The British Mysteries Edition: 14 Novels & 70+ Short Stories. Sapper
something in Blackett's fantastic theory? And if so—what about Judy? He and the two men could take their chance, but the bare idea of the girl falling into the hands of some primitive race of savages made him shudder to contemplate.
There was another point too, which had to be taken into consideration. In this dense forest they were at a terrible disadvantage. The value of a revolver was reduced to nothing, if the target was invisible. At any moment they might be surrounded by things that knew their way about the undergrowth, and though they might account for a few of them the risk was too great while Judy was with them. There was nothing else for it: they must go back. And the fact that, in any event, at their present rate of progress they could not hope to reach their objective that day, afforded Jim an admirable excuse without mentioning his fears.
"We've got to think of some other way of doing this job," he remarked at length. "This is impracticable, especially in this heat. Let's go back to the boat and have a pow-wow."
"But what other way can there be, Jim?" cried the girl.
"That's what we've got to talk over," he said. "But this is no go, Judy. About turn, Bill: you lead the way."
They halted for a time at the top of the hill to get the benefit of the faint breeze that was blowing, and to search the island more thoroughly with glasses. But nothing moved, save the shimmering heat haze which lay like a blanket over the whole place. At last they descended to the beach and pulled out in the dinghy to the boat.
"Think of an iced Pilsener," said Percy, "pouring gently down your throat with two more on the table to follow."
"I hope that ass Lopez has remembered to keep the drinking water in the sea," remarked Jim. "And where is the blighter, anyway."
They tied up the dinghy and climbed on board: the deck was deserted.
"Lopez!" he called: there was no answer.
"Probably asleep," said Percy. "Iced Pilsener," he repeated dreamily: "in long, long glasses. Lovely light yellow beer. And instead of that—tepid water in enamel mugs. Who would be an explorer? James, you would appear to be perturbed. What ails your manly spirit?"
"Lopez is not in the boat," said Jim quietly.
"He's probably gone a little ta-ta ashore," said his cousin. "Got tired of playing alone here, and thought he'd be an explorer too."
"How did he get ashore?" remarked Jim even more quietly.
"In the dinghy," said his cousin, and then paused abruptly. "By Jove! old lad, your meaning penetrates the grey matter. We left the dinghy ashore."
"Exactly," said Jim.
"Are you perfectly certain he's not on board?" cried the girl.
"Perfectly. Bill and I have looked everywhere."
"He must have swum," said Percy.
"He can't swim," answered Jim.
"He said he couldn't, Mr. Maitland," said the sailor. "Maybe he lied. Maybe he didn't relish the thought of meeting his pals at Rio just after he'd let 'em down."
"That's true, Bill," said Jim thoughtfully. "But what about his clothes?"
"In the absence of all our lady passengers he probably dispensed with them," answered Percy.
"I can't say I saw many signs of a naked man rushing wildly about the hillside," said Jim, "but perhaps you're right."
"Well, dash it all, old boy," remarked his cousin, "the blighter can't have jumped two hundred yards, and since, so far as I know, he didn't possess wings he bally well must have swum if he's not here. And personally I'm going to get into my little paddling drawers and do the same. Come on, Judy: let us brave the octopi together."
"You're worried, Jim," said the girl quietly.
"Not a bit, bless you," he cried. "Probably Percy is right. You go and hit the water and I'll join you in a few minutes. Then we'll decide on a plan of campaign."
He watched them go below: then he lit a cigarette thoughtfully. And he had barely taken a puff when Bill Blackett who had gone aft called him.
"What is it, Bill?" he said, joining him.
In silence the sailor pointed to the little sink where the washing up was done. In it lay the fragments of half a dozen broken plates which had been dropped in a pile.
"Well!" said Jim. "What about it?"
"What made him drop them, Mr. Maitland?" remarked the sailor gravely.
"Ask me another, Bill," answered Jim. "Such things have been known to happen before."
"Aye! that's true, and I'm not saying it may not have been an accident." He was stuffing his pipe from a weather-beaten pouch, and Jim waited. "Mr. Maitland," went on the sailor, "clothes or no clothes, the dago was not on shore or we should have seen him from the top of the hill."
"He may have been in the forest, like us," said Jim.
"In the forest," snorted the other. "Not he! I can sling enough of his lingo to have talked with him once or twice. And the Hounds of Hell would not have even got him ashore here, much less into the forest. He was scared stiff of the place."
"Then where the devil is he?" demanded Jim, and Blackett pointed downwards with his thumb.
"Drowned," he said tersely. "That was no accident—the smashing of those plates. He dropped them because he was frightened to death. Something came round the corner of the cuddy, Mr. Maitland, that drove him mad with terror—so mad that it didn't matter whether he could swim or whether he couldn't. He sprang overboard sooner than face it."
Jim stared at the sailor thoughtfully: was it possible he had hit on the right solution? He agreed with him—though he had appeared to differ—that the Brazilian would not have gone ashore of his own free will. And if he had remained in the boat something of the sort must have happened. But what manner of thing could it have been that drove a non-swimmer so crazy with fear that he jumped overboard to certain death by drowning?
The dinghy had not been moved: they had found it in exactly the same spot as they had left it. Therefore this thing must have swum to the boat. And suddenly he noticed a damp patch on the deck just in front of him, which might have been caused by wet feet. Outside the sun would have removed all traces, but this was in the shade. And he pictured to himself the wretched Lopez turning round as a shadow fell on him: the plates falling from his nerveless hands, his scream of fear as he dashed away from the thing that had entered. And then the splash as he hurled himself overboard. Or maybe he had been thrown.
"Well, my dear Watson, I trust you have solved the trifling problem of the Missing Brazilian," remarked Holmes, injecting cocaine into his left ankle.
Percy had joined them in his bathing kit.
"He seems to have been a bit prodigal with the crockery," he went on as he saw the broken plates.
"Look here, Percy," said Jim, "Bill has got a theory. And, 'pon my soul, I'm not certain he isn't right."
"We are prepared to listen," remarked Holmes courteously, injecting cocaine into the right ankle. "But I pray you—be brief. I would fain bathe."
He seated himself on the table and lit a cigarette, while Jim told him the sailor's idea.
"And as I said before," he concluded, "I'm not certain he isn't right."
"Well," said his cousin, who had become serious as he listened, "granted for the moment that he is, what do we do next?"
"If you take my advice, gentlemen," remarked the sailor gravely, "you'll up anchor and leave at once. You know the other name for the island, don't you? I forget the native words, but translated it means the island of no return."
"Seems a bit fatuous to come all this way, and then go all the way back again just because a dago disappears," said Percy.
"It's not because he disappeared," said the sailor stubbornly, "it's because of what made him disappear."
"Steady