THE LOST WORLD

Lake Wakatip Mail, Issue 4452, 30 January 1940, Page 4 (Supplement)

THE LOST WORLD

By LAWRENCE STOUT

A bearded French priest attracted little attention in Singapore, which is the melting-pot of all nations. The priest was dining alone in Raffles’ Hotel when another son of France asked his permission to sit at his table, whereat these two typical French colonials began a low conversation like this: “Find anything?” “No sign of the girl.” “Only a fatuous ass like you would expect to find her on board.” “ Indeed! We did find something. The owner is a German, the mate is also a German, and there was another person on board who was locked in his or her cabin. What do you think about that?” The tall, loose-limbed man who sat at the priest’s table had registered as M. Joubert. Stretching a hand dver the priest’s glass of iced water, he drew therefrom a lighted cigarette, whereat the priest might have been seen to kick his companion under the table. “ Dolt!” said the priest. “ Can’t you forget to juggle, just for one , .i • St» " day. The younger man looked contrite. “ A thousand pardons, mon pere,” he begged. “Don’t let it happen again,” enjoined the priest severely, “ or else I’ll take away your hymnbook.” “Two Germans on board, eh? What about the Chinaman?” “ No sign of him at present, but the Germans have been shadowed.” “ Do you know who’s missing?” asked the priest’s guest. The reverend one shook his head. “A Russian agent,” said M. Joubert. “You can bet that Russia will take an interest in the plot, now that the League of Nations is on his trail.” “ No news of Richards, I suppose?” asked the priest. “ Last I saw of him was on the coast of Java, when he and the boy made their getaway from the Port Moresby. They had a rendezvous with a boat which sailed north. They might be heading for China, Cambodia, Siam or Burma. Who knows?” “Burma, I should say,” drawled the priest. “ H.Q. seem to think he’s in with the Maharadi or the Tse Fu society, or both.” -- —il-I-traced old Namru to that secret hideout of theirs beyond Bhamo. I wouldn’t mind betting that Richards is on his way there now, probably disguised. I think—l think I shall have to go there too. Yes, Digby old man, Raoul Joubert is dying, and will need you to administer the last sacraments. That evil-smelling bandit, Bo Chwang, will live in his stead. Come on, let’s be gone.” An hour later these two old friends of many aliases, Tony Phillips and Digby Maxwell, reunited in a room behind a Chinese eating house. They lost no time in transforming the French traveller into the Chinese bandit, Bo Chwang. Father Dupleis, otherwise Digby Maxwell, showed himself to be a master of the art of make-up. With a rubber dough he added the high Mongolian cheek-bones. More rubber dough and two cunningly-concealed strips of plaster gave Tony’s eyes a celestial squint. A whisp of black hair about the chin, and yellow dye in skin and on his teeth, made Tony, the typical Englishman, into Chwang, the typical Mongolian. That night a watcher at the airport would have seen a fast R.A.F. plane on the tarmac, with its powerful Rolls-Royce engine roaring as mechanics tinkered about with last-minute preparations. The pilot appeared from the officers’ mess and strolled over to the plane. The ground crew, at his signal, removed the chocks, - and the plane taxied across the drome. Soon a dark car appeared speeding towards the plane. A I passenger got out and climbed into the rear cockpit. The engine roared and the plane streaked across the ground towards the straits. For a minute it was back circling over the airport, and then it turned north and vanished over the horizon. * * * The practice of impersonation is not confined to members of the British Intelligence Service. It seemed to be the habit among the strangely assorted people whose

destinies were meeting in this quest for a lost world. The German owner of the yacht La Sourie and his German mate, the numerous disguises of “ Mr. Smith,” Wang, and his minions. Thus no reader would have been surprised to discover that those two fat Bengali Babus, Bhopa Jo and Golpat Jehru, were none other than our old friends Chunda Lai and Captain Richards. As they squatted on the deck of the crowded Irrawaddy steamboat chewing betel nut, no observer would have taken them for anything but the genuine article. Their conversation in Urdu was just what might have been expected: underground politics and small talk about the conditions of business.

In another part of the ship sat a sallow Eurasian youth, an outcast of outcasts. The few European passengers ignored him, and the natives only spat to show their contempt. The boy seemed to have accepted his lot, for he munched roasted peanuts, as he stared at the ever-changing panorama. In the early hours of the morning he heard the drone of a plane overhead. Dick, for the boy was none other, lay awake thinking of his friend Evie. What a sport she had been. It was largely due to her that he, Richard Thorne, of Paikapakapa, New Zealand, was now travelling up the Irrawaddy River, in Burma, disguised as an Eurasian. Where could she be? Had the police found her? With these thoughts Dick fell asleep. “ This, my son, is Mandalay,” said Richards, as the young Eurasian passed the two Babus getting out of the bus. Dick continued to ignore the natives, and, hailing a rickshaw, gave the coolie an address in the poorer residential section. The streets of the town were narrow and winding. The Burmese wore bright coats and saris of every hue. Dick would never forget that ride through Mandalay. The jostling crowds, the quaint shops, the palm trees growing everywhere, the great pagodas pointing their golden domes to heaven. This was the first time he had been alone in an Oriental city.

OUR SERIAL FOR BOYS AND GIRLS

Chapter XI.—THE SANDS RUN OUT

Dick was thrilled with the sense of adventure. ' Here he was, a New Zealand schoolboy, disguised as a half-caste Indian, riding in a rickshaw in Mandalay!

The clear moonlight made travelling downstream quite easy for Evie. The river was narrow and fast-flowing. Sometimes the current took her under a bough hanging over the water so low that she had to duck to avoid being hit. In the brilliant moonlight she seemed to be racing down the river at a terrific speed. At each bend the canoe was carried out towards the bank, and twice Evie nearly capsized the sleek craft.

The jungle hung over the banks of the river, making dark pools from which crocodiles growled at the swishing of the water and the splash of her paddle. It was so dark in the jungle that Evie could not distinguish the trunks of trees. The noises were terrifying; even in the canoe, Evie started at every sound. Once she saw two baleful green eyes above the water. The current, like a malicious genie, carried her canoe straight towards the eyes. Evie paddled frantically to put the canoe back into midstream, but she could not take her own eyes from those baleful green lights. A shaft of moonlight stealing through a gap in the leafy roof of the jungle shone for a moment on the bank, revealing a tiger disturbed in his drinking. The tiger growled as the canoe glided past a paddle’s distance from him.

“ Phew!” sighed Evie. “ I never want to see another tiger, not even in the zoo.” She suddenly felt weak and exhausted. A grey mist was enveloping her. “ I’m—l’m going to be sick,” cried Evie, and slumped back into the dug-out unconscious. The canoe, after rocking perilously, righted itself, and, unguided, sought the middle of the stream. Past gently curving banks it sped till the moon sank and the first glow of dawn appeared in the eastern sky. (To be Continued.)