Biggles on Mystery Island

by W E Johns

  “Never mind the rifle,” Biggles told Ginger. “We shan’t need it—at any rate for the moment, although I have a feeling we shall want it before we’re through with this crazy business.” He looked at the others with a curious expression on his face. “So now we know,” he said simply.

  “What do we know?” asked Algy.

  “These dogs are under control. They didn’t get here by accident. They were brought here. They’ve been trained to hunt—and kill.”

  “Men,” said Ginger, quietly.

  “What else is there to hunt?”

  “And what are you going to do about it?”

  “Find the huntsman, of course.” Biggles smiled faintly. “I don’t know how we’re going to do it, but this murderous racket can’t be allowed to go on. For that’s what it is—murder. By thunder! No wonder the natives are giving the place a wide berth. Well, we’d better do some hard thinking.”

  CHAPTER V

  BIGGLES DECIDES

  “WE’VE got tangled up in some queer jobs in our time but this one certainly is a corker,” remarked Bertie. “Blow me down! I’m all for a spot of huntin’, but not this sort. Dog huntin’ on a South Sea island. By jove! That’s a new one. What sort of a lunatic asylum is this?”

  “It doesn’t look like a lunatic asylum to me,” rejoined Biggles. “It looks more like a carefully organized death trap. I wouldn’t try to guess what’s going on here but someone is determined to prevent anyone from landing.”

  “Or from getting away,” said Marcel, shrewdly.

  “As you say, or from getting away,” agreed Biggles. “It could be either or both. Whichever it is it has got to be stopped. The answer as to how that’s to be done won’t come to us sitting here. We shall have to find the people responsible, and that, I fancy, will mean climbing to the top of that perishing mountain. I’d as soon be kicked as try it.”

  “How are you going to do it, anyway,” inquired Algy. “You’ll never get through that wolf-pack on the path.”

  “I’ve no intention of attempting it. I’m not asking to be mauled. We shall have to find another way up. That’s all there is to it.”

  “There may not be another way.”

  “Surely there must be. This beach where we landed is probably the usual point of disembarkation. The natives knew of it. We know they came here. One at least lost his life on that path. Natives have no doubt used that landing for generations. That, of course, is why the dogs are there. But I can’t believe there are enough dogs to guard every line of approach to the top. That would require hundreds of dogs. Dogs don’t live on bananas or coconuts. A cat can keep itself, but not a dog. These dogs have to be fed. We shall have to find a way where there are no dogs.”

  “That looks like being a stiff proposition,” said Algy. “You can’t walk round the coast because it’s either sheer jungle or cliffs. And to taxi round, in a heavy swell with rocks sticking out of it like dragon’s teeth, would be asking for it.”

  “Even if we could walk, to leave the machine here would be inviting our friends up top to come along and scuttle her,” put in Ginger.

  “Don’t think I can’t see the difficulties,” said Biggles. “Instead of everyone telling me what we can’t do, how about someone telling me what we can do.”

  “There are two lifeboats on the yacht; how about using one of them for cruising round the coast,” suggested Sven. “We shall have to explore.”

  “That’s better,” said Biggles. “I can’t say I’m infatuated with the idea because it would need seamanship to keep a small boat right side up in that surf and that’s not in my line. Still, we might try it. Even if a squall did blow up, the machine should be safe in the inlet.”

  “I’m not so sure of that,” said Ginger, who was still regarding the beach through a window.

  “What do you mean?”

  “I have an uncomfortable feeling that we’re being watched. Two or three times I’ve seen bushes move as if someone was prowling in the jungle. Once I thought I caught a glimpse of a face, too.”

  “Black or white?”

  “White.”

  They all watched for some time but saw nothing to confirm Ginger’s suspicions.

  “I don’t like this at all,” said Biggles, looking worried. “If these people ashore are capable of setting a pack of hounds on visitors, and the way it’s being done is plain murder, they’re capable of any devilment. They have only to damage the aircraft and we’ve had it. They must know we’re here so it would be natural for them to come close to have a look at us. I’m afraid this knocks the boat idea on the head. They’d see us take it and guess what we were doing.”

  “Unless we took it after dark,” put in Marcel.

  “They’d hear us. We couldn’t get a boat on the water without making a sound. Wait a minute, though. We might be able to get over that. I was going to move the aircraft, anyway. We’re too close to that beach for my liking. If these people really mean trouble they could rush us. We’ll take the machine to the widest part of the fiord and find a mooring on the far side. To save starting the engines, and using petrol which we may need before we get home, we’ll take one of the Dryad’s boats and tow her over. That would serve a dual purpose. If we were seen taking the boat it would be supposed it was for that purpose.”

  “How are you going to get to the yacht without starting the engines?” asked Ginger.

  “Swim.”

  “Not for me,” declared Ginger, emphatically. “I’m not making shark-meat of myself for anybody.”

  “The poor brutes have to eat,” protested Marcel.

  “Fair enough,” agreed Ginger. “I’m just taking good care that they don’t eat me.”

  “Sharks are rarely as dangerous as some people imagine.”

  “Don’t give me that,” sneered Ginger. “Anyone would think you liked sharks.”

  “I have the greatest admiration for them,” confessed Marcel. “If there’s one creature in the world that was fashioned perfectly for the life it has to lead, it’s a shark. Sheer bone and muscle. And when it comes to streamlining it has the best aircraft designers beaten to—how do you call it?—a frazzle.”

  “Okay. You can have—”

  “Oh, for goodness sake,” broke in Algy, impatiently. “What’s all this rot about sharks? If we’re going to do anything let’s get on with it and stop nattering about sharks as if they were film stars. We’ve only about half an hour of daylight left, and you know how it is. Once the sun dips night comes down like a blanket. At the rate we’re going, by the time we decide to move we shall be carrying half a ton of barnacles.”

  “I’ll swim over to the yacht and fetch a boat,” said Marcel, getting up. “It’s no distance.”

  The gap between the flying boat and the yacht was in fact about fifty yards.

  Marcel threw off his clothes except his slip and diving in struck out for the yacht at a fast stroke. The others watched breathlessly, and with relief saw him reach the objective and pull himself aboard. He went to the first lifeboat, looked in it, and went on to the second. One glance and he was on the rail. A dive, and he was on his way back. Nothing happened. The others pulled him in through the open door.

  “No use,” he said, wringing the water from his hair.

  “Why not?”

  “There are no oars. They’re gone.”

  “I should have guessed that,” muttered Biggles. “They’re determined no one shall get away. After seeing the dinghy we might have foreseen that the boats would be out of action. That settles it. I’m not staying here. We’re too vulnerable. We’ll find a safer mooring.” He closed the door and went through to the control cabin.

  “Where are you going?” asked Algy.

  “Back down the inlet a little way.”

  “If we go on fiddling about like this we shall find ourselves without enough petrol to get anywhere,” stated Algy.

  The engines came to life, and the big flying boat moved majestically down the creek, edging towards the far side
. It went on to the widest part, and there, with enough way on the ship to keep it just moving, Biggles cut the engines again.

  “Get a line to the shore one of you,” he called. “Make fast to a tree—anything. Buck up.”

  The need for urgency was evident, for darkness was closing in, as Algy had said, like a curtain falling from the sky. And there were rocks about. Bertie and Ginger splashed their way ashore, taking a line, making for the only open spot, which was the base of a narrow scree. Actually, it formed a tiny rocky beach.

  A few minutes’ work and they were once more assembled in the cabin.

  “Of all the daft operations this is the daftest,” muttered Algy.

  “It may look daft to you, but it wasn’t so funny to some of the people who tried to get ashore and ran into those dogs,” retorted Biggles, with asperity. “Unless I’m barking up the wrong tree murder has been done here, and a very nasty kind of murder, too. I don’t like that, and before I leave here I’m going to find out who’s doing it, and why. Make some coffee, Ginger.”

  Ginger obeyed with alacrity, for he saw the mood Biggles was in.

  “You know, old boy, I believe we could get ashore here,” remarked Bertie.

  “Up through the jungle?”

  “It didn’t look too bad to me, from what I could see of it in the twilight.”

  “It’d be an awful long way from here to the top even if that was possible,” said Sven. “It would mean going round the far inside end of the inlet. We’re on the wrong side of it here.”

  “I don’t care how far it is,” replied Biggles. “We’re not pushed for time. I don’t know how I’m going to do it but I’m going to the top of that mountain— somehow.”

  “Bravo!” murmured Marcel, his dark eyes smiling. “I am coming with you. Bon. It will be an affair to remember.”

  “That’s what I like to hear,” said Biggles, approvingly. “In the morning we’ll have a look at things. With any luck we might arrive at the crater at a spot where these dog merchants won’t be expecting us. Tonight we’ll mount guard. There are six of us so that will only mean two hour spells. We’ll draw for the order presently.”

  Ginger put the coffee on the case used as a table.

  They continued talking for some time and then drew lots for guard duty. Bertie drew number one and went outside to watch. The conversation of the others became desultory and one after the other they settled down to rest.

  Ginger was awakened at midnight for he had drawn the middle watch. Without a word to Marcel, whom he relieved, so as not to waken the others, he went out on to the hull and found a seat. It was, he found, a weird experience, sitting there alone, in the dark, the only sounds the distant roar of the surf and a lesser noise he took to be the splash of a waterfall on the side of the mountain. At first he could see practically nothing. Occasionally a fish jumped, or a shoal being pursued by one, starting ripples of green phosphorescent fire on the surface of the inlet. This was nature left alone, as it had always been. The place induced such sombre thoughts. The stars seemed to hang low in the sky.

  Just before the end of his tour of duty a crescent moon swept up above the cliff to flood the fiord with a pale, silvery light, which did nothing to enliven the scene. Inky spires stood stark and grim against the sky while one by one coal-black ravines came into view. The effect was to make the place look evil. It might have been dead, but Ginger knew it was not. A cloud came along, spilling rain, but the atmosphere remained humid. Ginger took off his clothes and had a shower-bath. Everything dripped. But all the time he watched the far side of the fiord, particularly in the direction of the yacht. He saw nothing, and at two o’clock by his watch he went in to call Algy to take over.

  Dawn, sunny and rainwashed, but with wisps of mist clinging to the cliffs, found them all on the move. No one had anything to report. Nothing suspicious had been seen or heard. Ginger made coffee and put out biscuits, sardines and tinned marmalade.

  Biggles had gone outside, taking the binoculars, to study the slope for a possible route up, for he had no delusions about what the going would be like through the forest and jungle.

  “I think it might be done,” he said at last. “It would of course be an exhausting job. The dog route is no doubt the only easy way; that’s why it’s there and why the dogs are there; for the rest, there’s not much in the way of choice. I imagine it would all be about the same.”

  “And having got up there what are you going to do?” asked Algy. “I have a feeling you wouldn’t be popular.”

  “That wouldn’t be a new experience,” returned Biggles, dryly.

  “Then you’ve definitely decided to go?”

  “I shall have a shot at it. The alternative is to go home, and I don’t feel like doing that, with the job half done.”

  “Who will you take with you?”

  “I shall ask for volunteers. Two will have to stay with the machine. As second in command you’d better be one of them, to take charge of the aircraft should the shore party not come back. But don’t do anything in a hurry. I fully expect it will take us at least a day to get up there and another to get down.”

  “That means humping food up with you.”

  “And water,” said Biggles. “I wouldn’t rely on the stuff we might find on the way. But let’s get some breakfast and pack our kit.”

  They went in. Biggles announced his decision. Everyone wanted to be in the party so Bertie had to be detailed to remain behind with Algy. With the possibility of finding French and Swedish nationals in the crater it would be necessary to take Marcel and Sven to act as interpreters, Biggles explained. Everyone would have to carry food and water, and be armed in case there should be trouble. Apart from that it would only be necessary to carry first aid medical equipment, and knives to cut a passage through the jungle should that be necessary.

  Breakfast over, all hands were soon busy at their tasks, and in half an hour the party was ready to move off.

  CHAPTER VI

  THE LONG CLIMB

  THE sun was dispersing the wisps of grey mist that still clung to the sides of the mountain when the shore party, shouldering their loads, set off on what they knew would be an arduous task, one likely to test their endurance to the limit even if proved successful, which was far from certain. It consisted of Biggles, Ginger, Marcel and Sven.

  Biggles’ final orders to Algy and Bertie were simple, and subject to their own discretion. All being well they were to remain where they were, keeping a close watch for possible interference. Should circumstances arise to make the position dangerous they would of course have to move to another mooring. Should there be the slightest risk of losing the aircraft, their lifeline with civilization, they were to take off and make for Australia from where they would be able to report by radio to the Air Commodore and ask for instructions. In the event of the shore party failing to return in four days they were to do that anyway. That, said Biggles, was the outside limit of the time they would be away if all was well with them. Should those on the mountain see the aircraft in the air they would know that the present mooring had been abandoned. Biggles thought that from the upper, open slopes, of the mountain, he would be able to keep an eye on the aircraft, or at least hear the engines should it move.

  In point of fact the first part of the journey up the slope was not as bad as had been expected, this being due to the presence of big, heavily-leaved trees, which discouraged the growth of almost everything under them with the exception of moss and ferns. The worst obstacle was the state of the ground, which was a mixture of greasy mud and rotting leaves into which the feet sank to the ankles, making progress slow and laborious. However, as Biggles said cheerfully, they couldn’t have it all ways.

  Everything dripped moisture. There was nothing like a track so they were obviously breaking new ground. If there were any birds in this forest they did not see them. The only animals were guinea-pigs, of which there were plenty. And, of course, there were nonos, with their infuriating pin-pricks. Against these
there was no protection. They were a trial that had to be suffered.

  In an hour, maintaining a diagonally upward route, the party had climbed to an estimated height of five or six hundred feet and had moved perhaps half way to the inside end of the creek. Here the big trees gave way to sheer jungle which called often for the use of knives, and in which it was not easy to keep a straight course. Fortunately this belt was not very wide. It thinned towards the top and eventually gave way to fairly open ground. Presently, reaching a little plateau, they found themselves on the brink of a deep declevity, a sunless gulf in which the tree tops fell away steeply into depths still half hidden in steamy mist. Here Biggles called a halt for the first rest. Mud-plastered and streaming with perspiration they were all in need of one.

  “We should demand double pay for this sort of graft,” muttered Ginger, irritably, as he flopped down.

  It was a gloomy, lonely place, in which they now found themselves. The only sound was the trickle of water as it splashed over an unseen cascade somewhere below. Being on the same side of the inlet as the aircraft they couldn’t see it, but in the middle distance, through gaps in the trees, were patches of blue sea. Ginger discovered that the seat he had selected, which he had taken to be a rock, was the crumbling remains of an idol, evidently a relic of the pagans who had dwelt on the island in days gone by. They had more sense than to stay here, he thought moodily.

  Biggles gave them ten minutes and then resumed the climb, still heading diagonally uphill, which again meant that tiresome way of walking with one leg higher than the other. Being closer to the summit, and under it, they could no longer see the actual peak, only the nearer ledges, grim and forbidding, inhabited by colonies of sea birds.

  They were soon clear of the jungle, with the going becoming progressively steeper. There were no more nonos, which, as Biggles remarked, was something to be thankful for. The earth and leaf mould underfoot had now turned to rock; not hard, firm stuff, but rotten lava that crumbled when trodden on, producing a feeling of insecurity. Nothing felt really solid. Nor, in fact, was it. Pieces often broke off, sometimes to roll down the hill. These, as they rolled, knocked off more pieces, so that the air was full of the sound of little landslides. Nowhere was the treacherous stuff to be trusted. Once a piece weighing half a ton broke off under Biggles’ weight to go crashing down into the forest far below. Only by a cat-like leap did he save himself from going down with it. He made no comment, but turned a wry face at the others. The perilous conditions were plain for all to see.