Biggles on Mystery Island

by W E Johns

  “Why take the log with them, anyway?” said Algy. “People don’t normally do that, either.”

  “Well, as they’re not here they must have gone ashore, however strange that may seem,” declared Biggles. “They didn’t leave by water because the boats are still here and there’s nothing on the beach. As far as exploring is concerned that’s the only way they could have gone.” He pointed to a gloomy-looking track running back steeply from the stony beach. With branches interlaced overhead it looked like a tunnel. Vines sprawled about over what was obviously boggy ground.

  For a little while they stood there, subjecting the landscape, what little they could see of it, to a close scrutiny.

  “I don’t get it,” muttered Biggles at last. “But I’m beginning to wonder if we haven’t treated this whole business a bit too casually. There’s something queer going on here, or has been going on, but I haven’t a clue as to what it could be. People don’t abandon their ship in a dump like this for no reason at all. Has anyone any idea?”

  No one had an idea. However, Marcel pointed out that they had only seen the island from a little above ground level and suggested it might be a good thing to make a survey from above. “These people may have decided to climb to the top of the rock and then found they couldn’t get down.”

  “Why not?” asked Biggles. “If they could get up they could get down.”

  “They might have started a landslide and been cut off.”

  “That’s possible, although it doesn’t seem very likely,” conceded Biggles. “But that still doesn’t explain why they should take the log with them.”

  “We might as well give the beastly place the once over now we are here,” said Bertie.

  Biggles agreed. “That’s about all we can do. Ships have of course been abandoned in mysterious circumstances before today, but this certainly is a puzzler. The Dryad said it was coming here. As we see, it got here. Then what happened? Where do we go from there?”

  “There’s only one answer to that and it sticks out a mile,” declared Algy. “The crew went ashore and ran into trouble.”

  “But the log! Why take the log?”

  “It’s my guess they didn’t take it. Someone came later and collected it. Possibly the man who helped himself to the stores.”

  “Maybe that’s the answer. He may have taken the log so that should a search party arrive and find the yacht they wouldn’t have a clue as to what had happened. But that poses the question: if the man who took the log didn’t want anyone to know what had happened why did he leave the yacht here? Why not scuttle her and make a thorough job of it? He’d only have to open the sea cocks.”

  “Maybe he had an idea of using the yacht later on,” suggested Sven.

  “We’re going round in circles,” asserted Algy. “We’re doing a lot of guessing and getting nowhere. Why not give the place a complete combing from up topsides and have done with it?”

  “Fair enough,” agreed Biggles. “It’s the only thing left to do. Let’s get on with it.”

  The flying-boat was taken slowly back down the narrow channel to the open sea, but only after Biggles had made a close examination of the water in front of him did he take off. He did not climb directly to the summit of the central peak, but keeping near the slopes, wound his way upwards in a spiral so that close watch could be kept for signs of human occupation.

  If the picture presented from a lower level had been one of rugged grandeur, the same sight seen from close range was breathtaking. Everywhere frowned insurmountable precipices, some overhanging and looking as if a touch would be enough to send them crashing into the forest below. Needles of rock that had split from the main body stood erect like the spires of a cathedral. Of what the rock was actually composed could not of course be determined. At the foot of the numerous landslides lay great piles of dead wood, apparently trees that had been torn from their roots by the downrush of hundreds of tons of rock. Once above the belt of tropic vegetation the island was a place of desolation. Below the aircraft now were two definite rings; the first, of surf, being white, and the second, where the trees and shrubs had obtained a foothold, mostly a vivid green.

  “I’m not much for mountain climbing at any time but I’d hate to drag myself to the top of that ugly-looking pile,” remarked Biggles once, as they neared the summit and saw a mass of rock break off for no reason at all that they could see, and go thundering down into a yawning ravine.

  “I would bet no one has ever been to the top,” said Marcel. “Only a madman would attempt it. The heat would be formidable.”

  “Too bally hot altogether,” said Bertie.

  “How could it be otherwise, being practically on the Equator,” reminded Biggles, as he drew the control column back a little to take the aircraft to the top of the peak.

  For a minute nobody spoke. Everyone stared, brows furrowed with amazement. No guess had been made as to what might be expected at the top, probably because it was generally assumed that the peak would be like most mountain tops—a point or a ridge of bare rock. At all events, that was what Ginger had visualized. Wherefore to say he was dumbfounded as he now gazed down would hardly describe his sensations. And that, judging from their expressions, applied to the others.

  The centre of Mystery Island was a crater, obviously made when the original volcano had blown its heart out. It was not very deep. Roughly oval in shape, as was the island itself, it might have been a little over a mile long and half that width at the widest place. That in itself was not particularly remarkable. Indeed, from what they knew such a formation might have been expected. The shock came from finding the crater inhabited. That was immediately apparent, for not only were there buildings—a row of houses and several detached structures—but people could be seen moving about, some near the buildings, others working on ground which, from the colour of the crops and regularity of the boundaries, was clearly under cultivation. The ground was anything but level. There was a general slope towards the centre so that some terracing had been necessary. There were rocks everywhere.

  Biggles was the first to speak. “Well—well—well,” he murmured. “I thought I was too old to be surprised by anything, but this, I must admit, shakes me to the roots. What the deuce is going on here?”

  “Perhaps we’ve discovered an unknown tribe,” offered Ginger, hopefully.

  “Unknown fiddlesticks,” returned Biggles. “Those houses are modern, and most of the people down there are white.”

  By this time the aircraft was gliding, losing height, so that everything was in plain view.

  “Sacré bleu!” exclaimed Marcel. “As you English say, what do you know?”

  Biggles answered. “One thing I know is, it will be some time before we satisfy our curiosity. There’s no place up here to land. I didn’t imagine there would be. Not that I thought we’d have any reason to land. If we’re to get a closer view of this fantastic set-up it will mean doing what I said a minute ago I wouldn’t do. We shall have to walk up.”

  “But I say, old lad, you’re not seriously thinking of doing that?” said Bertie, looking aghast.

  “At the moment I’m hardly able to think at all,” admitted Biggles. “My head is still in a spin. But we shall have to think about it sometime. For a start we’d better get back to the inlet and give our brains a chance to function. One thought that does occur to me is this. Had no one come here in an aircraft those people on the roof might have been there till doomsday without anyone knowing anything about it.”

  By the time he had finished speaking Biggles had throttled back and was gliding down to the inlet. The only remarks made on the way were repeated expressions of astonishment and disbelief.

  Biggles landed, ran on a little way into the fiord and came to anchor near the abandoned yacht.

  “Now,” he said, turning in his seat and lighting a cigarette. “Will someone please tell me what’s going on up there?”

  He waited, but it seemed that no one was prepared to offer an explanation.
/>   “No ideas?” he questioned, looking round.

  “Not a clue,” said Algy, and the others shook their heads.

  “All right,” said Biggles. “Rustle some grub, Ginger. There’s no reason why we shouldn’t eat.”

  CHAPTER III

  THE JUNGLE PATH

  THEY finished their lunch of “hard tack”, biscuits, bully beef and jam. Ginger made a pot of coffee and there they sat, some smoking, door and ports open, for the heat, even in the shade, was stifling.

  “This business now boils down to what these people are doing here,” remarked Biggles.

  “I would have thought it mattered more who they were,” said Sven.

  “You mean their nationality?”

  “Yes.”

  Biggles shook his head. “Oh no. I don’t care two hoots about that. I judge a man by what he is, not by the country in which he happens to be born. Provided he’s straight he can be any colour under the sun, and profess any religion he likes, as far as I’m concerned. There’s nothing to prevent anyone from living on this, or any other South Sea Island, as long as he doesn’t get into mischief.”

  “It’s hard to see what sort of mischief the people here could get into,” put in Algy.

  “Some people would get into mischief anywhere,” asserted Biggles.

  “The island is too far away from any air or shipping route to be of use as a military base, with the possible exception of aviation.”

  “Aviation is out of it,” declared Biggles. “A helicopter would have to take chances to get down in that crater, never mind a jet.”

  “How about a secret radio station?” suggested Ginger.

  “I looked for wireless masts but I couldn’t see any,” said Marcel.

  Sven joined in the argument. “These people are up to no good.”

  Biggles turned to him. “What makes you think that?”

  “If they had nothing to be afraid of, or ashamed of, surely they would have come down to call on us. They must have seen the plane, and even if they hadn’t watched it the sound would have told them it had come down.”

  “You may have something there,” agreed Biggles.

  “If they don’t come down, how about dropping a message to them asking what they’re doing?” offered Ginger.

  “That’s no use.”

  “Why not?”

  “Because if they’re up to some funny business they’re not likely to tell us about it.”

  Ginger shrugged. “Okay. So what are you going to do about it?”

  “What it really boils down to is this,” answered Biggles. “We can either go home and report what we’ve seen or we can sweat up to the top of that hill to find out for ourselves what goes on. And when I say sweat I mean drip. It’s hot enough sitting here doing nothing. I’d wager you could fry bacon and eggs on that rock, exposed to the sun.”

  “If we go home merely to report there’s a colony on the island, some smart guy will want to know why we didn’t find out, while we were here, who the people are and what they’re doing,” stated Algy, morosely.

  “Absolutely. How right you are, laddie,” murmured Bertie.

  Biggles also agreed. “We would probably be sent back to finish the job. It would be a waste of time trying to describe the conditions here to people who have never seen the place. It would be no use saying we couldn’t get to the top. The answer to that would be, if other people could get up there what was there to stop us going up.”

  “What is there to stop us going up, if it comes to that?” asked Sven.

  Biggles replied. “Nothing, I suppose, except that I’m a pilot, not an Alpine guide. To hoof it to the top of that lump of rock would be no ordinary hike. It would be tough enough for people who knew their way. We don’t know the way, and from what we’ve seen it would be no easy job to find it. These rocks are rotten. You can see that from the number of landslides. I don’t want to finish up by rolling down one of those thousand foot screes into the sea.”

  “Don’t forget the dogs, old boy. Don’t forget the jolly old bow-wows,” put in Bertie.

  “Oh, I’m not worried about that,” rejoined Biggles, casually. “I’m only thinking about dragging my bones to the top of that hill in a temperature of around a hundred and ten, sweaty heat, at that.”

  “It must be like a stoke hole in that crater,” Algy said. “Still, they must like it or they’d come down. If they wanted to get away there’s a perfectly good yacht waiting to take them.”

  “I’ll tell you what,” said Biggles, with an air of having made up his mind and tossing his cigarette end into the water. “We must at least make an attempt to get to the bottom of this—or, as it seems, to the top of it. We couldn’t get to the crater today if we tried; there isn’t time; and I’d hate to be benighted half way. We might make an early start tomorrow before the sun gets too blistering. Meanwhile, instead of sitting here sweltering in our own juice we might as well see if we can find any sort of path. There must be a track somewhere.”

  “That looked like the beginning of one behind that bit of a beach beyond the yacht,” said Algy. “Maybe that’s why the yacht’s there.”

  “It’d be the most likely place to find a path,” replied Biggles. “There aren’t many places where one could get ashore and if there is a track it’s bound to start from one of them. Let’s go and have a look. It won’t do us any harm to stretch our legs, anyway.”

  “We could collect a few bananas, any old how,” declared Bertie, cheerfully. “I saw some beauties.”

  “Plantains,” corrected Marcel. “Wild bananas, really. They grow everywhere in the Marquesas. They’re much bigger than the ordinary banana.”

  “How lovely,” said Bertie. “I’m all for big bananas.”

  “Don’t try swimming ashore,” advised Ginger.

  “Why not?”

  “There are some pretty hefty fish in the drink. I saw them.”

  “Sharks?”

  “I don’t know what they were.”

  “There are always big fish round Pacific islands,” stated Marcel. “Size doesn’t mean they’re dangerous.”

  “There’s no need for anyone to risk making shark-fodder of himself,” said Biggles. “I’ll move up to the beach and take the boat in to wading depth. Who’s coming ashore? There’s no need for us all to go. Someone will have to stay with the aircraft, anyhow.”

  Marcel looked at Biggles. “Are you expecting trouble?”

  “No, but in these waters a squall can blow up at short notice. Besides, the people up top might send someone down with a message, or to find out if we’ve landed.”

  “I’ll stay aboard,” volunteered Algy. “I’m nothing for jungle-trotting. I’ve had some. That forest may look like fairyland from here but I’d bet it’s as full of biting bugs as an egg is full of meat. Let them go as likes it. I’ll stay here. When Bertie has finished stuffing himself with bananas he can bring me a bunch.”

  They made ready to move.

  Biggles started the engines and nosed the machine on past the yacht before turning in to the so-called beach, which was really no more than a short, narrow strip of stones, caused, probably, by the tide scour round the headland. He went on until the keel scraped gently on the bottom. Then, switching off, he led the way ashore through water no more than knee deep. Stooping, he picked up a handful of the brash of which the beach was composed.

  “Pumice-stone,” he said. “Pretty rotten stuff at that. Rock, with all the life taken out of it by fire. There must have been a time when the whole place was red hot.”

  “Chase me round the gasworks! The bally place is hot enough now,” remarked Bertie, mopping his brow with a handkerchief already damp.

  Biggles turned his back to the water and crunched his way over the stones to the tunnel-like gap in the forest. The ground was covered with trailing vines, but there was no doubt about it being a track. At all events, there was no other way of advancing, for the thicket on either side was an almost solid tangle of ferns, trees, and flo
wering shrubs, the perfume of which mingled with a stench of rotting leaves into which feet sank at every step.

  “This track must have been cut at the time the island was occupied by natives,” said Marcel. “It would need an army of men to do it. You can see where even big trees were felled to make a way.”

  A thin buzzing became audible and an instant later Ginger slapped at an insect that had settled on his bare arm. “My gosh! Can that little beast bite,” he complained, bitterly. “Algy knew what he was doing when he offered to stay on board.”

  “It was a nono,” informed Marcel. “I was afraid we should find some here. They’re not dangerous but they’re a pest on all the Marquesas. You can’t do anything about them.”

  “Just let them help themselves to a lump of meat when they feel like it,” muttered Bertie, striking furiously at his neck, on which an insect had settled.

  “Exactly,” answered Marcel, grinning. “You soon get used to them.”

  “The little devils bite like dogs,” swore Ginger, snatching up a small branch and lashing the air.

  “Talking of dogs, I don’t see any,” remarked Biggles.

  “The boys who reported ’em must have got ’em mixed up with nonos,” retorted Ginger.

  Biggles stopped, looking hard at a heap of dead vines that had been piled beside the track. “What’s all this,” he murmured. He picked up a stick and poked it into the pile. It struck something hard. Throwing aside the stick he seized the vines with both hands and tore them aside. The keel of a dinghy was exposed, the little boat being upside down.

  “So now we know how the crew of the Dryad came ashore,” he said evenly. “Far from helping us, that only makes their behaviour more difficult to understand. Why pull the boat up here, and why hide it?—for that obviously was the intention in smothering it with all this stuff. The answer is, of course, the Dutch people didn’t do it. Not by the widest stretch of imagination was there any reason why they should do such a thing. No. Somebody else had a hand in this.”