Biggles on Mystery Island

by W E Johns

  CONTENTS

  SYNOPSIS

  CHAPTER I: OBJECTIVE PACIFIC

  CHAPTER II: MYSTERY ISLAND SHOWS ITS FACE

  CHAPTER III: THE JUNGLE PATH

  CHAPTER IV: REPULSED

  CHAPTER V: BIGGLES DECIDES

  CHAPTER VI: THE LONG CLIMB

  CHAPTER VII: AXEL TELLS HIS TALE

  CHAPTER VIII: THE FIRST CLASH

  CHAPTER IX: “KING” HARA

  CHAPTER X: UP TO GINGER

  CHAPTER XI: BRISK WORK BY NIGHT

  CHAPTER XII: BIGGLES GETS BUSY

  CHAPTER XIII: BACK TO THE SEA

  CHAPTER XIV: PROBLEMS FOR ALGY

  CHAPTER XV: ORATOVOA HAS THE LAST WORD

  CHAPTER XVI: AFTERMATH

  BIGGLES ON MYSTERY ISLAND

  Biggles and his air police, with assistance from French and Swedish members of the International Police Bureau, tackle a hot job (in more senses than one) in the remote Pacific.

  CHAPTER I

  OBJECTIVE PACIFIC

  THE four “Pegasus” engines that powered the old converted Sunderland flying-boat, on the strength of the Special Air Police Flight for remote marine operations, kicked the air behind them with a steady, deep- throated roar that might have been a challenge to anyone who dared to suggest that age had impaired their efficiency. With effortless ease they bore the big aircraft on a course north-east under a sky that would have been empty had it not been for two small thunderstorms which, far to the west, were apparently engaged in a trans-Pacific cloud-race.

  For the rest of the sky was a clear, uniform turquoise. Below and around, the vast circle of horizon that ringed the edge of the world would also have been unbroken but for a fast-fading smudge, dead astern, that marked the towering peak of Nuka Hiva, largest of the group of eleven islands known as the Marquesas.

  Six men occupied seats in the one-time military machine, either at the controls or lounging in the cabin. They were Biggles, his three staff pilots Algy, Bertie and Ginger, Marcel Brissac of the French Sécurité Nationale, and a Swedish police officer named Sven Heldersen, whose presence in the party will be explained presently.

  Marcel was there for two main reasons. Firstly, to facilitate the passage of the Sunderland through the many Pacific islands known as French Oceania, where it might have to land, and secondly, because, as will be seen, France had an interest in the investigation on which the Sunderland was engaged; for, while the ultimate objective was Oratovoa, a British possession, the island raised its rocky mass from the sea close enough to the French Marquesas to be called a neighbour. The actual distance from where it lay, just below the Equator, to the nearest of the Marquesas, was three hundred miles, but this, as distances are reckoned in the Pacific, was like being next door.

  The Sunderland was now on the last leg of its long flight from England, its course, governed by its endurance range, having been via Australia, Fiji and Tahiti, capital of French Oceania, and finally Atuona, on the island of Hiva-oa, one of the Marquesas. The purpose of this last call was to make enquiries, and to check certain information. Marcel had gone to see the French Resident agent while Biggles had paid a visit to a Chinese storekeeper, named Ah Song, whom he had met on a previous occasion.1

  The trip, at a comfortable cruising speed, for there was no urgency—as far as they were aware— about the operation, had occupied a period of just under six weeks.

  The purpose of the aircraft in such remote waters can soon be narrated. The business had begun with an exchange of notes between the Colonial Offices of Britain and France. Later, there had been a general enquiry from Sweden in respect of missing persons, this having been instigated at the request of relatives.

  What the fuss was really about nobody seemed to know. And it may well have been, in the early stages at all events, nobody cared. It was all vague and very much in the air, and as government offices do not look for trouble the file on the case was pushed around in the hope, no doubt, that it would be forgotten.

  The only information that might be called definite had come, as was to be expected considering the French possessions in the region, from Tahiti, administrative centre of Oceania, originally known to the world as the South Sea Islands. Even so, Tahiti knew little enough. All it could say was that over the past eighteen months two traders, one a Polynesian and the other French, had sailed for Oratovoa and neither had returned. In both cases the vessels were old, and small, and of no particular consequence to anyone except their owner-captains. The crews were Polynesians. But it happened that the French boat had carried as passenger a Catholic missionary, a volunteer who had gone out to explore new ground, and his bishop wanted to know what had become of him.

  There was of course no proof that either ship had reached its destination. On the other hand there was no reason why they should not have done so. At the time the weather had been fine. Both had called at the Marquesas, where some business had been conducted. They were all right then. Both were to have called on their way back to Tahiti, but there had been no news of them since. This, naturally, had led to some speculation about their fates, but nothing was done, and the mystery was half forgotten when it was revived by the disappearance of another vessel.

  A small private yacht named Dryad, owned by a Dutchman, which had been cruising among the islands taking cine-camera pictures for a television series, had last been seen heading for Oratovoa. It had called at Hiva-oa, in the Marquesas, for stores, some of which were to be picked up later. In the meantime the Dutch owner-skipper declared his intention of shooting some film on Oratovoa. Nothing had since been seen of the yacht. It had not picked up its stores. It had not returned to Tahiti. There were two women on board, the owner’s wife and daughter. Also on board was a Polynesian pilot of island experience.

  What had happened to the Dryad? There had been no hurricane. Was its disappearance in connection with Oratovoa merely a coincidence? Nobody knew. However, apparently the French government decided it was time something was done. It sent a naval frigate to have a look round. It sailed slowly round the island but could see no sign of life. It stayed for two days. There was no sign of wreckage. Following this a British Naval Supply ship had been diverted by the Admiralty to have a look at the island in passing. The Captain made a report identical with that of the French commander. There was nobody there. Actually, this surprised no one, for Oratovoa had long been labelled “uninhabited”, for reasons which anyone knowing anything about the islands was well aware.

  The main group of the Marquesas had within living memory carried a teeming population, reckoned to be in the order of a hundred and fifty thousand: but diseases introduced by white and yellow races, against which the Marquesans, who were Polynesians, had no inherent immunity, had played such havoc that the survivors were now numbered at not more than two thousand. Influenza alone wiped out tens of thousands between the wars. On some of the Marquesas not a soul remained alive, and it was thought that the same fate had befallen Oratovoa.

  Apart from disease the nature of the island itself was of a sort hardly likely to encourage new settlers, as emerged from enquiries made by Biggles at the various government departments where such information, provided by mariners and explorers, is filed for reference.

  Like all the Marquesas Oratovoa was volcanic in origin. At some unknown period in the past the island had in fact been a volcano which, before expiring to be classed as “extinct”, had blown out its centre, not only covering everything with dust and ashes, but causing the rock itself to become friable and therefore dangerous to move about on. This, it was thought, had happened long before white discoverers had arrived on the scene, so that there were no longer visible signs of the disaster. Lying near the Equator, with a regular rainfall, nature
had soon covered the scars with an almost inpenetrable cloak of tropical vegetation, that stretched from the sea well up towards the central summit.

  This, and the size of the island, seemed to be the only physical features about which there was no doubt. According to Admiralty records the island was roughly oval in shape, seven miles long and four miles wide, rising sharply from the sea on all sides to a central summit nearly four thousand feet high—a formation common to most of the neighbouring Marquesas. Sailing Directions listed two anchorages where landings could be made almost at any time. One was a small bay sheltered by the island from the prevailing wind, and the other a narrow arm of the sea that cut deep into the land. Everywhere else the seas broke heavily all the year round, due to the absence of a reef on which the ocean rollers could trip and dash themselves to pieces. Navigation was made dangerous by rocks of all sizes that had fallen from the cliffs or had been cast from the island at the time of the eruption.

  The fact of the matter was, as Biggles was not slow to perceive when the Air Commodore first discussed the matter with him, nobody was really sure of anything. Nobody could be found who had been to the island in recent years, wherefore the information available, such as it was, could only be regarded with suspicion since it was out of date and anything could have happened in the meantime. The recent official surveys from the sea meant little. Ships could sail round the island, but because the crews saw no sign of human activity it did not mean nobody was there, particularly if the occupants, should there be any, did not wish to be seen. As for the mountainous centre of the island, it might have been part of the moon for all that was known of it. The only vehicle from which it could be surveyed was an aircraft.

  Rumour is a strange thing. It is often impossible to trace the source, and no one can say where it will end. The only certain thing about it is, it loses nothing by repetition. Rumour flies as fast in the wide open spaces as it does in thickly populated areas of the earth’s surface. No one could be found who could swear he had landed on Oratovoa, much less claim that he had seen anyone there; yet rumours persisted, and on the principle that there was no smoke without fire it was felt in Whitehall that sooner or later steps would have to be taken to ascertain if there was any foundation for them. But no Department was anxious to accept responsibility for this, particularly as it was likely to prove an expensive business.

  In due course the file on the case reached Air Commodore Raymond. He, like others who had read the papers, was not enthusiastic about “carrying the bag”, as Biggles put it, when the matter was brought to his notice. They discussed it at some length, and then it was Biggles himself who, by a casual remark, introduced an angle which apparently had not occurred to anyone. It was this new approach which landed him with the job of unravelling the tangle of Mystery Island, as Ginger dubbed the place when he was told about it. He claimed it was easier to remember than the island’s proper name, and as this was obviously true, Mystery Island it became from that moment.

  In discussing the matter with Biggles, the Air Commodore remarked that the days of taking things for granted were passing. Land grabbers were at work, and islands, even the most remote specks of land, were fast acquiring a new importance as military bases. For this the aeroplane, which could go anywhere, was largely responsible. National Defence, in a world unsettled by Power Politics, made it more than ever necessary for every nation to keep an eye on its property. This made clear the lines on which the Air Commodore was thinking.

  Biggles was standing looking at the big wall map of the Pacific.

  “Well,” he replied, casually, “all I can say is, if anyone has grabbed Oratovoa and thinks he’s sitting pretty he may be fooling himself.”

  “What do you mean?”

  “He may get a shock before he’s much older.”

  “How so?”

  “Oratovoa is within a thousand miles of Christmas Island, and you know what’s going to happen there.”

  “You mean, our hydrogen bomb tests.”

  “Yes.”

  “A thousand miles is a long way.”

  “If the radio-active fall-out of an American bomb could kill Japanese fishermen nearly five hundred miles away, I don’t see why, should the wind happen to be blowing in the right direction, east-south-east, radio activity from our bombs shouldn’t fall on Oratovoa. Should anyone be there it would be just too bad.”

  Frowning, the Air Commodore rose from his desk and walked across the room to the map. “Yes,” he muttered. “You’re right. I don’t think anyone can have thought of that possibility.”

  “If we happen to smother a lot of people, no matter who they may be, someone will have to do some hard thinking to find an excuse,” asserted Biggles, grimly. “People all over the world are objecting to these nuclear tests and you can’t blame them for that.”

  For some seconds the Air Commodore did not answer. He lit a cigarette and drew on it thoughtfully. “You’re right,” he said at last. “We shall have to do something about this.”

  “Do what?”

  “I’ll report the risk to the Higher Authority right away.”

  “They won’t thank you for that.”

  “Why not?”

  “These atomic wizards would have to jam the brakes on their arrangements which are now far advanced. They wouldn’t dare to go on after a warning from you. If they killed someone, and the story got into the Press, they wouldn’t have a leg to stand on. The balloon would go up. Would they blame themselves? Not on your life! True, they might take the rap, but that would only make them more savage with you for pointing out the danger. You know how it is. If you send this file back to where it came from, with a warning, you’ll be sticking your neck out.”

  “What’s the alternative? If I say nothing, and there is an accident, it would be on my conscience.”

  “There wouldn’t necessarily be an accident. That could only happen if there were people on Oratovoa. According to this file the island is uninhabited.

  “That’s the official belief. But is it known for certain? According to local rumour something sinister is happening there. Nobody knows what. It seems to me, sir, that the first thing to do is confirm beyond any shadow of doubt that the rumours are bunk and that the island is in fact uninhabited. If there’s no one there, okay. Let the tests go on. If there is somebody there he can be warned of what might happen. If, then, he decides to stay there, he will have only himself to blame should the sky start raining radio-active dust.”

  “To get the information we want someone will have to go there.”

  “Of course.”

  “You realize who that will be?”

  Biggles grinned. “Me, I suppose. In stopping someone else from sticking his neck out I’ve now stuck my own out. I’m always doing that sort of thing. It’s time I had more sense.”

  “Well, what about it?”

  Biggles shrugged. “I don’t mind going. It’s time somebody went, anyway, if only to squash these rumours. If I’m to go I’d better get on with it.”

  “There’s plenty of time.”

  “There may not be too much should it become necessary to evacuate a tribe of natives.”

  “You think that could happen?”

  “On a job like this anything could happen. Or perhaps nothing. I shall know more about that when I’ve been to Oratovoa.”

  “Go and have a look,” decided the Air Commodore.

  And that’s how the matter was left.

  Biggles’ first step had been to fly to Paris to see Marcel Brissac and find out if he knew anything about Oratovoa, since it was no great distance from the French Marquesas. Marcel knew nothing. Indeed, he had never heard of the island. They looked at it on the map.

  “There it is,” said Biggles, pointing at the speck. “As you see, there are no regular shipping routes near it. It happens to lie in the centre of a triangle formed by the routes San Francisco-Tahiti, Panama- Honolulu and Salina Cruz to Tahiti.”

  Marcel asked for a day or two to make enqui
ries at the French Colonial Bureau.

  While he was waiting Biggles flew to Stockholm to go into the Swedish question about missing persons. There he had met, for the first time, Sven Heldersen, police liaison officer with Interpol. His story was fairly simple. It seemed that an advertisement had appeared in a Swedish newspaper offering to anyone dissatisfied with conditions in civilization a new home on a South Sea Island. To this a number of people had replied. Four had actually accepted and gone. These were a young married couple and two students. Nothing had been heard of them since. The father of one of the students was a rich man and it was he who, naturally, wanted to know what had happened to his son.

  He was able to provide some meagre information. His son had been asked to deposit five hundred pounds as a guarantee of good faith. This he had done, not so much because he wanted to escape from civilization as to embark on what promised to be an adventure. The other student was a friend who went to keep him company. All these people had presumably invested five hundred pounds in the enterprise. Little more was known. They had boarded a small yacht in the harbour. Its destination was unknown, but was thought to be a British possession near the Marquesas. Even this was not certain. The boy’s father had regarded the project with suspicion from the outset on account of the mystery surrounding it, but the boy, keen to go, had been allowed to have his way. There had been no mention of Oratovoa.

  As in the case of Marcel, Sven Heldersen had never heard of the place. When he heard that Biggles intended flying out to it he expressed a wish to be allowed to join the party, if for no other reason than he would be able to identify the Swedish nationals, if they were found, and talk to them in their own language. As there was plenty of room no objection was raised, and that was how he came to be in the aircraft.

  When Biggles got back to London he found Marcel there, waiting for him. His enquiries had produced one item of news, but this, far from casting any light on the affair, only served to deepen the mystery surrounding it. Briefly, it was this.