Biggles on Mystery Island

by W E Johns

  “There are no oars here,” informed Sven, who had tilted up the boat.

  “Which means somebody decided to put the boat out of action.” Biggles pursed his lips. “Okay. Let’s go on a bit.”

  They did not go far. Biggles stopped again, looking at something that lay in the path. It was a big bunch of plantains. The fruit was beginning to rot. He examined the end of the stalk. He looked at the surrounding trees. There was not a plantain among them.

  “Somebody cut these,” he announced. “And he didn’t cut them here. Which means that the man who cut them was carrying them. Why did he cut them and then throw them away?”

  Nobody answered.

  Biggles went on. “We needn’t go much farther,” he decided. “We’ve learned what we wanted to know. This is a track. It has been used fairly recently. It must lead to somewhere, and we can only suppose it goes right on to the top.”

  He took a few more paces, peering ahead in the dim green light that filtered through from above. He stopped again, looking hard at some whitish objects that lay scattered among the dead leaves underfoot. A few slow paces took him to them.

  “This isn’t so funny,” he announced, grimly. “Nonos didn’t do that.”

  There was no need to say what that was.

  Lying about were bones. That they were human bones was proved by a skull. Also lying on the ground was a ragged length of material decorated with a broad flower design. Nearby lay another rotting bunch of plantains.

  “This man was a native, a Polynesian, probably from the Marquesas,” said Marcel, in a tone of authority. He touched the cloth with the toe of his shoe. “That was a home-made garment many of them wear called a pareu. The stuff is tupa. It’s made from the inner fibres of the breadfruit tree. This wretched fellow met his death here. He was killed, eaten, and from the way the bones are scattered about, literally torn to pieces. He dropped the plantains, which no doubt he came here to gather, when he was overtaken.”

  “He wouldn’t be likely to come here alone,” said Biggles.

  “Oh no. There were probably several men in a canoe.”

  “Another one of the party hung on to his plantains for as long as he could, but had to drop them lower down.”

  “Exactly. If this is what can happen here no wonder Oratovoa has a bad name on the Marquesas so that the men seldom come here now.”

  “This,” said Biggles, seriously, “puts a different complexion on the whole business. I’m thinking of the crew of that yacht. If a Marquesan, who should be at home in the forest, can lose his life like this, the same thing could happen to a white man.”

  “Without a doubt.”

  “What could have done it?”

  “This was the work of a wild beast,” said Marcel. “There are no wild beasts on the islands. There are pigs that have gone wild. They will eat any¬thing. They wouldn’t kill a man; but if they found a dead body they might pull it to pieces. Also there are a few cats, but cats wouldn’t do this.”

  “There was no reason why this man should die here.”

  “No reason at all. I’d say he was killed by the creatures that devoured him.”

  “What about the dogs?” said Ginger. “We were told there were dogs here.”

  Biggles nodded. “I was waiting for someone to say that. It begins to look as if there might be something in that story after all.”

  Hardly had the words left his lips than from somewhere in the jungle came a low, ferocious growl.

  CHAPTER IV

  REPULSED

  “THAT was a dog,” said Ginger, as they all stood staring in the direction from which the sound had come.

  “It certainly wasn’t a nono, old boy. At least, I should jolly well hope not,” stated Bertie, brightly, making it clear that even now he saw nothing serious in the situation.

  “I suppose there could be a stray dog here,” remarked Biggles, casually.

  Marcel shrugged. “It is possible. Pourquoi pas?”

  “What’s an odd dog, or even two,” said Ginger, carelessly. “Let’s get out of this. I’ve had about enough of these nonos.”

  “The trouble is, the little blighters haven’t had enough of us,” went on Bertie, slapping the back of his hand.

  From this light-hearted conversation it was evident that none of them anticipated serious trouble from an animal like a dog, which is always assumed to be more or less domesticated. An unarmed native might be vulnerable to attack, but not a party of white men.

  They were still standing, peering this way and that for sight of the animal, prompted perhaps more from curiosity than any other reason. Biggles took out his automatic. “I’ll give him a fright if he shows himself,” he announced.

  As he said later, it didn’t occur to him for a moment that he might have to use the gun. He thought the report, when he fired, would be enough to frighten the creature. Aside from that he felt helpless. One can’t fight a dog, even a small one, with bare hands, without risk of being hurt; and this was no place to suffer a bite which, if it drew blood, could have dangerous after-effects. In the tropics wounds do not heal easily, and even a scratch, if ignored, can quickly become septic.

  There is no doubt whatever that had it not been for the warning growl a very serious situation would have arisen. As things were, Biggles was ready for the attack when it came; but he was certainly not prepared for the ferocity with which it was launched. Nor, in fact, could any of them have imagined what was about to happen. Ginger was thinking of one dog only, but he took the precaution of providing himself with a stick from a fallen branch.

  Happening to glance up the track a movement in the half-light caught his eye. He stiffened. “Look out!” he exclaimed tersely. “There he is! What a brute!”

  On the path had appeared a dog of the Alsatian type. It was in a crouching position with its lips rolled back to show its teeth. Actually, to Ginger it looked more like a big Canadian timber wolf than a dog. It had that cold, relentless look of hate in its eyes. In fact, he would have been sure it was a wolf had he not known that wolves do not occur on South Sea islands.

  “Watch your legs, chaps, that doggie means business,” advised Bertie. Even now from the way he spoke it was obvious that he did not suspect the sort of business in which he was soon to be engaged.

  Neither, for that matter, did Biggles. Looking at the dog he pointed an accusing finger at it. “Get off home, you,” he ordered, in the sharp tone of voice that most dogs understand.

  The animal did not obey. Its answer was to creep slowly nearer, legs bent, stomach to the ground. Then it came on with a rush, which ended with it taking a flying leap at Biggles’ throat.

  Perhaps still thinking of the brute as a dog Biggles hesitated to use his gun. Or it may be that, taken by surprise, he hadn’t time. Taking a quick, instinctive pace backward, he met the charge in mid-air with his arm, fetching the dog a swinging swipe that sent it rolling into the scrub beside the track. But it was on its feet again in an instant, snarling horribly as it came back at him.

  “Shoot! You’ll have to shoot,” almost screamed Ginger.

  Biggles did not need the advice. By this time he had realized that half-hearted measures would not suffice to deal with an attack that was not mere intimidation. Jumping sideways to dodge the gnashing teeth he fired point blank into the animal’s side just behind the shoulder. It was enough. The dog rolled over and lay twitching in its death agonies, with Biggles, his face pale, staring at it as if he couldn’t believe his eyes.

  For a few seconds, stunned to silence by shock, nobody spoke. Then, looking up, Biggles said: “I hope there aren’t many of those brutes about. By thunder! He nearly caught me on one foot.”

  “Well, you gave him what he asked for, old boy,” said Bertie. “There’s only one thing to do with a rogue who behaves like that. My trouble is,” he added plaintively, “in this heat my bally eyeglass gets all steamed up.”

  Biggles did not answer. He was still staring at the animal, obviously shaken by the suddenness
and savagery of the assault, when Marcel called, shrilly: “Attention! There are more coming.”

  The warning brought everyone to the alert.

  “We’d better get back to the boat,” decided Biggles, shortly.

  But before they could move three dogs had appeared on the path. Two were Alsatians. The other was a rough-coated, broad-chested type, rather like a chow. Rustlings in the jungle on either side made it clear that more were on the way. Somewhere in the undergrowth a dog bayed like a hound.

  “Come on. Let’s get back,” ordered Biggles again, crisply. “I don’t like this. There are too many of them.”

  They began to back down the path, pistols ready for use; but it was soon apparent that the order to retire was easier to give than obey. Dogs began to break cover not only higher up the track but behind them. Suddenly there were dogs everywhere, some silent, some snarling or growling. Bertie’s gun crashed, and one that had made a run at him limped away, howling. Marcel shot another, while Ginger, who was still carrying his stick in his right hand, fetched yet another a crack across the muzzle with a force that produced a yelp of pain. He dropped the stick and prepared to use his automatic. He hated doing it, but he perceived that this was no time to be squeamish. The situation was fast becoming desperate. If the dogs were determined to behave like wild beasts, he thought, they would have to take the consequences.

  The party was now retreating down the path with as much speed as it could make, which was not as fast as they could have wished. It was not easy. For the most part they had to walk backwards on the slippery track in order to keep their faces turned to the main attack, which was coming down the hill above them. In spite of casualties the dogs became more instead of fewer. Fortunately some stopped to tear at others that had been killed or wounded, in the manner of wolves. There was no longer any question of firing over the animals’ heads in the hope of frightening them. It was a case of making every shot tell.

  With a thrill of horror Ginger realized how the wretched native had been killed. A man, or men, practically naked, and without firearms, would have no chance at all. He also realized that they were lucky in that they had not far to go. Had they been attacked higher up the path they never would have got back, for by the time the beach was reached they were practically out of ammunition. The result was a final rush into the sea. Even then they had to wade waist deep, for some of the dogs followed them into the water. One swam towards Biggles. But there it was out of its element, and Biggles put his last bullet between its hate-filled eyes as it opened its mouth to bite him.

  And there they all stood, with Algy shouting from the aircraft asking what he should do, while thirty or forty dogs of different breeds and sizes tore up and down the beach snarling and mouthing with fury. It struck Ginger that the animals really were mad.

  There were pups among them, making it evident that the beasts were breeding, so the pack would get larger instead of smaller.

  Not until they had waded along to the aircraft and climbed on board did anyone comment on this desperate adventure. Algy of course, had heard the gun shots and seen the reason for them.

  “Has anyone been bitten?” Biggles asked anxiously.

  It turned out that clothes had been torn, but by great good fortune, helped by the fact that they had carried firearms, no one had actually been bitten. Sven had had a narrow escape with a long scratch down his leg. Blood had not been drawn but Biggles dressed it with strong iodine from the medicine chest.

  “Well, that was a nasty business,” said Biggles, philosophically. “I suppose we should have paid more attention to the tales we were told. I wonder what ails those dogs.”

  “I’ve met some stinkers in my time but nothing like that lot,” declared Bertie. “I never thought the day would come when I’d have to start mopping up a pack with a gun.”

  “We couldn’t do anything else,” said Biggles, simply. “A dog that behaves like a wolf must be treated like a wolf. I took that tale, told by the Marquesans, about being set on by dogs, with a pinch of salt, but all I can say now is they were lucky to get away. Had we not had our guns on us we should have been in a pretty mess.” He turned to Marcel. “Is this the normal behaviour of dogs that have gone wild on the islands?”

  “It has been known to happen that they have turned savage but I’ve never heard of anything on this scale,” answered Marcel, looking puzzled. “Some time ago there were rumours of wild dogs hunting on the top of Hiva-oa, one of the Marquesas. People used to go up to tap the wild rubber that grows on the plateau, but the dogs made it too dangerous. It was impossible to sleep at night. It was necessary to light a big fire and sit by it. That was the story. I didn’t pay much attention to it, having no reason to. I’ve never heard of wild animals, dogs, cats or cattle, coming down to sea level.”

  “I only hope this doesn’t account for the disappearance of the Dutch people who came on the yacht,” said Biggles, looking worried. “If they went wandering up that path with nothing more effective than a camera in their hands—well, anything could have happened to them.”

  “Maybe it’s the dogs that prevent the people up top from coming down to the sea,” surmised Ginger.

  “That’s what I’ve been wondering,” said Biggles. “But there’s another angle to that. Those dogs might have been turned loose with the definite object of discouraging visitors.”

  “What makes you think that?”

  “I feel there are too many dogs for the pack to be accidental. We killed several, but there must have been close on forty on the beach at the finish.”

  “That raises the question, which were here first, the people or the dogs,” put in Algy. “I don’t see how the people on top could have got there had the dogs been here in force when they arrived.”

  “And now they’re there they can’t get down on account of the brutes,” contributed Ginger.

  Biggles shook his head. “I don’t think that’s the answer. Don’t you remember that in the tale we were told about the dogs there was mention that a man heard shouting. It was a minor point at the time, but it now suggests to me the possibility of the dogs being under control. That is to say, they can be let out and allowed to run wild but will go back to kennels when told to do so. This machine must have been seen when we flew over the crater. If it was realized that we had landed, what more natural—if my theory is correct—than that the dogs should be freed to prevent us from getting far ashore. Years ago they used to keep packs of hounds to hunt down runaway slaves.”

  “Are you suggesting that the same sort of thing could be happening here?” asked Sven.

  “I don’t know. Something of the sort, perhaps.”

  “But look here, old boy, tell me this,” requested Bertie. “First of all, why should the johnnies on top have any objection to anyone landing? Do they think the bally place belongs to them?”

  “That,” said Biggles, “is what I intend to find out.”

  “But how are you going to get past the dogs?”

  “The dogs will have to be shot.”

  “But you can’t shoot dogs in cold blood,” protested Ginger.

  “These are not ordinary dogs,” retorted Biggles. “I’d put them in the same category as dangerous wild beasts. From the way they behave they might as well be tigers. Make no mistake, they’re man-eaters. We’ve seen some of their work. They will have to be destroyed by somebody, some time. They can’t be allowed to go on like this. Anyone is likely to land here, brown men or white. We know of one canoe-load of natives who were driven here by a storm. They were lucky enough to get back to their canoe otherwise we wouldn’t have heard about it. I’m afraid another lot weren’t so lucky—or not all of them. We saw the bones of one on the path. That could happen again. The island is British so the responsibility is ours, and before I leave here I shall see to it that this sort of thing doesn’t happen again. If nothing is done the brutes will completely overrun the place. Whether they got here by accident or whether they were put here makes no difference. Are th
ey still on the beach?”

  Ginger looked out of the window. “Yes. Some of them.”

  “It is my opinion that these dogs were put here deliberately,” said Marcel.

  “I’m inclined to think so, too,” returned Biggles. “Look at the breeds. Alsatians and Chows. Both heavy types. Both can be savage. How could they have got here by accident? People have been known to take a dog cruising with them, but not that sort. No large ships come anywhere near. A trader might call, but what trader would clutter himself up with a hound that needs a pound or more of meat a day to keep it fit? Actually, as this island has been uninhabited for years a trader has no reason to call. The only people likely to come are natives; looking for water, plantains, coconuts, breadfruit or perhaps wild vanilla beans. Once in a while a shipwrecked sailor might come ashore. Once in a blue moon a yacht like the Dryad might put in. Wherefore I say that as to our certain knowledge these dogs are killers they’ll have to be destroyed, as they would be at home. It will be a nasty business but I can see no alternative.”

  The others reluctantly agreed.

  Biggles stood up. “Look at ’em,” he muttered, and all eyes went to the beach where the animals were either squatting on their haunches, tongues lolling, staring at the aircraft, or pacing up and down like caged lions.

  “Pass me the rifle,” Biggles told Ginger. “Let’s get on with the beasdy business.”

  While the others stood watching the beach while they waited for Ginger to bring the rifle from its locker, suddenly, quite clearly through the sultry air, came a shrill whistle; or rather, a series of short sharp blasts. The sound came from the jungle well up the flank of the mountain, but it was not possible to locate it exactly.

  That the dogs had heard the whistle, and understood what it meant, was evident from their behaviour. Those that had been sitting sprang to their feet, and presently, with many a backward glance, the whole pack was on its way back up the path. In a minute there was not a dog in sight.