Island of Terror

by Sapper

  “We must take a breather,” he said, “or we’ll all be cooked. Anyway, Bill,” he added with a laugh, “your boy friends you told us about in London haven’t used this route.”

  But there was no answering smile on the sailor’s face.

  “Maybe not, Mr Maitland, but that isn’t to say they’re not here.”

  “You’re a darned old optimist, aren’t you?” said Jim, lighting a cigarette. “But if they are, I wish we could rope ’em in to do a job of work.”

  For half an hour they sat there in the steamy heat. Save for the hum of a myriad insects the silence was complete. Once in the distance they heard the raucous screech of a parrot, but, save for that, everything was still. And then quite suddenly there came a sound which brought them all to their feet listening intently.

  It seemed to come from a long way off, and yet, though faint, it was quite distinct. Clang: clang: clang: it went on mono-tonously for more than a minute. Then it ceased, and silence settled on them once again.

  “It sounded like a bell,” said Jim.

  “Like a ship’s bell,” agreed Blackett gravely. “I forget if I told you that the Paquinetta’s bell was missing.”

  “Look here, old sailor,” put in Percy, “you’re enough to give one the woodle-ums, you know. This darned wood ain’t my idea of fun and laughter at the best of times, without having the ghost of a bell chucked in.”

  Jim was staring thoughtfully in front of him. There was no possibility of a mistake: they had all heard it. Whether it was the Paquinetta’s bell or not was immaterial: the vital fact remained that some bell had sounded. Who had rung it? It had pealed methodically, at fixed intervals of time. What agency had been at work?

  He began to pace up and down the little clearing. What were those things he had seen in the swamp that morning? Could it be possible that there was something in Blackett’s fantastic theory? And if so – what about Judy? He and the two men could take their chance, but the bare idea of the girl falling into the hands of some primitive race of savages made him shudder to contemplate.

  There was another point too, which had to be taken into consideration. In this dense forest they were at a terrible disadvantage. The value of a revolver was reduced to nothing, if the target was invisible. At any moment they might be surrounded by things that knew their way about the undergrowth, and though they might account for a few of them the risk was too great while Judy was with them. There was nothing else for it: they must go back. And the fact that, in any event, at their present rate of progress they could not hope to reach their objective that day, afforded Jim an admirable excuse without mentioning his fears.

  “We’ve got to think of some other way of doing this job,” he remarked at length. “This is impracticable, especially in this heat. Let’s go back to the boat and have a pow-wow.”

  “But what other way can there be, Jim?” cried the girl.

  “That’s what we’ve got to talk over,” he said. “But this is no go, Judy. About turn, Bill: you lead the way.”

  They halted for a time at the top of the hill to get the benefit of the faint breeze that was blowing, and to search the island more thoroughly with glasses. But nothing moved, save the shimmering heat haze which lay like a blanket over the whole place. At last they descended to the beach and pulled out in the dinghy to the boat.

  “Think of an iced Pilsener,” said Percy, “pouring gently down your throat with two more on the table to follow.”

  “I hope that ass Lopez has remembered to keep the drinking water in the sea,” remarked Jim. “And where is the blighter, anyway.”

  They tied up the dinghy and climbed on board: the deck was deserted.

  “Lopez!” he called: there was no answer.

  “Probably asleep,” said Percy. “Iced Pilsener,” he repeated dreamily: “in long, long glasses. Lovely light yellow beer. And instead of that – tepid water in enamel mugs. Who would be an explorer? James, you would appear to be perturbed. What ails your manly spirit?”

  “Lopez is not in the boat,” said Jim quietly.

  “He’s probably gone a little ta-ta ashore,” said his cousin. “Got tired of playing alone here, and thought he’d be an explorer too.”

  “How did he get ashore?” remarked Jim even more quietly.

  “In the dinghy,” said his cousin, and then paused abruptly. “By Jove! old lad, your meaning penetrates the grey matter. We left the dinghy ashore.”

  “Exactly,” said Jim.

  “Are you perfectly certain he’s not on board?” cried the girl.

  “Perfectly. Bill and I have looked everywhere.”

  “He must have swum,” said Percy.

  “He can’t swim,” answered Jim.

  “He said he couldn’t, Mr Maitland,” said the sailor. “Maybe he lied. Maybe he didn’t relish the thought of meeting his pals at Rio just after he’d let ’em down.”

  “That’s true, Bill,” said Jim thoughtfully. “But what about his clothes?”

  “In the absence of all our lady passengers he probably dispensed with them,” answered Percy.

  “I can’t say I saw many signs of a naked man rushing wildly about the hillside,” said Jim, “but perhaps you’re right.”

  “Well, dash it all, old boy,” remarked his cousin, “the blighter can’t have jumped two hundred yards, and since, so far as I know, he didn’t possess wings he bally well must have swum if he’s not here. And personally I’m going to get into my little paddling drawers and do the same. Come on, Judy: let us brave the octopi together.”

  “You’re worried, Jim,” said the girl quietly.

  “Not a bit, bless you,” he cried. “Probably Percy is right. You go and hit the water and I’ll join you in a few minutes. Then we’ll decide on a plan of campaign.”

  He watched them go below: then he lit a cigarette thoughtfully. And he had barely taken a puff when Bill Blackett who had gone aft called him.

  “What is it, Bill?” he said, joining him.

  In silence the sailor pointed to the little sink where the washing up was done. In it lay the fragments of half a dozen broken plates which had been dropped in a pile.

  “Well!” said Jim. “What about it?”

  “What made him drop them, Mr Maitland?” remarked the sailor gravely.

  “Ask me another, Bill,” answered Jim. “Such things have been known to happen before.”

  “Aye! that’s true, and I’m not saying it may not have been an accident.” He was stuffing his pipe from a weather-beaten pouch, and Jim waited. “Mr Maitland,” went on the sailor, “clothes or no clothes, the dago was not on shore or we should have seen him from the top of the hill.”

  “He may have been in the forest, like us,” said Jim.

  “In the forest,” snorted the other. “Not he! I can sling enough of his lingo to have talked with him once or twice. And the Hounds of Hell would not have even got him ashore here, much less into the forest. He was scared stiff of the place.”

  “Then where the devil is he?” demanded Jim, and Blackett pointed downwards with his thumb.

  “Drowned,” he said tersely. “That was no accident – the smashing of those plates. He dropped them because he was frightened to death. Something came round the corner of the cuddy, Mr Maitland, that drove him mad with terror – so mad that it didn’t matter whether he could swim or whether he couldn’t. He sprang overboard sooner than face it.”

  Jim stared at the sailor thoughtfully: was it possible he had hit on the right solution? He agreed with him – though he had appeared to differ – that the Brazilian would not have gone ashore of his own free will. And if he had remained in the boat something of the sort must have happened. But what manner of thing could it have been that drove a non-swimmer so crazy with fear that he jumped overboard to certain death by drowning?

  The dinghy had not been moved: they had found it in exactly the same spot as they had left it. Therefore this thing must have swum to the boat. And suddenly he noticed a damp patch on the dec
k just in front of him, which might have been caused by wet feet. Outside the sun would have removed all traces, but this was in the shade. And he pictured to himself the wretched Lopez turning round as a shadow fell on him: the plates falling from his nerveless hands, his scream of fear as he dashed away from the thing that had entered. And then the splash as he hurled himself overboard. Or maybe he had been thrown.

  “‘Well, my dear Watson, I trust you have solved the trifling problem of the Missing Brazilian,’ remarked Holmes, injecting cocaine into his left ankle.”

  Percy had joined them in his bathing kit.

  “He seems to have been a bit prodigal with the crockery,” he went on as he saw the broken plates.

  “Look here, Percy,” said Jim, “Bill has got a theory. And, ’pon my soul, I’m not certain he isn’t right.”

  “‘We are prepared to listen,’ remarked Holmes courteously, injecting cocaine into the right ankle. ‘But I pray you – be brief. I would fain bathe.’”

  He seated himself on the table and lit a cigarette, while Jim told him the sailor’s idea.

  “And as I said before,” he concluded, “I’m not certain he isn’t right.”

  “Well,” said his cousin, who had become serious as he listened, “granted for the moment that he is, what do we do next?”

  “If you take my advice, gentlemen,” remarked the sailor gravely, “you’ll up anchor and leave at once. You know the other name for the island, don’t you? I forget the native words, but translated it means the island of no return.”

  “Seems a bit fatuous to come all this way, and then go all the way back again just because a dago disappears,” said Percy.

  “It’s not because he disappeared,” said the sailor stubbornly, “it’s because of what made him disappear.”

  “Steady on, Bill,” put in Jim. “We mustn’t fall into the error of taking your theory as a proven fact, you know. There are at least two others which would account for things. He might have lied when he said he couldn’t swim, and in spite of our not seeing him, he may be on shore now. Or he might suddenly have been taken ill, dropped the plates, rushed to the side and fallen overboard.”

  “Come on, you lazy blighters: it’s glorious in the water.”

  Judy’s voice hailed them from outside.

  “Avaunt, child,” answered Percy. “A council of state is in session.”

  “Not a word to her, Percy,” muttered Jim, “of this idea of Bill’s,” and his cousin nodded.

  “Naturally not,” he said, as the girl poked her head round the corner.

  “What are you sitting in this frowsty hole for?” she demanded.

  “We’ll be along in a minute,” said Jim. “We’re just having a bit of a pow-wow. Now look here, you fellows,” he continued as she disappeared, “I figure it out this way. Let us assume for the moment that you’re correct, Bill. Let us assume that something made its way on board that was so terrifying to Lopez that he shot overboard. Now he was unarmed: moreover he was down here. So he was taken by surprise But we know this something that we are assuming came on board, must have swum. Even if it had come in the dinghy it had to cover two hundred yards of open water. What chance then would it have had if there had been a lookout on deck with a rifle?”

  “Not an earthly,” agreed Percy, and Bill grunted assent.

  “Now two facts stick out a yard,” continued Jim. “The first is that under no conceivable circumstances must we run the slightest risk of Judy being put in the same position as Lopez.”

  He paused and a faint smile came to his lips.

  “And the second?” demanded the sailor.

  “The second, Bill, is that I am of an inordinately curious disposition. I just wouldn’t sleep o’ nights for the rest of my life if I didn’t find out who rang that bell and why: what lies under the patch of scarlet hibiscus: and a lot of other things.”

  “You’re mad and foolhardy, Mr Maitland,” said the sailor. “How do you propose to do it?’

  “Go and have a look,” answered Jim with a grin, “leaving you, Bill, armed with the express rifle on guard over Miss Draycott here. Percy can please himself. He can either stop here with you, or he can come with me.”

  “It’s madness,” said the sailor once again. “Utter madness.”

  “Can’t help it, old lad: I’ve always been mad. Well, Percy, what about you? For the shore after lunch, or not?”

  “You bet your life I’m for the shore,” said his cousin. “But what exactly are you intending to do? Carry on from where we left off this morning?”

  Jim shook his head.

  “No,” he answered. “We started off on a false trail there. I propose that we wander along the edge of the swamp, and see if we can’t find some track that will lead us into the forest without the necessity of hacking our way through the undergrowth. We may fail: if so we can only return.”

  “And you’ll be back before dark,” said the sailor.

  “That’s the idea, Bill,” agreed Jim.

  “And supposing you’re not,” continued the other.

  “Why then, Bill, we’ll be back after dark,” laughed Jim. “Cheer up, you old croaker: Percy will be there to look after me.”

  The sailor shrugged his shoulders.

  “All right, Mr Maitland. You’re the captain of this outfit, and what you say goes. But I still think you’re a damned fool who is asking for trouble. And if you get it don’t blame me.”

  With which Parthian shot he stumped off to his cabin.

  “I say, Jim, do you really think there is anything in his idea?” said Percy.

  “That, old lad, is what we propose to find out,” answered his cousin. “And in the meantime let’s join Judy in the water.”

  Jim had chosen the edge of the swamp as the line of advance for two reasons. Firstly, it struck him that by sticking to the brown tracks which flanked the green patches they would get good going in the open: and secondly he hoped that if there were any paths leading into the forest they would find some of them there. He had not forgotten the things he had seen through the mist that morning, and he argued that they would probably have had some line of approach, since the only place they could have disappeared into was the forest itself.

  At the same time he fully realised that if there were tracks, and Percy and he used them, their chances of an encounter would be much greater than if they tried to again force a way through the undergrowth. And he was under no delusions as to the possibility of danger. They would be tackling them on their own ground, and under the most unfavourable conditions, especially as Percy, though he had practised assiduously on the way out was still a positive menace with a revolver.

  What he wanted to do if it proved feasible was to see one of them without being seen himself. Then they could arrive at a decision as to whether they would carry on or not.

  “You see, old lad,” he remarked to Percy, as they beached the dinghy and proceeded once more to climb the hill, “we know the forest is inhabited, possibly by the most harmless creatures in the world, possibly not. And in the latter event, treasure or no treasure, we hop it. There aren’t enough of us for Judy to be safe. But if they’re harmless it’s a different matter altogether.”

  Away to the north a smudge of smoke lay low on the horizon, but the island itself seemed lifeless in the intense heat. They scanned the open ground, searching for Lopez: there was no sign of him. Nothing moved, nothing stirred: the only sound was the lazy beat of the surf. And with a final glance backwards at the motor-boat, and Bill sitting grimly in a deck chair with his rifle across his knees they began the descent to the swamp.

  It was two o’clock which gave them a good four hours in which to explore and be clear of the forest before it was dark. What Jim had surmised proved correct: there was a fringe of firm soil skirting the edge of the undergrowth which gave them easy walking. In places it was several yards wide, in others only a few inches, and lapping it on the other side, save where branches of it forked out and meandered across the
marsh, lay the deadly green slime.

  They pushed on steadily but cautiously, and it soon became obvious to Jim that the track was often used. There were places where the vegetation had been deliberately forced back to give greater width. And it was in one such place that they came on their first clue. Up till then the ground had been as hard as a rock: here they suddenly came on a stretch of some ten yards where a stream oozed sluggishly over the path. It had practically dried up, leaving the soil soft and muddy, and for a while Jim stared at it, with his face growing more and more grave.

  “Look at the footprints, Percy,” he said at length. “Poor devil.”

  His cousin looked at him sharply.

  “What do you mean by ‘poor devil’?” he asked.

  But Jim did not reply: he was down on his knees studying the ground more closely. The marks were perfectly clear cut, and had obviously been made very recently. They were of two distinct sorts, and he examined them both in turn.

  The first were those of a naked human foot. The imprints of the five toes were deep, and very wide apart: the mark of the heel was even deeper showing the great weight of its owner. But it was the size and the length of stride that staggered him. His own feet were not small, but he could comfortably have got both of them inside one of these. And the distance between them was over five feet.

  The second were very different. They had been made by the toe of a pointed shoe, and the distance between them was four feet.

  “So Bill was on the right track after all,” he said straightening up. “Poor devil!”

  “Look here,” remarked Percy, “you might remember that I am not as well versed in reading mud as you. I assume you are alluding to Lopez, but you might explain your sympathy.”

  “You spot, don’t you,” said Jim, “that that is made by the toe of a shoe.” He pointed to a second trail. “You can see the alternate feet – right and left. You remember also the very pointed shoes he used to wear. So the betting is a hundred to one that that trail was made by him. Now how did he make it? How would you make a mark like that with your shoe?”