so, Fuhkien," began the clerk, putting the letters down in front of me, one by one, to be initialed.

What was it Cassim had said? "Ah Sing says the men spoke the Fuhkien dialect." Now, the robbers would not attempt to dispose of the stolen property in the State where the robbery had been committed. They knew that every police-station and pawnshop had been warned. They would therefore try and take it out of the country. I would mark every Fuhkien's pass and have him searched at the frontier station he tried to leave by.

"Hold on," I said; "I have not been listening to what you read out. Begin again." He did so, and I initialed every Fuhkien's pass in red pencil, those of other provinces in blue. When the passes were brought in, I also signed all the Fuhkiens' in red ink.

I then telegraphed to each frontier station:--

"Search all Chinese whose passes are signed in red ink; detain all who cannot account satisfactorily for their property, and report."

At six that evening I received a telegram in Malay from one of the police-stations:--

"Eleven Chinese with passes signed in red ink arrested this afternoon, accompanied by a bullock cart in which is a box containing clothing and jewellery and seven hundred dollars. Can give no satisfactory account of themselves."

Within half an hour a sergeant and six Sikhs were on their way to bring the Chinamen to head-quarters.

They arrived the following morning, and I at once sent for Ah Sing. As soon as he entered the charge-room he exclaimed:--

"Why, Tuan, there is my box which the robbers took away; it has my 'chop' on it!"

Sure enough it was, and it contained all the stolen property, tallying exactly with his description, even to the rolls of dollars in the "chopped" wrappers.

If ever a detective was astonished, Sergeant Cassim was.

"Who has won the hundred dollars, Tuan?" he asked.

"I have," I replied.

"But how did the Tuan discover it?"

"You gave me the clue yourself," I said. "You told me the robbers spoke the Fuhkien dialect, so I signed all the Fuhkien passes in red ink, and ordered that every man with one of these was to be searched at the frontier stations."

"The Tuan was right," cried Cassim. "Every man leaves some trace of his crime, and I thank the Tuan for proving it to me."

No defence was offered by the prisoners--they had none; and in due course they were sentenced to ten years' penal servitude each.

Thirteen years afterwards I was Secretary to the Council and Chief of Police of the international settlement of Kulangsu, in the province of Fuhkien.

One afternoon I was taking a walk on the mainland, when a Chinaman met me.

"Tabek, Tuan," he said.

As about a third of the male population of the province have at one time or another been immigrant coolies in the Malay Peninsula, it was no uncommon thing to be greeted in that language.

I returned his salutation, and was passing on, when he stopped and said:--

"Does not the Tuan remember me?"

"No, I can't say I do," I answered. "Where did you know me?"

"In Sungei Ujong. Does not the Tuan recollect a gang robbery at Towkay Ah Sing's, when one of the Towkay's coolies was stabbed? The gang was caught, and each man got ten years in jail."

"Yes, of course I remember it," I told him; "but what do you know about it?"

"I was one of the robbers, Tuan. The Tuan saw me every day in the jail for four years. I was put to mat-making."

"Oh, you were, were you?" I said. "Well, I hope you have given up gang robbery now?"

He grinned.

"By the by," I continued, "there was another gang robbery committed close to Ah Sing's and only two days before it. Did you ever hear anything about that?"

"Suppose the Tuan found out who did it, would he have the men arrested?" he asked.

"It was so long ago that even if I found out it would probably be impossible to get up a case, for it would now be only hearsay evidence. No; I don't think I would do anything."

"We committed that robbery also, Tuan," he said.

At one time or another most people have gone in for collecting things; for twenty years my hobby was savage weapons. My Malay sergeant-major took a keen interest--or, with his innate courtesy, pretended to do so--in my collection, and I owe many of the weapons I have to him. Many of them have curious histories, but none more so than that connected with two Booghis krises.

Under our paternal rule the Malay is not allowed to wear his kris. He has a keen sense of his own dignity, and he wore his kris, as our ancestors did their swords, to uphold it. The resenting of an insult by the shedding of blood being contrary to our modern ideas, however, we disarmed him.

One day Sergeant-Major Etot brought before me a man who had been arrested for carrying a kris. He was an ordinary-looking Malay, but he had a deep scar across one side of his face, from the nose nearly to his ear. He said he was a Booghis, and that his tribe lived in the interior of Sumatra; that he had only the day before arrived from there, and did not know he was not allowed to wear his kris.

The sergeant-major showed me the kris, and said he had never seen one quite like it before; he had questioned the man about it, and he had told him that the Booghis had two kinds of krises only, which they named the "male" and the "female," which were very similar to each other, having but a slight difference.

The man in question was wearing a "male" kris. I asked him if any distinction was made as to who wore either weapon, and he said that the wearing of the "male" kris was dependent on a man's valour--in other words, I take it, the number of people he had disposed of. It seemed somewhat hard on him, a stranger, to be deprived of his weapon when he did not know he was committing an offence by wearing it, so I gave him a dollar for it.

"If you come back to this country," I said, "bring a 'female' kris, and I will buy it from you."

Some two years later I was sitting in my office one morning when I heard the sergeant-major order the reserve duty men to fall in with their rifles; half a minute later he appeared before me and reported that a man had run "amok" in the village, and after killing one man and wounding two others he had bolted into the jungle.

Now an "amok" is akin to a mad dog, and can only be treated as such. As soon as the fit has left the man he never offers resistance, but so long as he is under its influence the only course to pursue is to shoot him and so stop his murderous career.

"Serve out buckshot to the men," I ordered (we were armed with Sniders), "and send them into the jungle in pairs to look for him. They are to take him alive if they can, but if he is still 'gelah' (mad) they must shoot him. When you have sent them, come down to the village with me."

When we arrived there we found one man dead, stabbed through the heart; two others had also been stabbed, but had only received flesh wounds. No one knew anything about the affair save that a man had suddenly appeared, had run "amok," and then made for the jungle. No one knew who he was. I sent the body of the dead man to the hospital to await an inquest, and the other two to the doctor to have their wounds attended to.

About a couple of hours later the sergeant-major again appeared in my office. He was accompanied by a Malay constable, who reported as follows.

He and another constable had been searching the jungle for the "amok," but, not having found any trace of him, set off on their return to head-quarters. As they were walking along a narrow path in Indian file he suddenly saw a man dash out and stab his comrade, who was in front of him, in the neck with a kris. Realizing that he must be the man they were searching for, he jammed home the breech-block, cocked his rifle, and let the stranger have the charge of buckshot in the head, dropping him dead. The wounded policeman died within a minute or two, and, seeing he could do nothing for him, the survivor returned at once to report the matter.

The sergeant-major and I accompanied him to the spot, and there we saw a ghastly sight. The unfortunate policeman lay dead, with his carotid artery severed, while his murderer was sprawled on his face about a couple of yards away, also dead, half the back of his head blown away. The sergeant-major turned the man over on to his back, and there, staring at us, was the Booghis from whom I had got the "male" kris a couple of years before; there was no mistaking the curious scar right across one side of his face.

Stooping, the sergeant-major picked up a kris which was lying close to the man's hand. He eyed it intently for a moment, wiped the blood off, and then, taking the blade between his thumb and forefinger, he handed me the hilt.

"The 'female' kris, Tuan," he said, politely.

"Jack Ashore."

+By Albert E. Craft+.

The airy assurance with which "Jack Ashore" gets into--and out of--serious scrapes has become almost proverbial. This story describes the adventures which befell a party of British seamen who went for a ramble in a Chilian port.

It was in the early months of 1896, and I was an able seaman on board the ship _Micronesia_, of Liverpool, then lying in the port of Antofagasta, Chile, where we were discharging a cargo of coals loaded at Newcastle, New South Wales. A quarter of a mile away was the French barque, _La Provence_, loading a cargo of saltpetre for Havre.

Amongst our sailors was a Frenchman, and he, being one of our boat's crew, had made the acquaintance of his countrymen on board the other ship in his various trips, it being the custom of the captains then in port to call upon each other and all to go ashore in the one boat. Thus they benefited by having the full complement of their crew on board to work cargo--which they had to do in those days, except on the occasion when their particular boat had to act as ferry.

We had been there something like eight or ten days when part of the crew of the French ship got the usual twenty-four hours' liberty in which to go ashore and enjoy themselves.

Liberty day! The one bright day in the weary monotony of a long sailing-ship voyage--the one day in which, with a month's pay in his pocket, Jack is as good as his master, when he may eat what he likes, drink what he likes, do what he likes, so long as he turns up when the boatswain musters the hands to work after the all-too-short holiday.

So, with the jingling coins burning holes in their pockets, and their hearts as light as school-boys', they pushed off from their ship. And we, knowing where they were going, stared moodily across the bay, longing to be with them.

A diversion occurred, however, when we saw the boat's head swing in our direction, and a few minutes later range alongside our ship.

Up to our deck climbed the merry Frenchmen, laughing and jabbering like so many monkeys. Soon they were in animated conversation with our messmate, "Frenchy," whom we presently discovered, by adroit questioning, they were persuading to obtain leave from our captain and go with them.

And he got it, too--minus the month's pay--and immediately set about rigging himself out in his shore clothes. This did not suit us at all--at least, some of us. Why should he have leave of absence, and we not? we asked each other. We would go and ask the captain, too.

The end of it was that we got the desired leave--five of us, Frenchy making the sixth--but only for the one night. We were given to understand we must be on board by four bells--six o'clock--next morning ready to turn to.

"And look here, Craft," was the captain's parting injunction--"no monkey tricks, mind. I look to you, as leading seaman, for the good behaviour of the rest. Further, I shall hold you responsible for these men turning up in the morning, or else"--he shook a warning finger at me--"not another hour's liberty this voyage for any of you."

Promising obedience--I would have promised anything just then for a run ashore--we hustled off to prepare ourselves. This did not take long. Throwing aside our coal-grimed dungarees, we each donned white trousers and jackets and broad-brimmed straw hats. With these on we felt equal to the best, happily unconscious of a few small rents, a missing button, or the fact that the virgin whiteness of our "shore togs" was marred by many and various stains.

But what about money? For the moment we had forgotten that. True, the Frenchmen had a month's pay in their pockets, but we had no intention of sponging upon them. Well, then, we would take some clothing, we decided. There were numerous places in Antofagasta where we could trade them. There was old Don Carlos, as he was called, whom we had heard so much about, and his Jew partner Miguel. Perhaps they were not so black as they were painted, and we had been told they would buy anything from a hard-up sailor. For myself, I was the envied possessor of a whole Australian sovereign, so you may guess my bearing was in accordance with my wealth.

"Now, then, all aboard!" sang out one of the Frenchmen. Into the boat we scuttled with our bundles, and, giving way with a will, we soon covered the stretch of water between the ship and jetty and pulled the boat alongside, mooring her head and stern.

Not a hundred yards along the quay, who should we come suddenly upon but Don Carlos and his partner.

"Talk of the old gentleman!" cried someone in the rear. "I shouldn't wonder if the old sharks haven't been watching us all the while. I bet you they know we have something to trade."

"Halloa, boys"--Don Carlos's greeting was hearty enough, as was the hand-shake all round--"going to have a little run round? That's right, _amigos_; nothing like it. Too much salt water is not good for anybody. What! no money! Well, now, that's too bad. Got something to sell, have you? All right, come along to the store and have a drink with me; then we'll talk business. Come on, now, boys, every one of you. A drink at my expense!"

For a Chilano he spoke excellent English, with a slight American intonation and accent, and had a certain geniality of manner which appealed to the simple minds of the sailors.

Off we sailed, the two Chilanos and myself in the van, and soon arrived at the "store," a combination of ship-chandler's shop, café, card-room, and billiard saloon.

Inside, our hosts were the very essence of geniality. They served us with drinks and cigars--real Havanas at that--telling us to "Drink up, boys, and have another," until we were unanimous in our verdict that they were "true blue" and not the unscrupulous sharks we had been led to believe.

A second drink was served out, and over this Don Carlos and his party made an inspection of the articles we had for sale.

By a previous arrangement it had been agreed upon that our Frenchy was to have the entire handling of this part of the programme, not only because he spoke Chilano like a native, thereby putting a stopper upon any by-play between the two merchants, but also because we knew him as a man who could drive a hard bargain.

Therefore, knowing that our interests--and our capital, too, for that matter--were in safe hands, we just lay back and smoked and drank our "piscoe," and allowed him to do the haggling. Nor did we take the slightest interest in the bargaining until our attention was suddenly arrested by high words and a long, burring curse from our shipmate. We looked up to see him on his feet, shaking his fist in Don Carlos's face--which was as white as the Frenchy's was red--and talking thirteen to the dozen.

The volubility and the rapidity with which he delivered himself were simply marvellous. We could for the time being simply sit still and gape at him, open-mouthed and wondering. Such a jargon of sounds, such a jumble of languages, it would be hard to conceive. First French, next broken English, and then a mixture of Spanish and Chilano.

At it he went, tacks and sheets, for all he was worth, never giving the Chilano a chance to open his mouth. And from it all we gathered that Don Carlos, polished rascal that he was, contended that the drinks and cigars we had received--free, gratis, and for nothing, as we thought--were sufficient pay for the "few paltry rags" we had brought ashore. And he'd be hanged, he said, if he'd pay another cent!

"Gif me six dollars, you shark--zat ees une dollar for each piece of us," hissed Frenchy; "or I vill, I vill----" He ended up with a mixture of imprecations, while his fist, thumping upon the table, jarred every glass upon it.

The Chilano was obdurate. Finding his voice at length, he swore by all the saints in South America that he would see our man in Jericho, or some even warmer locality, before he would give him a ha'penny. Springing to his feet, he ordered us all outside, threatening to call the _vigilantes_ to shift us if we did not go.

"Gif me ze monai first; gif me ze monai," shouted Frenchy, spluttering with rage. "Or return to me ze artickeels."

Seeing trouble looming large on the horizon, and remembering the captain's instructions and my promise, I stepped forward with the intention of taking it upon myself to come to an amicable settlement.

I was too late, for Frenchy, beside himself with rage, reached forward and, laying violent hands upon Don Carlos's prominent nose, gave it a pull that made him squeak like a bos'n's pipe. At the same moment up jumped old Miguel, who had hitherto remained a silent observer, and seizing a stout malacca cane, loaded at one end, he brought it down with a crash on to Frenchy's skull.

This was the signal for what followed. As the unfortunate seaman toppled to the floor, his face covered with blood, we five "Micronesias" made a forward rush.

What else could we do? I am peaceably inclined, and would rather run a mile than fight a minute; but what Englishman could stand by and see a shipmate keel-hauled for standing up for his rights, without wanting to know the reason? Good intentions, captain's orders, my promises--they all blew away like a royal sheet in a breeze.

With a "Come on, boys!" we got right down to business. The table, laden with glasses, cigars, and bottles, the chairs upon which we had been seated, as well as other sundries, instantly found a resting-place against the wall, all in a more or less complete state of dilapidation. While I and another fellow attended to Miguel and his wildly-swinging malacca cane, with the intention of rescuing Frenchy, the other three busied themselves with Don Carlos, who had now been reinforced by his man-of-all-work--a big, lumbering, evil-faced Chilano.

The Frenchmen from the other ship formed the after-guard. They did not take any hand in the fight, and for that matter we did not blame them. Frenchy was our shipmate, not theirs. It was in our interests that he had got a cracked skull, and so we had a double right to punish his cowardly assailants.