by W E Johns
Swenson glared at Axel. “Squealer, eh?”
“It seems to me that he has good reason to complain,” said Biggles, evenly. “And, by the same token, you have something to explain.”
“We’ll see about that,” growled Swenson. He jerked a thumb at Axel. “Come on, you.”
“Stay where you are, Axel,” said Biggles, quietly.
“You’ll do as I tell you if you know what’s good for you,” Swenson rasped, looking at Axel.
“If he knows what’s good for him he’ll stay here,” said Biggles, getting up. “Aside from that, from now on I’m giving the orders here. Sit still, Axel.”
Swenson stared at Biggles. “So you’re giving the orders,” he sneered.
“That’s what I said. You’d better go back to Hara and tell him I’m on my way to see him. He appears to have been doing as he liked here, but that’s finished.”
“You’re going to tell us what we can do?”
“I’m going to tell you what you can’t do. Incidentally, be a little more careful how you handle that rifle. Point it where you like—but not at me.”
“Afraid there might be an accident, eh?”
“It could happen. I’m just warning you to see that it doesn’t. Now, unless you have any more to say, I suggest you go back to your boss and tell him I’m on my way.”
For a little while Swenson stood looking at Biggles as if he couldn’t believe his ears. Biggles’ calm assurance may have been something new in his experience. Then he drew a deep breath and began slowly to walk away. But he didn’t go far. Perhaps six paces. Then, whirling round, he swung up the rifle and fired.
Biggles moved just as fast. He jumped sideways and the crack of his automatic came within a split second of the report of the rifle. Swenson stumbled. He dropped the rifle to clutch at his shoulder, staggering backwards. Biggles shouted a warning. All the others leapt to their feet in alarm, for the wounded man had swayed perilously near the brink of the ravine, which apparently he had forgotten was there. There was no time to do more than that. Swenson went backwards over the edge. There were three or four seconds of brittle silence and they heard the body crash into the trees far below. With one accord they all ran to the brink of the chasm and looked down. Nothing could be seen of the man who had fallen. The only sound was the trickle of running water under the trees.
Axel turned a white shocked face to Biggles. “You’ve killed him!” he said.
“I won’t accept that,” answered Biggles, whose face had lost some of its colour. “He was responsible for what happened. Twice he pointed that rifle at me and I gave him fair warning not to do it again. After all,” he went on bitterly, “what am I supposed to do when I know a man contemplates murder? Stand still and let him shoot me?”
“Mon Dieu!” muttered Marcel. “I never saw a man move faster than you did.”
“I was ready. I knew what he was going to do.”
“How?”
“From the way he held that rifle when he turned to go. Moreover, I saw in his eyes what he intended. He had been weighing up his chances all the time he was talking to me. When dealing with a man of that type always watch his eyes. He nearly got me, even so, and would have done had he taken time for a better aim. I felt the wind of his bullet on my cheek.”
“Are you going down to look for him?” asked Sven.
“We’ve no way of getting down.”
“You think he’s dead?”
“He couldn’t have survived that fall.”
“He may not have realized you had a gun,” said Axel.
“In that case there was even less excuse for what he did. It means he tried to shoot an unarmed man. From what you tell us, Axel, he’s done that before. This time it didn’t come off, and, frankly, I’m not such a hypocrite as to pretend I’m sorry for a man who, for no justifiable reason, tried to murder me. That’s all I have to say about it.”
“Well, we’ve one villain less to deal with,” remarked Marcel, practically. “What do we do next?”
“Pick up that rifle, Ginger, it may come in handy,” ordered Biggles. “Particularly if there are any more up here of Swenson’s type,” he added.
“What’s the next move?” asked Ginger, as he obeyed.
“We’ll go on and tell Hara what has happened.”
Ginger blinked. “You’re not thinking of going into the crater!”
“I shall have to, sooner or later. There’s no hurry about it. I wasn’t prepared for anything quite like this. The situation calls for some hard thinking. I suppose the sensible thing to do would be go home and report; but if we did that it might be weeks before official action was taken. We should be some time getting home. Then there would be discussions. More time lost. I don’t suppose there’s a British Naval craft within a thousand miles. We can’t leave these unfortunate dupes of Hara here for weeks, perhaps months. In that time anything could happen to them. Let me think.”
Biggles lit a cigarette.
He thought for some time. Then he said: “If this man Hara is as trigger-happy as Swenson it would be silly to order him to do what we have no power to enforce. It would also be unwise to leave ourselves without a line of communication with the aircraft. I’m thinking about those dogs. It seems likely that we shall have to go back the way we came. What I suggest, therefore, is this. I’ll go on alone, or, if he’ll come with me, with Marcel. I choose Marcel because there are several French nationals here, whites as well as Marquesans. I propose dealing with the situation like this.” Biggles stubbed his cigarette end on a rock.
“Ginger, you’ll stay here, or out of sight a little lower down, and keep watch for us to return. You may have to cover our retreat if we come back with more haste than dignity. That could easily happen. You can have Swenson’s rifle. Axel will stay with you so that you can take turns at resting. It may be convenient to keep him here anyway, because he knows his way about the crater and in an emergency could act as guide. Sven will return to the aircraft, report what has happened here and stand at alert all the time. If Marcel and I don’t come back Algy will have to go for help, although I’d rather not do that if it can be avoided.”
“What do you think you and Marcel can do against that gang if they get tough?” inquired Ginger, a suspicion of sarcasm in his voice.
“There wouldn’t be much we could do,” admitted Biggles. “If I can get to this man Hara and talk to him I may be able to make him see sense. I shall tell him the game is up. He can’t buck the governments of Britain, France, Sweden and Holland. Unless he really is out of his mind he’ll realize that. If he was fool enough to bump us off he’d have to pay. If he’ll listen to reason, all I shall ask is that he’ll allow those people, who want to go, to leave without any fuss. That will mean calling off these infernal dogs. He himself, and those who want to stay, can carry on pending a decision by the government as to whether or not they should be allowed to remain here. That, of course, would mean him giving an undertaking to stop this dog racket, thus making the island safe for visitors. No one is likely to interfere with him in the crater. I can’t say fairer than that. I realize I’m taking a chance in calling on a man who may be a lunatic, but nothing can be done unless I get in touch with him.”
“You can’t knock sense into a madman,” said Sven.
Biggles agreed. “I’d like to settle this affair without any more bloodshed, if it’s possible. The alternative to handling the thing quietly would probably mean sending along a troop of marine commandos to take the place by force. That would start something. With the whole world on the boil and ready to scream at every little incident Oratovoa would become a headline in every newspaper. There would be questions asked at U.N.O.. Some of these people, in fact, the ringleaders, are Americans. The U.S. government will scream if they’re touched.”
“What about Swenson?” asked Ginger. “I imagine he was an American.”
“He won’t talk, much less scream,” replied Biggles, grimly. “He’ll be the subject of a secret report whe
n I get home. You all saw what happened. As for Hara, I don’t see how he can say anything without implicating himself in what appears to be a bare-faced scheme for getting money under false pretences. Remember, those dogs have been responsible for the death of at least one man.”
“He could say they didn’t belong to him,” Ginger pointed out.
“Axel would bear witness against that. I have a feeling that the Americans here, those who are here from choice, won’t want to get involved with their government, who may know more about them than is good for them.” Biggles looked around. “Has anyone anything to say or are we agreed on the plan?”
Nobody had an alternative scheme, although it was evident that they held Biggles’ proposal to be risky, to say the least of it, even though, as he argued, he was an official representative of the British Government.
“All right, Sven,” said Biggles. “You move off. You might just get back to the plane in daylight. Mind how you go.”
Sven set off towards the spot from which they had emerged to their present position and was soon out of sight over the brow of the hill.
Ginger shouldered the rifle. “Come on, Axel, let’s get in position,” he said. Then, looking at Biggles, “How long are we to stay if you don’t come back?”
“Give me twenty-four hours, anyway,” decided Biggles. “If I’m not back by the end of that time you’ll know Hara is being awkward, in which case you’ll have to use your initiative. Your best plan might be to make for the aircraft and rejoin the others. Don’t show yourselves over the lip of the crater in daylight. Your trump card is that Hara doesn’t know you’re here.”
“Okay.” Ginger went off, accompanied by Axel.
Biggles looked at Marcel “Are you coming with me? Don’t feel that you have to.”
“But certainly I shall come with you, old cabbage,” declared Marcel.
“Good. Then let’s get along and hear what King Hara has to say for himself.”
They set off up the last incline towards the rim of the crater.
Before they had reached it, however, two men had appeared farther along against the skyline. When they saw the visitors they turned and ran towards them. Biggles and Marcel, taking no notice, continued to walk forward without changing their pace.
It could soon be seen that the two men running towards them were dark-skinned, and since they carried canes were obviously two of the guards. They slowed down as they drew near, presumably at a loss to know what to do when they observed that the white men were strangers.
Coming within speaking distance one said: “We’se heard shootin’.”
“You did,” confirmed Biggles. “A man was shot.” He pointed. “He fell into that ravine.”
“Who—who was dis man?”
“A man named Swenson.”
“Who shot him?”
“I did. If he was a friend of yours you’d better see about finding him.”
From the way the men stared at Biggles with glassy eyes and sagging jaws it was clear that they were dull-witted fellows who found the situation beyond them. For this Biggles’ off-hand manner may have been partly responsible. They stared at the ravine, then back at Biggles.
“Where’s you g’win,” one managed to get out.
“We’re going to see Mr. Hara,” answered Biggles. “Do you know where he is to be found?”
“Sure.”
“In that case you can show us the way to him. Lead on.”
“Sure. Sure boss,” said the black, uncomfortably.
Biggles smiled faintly and walked on.
CHAPTER IX
“KING” HARA
THE two white men, with the guards walking near taking frequent furtive glances at them, reached the top of the final rise, and there, falling away in a gentle slope before them was their objective, the crater and the settlement hidden away inside it.
Biggles stopped to make a thorough survey of the place. It was clear that a considerable amount of work had been done and more was in progress: men were still working, sometimes alone or in pairs, and occasionally in little groups watched by their taskmasters. How they were able to do manual labour in such stifling heat posed a question, although according to Axel there was no alternative. It was a case of work or starve. The village, if the few permanent buildings could be so described, was a quarter of a mile further on, plain to see in the noonday sun. Sometimes a man walked from one building to another, otherwise there was no sign of activity.
“What do you make of it, old fox?” asked Marcel.
Biggles raised a shoulder. “Had Axel not told us it would have been hard to guess. I’ll keep an open mind about the real purpose of this establishment until I’ve had a word with the man who’s running it. I’m not expecting to get much satisfaction from him because I suspect he’s round the bend, as we say; but we must give him the benefit of the doubt. No normal man would live from choice in what must be one of the hottest spots on earth to say nothing of being one of the most difficult to reach. The man must either be hiding from somebody or something or we’re faced with dealing with a fanatic. We should soon know the answer.”
They walked on, one of the guards now hurrying ahead presumably to give warning of their approach. Biggles did not attempt to stop him. The supposition was confirmed when the guard ran into the largest building to emerge a moment later accompanied by three other men. They all stood just outside the door, watching and waiting. Two were white men.
Biggles, with Marcel at his elbow, walked up. “Where’s Doctor Hara?” he inquired.
“The King is inside, resting,” answered one of the white men, speaking with a strange accent.
“I’m sorry to disturb him but I want to talk to him,” said Biggles, curtly. “And don’t give me this King nonsense. I haven’t come here to play games.”
“This is no game, as you’ll find out,” said the man, glaring at Biggles with cold hostility. “You can’t give orders to the King.”
“What are you—the Prime Minister?”
“Yes.”
Biggles flickered a smile at Marcel. “It looks as if, like Alice, we’ve dropped into Wonderland.” He turned back to the spokesman of the party. “Would your name by any chance be Ronbach?”
“It would.”
“What office did Swenson fill?”
“Minister of Works.”
“Well, you’d better see about appointing a new one.”
“What do you mean by that?”
“Swenson’s met with an accident. I doubt if he’ll be coming back.”
“Where is he?”
“The last I saw of him he was going backwards over a ravine. Your two coloured slave masters know the place. But that’s enough of this nonsense. Tell Hara to lay off this pantomime stuff for a little while and we may come to terms.”
After a brief hesitation the man went into the building, but was back within a minute. “The King will see you,” he announced.
“That’s very kind of him,” acknowledged Biggles, with biting sarcasm.
With Marcel keeping close he followed the man into the building.
There was not much of a King’s palace about the room in which they found themselves. The walls were whitewashed and as bare of decoration as those of a hospital ward. At the far end there was a low dais on which had been mounted, in the manner of a throne, a large gilded chair. There was a less important chair on either side. In front of the chairs was a bench, strewn with papers. There was an inkstand and a lamp among other odds and ends. On the throne, dressed in a white garment in the style of a bath robe was the self-appointed King of Oratovoa.
He was a big man of between fifty and sixty years of age, clean shaven, with a high dome of a forehead even allowing for frontal baldness. His face was large and square and fell into heavy lines. The nose was prominent. Dark glasses, horn-rimmed, concealed his eyes. Taken altogether it was a strong face.
In dead silence Biggles walked right up to the dais, pulled down the two empty chairs, sat in one an
d offered the other to Marcel. “I’m sure you won’t mind, but I’ve just had a long walk and I’m rather tired,” he said, casually.
Ronbach and his companions, recovering from their surprise at this presumption, strode forward as if to do something about it; but the King raised a hand and they stopped.
Looking at Biggles, in a deep hard voice he asked: “Who are you and what do you want?”
Biggles answered. “I’ll tell you, and if you can’t be civil I’d advise you not to be rude. My name is Bigglesworth. Briefly, as a representative of the British Government I was sent here in the first place to warn anyone resident on the island that, as it comes within possible range of nuclear tests, there may be a danger of radioactive contamination.”
“Then take your infernal tests somewhere else,” shouted the self-styled King.
“I haven’t finished yet,” went on Biggles, imperturbably. “I have told you what was my duty in the first place. That now becomes secondary. Since I arrived here I have received information that a number of people, of several nationalities, are being detained here against their will.”
“Who told you that?”
“Who told me is of no importance.”
“Do you believe it?”
“I do.”
“What are you going to do about it?”
“That, to some extent, depends on you. One thing is certain. You can’t go on with this. What exactly are you doing here?”
“So you want to know what I am doing?”
“Yes.”
“And if I refuse to tell you?”
“It will make little difference. I shall return home and report to my government certain facts that have already been brought to my notice, in which case, unless you have an acceptable explanation, you may find yourself facing some serious charges.”
“Such as?”
“Piracy, abduction, obtaining money under false pretences, and possibly murder. I could have returned home at once with this information but decided first to hear if you have an explanation to offer.”
“Would it interest you to know that I am engaged in an experiment which may be the salvation of the human race?”