Biggles on Mystery Island

by W E Johns

  “I shall stay with you, whatever you decide to do,” returned Axel, calmly.

  “That’s up to you. Tell me. You know this place. Assuming Biggles and Marcel are being held as prisoners what would Hara do with them?”

  “I imagine he’d put them in the punishment cell. There’s nowhere else.”

  “What sort of place is this punishment cell?”

  “It’s just one room, standing by itself, used as a prison.”

  “What’s the place made of? Have you been in it?”

  “Yes. It’s a building standing by itself with an extra strong door made of old ship’s timbers. There’s one window, high up, with iron bars. You can’t reach it because there’s nothing to stand on. There’s no furniture of any sort, not even a bed. The floor is just plain dirt.”

  “What are the walls made of?”

  “The same stuff as all the buildings. Home-made dry mud bricks. I’ve helped to make them. It’s one of the regular tasks. First you collect lumps of lava. These are beaten to powder with crowbars and hammers. Then water is added until you have a thick paste. Dead grass is mixed with it to hold the stuff together. All you have to do then is beat the mixture into a mould and put it in the sun to dry.”

  “What in some countries is called adobe.”

  “That’s right. The bricks are not as hard as the common clay bricks we use at home. You might call them soft, but here they serve their purpose. The roof is thatch. All the buildings here are constructed in this way. There are no other materials available.”

  “It wouldn’t be difficult to knock down such a place?” suggested Ginger.

  “I wouldn’t think so, although, of course, I’ve never tried.”

  “A man inside with a good knife could cut his way out?”

  “He wouldn’t have a knife. Everything is taken away from a man when he is put in. He couldn’t make a hole with his bare hands.”

  “Just now you mentioned hammers and crowbars. Where are they kept?”

  “In another building—the tool shed.”

  “Is it far away?”

  “No. It’s close. All the buildings are close together.”

  “Is the tool shed kept locked?”

  “I don’t know for certain but I wouldn’t think so. People are always going to it.” Axel looked Ginger in the eyes. “Are you thinking of knocking the prison down?”

  Ginger grinned. “I may have to. I was merely exploring the possibilities.”

  “Someone would hear you. There are always guards about. The King’s palace isn’t far away.”

  “I can’t help that. You remember what Biggles said about Hara not knowing anything about us. He called it our trump card. I have a feeling we may have to play—”

  Ginger sprang to his feet, aware that in the discussion he had relaxed his vigilance, as a figure came into sight, dragging itself wearily along the overheated rock a little way to their right. In a moment he saw who it was. With consternation in his voice he said: “It’s Sven! So he couldn’t get down.”

  They hurried to meet him.

  “What happened?” asked Ginger, breathlessly.

  Sven sank down, obviously in a state near exhaustion. His clothes were in a dreadful mess, torn and plastered with mud. He had lost his hat and his hair was dishevelled. With his chin unshaven and face speckled with nono bites he looked very different from the smart officer they had known on the way out.

  “Couldn’t you find the way?” asked Ginger.

  “It was no use,” answered Sven. “The rock bridge over the ravine has gone. I saw it go in the earthquake. Another minute and I would have been on it. Give me a drink. I finished my water long ago.”

  Ginger passed his bottle.

  After he had taken a drink Sven went on: “When I saw the bridge go I tried to find a way round the chasm. I must have walked miles. Several times I lost my bearings and had no idea of where I was in relation to the fiord. To make matters worse I could hear those infernal dogs in the forest not far below me. During the night I was nearly driven mad by insects. This morning I had another try at getting down but I seemed to be surrounded by precipices and at the finish I had to drag myself back up here. My shoes were falling to pieces, anyway. They weren’t made for this sort of work. I’ll tell you this. Now that bridge over the ravine has gone you won’t get back the way we came.”

  Ginger was silent. The shock of Sven’s statement left him with nothing to say.

  “Where’s Biggles?” asked Sven, looking round.

  “I wish I knew.”

  “He hasn’t come back?”

  “No.”

  “What do you make of that?”

  “Hara’s holding him prisoner or he would have been back by now.”

  Sven nodded, mopping his face with the damp remains of his handkerchief. “I was afraid of that. What are we going to do?”

  “We were discussing that very question when I spotted you coming. What you’ve just told us settles the argument.”

  “How?”

  “It was a question of whether we went down to Algy, or into the crater to find Biggles and Marcel. Now you tell me we can’t get down the way we came up, that’s out. I’ve no intention of getting myself mauled going down the dog track. That leaves one course open. I’m going into the crater to find out what has become of Biggles and Marcel. It went against the grain to push off, leaving them here, anyway. If we all get caught in the same trap it’ll be up to Algy to fetch help from Australia. What I’m afraid of is, the island may not be here by the time he gets back. I have a feeling it’s about due to blow up.”

  “That will solve all our problems,” answered Sven. “You’ve no idea of what has happened to Biggles?”

  “Not a clue.”

  “Are you going into the crater now?”

  “No. The time limit is up, but I don’t think this is the moment to go. I shall wait for dark.”

  “That would give me a chance to get my breath back,” said Sven.

  “You mean—you’re coming with me?”

  “Of course.”

  Ginger looked at Axel. “What are you going to do?”

  “I shall come with you. You’ll need me to show you round. I know my way about. Without me you wouldn’t know one building from another.”

  “That’s fine,” agreed Ginger. “We’ll wait for the moon to rise. If Biggles and Marcel aren’t back by then we’ll go ahead and find them.” His voice took on a harder tone. “If this crooked monarch wants trouble he can have it.”

  CHAPTER XI

  BRISK WORK BY NIGHT

  DARKNESS fell, and with it the usual heavy shower of rain—the excess water drawn up from the ocean by the sun during the heat of the day and dropped in the cool of the evening. There was still no sign of Biggles or Marcel.

  Realizing that it would be futile to try to do anything in the pitch darkness Ginger curbed his impatience and waited for moonrise. He was now quite certain that something serious had happened in the crater, and even if he could do nothing else, he would, he resolved, find out what it was. He gave Swenson’s rifle to Axel, who had no weapon. Sven had a small automatic similar to his own. He hoped there would be no occasion to resort to firearms, but it was as well to be prepared, he told the others.

  As soon as the moon had climbed out of the sea, with the cudgel he had made swinging in his left hand he invited Axel to lead the way into the settlement, taking the route best calculated to prevent them from being seen. The actual objective was, of course, the detention cell.

  Axel had said he thought it unlikely that they would see anyone at that hour. The prisoners would have been locked in their dormitories, so any person moving about could be assumed to be a member of Hara’s staff, most probably a guard. As far as he knew there were no sentries guarding the crater as a whole, this being unnecessary.

  Ginger asked why was it unnecessary.

  “In the first place who would be likely to come here?” answered Axel. “Then again, even if a prisoner
broke out he wouldn’t get far without his shoes. All footgear is collected at night and taken away.”

  “To where?”

  “To another little hut, which is kept locked.”

  “Hm. If they’ve taken Biggles’ shoes it’s going to be awkward.”

  The little party moved on in silence.

  Axel’s opinion about sentries, or rather, the absence of any, turned out to be justified, and they reached a broad shadow just above the buildings without seeing a soul and without an alarm being raised. They sat down while Axel identified the several huts and houses, naming their purposes. Only one light showed, at a window of the palace.

  Naturally, Ginger’s interest concentrated on the detention cell, confident that if Biggles was still alive and well that was where he would be. It seemed inconceivable, knowing how the rest of them were placed, that he would stay there voluntarily, even in the so-called palace as the guest of the King. Wherefore he decided to devote his attention to the prison, telling himself it should not take long to ascertain if Biggles and Marcel were there.

  For a few minutes they sat in silence surveying the scene, Ginger keeping an eye on the opposite skyline where a pale glow, swiftly spreading, indicated the spot where the moon would climb above the rim of the crater and flood the place with light.

  “We’d better get cracking before there’s too much light,” he said at last. “I think I have the layout fixed in my mind.”

  “Wait,” breathed Axel. “I see someone. Look! Walking towards the prison hut.”

  They watched. A man, plain to see by reason of a light-coloured jacket, was walking towards the small isolated building that was their own objective. As he neared it a second figure detached itself from the shadow of the hut and walked slowly to meet him. He carried what appeared to be a rifle. This, as they met, he handed to the newcomer, and after a brief conversation walked on. The new arrival took up the position he had occupied.

  “That was the guard changing,” whispered Axel.

  “It tells us all we need to know,” returned Ginger. “If there’s a guard on duty there must be somebody inside to guard.”

  “It must be somebody important, too,” opined Axel. “They don’t usually bother with guards. A man inside can’t get out. That fellow who has just come on duty is either sitting or standing by the door.”

  “Where’s the window,” asked Ginger.

  “At the opposite end.”

  “This is difficult,” put in Sven. “You can’t approach the door while that man is there.”

  “I wouldn’t attempt it,” replied Ginger. “It simply means that we shall have to deal with him. There shouldn’t be any great difficulty about that.”

  “Do you mean you’re going to kill him?”

  “I hope that won’t be necessary, but this is where we have to get tough. Fiddling about won’t get us anywhere. I haven’t forgotten that these people are ready to commit murder when it suits them.”

  “If that man shouts he’ll raise the place,” stated Axel.

  “We shall have to see he doesn’t get a chance to shout.”

  “What will you do—stalk him?”

  “That’s the only way to deal with him,” replied Ginger. “Leave this to me. Now I’m here I’m going to see who’s in that hut. It’s a one man job. The more people the more noise. Watch me. When the coast is clear I’ll make a signal by standing in the open and holding my hands above my head. When that happens join me as quickly as you can. Is that okay with you?”

  “Are you sure I can’t help?” queried Sven, anxiously.

  “I’d rather tackle the job alone. We might get in each other’s way. You know what they say about too many cooks. Stay here and keep your eyes open. If I make a mess of things you’ll have to act as you think best.”

  With that Ginger set off, taking a diagonal course both in order to keep in the shadow of the rising ground behind him and to put himself in a position to approach the objective from the rear end. The light was still on in Hara’s quarters, otherwise the place might have been dead. Not a sound broke the silence, which meant that he had to proceed with the greatest caution, watching each step, for even a rolling stone would have made enough noise to attract the attention of the guard, assuming that he was doing his job properly, which in Ginger’s experience of native sentries seemed unlikely. But knowing that even a minor alarm would be fatal to his mission he took no chances. Time, fortunately, was not important. As the guard had just been changed it seemed improbable that there would be another interruption for an hour or more.

  Still, it was a breath-holding operation, particularly the last twenty yards or so, because, approaching from the rear of the hut, he could not see the guard, who, for all he knew, might have moved his position. Should the man decide to walk round the hut, they would meet face to face. However, in the event this did not happen. He paused under the window, a black square high up in the end gable, but no sound came from inside. Resisting a natural temptation to make his presence known to those within he went on.

  Moving with no more noise than a cloud crossing the face of the moon he advanced step by step, tight against the wall, along the shadow cast by the hut. Reaching a point within a yard of the door end of the cell he held his breath and risked a peep. The guard, a dark-skinned man, was there, his back towards him, sitting on a heap of rubble, gazing straight ahead. The rifle lay across his knees. It was just what Ginger expected. From the man’s attitude it was clear that he was bored, and probably considered his task to be a waste of time.

  Ginger had already made up his mind what he was going to do. In fact, there was only one thing he could do. The man would have to be silenced before he could make a sound or his effort would have done more harm than good. He did not relish the business but there was no alternative. To threaten the man with his pistol, demanding silence, would, even if his order was obeyed, leave him with a prisoner on his hands to complicate what was already a sticky problem.

  Taking the cudgel firmly in his right hand he crept forward.

  Whether the guard heard him, or was prompted by some primitive instinct for danger to look behind him, is a matter for surmise. At all events, he looked back over his shoulder, casually rather than otherwise, and, of course, saw Ginger. His lips fell apart with shock and he started to get up, dropping the rifle in his haste; but before he could utter a sound Ginger’s cudgel came down, with a force that snapped it in two pieces, on his head. With a grunt he rolled over and lay still.

  For a few seconds Ginger stood staring down at him, breathing heavily and trembling from reaction now that the distasteful job was done. How long the man would remain unconscious was a question; but he did not think for very long. A thick crop of hair must have protected his skull. With no means of trussing the man nothing could be done about that, anyway. The next thing was to bring the others down, he decided, so standing in the open he made the prearranged signal.

  Returning to the unconscious guard, whom he dare not leave, he picked up the fallen rifle and leaned it against the wall well out of reach. His next move was to examine the door—not that there was much to examine. It was plain, heavy wood, its surface broken only by a keyhole. He had cherished a hope that the key might have been left in the lock, but in this respect his luck was out. It was, he told himself, too much to expect. Still hoping to find it he searched the guard. Again he failed. By the time he had done this Sven and Axel had arrived, panting with haste and excitement.

  “The key isn’t here,” he told them. “I’ve been through the guard’s pockets. He hasn’t got it.”

  “It will be with whoever is in charge of the guards, probably Ronbach,” said Axel. He looked at the face of the man on the ground. “His name’s Pedro. He’s a half-breed from Tahiti. I wouldn’t worry if he never came round. He’s knocked me about more than once.”

  “All right,” said Ginger, tersely. “Let’s not waste time. The next thing is to find out if Biggles is inside. Axel, you stand here and keep watch.
Keep an eye on Pedro. There’s his rifle against the wall. If he shows signs of coming round let me know. Tell him you’ll knock his block off if he makes a squeak. This is no time to be lily-fingered. It’s neck or nothing now. Come on, Sven.”

  They hurried to the far end of the building, below the window.

  “Give me a bunk up,” Ginger told Sven.

  Sven, bending his back, obliged. Ginger clutched at the bars until his head was level with the opening. “Are you there, Biggles?” he questioned crisply. “It’s me, Ginger.”

  Biggles answered. “Great work. Who’s with you?”

  “Sven and Axel.”

  “Sven?”

  “Yes. He came back. He couldn’t get down. The bridge has gone.”

  “What about the guard?”

  “I’ve dealt with him. He’s asleep, but he may come round.”

  “What about the key?”

  “We can’t find it.”

  “How are you going to get us out of here?”

  “Knock a hole through the wall.”

  “With what?”

  “Tools. Axel knows where they’re kept.”

  “Suffering cats! That’ll take time.”

  “There’s no other way short of shooting the lock out with rifle bullets.”

  “That’s no use. The gang would be here before you’d done it. Besides, you might hit us. Try the tools.”

  “Okay.”

  Ginger dropped to the ground and hastened back to Axel. Pedro, he was relieved to see, was still unconscious, but stertorous breathing suggested he might soon come round.

  “Where are the tools kept?” he asked Axel.

  “Over there. That’s the tool shed.” Axel pointed to a hut some forty yards or so away.