by W E Johns
Ginger and Sven strode towards it.
“If this is locked we’re sunk,” muttered Ginger.
The door, to his great relief, was not even closed. Inside, he struck a match to investigate. Leaning against the walls were stacks of implements for use on the land. Both selected a heavy crowbar as the most suitable for their purpose. With these in their hands they hastened back to the rear of the cell and set about the work of demolition.
Ginger’s first blow told him that the task was not as formidable as he had feared it might be. Had the building been of natural stone it would have been a very different matter, but the lava mortar of which the bricks were made was soft, friable stuff, and the heavy iron went into it as if it had been cheese.
The soft character of the stuff provided another advantage. It yielded with much less noise than Ginger had feared.
Sven joined in the work and the iron bars rose and fell in turn like twin battering rams.
Within five minutes they had driven a small hole right through the wall, and after that it was simply a matter of prising out enough bricks to enable those inside to get through. With dust sticking to the sweat on their faces they levered away, pausing once in a while to look around and listen. But the only sound came from Axel, who reported that Pedro looked like coming round at any moment.
“Stick the rifle in his face and tell him that if he makes one bleat it will be his last,” ordered Ginger, recklessly, and resumed his labour.
“Okay,” said Biggles presentiy, from within. “I think that’s enough.” His head and shoulders appeared. Catching him under the arms, one on each side, the others dragged him through the aperture. Marcel was treated in the same way.
“Phew!” breathed Biggles. “What a game! I’m no Jack Shepherd. Where’s the guard?”
“Round by the front door.”
“Let’s have a look.”
“What are you going to do with him?” Ginger wanted to know.
“What can we do? We’ll push him inside and tell him he’ll be shot if he comes out.”
Still half dazed, the frightened guard was pushed in through the hole and told to stay there.
“We’d better pull out while the going’s good,” said Ginger, when this had been done.
“Pull out—where?” asked Biggles.
“Back to the boat.”
“And leave these poor wretches here at the mercy of this lunatic doctor? We can’t do that. Anyhow, with the bridge gone we can’t go down that way, and I’d rather not run the gauntlet of those dogs if it can be avoided.”
Ginger shrugged. “All right. Then what are we going to do? You tell me.”
“Listen,” said Biggles. “Before long someone will come along to relieve the guard and discover what’s happened. If we try to leave, Hara and his gang will have us on the run. Hara’s off his rocker, anyway, and in his rage heaven only knows what he’d do to his helpless prisoners. There are women here as well as men, don’t forget. At present we hold the advantage and I feel like hanging on to it. The five of us should be able to hold our own against this half-baked gang. What do you think, Marcel?”
“Absolument.”
“And what about you, Sven?”
“What you say will do for me. There are countrymen of mine here and I should be a nice one to desert them.”
“That’s the spirit,” asserted Biggles.
“Okay,” said Ginger. “What’s the drill?”
Biggles thought for a moment. “There are one or two possibilities. We could tackle Hara and his gang now, while they’ve no suspicion of anything wrong. Another idea would be to set free the prisoners, tell them what’s cooking and all march out together.”
“March! They haven’t any shoes.”
“We’ll soon find them. All the prisoners need is a leader, and we can provide that.”
“Fair enough. Let’s get on with it,” said Ginger.
“If there’s any hold-up we’re likely to arrive at the inlet to find Algy in the air on his way to Australia.”
“Just give me a minute to think,” requested Biggles. “We don’t want to go off at half cock.” Silence fell.
The light in the palace went out.
CHAPTER XII
BIGGLES GETS BUSY
“WELL?” asked Ginger impatiently, as the moon soared above the jagged crest of the mountain to flood the whole crater with pale blue light.
“The big snag we’re up against is the dogs,” muttered Biggles. “Were it not for those confounded brutes there would be nothing to prevent us from releasing the prisoners and marching them down to the inlet. The skipper of the Dryad must be here somewhere, if he’s still alive. He could take the men off. He need only run as far as the Marquesas. We should be able to take the women in the aircraft.”
“Leaving Hara and his toughs to stew in their own juice.”
“They’d have no means of getting away. But those dogs worry me, I must admit. There are so many of them. I doubt if we could hold them off with the few weapons we have, and a limited supply of ammunition.”
“It looks as if we shall have to chance it if ever we’re to get away,” opined Ginger.
Biggles looked at Axel. “Do you happen to know if those dogs are penned up at night?”
Axel shook his head. “I don’t know. I imagine they’re left to prowl about in case a prisoner should make a break in the dark. One thing is certain; the only way you could get to the inlet after dark would be by the path. You couldn’t get through the forest, and you’d break your neck on those rock slopes.”
“How many men has Hara at his command?”
“Certainly not more than ten, including Ronbach.”
“Where do these men sleep?”
“They live in what are called the barracks. I pointed the place out to Ginger. It’s close against the palace. You can see the building from here. There it is.” Axel pointed to a long low structure.
“Let’s go and give them a rattle,” suggested Marcel. “We should catch them all in bed. There are no lights showing.”
“We couldn’t shoot sleeping men,” protested Biggles. “I’m all against starting a pitched battle, in which some people would certainly be killed.”
“I’d release the prisoners,” advised Sven. “The whole party would make a strong force.”
“That would still leave us with the problem of getting through the dogs to the inlet. There are women to be considered, don’t forget.”
“We shall have to get through those dogs whatever we do,” Ginger pointed out.
“Unless I can make Hara see sense,” returned Biggles.
“The man is fou,” declared Marcel. “What is the use of trying to make an imbecile see sense?”
“You could only get down that path in daylight,” put in Axel. “It means staying here till morning.”
“Could you find your way down in daylight?” inquired Biggles. “We should look silly if we lost our way and got the whole party bogged down in the jungle.”
Axel said he thought he could find his way down. He knew the upper part quite well, from fetching the plantains.
“To deal with those dogs, what we need is more weapons,” said Biggles, thoughtfully.
“There are rifles in the barracks,” stated Axel.
“The owners of them are there, too,” replied Biggles. “They’d object to us taking them, so we should come back to the thing I’m trying to avoid—a free fight.”
“Well, let’s do something,” requested Ginger shortly. “This standing here nattering isn’t getting us anywhere.”
“It’s all very well for you to say do something, but this business could have serious repercussions,” retorted Biggles. “Several nationalities are involved, and if any of them are killed I shall have some explaining to do. Give me a minute to think.” He staggered—in fact, they all did—as the ground under their feet seemed to move slightly.
“Don’t think too long, old cabbage,” requested Marcel, anxiously. “Let us get
on some ground that keeps still.”
Biggles made up his mind suddenly. “We shall have to split up,” he decided. “Marcel, you and Sven go and get the prisoners out. Between you, you can speak to them all in one language or another. Axel can go with you to show you where they live. Take the two rifles and those crowbars and bash the doors open. Do the same with the shed where the shoes are kept. Having got the whole party out and into their shoes march them over the rim of the crater to the beginning of the dog track. Wait for me there. If I’m not with you by daylight try to get down on your own. Let everyone carry a weapon, if it’s only a stick. If the dogs come for you, shout. Make as much noise as you can. That may help.”
“What about you?” asked Marcel.
“I shall take Ginger with me and deal with things here. By the way, Axel, how many people actually sleep in the palace?”
“Four. Besides Hara and Ronbach there’s the cook and a house servant. I don’t know what nationality they are but they’re not Europeans. I believe Hara brought them with him when he first came here. There’s always a sentry at the front door.”
“All right,” said Biggles, in a tone of finality. “Marcel, Sven, get on with your job. I’ll see you’re not disturbed.”
Marcel and Sven departed, Axel leading the way.
“We’ll have a look at the barracks, first,” Biggles told Ginger, walking towards them.
“What exactly are you going to do?”
“That will depend on what we find and what happens.”
“Don’t forget the sentry in front of the palace.”
“I won’t.”
They moved on, taking all possible precautions, although this really meant no more than keeping in the shadows cast by intervening huts and pausing from time to time to listen. They saw nobody, heard nothing, and so in a few minutes found themselves close against the wall of the long building which Axel had said housed the guards. It was constructed of the same primitive materials as the detention cell, as they had been led to expect. The rear wall was blank, with neither doors nor windows.
Seen in the brilliant moonlight from the front there was a door in the middle with small windows at intervals on either side. The door was closed. There was no guard.
Biggles walked on to the door and laid a finger on his lips. He turned the handle and exerted a slight pressure. The door opened. He closed it again, having ascertained that it wasn’t locked.
Looking at Ginger he breathed: “I wonder if the key is on the inside?” He opened the door again, a little wider. They listened. From inside came the heavy regular breathing of sleeping men. Biggles inserted a hand, reaching for the inside of the lock, and withdrew it holding a key. Again he closed the door, and putting in the key outside, locked it. This made a slight scraping sound, but apparently it passed unheard.
“They’re sort of careless,” murmured Ginger.
“People get like that when they think they have nothing to fear.”
“Okay. Now what?”
“Let’s see what we can make of the palace. If we can handle things without a flare-up so much the better. Come on. Watch your step.”
Biggles went on, making for the side of the building he had named. It covered more ground than any of the others, but here he had the advantage of having been inside. It was in the first room that he had had his conversation with Hara. Reaching the wall, after another short pause to look about them they turned along it to the front.
Arriving at the angle Biggles dropped on his knees and took a quick peep round the corner. Withdrawing, he stood up, and cupping his hands round his mouth, whispered: “The sentry’s a negro. He’s sitting on the doorstep, smoking. His rifle’s leaning against the wall. This should be easy. You stand fast. I’ll—”
At this moment the silence that hung over the settlement was broken by a sound so loud that Ginger’s heart jumped into his mouth, as the saying is. It was, in fact, a resounding crash, and it didn’t take him long to realize what had caused it. It was the door of the prisoners’ quarters being burst open.
At first he took this interruption to be in the nature of a disaster, for the sentry must have heard it and would certainly wonder what was happening. As things turned out it may have served a useful purpose, for the negro took a few paces forward, and although this brought him into view his attention was concentrated on the direction from which the noise had come. The fact that he had not bothered to pick up his rifle suggested that he did not consider the incident of particular importance. He still drew on his cigarette. The trouble would come when he turned to return to his post, for then he could not fail to see them.
Biggles did not wait for this to happen. Stepping as softly as a cat he approached the man swiftly from behind, and pushing the muzzle of his pistol into his back, said softly, “Don’t move, brother.”
The black gave a mighty start, as he had every reason to. Very slowly he turned his head and looked back over his shoulder. He did not speak. Only his eyes opened wide in astonishment, showing the whites.
Biggles continued. “If you want to go on living you’ll do exactly as I tell you. Understand?”
“Sure. Sure boss,” stammered the negro.
“Behave sensibly and you’ll come to no harm,” promised Biggles. “Who’s inside?”
“King Hara.”
“Who else?”
“Cap’n Ronbach.”
“Who else?”
“Only de cook and de servant.”
“Does Ronbach sleep in the same room as Hara?”
“No, boss.”
“Which is Ronbach’s room?”
“De fird on de right, after de audience room. Don’t you shoot me, boss, I ain’t done notting.”
Biggles lowered his pistol, and allowing the man to turn, looked hard at his face. “Did you come here with Hara?” he questioned.
“Das right, boss.”
“From America?”
“Sure.”
“Do you like it here?”
“No, boss. I sure hate it wors’n hell. I wanna go back home.”
“Then why don’t you?”
“I daren’t tell de King dat. He don’t like dat going home talk.”
“You behave yourself and you can go home.”
“Whats you want me to do?”
“All you have to do is stand still and keep your mouth shut.”
“Sure, boss. I’ll do dat.”
Biggles turned to Ginger who, having collected the rifle from the wall, had joined him. “If Sambo here is telling the truth, and I’m pretty sure he is, it seems that some of Hara’s gang are as fed up with the place as the prisoners, and I don’t wonder at it. If—”
He broke off as from no great distance away came another resounding crash. It was followed by a confused murmur of voices.
“I imagine that was the door of the shoe shed,” said Biggles.
“What a row they’re making,” muttered Ginger. “They’ll raise the place. Why doesn’t Marcel tell them to pipe down?”
“I’ve no doubt he has,” returned Biggles. “It’s no use telling an excited crowd to stop talking. But never mind that. You stay here with Sambo. I don’t think he’ll give you any trouble.”
“I ain’t giving no trouble, boss,” declared the black. “I wanna go home. I reckon dis place is gonna boil over pretty soon.”
“You’re right, it is,” answered Biggles. He turned to Ginger. “If a row starts in the barrack hut tell them to stay quiet. If anyone tries to force the door say you’ll shoot the first man to come out.”
“Okay. What are you going to do?”
“Have a word with Hara.”
“Why bother with him?”
“I’m trying to avoid casualties and I must give him a last chance to pull out. If we take the Dryad he’ll be stuck here with no means of getting away should the island blow up.”
“After the way he’s behaved I wouldn’t let that worry me,” replied Ginger, trenchantly.
“Wait here,�
�� ordered Biggles.
He strode to the door of the palace. He was prepared to find it locked, but it was not. He opened it and went in. The audience room was in darkness, although enough moonlight came in through the window for him to see what he was doing. He remembered seeing an oil lamp on the bench in front of the “throne”. He went up to it and lit it. Holding it aloft in his left hand he went on through the door at the far end of the room, behind the chairs.
He found himself in a corridor. There were doors along one side of it. He opened the first. A glance revealed a comfortably furnished sitting room. There was no one in it, so he closed the door and went on to the next. This brought a surprise. It was fitted out like a small hospital ward, even to what looked like an operating table under a skylight. Jars and bottles filled shelves that lined the walls. There were several cupboards. The air reeked of antiseptics. There was no one in the room so he wasted no time on it but passed on to the next door. This was the third, and, according to the negro, the room where Ronbach slept.
The man had not lied. The yellow light of the lamp showed a bedroom, with a man asleep in the bed. It was Ronbach, snoring gently. On a small table beside him stood a candle-stick with a piece of candle in it, a half empty bottle of rum, a tumbler, and a revolver. Biggles picked up the revolver and put it in his pocket. The slight sound he made in doing this caused Ronbach to open his eyes. Or it may have been the light. At all events, he woke up. For a moment he stared, then sprang to a sitting position.
“How did you get here?” he grunted, thickly.
From the speech, and the bottle, Biggles suspected the man was drunk. “Get up,” he ordered, curtly.
Ronbach swung pyjama-clad legs over the side of the bed. His eyes went to the table, a hand reaching at the same time.
“I’ve got your gun,” said Biggles. “I shan’t hesitate to use it if I have any nonsense from you. On your feet.”
“What’s the idea?”
“Take me to Hara. I want to talk to both of you.”
Half dazed with sleep, or drink, or both, Ronbach stood up, to sway unsteadily on his feet.
“Lead on,” ordered Biggles.
