Island Gold/Chapter 12

rooted to the spot. The droning chant went on. How far the singer was from me it was impossible to estimate; for a voice carries far at night—he might be anything from twenty to a hundred yards away. There was nothing to do but retire;—in that clammy, steamy darkness any idea of stalking a man was out of the question.

All the events of the past week came tumbling into my brain. They had tracked me down, then, and I was at grips with El Cojo's famous organization.... But this was no time for speculation or surmise. I could think matters out afterwards; for the moment I must keep my mind clear and concentrate on getting out of this dense jungle quietly and quickly.

Now the humming had ceased. Did it mean that the singer was moving forward? I strained my ears, but could catch no sound other than the rustle of the leaves as they dripped moisture. To move in silence through the clinging undergrowth was, I knew, a thing impossible. An old memory of capercailzie shooting in Russia came to my aid. One stalked the male bird perched on a tree-top as he uttered his love-call to the females at the foot. When he called, one moved; when he stopped, one halted.

The droning recommenced. Did my ears mislead me? It certainly sounded nearer now. My compass lying flat in my left palm, I moved swiftly forward, heading for the west. When the humming ceased, I stood still, and pushed on again as soon as it was resumed.

A horrid thought assailed me. Was the singer the spy whose unseen presence had impressed itself on Carstairs that evening? Had the cordon let me through only to draw in upon me as I returned? I had no weapon; for I had given Carstairs my revolver to clean and oil on our return to camp that evening after our wetting.

The crooning chant had grown much fainter. I must be drawing away from it. I paused an instant to wipe away the sweat which was pouring into my eyes. Then came a sudden crash in the undergrowth close at hand. I steeled myself to the encounter, getting my back to a tree and striving—but how vainly!—to pierce with my eyes that bewildering pall of darkness. Another heavy crash, a frightened squawk, and I breathed again. It was only one of the island pigs whose nocturnal rambles I had disturbed.

And now for full five minutes I had heard the singer no more. The forest was getting lighter and, like blissful music, there came to my ears the distant surge of the sea. Presently, without further incident, I stepped out on the beach not more than twenty paces from our cave.

A black shape rose out of the darkness at my feet. It was Carstairs. I put my hand over his mouth and drew him into the cave. The place reverberated with Garth's rhythmic snoring.

“You were quite right, Carstairs,” I whispered. “There is some one in the woods back there! Have you heard or seen anything?”

“No, sir!” the man returned. “But I was that certain sure there was somebody round the place that I nipped in and got a pistol to sit up and wait for you...”

He showed me the automatic in his hand.

“I don't like the look of things at all, Carstairs,” said I. “And that's a fact. I'm not getting the wind up over a lot of shadows; but I don't propose to risk having the cave rushed. You've got some bread-bags and the like, haven't you? Well, get one of the shovels and start filling them with sand, will you? If we can run up a bit of cover round the entrance to the cave, one man ought to be able to hold it against all comers. Meanwhile, I'll wake Sir Alexander here!...”

It is a little embarrassing to rouse a man up out of his beauty sleep and tell him you have been keeping essential facts from his knowledge. However, I could at least honestly claim that, until that moment, I had had nothing stronger than suspicions to go upon.

Propped up on his elbow, Garth heard my whole tale as I have set it down here, from the moment that John Bard identified Black Pablo with the man who had kept watch outside Adams's hut down to the strange happenings in the woods that night.

“Just what we are up against, Sir Alexander,” I concluded, “I don't know. But we're here for a specific purpose, and I feel sure that you will agree with me that we should not allow a band of filthy cut-throats to deter us from it!”

“Certainly not, my boy, certainly not!” declared the baronet. “As a matter of fact, I cannot believe that these fellows really intend us any harm. After all, we're British subjects and a little of Britain goes the deuce of a long way in these parts...”

“Very possibly, sir,” I replied, “but you must remember we do not know how strong this party is. Force is the ultimate sanction of the law, they say; but on this particular island British prestige is backed up by exactly three very imperfectly armed Britishers...”

“If you'll allow me to say so,” Garth broke in pompously, “you go rather fast. From the accident that you overhear, on an island which we previously believed to be uninhabited, a song you heard sung (in peculiar circumstances, I grant you) at Rodriguez, you appear to assume that the men who murdered Adams have landed on this island. Your song may be a popular favourite in Rodriguez; everybody may be singing it. Have you thought of that?

“If this figure you saw at the grave and this man whom you heard humming in the forest belong to this mysterious gang, led by El What's-his-name, then they must have followed us here. But how did they come? We have seen no steamer. If, on the other hand, the song incident is capable of some simple explanation such as I have suggested, your last valid link of evidence connecting these mysterious visitors of Cock Island with El Thingumybob's gang snaps.”

This was very ingenious. But it didn't convince me. The intonation of the singer in the forest was identical with that of the man in the lane. Of that I was sure. Besides, in the back of my mind lurked a half-formed suspicion about Custrin which I had not as yet thought proper to communicate to the worthy cotton-spinner. And, as for having seen no steamer, I recollected that launch which had put out from Rodriguez after us.

“I'll tell you something else,” Garth continued, “that perhaps you don't know, Major. Many of these Pacific islands do contain treasure;—phosphates. Adventurers are always roaming about the Pacific prospecting for guano deposits, and mighty shy, they are, many of 'em, of casual visitors. Now, you mark my words, these chaps who have been behaving so oddly are in all probability just a band of shysters from Rodriguez—without any concession, of course—dropped here by a ship to look for phosphates. They think we've come to jump their claim...”

I felt very perplexed. Garth was a hard-headed Lancashire business man and there seemed to be a good deal of horse sense in what he said. And yet somehow...

I walked to the entrance of the cave and looked out. In awe-inspiring majesty the sun came rolling up from the east and the glistening beach was dyed in the hues of the morning. A few paces away Carstairs was shovelling sand for dear life. Already he had filled a dozen stout cotton bags.

“You may be right, Sir Alexander,” I said at length. “I hope you are. But even if these gentry are concession-hunters, we have to bear in mind that they are a cut-throat lot. They are quite capable of shooting first and asking your name afterwards. I'm going to put up a little sand-bag parapet at the mouth of this cave. It commands a fine field of fire and will allow you or Carstairs to challenge anybody who comes within thirty yards. As soon as we've put the place in a proper state of defence, I'm going out to do a little reconnoitring on my own...”

“My dear fellow,” remarked Garth, sitting up in bed and nursing his toes, “to hear you talk you'd think the blessed old British Empire had ceased to count in the world. Foreigners can't go about murdering British subjects, you know. They'd have the Foreign Office on them damned quick, send a cruiser and all that sort of thing. However,” he finished indulgently, “I'm quite prepared to hold the fort while you have a look round. I'm not sorry to have a lazy morning, for, to tell you the truth, I'm so stiff from our climb yesterday that I can scarcely move!”

Rather with the air of Daddy helping his little boy to build sand-castles, Garth assisted me to erect a parapet at the mouth of the cave. There were not many sand-bags, but we helped out with some cases of tinned provisions, putting the sand bags on top and then a layer of sand scooped out from the foot of our fortification. The screen of creeper across the entrance to the cave, while it obscured the view from outside, was not so dense as to prevent anybody within from commanding the approach to our stronghold.

Carstairs brought coffee and sandwiches and at my request filled my flask with brandy and brought me my automatic pistol and a couple of charges of ammunition. Then, turning my back on the sea, I once more struck out into the woods.

My plan was to make for the grave in the clearing. This should be the test. If our mysterious visitors were after the treasure, I made sure I should come upon them in the vicinity of the grave. For, as far as I knew, the grave was the only indication they had to guide them in their hunt. It was still very early, and, if I could gain the clearing unobserved, I would post myself at some convenient point, perhaps on the high ground beyond the grave, and await events.

I went forward very cautiously, my pistol cocked in my hand. I stopped repeatedly and listened; but save for the hubbub of the birds in the trees, all was still around me. The burbling stream that fell from the high ground of the island to the beach gave me my direction.

I had reached a narrow ravine at the end of which was that flat rock whence, on the previous evening, Garth had descried the ruined hut. On a slab which formed a convenient step to mount the boulder something white caught my eye as I came down the nullah. To my unbounded surprise it proved to be one of those cheap cigar-holders made of cardboard which so many Germans use.

I stooped to examine it. The holder, with its quill mouthpiece, was quite clean and obviously brand-new. Therefore it was no relic of the former visitors to the island. And it had not been there yesterday. I had mounted by this very slab to stand by Garth on the flat rock and, if the holder had been there, I could not possibly have failed to see it.

It looked as though it might have dropped out of a man's pocket as he was scrambling up to the rock. The name of a popular firm of cigar-merchants, with branches all over Germany, was printed on it. “Loeser und Wolff, Berlin. S. W. Friedrich-Strasse,” I read. I knew the shop well. I had bought cigars there scores of times in the past...

A sudden feeling of uneasiness, an acute sense of danger, came over me. To be shadowed is an almost everyday experience in our job and one develops a kind of sixth sense in detecting it. I had the distinct impression that somebody was watching me.

My brain worked swiftly. I was in the open, without cover, liable to be shot with impunity from the edge of the ravine. To keep perfectly calm, to show no signs of fluster, and, above all things, to spot your man without his knowing that he has been seen, is the only safe course in moments like this. My grip tightened on my pistol as, very slowly, I began to raise my head..

The top of the rock above me was level with my eyes. As I lifted them, my gaze fell upon a monstrous misshapen boot, projecting awkwardly over the edge. For the moment, I had no eyes for the huge figure that stood there resting on the rubber-shod stick. I could only stare, like one transfigured, at that sinister club foot as a voice, a well remembered voice that for months had haunted me in dreams, cried out sharply:

“Stay as you are and raise your hands! Quick! And drop that gun!”

I glanced up, and, as I lifted my arms, my pistol rattled noisily on the slab below.

Over the barrel of a great automatic clasped in a huge hairy hand, the Man with the Club Foot was looking at me.