Biggles on Mystery Island

by W E Johns

  “Of course.”

  “Did they pay £500 apiece?”

  “No. They knew nothing about what was going on here. But King Hara grabs anyone who lands, either because he’s afraid of being reported or because it fits in with his scheme for establishing a colony.”

  “What’s the nationality of this man Hara?”

  “He talks like an American. So do his friends, the people who help him to run the place. There are one or two Americans among the prisoners, too, curiously enough, although we are a mixed lot. There’s a Chinese, a Jap, a Malay, some Polynesians and one or two mixed breeds.”

  “I see. Carry on.”

  “After we left Sweden we picked up several other people who were mad enough to believe in the scheme —an Englishman and his wife, two Frenchmen—one young and one old—a Spaniard and several others. There were twelve of us by the time we got here. We also picked up stores, so that by the time we arrived we were loaded to capacity. Our last port of call was Papeete, in Tahiti.”

  “So by that time Hara had picked up six thousand pounds.”

  “I suppose so.”

  “When you called at Tahiti you still had no suspicion that the scheme wasn’t genuine?” questioned Biggles.

  “I still wouldn’t swear that it’s a complete fraud. Conditions on board the Liberta were not bad. We had no complaints, except that we were a bit crowded. Martin and I were enjoying the adventure, and I think some of the others were, too. I was doing what I always wanted to do, make a long sea voyage to see distant parts of the world.”

  “Was Hara on the Liberta?”

  “No. We only met him after we got here. In charge on board the yacht was the skipper, a man named Ronbach. He’s here now. He struck me as a queer type. That goes for the crew—but then, one wouldn’t expect to find normal people on such a venture. It wasn’t the Liberta’s first trip for colonists and stores. We learnt that from people when we got here. It wasn’t until after we had left Tahiti that the atmosphere began to change. By then, of course, with no more ports of call, we were helpless.”

  “In what way did things change?”

  “The skipper became a domineering bully. It wasn’t only that he made us work. I didn’t mind that. It was the way he gave orders. Refusal to obey meant no rations. We didn’t like that but there was nothing we could do about it. The attitude of the crew changed, too. Hitherto we had been treated like paying passengers, which in fact we were. Now the crew let us see they were the bosses. By the time we got here most of us had had enough and were wishing we hadn’t come. We suspected there was a trick in it. When we reached the island, and saw the sort of place it was, we were pretty sick. It wasn’t the sort of place we’d imagined.”

  “I can believe that,” put in Biggles, dryly.

  “I thought we were going to be marooned and left to get home as best we could, having lost our money; but I was wrong. We landed, and were made to march up that dreadful hill, carrying loads of stores. The crew carried nothing. They seemed amused by our indignation.”

  “What about the dogs. Did you see them?”

  “Yes, we saw them, but they didn’t touch us.”

  “Then they must be under control.”

  “Yes. Two men, an American and a Mexican, have charge of them. They feed them, and set them on anyone who lands. Not that that happens very often. The real purpose of the dogs is to prevent us from getting down to the sea. There are more dogs here now then when we came.”

  “What happened when you got to the top?”

  “We were marched into the crater. You can imagine how we were feeling. We still didn’t know what was in store for us. All we knew was that our beautiful dream of lying on a tropic beach nibbling coconuts had become a nightmare. When we got to the huts—there were no houses here then—Hara and his guards were waiting for us. Hara himself was dressed up like a king in a pantomime. He made a speech of welcome and told us that if we behaved ourselves we should be very happy, and so on, but if we tried to leave the place we would be punished—if we weren’t torn to pieces by the dogs. He needn’t have bothered to tell us because we soon learnt from the people already there what sort of trap we’d stepped into. We were prisoners with no hope of getting away. That’s all there was to it.”

  “Does this man Hara still insist that he’s starting a colony?”

  “Oh yes. We have our own flag—blue with a white star. It’s hoisted every morning, with a ceremony.”

  “You don’t think Hara’s idea is simply a way of making easy money?”

  “He must have collected quite a lot of money even though some has been spent on stores, but I have a feeling there’s more to it than we know even now. He says the plan is to make the island self-supporting. We’ve nearly reached that stage now, although the diet is monotonous. Cereals, mostly, with canned meat and vegetables once a week. I believe he wants this place for some purpose of his own. When we’ve served his purpose anything is likely to happen.”

  “How long has this been going on?”

  “Seven or eight years at least.”

  “Where’s Hara’s yacht, the Liberta, now? I didn’t see it below.”

  “He’s lost it. It was wrecked on its last trip. It returned here as a hurricane was blowing up and in trying to get into the fiord hit a rock and went to the bottom. The crew and most of the passengers got ashore by swimming. Two Americans were drowned. On that occasion the Liberta had been to the United States. We heard from the Dutch people that their yacht Dryad was below. We believe Hara seized them to get possession of the Dryad to replace the Liberta.”

  “Tell me more about this man Hara,” requested Biggles.

  “I don’t really know what to make of him,” confessed Axel. “If he isn’t mad he’s a crank, unless of course he had a reason for running away from civilization. He talks and can behave like a gentleman, but he can be a brute. He’s a man of education. I should have told you he’s a doctor. He was called Doctor Hara before he took it into his head to promote himself to King. He may or may not be qualified, but he certainly knows a great deal about medicine. My own opinion is, he was a professional doctor in the United States until either he got into some serious trouble or went queer in the head. What sane man would banish himself to a place like this? Sometimes I feel he only intends to stay here until he’s collected a fortune. On the other hand, there’s no doubt he’s interested in what he calls his experiment.”

  “What’s that?”

  “This colony idea. It won’t be just an ordinary colony. He tells us that by mixing all the different types of men and women there will one day emerge a race of supermen combining the best qualities of them all. The original natives, he says, were the perfect natural product of the islands, but because they had no immunity against the white man’s diseases they died out.”

  “That’s true, anyway,” interposed Biggles.

  “Hara says he hopes to repopulate the island with a mixture of black, brown and white, that will have an inherent resistance to all diseases. In course of time, when civilization has blown itself to pieces with atom bombs, such men could become rulers of the world.”

  “He’s nuts,” muttered Ginger.

  “It is a fact that if any colonist of any colour develops anything like a malignant disease he disappears.”

  Biggles frowned. “Do you mean he’s murdered?”

  “I don’t know. All I can say is he disappears. We never see him again. The last one to go like that was a Chinese, a nice little chap named Ling-On. He showed symptoms of leprosy. White men here can pick up the diseases of the coloured races as well as vice versa. The result of this is, if anyone is ill he daren’t say so for fear of being put down like a sick dog or an old horse.”

  “What does this man Hara look like?”

  “He’s about fifty, tall and well built. Going bald in front. Wears horn-rimmed glasses. You can’t mistake him because he wears a crown.”

  “A crown!” Biggles looked incredulous.

 
“Yes. A gold, or gold-painted, circlet. He dresses in a white robe like a bath gown, so that if it wasn’t for his glasses he’d look like an ancient Roman emperor.”

  “The man must have a screw loose, to say the least,” remarked Biggles.

  “You wouldn’t think so to talk to him,” rejoined Axel. “He can talk about anything. He’s well up in the classics and is fond of quoting them. If he’s mad he doesn’t suspect it.”

  “No madman ever does,” returned Biggles. “He has probably convinced himself that this experiment of his is all for the good of mankind.”

  “Oh yes. He believes that. He makes no secret of it.”

  “What do you colonists do with yourselves all day?”

  “We have to work. People have different tasks according to their ability. Some build houses. That means crushing the rock to powder and mixing it with water to make a sort of cement. It is moulded into the shape of a brick and allowed to dry. Timber is brought up from the forest. Some people work in the fields, raising yams, maize, millet, and so on. The Frenchmen have a vineyard to tend. We are about to make our own wine. The women do the cooking. People like me are simply general labourers. One of my jobs is to collect plantains, bread-fruit and coconuts from the forest. That’s what I was doing when I saw you.”

  “What about the dogs?”

  “I don’t go down as far as that. The people in charge of the dogs have a hut near the inlet. They cut the fruit and two Marquesan assistants carry it to a point just above the forest. I pick it up there. It’s a fairly easy path.”

  “You believe there’s only one way down to the coast?”

  “That’s what we’re told. To try to get down any other way is certain death.”

  “We found a way up. Bar accident we could get down the same way,” Biggles pointed out.

  “I realize that. You can imagine my astonishment when I saw you sitting here.”

  “Have you tried to escape?”

  “If I had it’s unlikely that I’d be here now. We prisoners talk of nothing else, but few have the nerve to try it. The trouble is, in this ghastly heat one soon loses the will to do anything. The crater is like an oven and it soaks all the energy out of a man. The big deterrent to escape is the fact that even if one reached the coast one wouldn’t be able to get away. No ships call here. There was a time when a native canoe would put in, but the natives have got to know the place is dangerous and even they don’t come any more. As far as I know, the only vessel that has been here in two years is this Dutch yacht, Dryad. If any other ships have come near we didn’t see them. But then, one can’t see the sea from inside the crater. It’s like being in a pudding basin. As you can see for yourself, this is no ordinary island with a beach all round. There are only one or two places where it’s possible to actually reach the sea, and they’re patrolled by dogs. The rest is sheer precipice. One or two people have tried to escape but we don’t know what became of them. That’s how my friend Martin disappeared.”

  “These people might be hiding in the forest,” suggested Biggles.

  “It’s possible. But what a life! They would be worse off than in the crater. They would be driven mad by the nonos. And they wouldn’t dare to return to the crater for fear of punishment.”

  “What about these guards? What are they like?”

  “Awful. That of course is why they are what they are. Hara has two particular friends who appear to be in the business with him. They’re second in command. They share his house. They’re both Americans and presumably came here with him. One is Ronbach, who, as I told you, was captain of the Liberta. The other is a dreadful creature who talks like the gangsters in American films. His name is Swenson. I believe he was a crook wanted by the police. His face has changed since he came here. We think Hara has done something to it to make him look different.”

  “You mean, by plastic surgery?”

  “Yes. These two are in charge of the other guards. They are mostly coloured men, black or brown. Two are half castes. I don’t know their real nationality. There are two negroes who speak American. Four are Marquesans. They don’t know what they’re doing. All these guards, by the way, are armed, and carry canes or whips.”

  “In other words, slave-drivers.”

  “Exactly.”

  “What is the language spoken?”

  “Mostly English and some French. People speak their own language when they’re alone together.”

  Axel got up. “But I must be getting along,” he said anxiously. “I’ve stayed too long already. Guards will come looking for me.”

  “Are you going back to the crater?” asked Biggles.

  “Of course.”

  “Why?”

  Axel looked surprised. “What else can I do?”

  “Join our party. We have a flying-boat in the creek.”

  “I know. We saw it yesterday. It caused great excitement. What are you going to do?”

  “Ultimately, I hope we shall return to the aircraft. You could come with us. You would be a useful witness should this business go to court. But before I leave I want to see for myself what goes on in the crater.”

  “If you go in you’ll never get out,” said Axel, seriously.

  “We’ll see about that. One thing is certain. This racket will have to be exposed. This is a British island and if any flag is going to be flown over it, it will be the Union Jack. I don’t suppose the British Government would have any objection to Hara or his cronies, or anyone else, staying here if they want to. But there can be no compulsion about it; slavery ended long ago. People who want to leave will be taken off. If they like to sue Hara for the return of their money, obtained by false pretences, that’s up to them. This advertising for recruits will have to stop, too. The newspapers themselves will see to that when they know the facts.”

  Sven looked at Axel. “You should be able to recover your expenses by writing articles for the papers,” he said, smiling. “You know— ‘My Life on a South Sea Island’, and all that sort of thing.”

  “All I ask is to get home,” said Axel, earnestly. “I want to forget this, not remind myself by writing articles which no one would believe.”

  “Well, are you going to stay with us?” asked Biggles. “It’s up to you.”

  “Yes. Thank you. If I may.”

  “How about slipping back into the crater and fetching some of your friends?”

  Axel looked startled. “That would be too dangerous.”

  “How?”

  “If anyone was seen trying to leave he would be shot.”

  Biggles scowled. “Are you seriously telling me that these guards actually shoot at people?”

  “Yes. You don’t seem to realize how serious this is. Only the other day I saw a man shot as he tried to run away. We were working in the fields. I think he must suddenly have gone mad. He threw down his hoe and made a run for it. The guards shouted to him to stop, but he didn’t. He was shot.”

  “By whom?”

  “One of the negroes fired two shots and missed. Swenson snatched the rifle away from him and shot the man dead.”

  “Who was this man?”

  “A half breed from Tahiti. We called him Pepe.”

  “You actually saw this?”

  “Yes.”

  “In that case Swenson will stand trial for murder,” declared Biggles, grimly. “If there has been killing here that puts a different complexion on the whole business.”

  “Attention,” said Marcel, sharply. “Someone comes now.”

  CHAPTER VIII

  THE FIRST CLASH

  ALL eyes switched to the direction in which Marcel was looking.

  A man was standing clearly silhouetted on the skyline above them. He carried a long object over his arm. It looked like a rifle.

  “He’s searching for me,” said Axel, calmly, although his face had turned pale. “I should have gone earlier. This will mean trouble.”

  “I may have something to say about that,” stated Biggles. “You know, Axel, I’m a
fraid you’ve let these people get on top of you. Pull yourself together.”

  “But you don’t know—“

  “I can imagine.”

  “He’s calling.”

  “Let him call.”

  “What had I better do?”

  “Do nothing. Let him make the first move. It’ll be interesting to see what he does when he gets over the shock of seeing us here.”

  “He’ll know I’ve been talking to you,” said Axel, looking worried.

  “Of course he will,” affirmed Biggles. “What about it? From what you’ve told us you’ve good reason to talk.”

  “He’s coming down,” observed Ginger.

  “Can you see who it is?” Biggles asked Axel.

  “Yes. It’s Swenson.”

  “The man who killed Pepe?”

  “That’s right.”

  Swenson, the rifle in the crook of his arm, approached slowly, as if he might have been trying to weigh up the situation. This gave those waiting ample opportunity to look at him.

  He was a burly man, swarthy, black-bearded, with a truculent expression. He wore an open-necked shirt, white linen trousers and old tennis boots. A weather-stained panama was clapped low on his head. Reaching them he stopped, regarding with calculating eyes each member of the party. For a moment or two nobody spoke. Then Biggles said: “Pardon my curiosity but what do you find up here to shoot?”

  Swenson ignored the question. Speaking with a harsh nasal twang he inquired: “Who are you?”

  “For that matter, who are you?” returned Biggles.

  “That’s my business,” snapped Swenson.

  “As a representative of the British Government, to whom this island belongs, your business here also happens to be my business,” came back Biggles, succinctly.

  “How did you get here?”

  “I thought you might be curious to know that,” said Biggles, smiling faintly. “We just walked up the hill.”

  “What have you come for?”

  “To find out what’s going on here.”

  “How are you going to do that?”

  “I’ve done it.”

  “How?”

  “This young man has just told me all about it.”