CHAPTER I

THE RADIO DETECTIVES IN THE JUNGLE

By

A. HYATT VERRILL

AUTHOR OF “THE RADIO DETECTIVES,” “THE RADIO DETECTIVES

UNDER THE SEA,” “THE RADIO DETECTIVES

SOUTHWARD BOUND,” ETC.

D. APPLETON AND COMPANY

NEW YORK :: 1922 :: LONDON

COPYRIGHT, 1922, BY

D. APPLETON AND COMPANY

PRINTED IN THE UNITED STATES OF AMERICA

CONTENTS

I. Strange Places

II. A Cry for Help

III. The Castaways

IV. More Mysteries

V. The End of the Submarine

VI. In South America

VII. Off for the Jungle

VIII. On the Trail

IX. Kenaima!

X. Red Beard Seals His Doom

XI. Vengeance

XII. The End of the Trail

RADIO DETECTIVES IN THE JUNGLE

CHAPTER I

STRANGE PLACES

A hurricane had swept through the West Indies leaving death and

destruction in its path and wrecking scores of vessels, uprooting

trees, stripping the tops from palms, destroying crops and blowing

down the flimsy native houses.

Now that it was over and there was no danger of its return those ships

that had escaped the storm within snug harbors began to creep forth to

resume their interrupted voyages. Some were uninjured. Others had

rigging or deck fittings carried away, while some were so badly

crippled that they limped as rapidly as possible towards the nearest

dry dock for repairs.

Among them was a lean gray destroyer which slipped out of Coral Bay at

St. John and headed her sharp prow southward. That she had borne the

brunt of the terrific gale was evident, for of her four funnels only

two were standing, her decks had been swept bare, fathoms of her

railings had been carried away and from half way up her military mast

she was white with encrusted salt. But she had received no vital

injury. From her two remaining funnels dense volumes of smoke were

pouring, a busy crowd of bluejackets labored like ants at repairing

the damages to superstructure and fittings and, despite the buffeting

she had received and the fact that half her boilers were out of

commission until the funnels could be replaced, she slid through the

oily seas at a twenty-knot clip.

To those who have followed the Radio Detectives through their previous

adventures the group upon the crippled destroyer’s decks will need no

introduction. There was the trim, spick-and-span Commander Disbrow,

the deep-sea diver, Rawlins, Mr. Pauling and his friend Mr. Henderson

and the two boys, Tom Pauling and his chum Frank.

But for the benefit of those who now meet the Radio Detectives for the

first time a few words of explanation will be needed.

Months before the story opens, Tom Pauling and Frank had discovered a

most astounding plot by means of their radio telephones and thereby

enabled Tom’s father and his associate, Mr. Henderson, who were

federal officers in the Secret Service, to make prisoners of a number

of members of an international gang of scoundrels whose activities

included the distribution of Bolshevist literature, the destruction of

property, smuggling contraband liquor into the United States and

conducting a widespread series of holdups, robberies and other crimes.

Through confessions and other evidence Mr. Pauling and Mr. Henderson

had learned that the arch criminal or master mind of the plot was

hiding in a secret lair in the West Indies which--after a series of

thrilling adventures on the part of the two boys and their companions,

including Rawlins and Sam, a Bahaman negro--had been located, only to

find that the leader of the criminals had slipped through the net set

for him.

Then, influenced by a “hunch” on Rawlins’ part, Mr. Pauling and his

companions had followed a tramp steamer, of which they were

suspicious, to St. Thomas. Although there was no evidence conclusive

enough to warrant holding the tramp, suspicion pointed to the fact

that the leader of the gang of criminals was somewhere in the

vicinity. Owing to mysterious radio messages, the party chartered a

schooner and went to the neighboring island of St. John.

Here they met a Dutch naturalist named Van Brunt who was dealing with

the “reds.” Rawlins, spying on him, was held up and narrowly escaped

death at the hands of a man whom he recognized as the master criminal

they were seeking. Later, this man was found dead and proved to be a

person disguised to impersonate the real leader, while Van Brunt

visited the schooner and convinced Mr. Pauling and Mr. Henderson that

he was innocent and knew nothing of the “red’s” activities.

Becoming friendly with the boys, the Dutch scientist took them on a

trip into the bush and while they were in a huge cave, deserted them.

Soon afterwards a severe hurricane swept the island, imprisoning the

two boys within the cavern by a tree falling across the entrance. In

the meantime the other members of the party were compelled to seek

refuge from the hurricane in the village on shore and were amazed to

see the tramp steamer entering the harbor to escape the storm. As soon

as the gale was over a searching party started out to find the missing

boys and discovered that Van Brunt’s house had been destroyed by

lightning.

While they were hunting for the boys, Tom and Frank had been made

prisoners by a red-bearded man whom they knew was one of the gang.

They had been placed on a submarine where Van Brunt confronted them,

admitting he was a member of the “reds” and had purposely betrayed the

boys. From the submarine they were taken to a locked cabin on a vessel

and later were rescued in a most astounding manner by Sam, the

Bahaman, who also killed Van Brunt. During their imprisonment the boys

had overheard a plot to capture the other members of the party by

means of a decoy letter and reaching their friends safely Tom and

Frank related their tale in time to save the others from falling into

the scoundrels’ trap. Soon afterwards a destroyer, which was in

constant touch with the schooner by radio, arrived in response to Mr.

Pauling’s summons. The tramp, in a last desperate attempt to escape,

tried to run down the schooner but failed owing to Rawlins’ quick wit.

Then, turning, the tramp endeavored to leave the harbor by a narrow

entrance, but was sunk by a shot from the destroyer’s guns.

From the boys’ descriptions and Sam’s discoveries the Americans

learned that the tramp was a “mother ship” for the submarine with a

huge cradle or opening in the hull wherein the underseas boat could

rest and be carried from place to place. But although a search was

made of the wrecked tramp no trace of either the submarine or of

bodies could be found. Mr. Pauling and the others felt convinced,

however, that the leader of the gang was still at large and while

discussing this matter their attention was drawn to a seaplane which

they decided was a United States government machine sent from Porto

Rico or St. Thomas to learn the cause of the explosion.

After the aircraft had disappeared the party returned to the destroyer

and to their amazement were given a radio message from the aviator

which Mr. Pauling recognized as coming from the arch criminal whom

they were seeking.

But although their quarry had once more escaped them and had taken to

the air, Rawlins insisted they would yet capture him and pointed out

that the seaplane must descend and that when it did they should be on

hand.

Although it seemed but a slim chance, still the diver’s hunches had

invariably proved so reliable that Mr. Pauling had at once decided to

take Rawlins’ advice and, transferring himself and his party to the

partially disabled destroyer, had at once started forth to search the

neighboring islands for the aircraft which had last been seen flying

southward.

And as the lean gray craft slipped out of the shelter of Coral Bay and

felt the heave of the Caribbean sea, Rawlins was speaking. “Airplanes

aren’t so common down here that they can fly over the islands without

being noticed,” he asserted. “If we stop in at them here and there we

ought to be able to trail him. He’d have to head for some place and by

finding out where he’s been seen we can get his direction. I’ll bet

he’s got some hang-out down here. Of course, he could land on the

water, but it would have to be in the lee of an island even if he was

going to be picked up by a ship.”

“Or the submarine,” put in Mr. Pauling. “Don’t forget that the chances

are the sub escaped and is to meet him.”

“Yes, but he can’t land on a sub and he couldn’t have started off from

it. No, he’s either got some ship or a secret landing place and hangar

for his plane on shore. Besides, if he tries sending messages the boys

can pick them up.”

“To my mind,” declared Mr. Henderson. “It is like hunting for the

proverbial needle in the haystack. There are a score and more of

islands--to say nothing of cays--and although he started south we have

no means of knowing how soon he may have shifted his course. Why, even

now, he may be over in Santo Domingo, Cuba or Tortuga or he may have

turned east to St. Barts or Barbuda. If we went to every island we

would be here for the next year.”

“I’ll say we would!” laughed Rawlins. “But we don’t need to. Once we

pick up his trail and know his course it’ll be easy. A fellow can’t

fly far in any direction without being in sight of an island and if we

lose him we can easily find his trail again by calling at an island or

two.”

“Sounds easy, I admit,” remarked Mr. Henderson rather sarcastically.

“But what is to prevent him from going straight across to South

America for example? Then we’d have a nice job trying to find where he

landed--I suppose we’d have to hunt the entire northern coast of the

continent.”

“I expect you’re jollying me a bit,” replied the diver, “but honest

Injun you know he couldn’t make a nonstop flight to South America from

here and if he took a course for there our job would be all the

easier. There are only a few islands between here and South America,

in a direct line you know. I think the best place to ask will be

Statia or St. Croix. Then, if they haven’t seen or heard him, we can

swing to the east to St. Kitts or St. Barts.”

“I’m backing your hunch you know, Rawlins,” asserted Mr. Pauling, “and

if you say St. Croix first, St. Croix it is. We’re outside now and

we’d better give Commander Disbrow his course.”

“Well, I guess we’ll make it Statia first,” replied Rawlins after a

moment’s thought. “It’s the nearest and in nearly a direct line with

the course he took. Besides, the Dutch captain of the tramp may still

be in the hospital there. If he is we can see him and maybe pump some

information from him. Perhaps, if he knows his ship’s gone to Davy

Jones and the others have skedaddled he’ll come across with a

confession to clear his own skirts.”

“Yes, that’s a good scheme,” agreed Mr. Pauling. “We’ll make Statia

first then.”

The two boys had thought St. Thomas and St. John fascinating and

beautiful, but as the towering volcanic cone of St. Eustatius or

“Statia” as it is more often called, rose above the sea with the far

reaching, rich green hills and cloud-piercing, frowning heights of St.

Kitts to the east, they could only gaze in rapt admiration and

declared they had never seen anything so wonderful or beautiful.

“Wait until you see the other islands,” said Rawlins, laughing at the

boys’ excited exclamations of delight. “Why, St. Kitts over there

isn’t anything compared to Dominica or Martinique and as for

Statia--well of course it looks high and it’s striking because it’s

small and the cone is so perfect in shape, but it’s no bigger than

little St. John and it would be only a hill on Guadeloupe or

Dominica.”

“Gee, I hope the old seaplane went everywhere so we can see all the

islands,” declared Tom. “It’s a shame we are down here and won’t see

those you talk about.”

“Maybe we will,” said the diver. “At any rate, we’re bound to see some

of them, but look over there to the west. See that big cone sticking

up to the right of Statia? Well that’s the strangest island in the

West Indies if not in the world. It’s Saba.”

“But no one lives there!” complained Frank, who was studying the

conical mass of rock rising abruptly for a thousand feet above the

sea.

“Don’t they!” exclaimed Rawlins. “I’ll say they do! But you can’t see

’em or their houses from the sea. Saba’s just a big volcano--dead of

course. The town’s in the crater--about eight hundred feet above the

sea. It’s called ‘Bottom.’ The people are Dutch and speak English and

if you visited ’em you’d have to climb a stairway cut in the rocks

with eight hundred steps. And I’ll bet my boots to a herring you can’t

guess what the folks who live up in that crater do for a living.”

“No, but I should think they might make balloons or airplanes,”

replied Tom.

“’Twould be more appropriate,” agreed Rawlins, “but instead they make

boats! Carry the lumber up that stairway--it’s called ‘The

Ladder’--build the boats in the crater and lower ’em over the mountain

side just as if they were launching ’em from a ship.”

“Oh, you’re just kidding us!” declared Tom, “That’s too big a yarn!”

“True, nevertheless,” his father, who had drawn near, assured him.

“I’ve heard of it before.”

“’Course it’s true!” avowed the diver. “And there are a lot of other

blamed funny things about Saba that are true. All the folks keep their

coffins in their houses and look after ’em just like the other

furniture and most of the young men are sailors. I know two or three

who are mates of big transatlantic liners. And the town’s so high up

they can grow potatoes and strawberries and such things there.”

“But who do they sell them to?” asked Frank.

“Take ’em over to St. Kitts mostly,” Rawlins told him.

“Well, I’d like to go there,” declared Tom. “Don’t you suppose they

saw the airplane? If they’re so high up, they might have got a good

view of it.”

“Sure they might,” agreed Rawlins. “But if they did, the folks on

Statia did too, and it’s no easy job landing at Saba--no dock or

harbor--just a tiny strip of pebbly beach among the rocks. It’s

impossible to go ashore if there’s any sea running.”

“I call that too bad!” said Frank. “I suppose there’s nothing very odd

or interesting about Statia.”

“Well, I guess it’s not so interesting as Saba,” admitted the diver.

“But it’s pretty interesting if you know it’s history. It’s the first

place where the American flag was saluted and during the Revolutionary

War it was the richest and busiest port in the world. And the biggest

auction the world’s ever seen was held there. You’ll not see any ships

or warehouses to speak of at Orange Town now, but you’ll see the

remains of the old ones.”

“Then why was it given up?” asked Tom.

“’Twasn’t!” laughed Rawlins. “At least, not purposely. You see, during

the Revolution, Statia, being Dutch and a free port, was used as a

clearing place for the French, British, and Americans. It was neutral,

and all the goods going in or out of the West Indies were sent there

and stored until called for by ships. But the English sent a warship

and seized everything, and then auctioned off the whole lot--ships and

merchandise both--and of course, the business was never resumed.”

“How do you happen to know so much about all these places, may I ask?”

inquired Mr. Henderson. “You seem to be a sort of walking gazetteer of

the West Indies.”

Rawlins chuckled. “Well, you see,” he answered, “father was a sea

captain before he took to salvage work and I used to go on trips with

him from the time I was a kid, knee high to a grasshopper. His old

hooker had a West Indian trade route and I saw nearly all the islands

and what I didn’t see for myself he told me about. Then, when I took

to diving I got a lot of work down here.”

“Ah, I understand,” said Mr. Henderson. “And, knowing the islands so

well, could you suggest any one--or several--which would be suitable

as landing places for that plane?”

“Sure,” replied the diver. “He could land at pretty nearly any of

them--or rather near them. There are long stretches of uninhabited

coast on all. Even Barbados, which is the most densely inhabited, has

plenty of places where a plane could slip in and none be wiser--only

they’d see him coming and run like blazes to watch him come down. No,

I don’t expect he’ll try landing near any of the big islands. More

likely he’d pick some small cay or outlying islet--there are several

around Martinique and Guadeloupe and--by glory, yes! There’s Aves.

Great Scott! I hadn’t thought of that.”

“Aves!” repeated Mr. Pauling, questioningly. “You mean the place down

off the Venezuelan coast--‘The pleasant Isle of Aves’--in the old

pirate song?”

“No, another one,” replied Rawlins. “A tiny bit of land about one

hundred miles west of Dominica in the middle of the Caribbean. It’s an

ideal spot. Not an inhabitant; flat as a table--although that’s no

advantage with a sea plane--and out of the course of all shipping.

I’ve a hunch that’s his place.”

Mr. Pauling laughed. “Your hunches are coming thick and fast,

Rawlins,” he said. “Is this one so strong you want to shift our course

for the island?”

The diver grinned. “Not quite,” he replied. “But if we get on his

trail and it looks like Aves I’m for it.”

“Well, we’ll soon know if he passed Statia,” remarked Tom. “We’re

almost there.”