OUTPOST IN CHINA

Wairarapa Times-Age, 9 July 1940, Page 10

OUTPOST IN CHINA

PUBLISHED BY SPECIAL ARRANGEMENT. COPYRIGHT.

By

VAL GIELGUD.

Author of “Africa Flight” and Part Author of “Death at

Broadcasting House.”

CHAPTER XXIV. His Brittanic Majesty’s Vice-Consul at Chungking—the Consul himself was away on leave—dropped Leslie Dale’s written report on Gerald Havelock’s untimely death with a thump among the other papers on his desk, and proceeded to refill his meerschaum pipe. He was a large fat man, wearing horn-rimmed spectacles, and an . invariably benevolent expression. "Clearly ‘death by misadventure’ ” he said pleasantly. "You seem to have handled the matter with your usual depressing efficiency. Dale.’’ His eyes twinkled behind the big spectacles. He and Dale were old acquaintances. “You don’t think any further enquiry will be necessary?” asked Leslie. The Vice-Consul shook his head. “Not unless old Dithers”—in such unceremonious terms did the ViceConsul refer to his superior in the Services —“chooses to be more than ordinarily officious! And with the transfer of the Chinese Government to Chungking, he’s got plenty of really important things to worry about.” Leslie Dale nodded. “Well, what are you going to do now?” the Vice-Consul went on. “I suppose you'll be looking after Mrs Havelock as far as Shanghai. She’s a most attractive woman. Dale winced, and the Vice-Consul wondered why. “I must get back to Tan Fu on a short tack,” said Leslie shortly. “There's no one to look after the place.” "But you can’t send a girl, a pretty girl like that, down river on her own — in times like these.” the other man protested,. “Almost anything’s liable to happen, you know.” “You can put her officially in charge of the skipper of whatever boat goes,” said Leslie impatiently. “I’ve not the time to act nursemaid, Chalmers. That’s all there is to it! The Vice-Consul puffed silently at his pipe for .a minute or so without speaking. “In that case," he said at last, “I’m not sure that I can take the responsi ■ bility of sending her down river at all. Conditions aren’t normal —that’s the official phrase. Between ourselves they’re pretty bad. And an incident with the Japs involving a British girl would be as much as my job’s worth. She’ll have to stay here in Chungking till things quieten down.” “Here?” repeated Leslie. “And you say the Chinese Government is moving in? What about air-raids? Can you guarantee anyone’s safety in Chungking once they start?” Chalmers shugged his fat shoulders. “At least Mrs Havelock will be under our eye, and under the protection of the Union Jack. We’ve a lovely one painted on the roof up there—have you had a look at it?” "This isn't amusing," growled Leslie.

"Not very.” the Vice-Consul agreed. “I’m sorry,” he continued, after a pause. "But I don't see what else can be done, if you say you can’t take the time to play escort.” “Confound you!” said Leslie, not altogether unamiably. And so it was arranged. CHAPTER XXV.

However men may propose—even' arrange—it is women who dispose. There were three days before any boat was to leave Chungking on the voyage down-river; and on the second of these to Mr Chalmers bringing her the intelligence that Leslie Dale would escort her for the rest of the journey to Shanghai, Sheila Havelock gave a perfectly blank refusal. “He has business at Tan Fu,” said Sheila Havelock, with perhaps the faintest irony in her voice. “I’ve wasted far too much of a busy man’s time as it is.” “He has arranged all that witli his firm,” said Mr Chalmers patiently, “by wire.” “Oh!” said Sheila, a little blankly. “Anyway he needn't have bothered. I’m most grateful to you —both. But I’m quite capable of looking after myself.” “I can't take the responsibility,” said the Vice-Consul obstinately. “Then you'll have to take the responsibility of locking after me here,” retorted Sheila. “I am not travelling any further with Mr Dale —that’s definite!” Mr Chalmers returned to his office, with the satisfaction of knowing at last what was meant by getting a flea in his ear. He was not .pleased when Leslie Dale’s only reaction to the story was to laugh. “What’s behind all this?” he demanded irritably. “Have you been making yourself a nuisance to the girl? Why’s she got her knife into you?” “Ask her!” said Leslie maliciously. That night came the first of the Japanese air-raids. Sheila, who was staying with the Consul's sister, who kept house for him —a middle-aged leathery-skinned woman, who reminded her of Janet James without Janet's heart, of gold—had just gone to her bedroom, when she was aware of a singular crescendo of sound in the air. Sheila was already partly undressed, but wrapped in a borrowed kimono she peered out of her window. To her amazement the streets were a seething mass of people, jostling, pushing, carrying the weirdest collection of goods and chattels. They moved with heads lowered, and shoulders curiously hunched, as though expecting to be whipped. A few distracted police were engaged in trying to get lights extinguished, to prevent a complete jam in the streets. Io establish some sort of order. Their efforts were quite futile, and in any other circumstances would have appeared merely comic. i The sound of approaching engines] swelled, and swelled in the darkness overhead.

I “Mrs Havelock,” said a voice behind I her, "you must put your light out, and you must not look out of the window. I am just going down to the cellar. I promised my brother ” Sheila turned round. Her hostess, quite grey in the face, and looking grotesquely like a thin teddy-bear in a woollen dressing-gown was twittering in the doorway. "I'll follow you,” said Sheila, and turned out her lamp. The Consul’s sister sighed with relief, and bolted down the stairs irresistibly reminding Sheila of the White Rabbit. Sheila paused for a moment to collect her cigarette case and some matches: then she started to follow. But on the staircase she stopped. She was frightened, horribly frightened. To herself she admitted as much. And she knew with a hideous certainly that alone in a cellar with that rabbity woman she would quite certainly go to pieces. And if she did not, the other woman would. They could give each other no courage, those two. And she needed to be given courage, and to give it. From the far end of the town sounded the dull crash of the first bomb, quickly followed by three more. A hideous negative kind of wail rose from the seething streets. In that moment Sheila Havelock knew what she needed: the only thing she needed: Leslie Dale. She was up against Reality at last. The barriers of individual pride, obstinacy, vanity, all went down together. Nothing, no one but Leslie Dale could give her the spur she needed, whether fate meant her to live or die within the next hour or so. And careless of her dress, of appearances, of the obvious dangers of the streets, Sheila opened the door of the Consul’s house, and started to make her way to the street where Mr Chalmers lived. It was of course as a proceeding perfectly mad. In daylight she was pretty ignorant of the town's geography. At night the place might equally well have been Singapore or Chipping Sodbury. All about her people jostled, and ran and screamed. Dogs howled. Children whimpered and squealed. Two or three ineffective anti-aircraft guns, and a few gallantly served machine-guns, added to the inferno. Down the river flames were shooting up from a group of junks that had caught fire, and reddening the sky. And suddenly, like the thunderbolts of Satan, three ’planes dived to within fifty feet of the roaring streets, their guns spitting and chattering, their engines roaring. Sheila found herself running like everyone else in sight. Like others she ran as close along one wall as she could; then feeling queerly that probably the next bomb would bring that wall down, bolted diagonally across the street to run along the wall on the farther side. She felt as ants must feel in an ant heap when the. human boot thrusts its way into it. She half-twisted her ankle, thrust both hands over her ears, careless that her kimono was flying open well above ner knees, staggered on—the reek of powder and humanity in her nostrils, blood splashed over her sandals from where she had tripped over a fallen body—heading only heaven knew where!

It seemed a century, but it could not have been more than seven minutes when she reached the end of the street. For a moment she paused to draw breath, leaning against the wall. At that moment the earth seemed to split perhaps 15 yards away. Sheila felt herself picked up as if by a giant hand, whirled round, and thrown headlong. Something, whether mangled body or pile of abandoned bedding, broke her fall and saved her life. She crawled to her knees, sobbing angrily. One wrist was badly cut about. Her clothes were in shreds. She only had one sandal left, and her face was smeared with mud.

With a final effort —somehow she wanted to die on her feet —she staggered upright. As she did so an electric! torch was flashed into her face. Followed a startled grunt, and she felt firm hands on her shoulders. It was Leslie Dale. (To be concluded.)