THE PRISONER.

Auckland Star, Volume LXVIII, Issue 22, 27 January 1937, Page 27

THE PRISONER.

By ARTHUR MILLS.

(SHORT STORY.)

A SOFT pink dawn was breaking over Les Isles du Saint. On the smallest of these islands the warder of the day was going his rounds. As he unlocked the cells one by one, haggard men, their faces deep stamped with bitterness, crept into the light. Some began scratching at patches of earth behind the stone buildings, which they called their gardens; others paced along the foot-worn track which skirts the water's edge; there was no surveillance. All were free to do as they wished on that rock till dusk fell, when they were locked ence more into their cells. As usual, convict No. 7093 sat quietly on a .piece of rock, his cool, blue eyes looking out over the sea to where, many thousands of miles away, he knew the shores of England were. Xo. 7593 had bought it good and proper this time, and he knew it. They had got him, and they had put him 911 Devil's Island, and there he would be left until he died.

There was one chance—just one in a thousand—that Harding might hear where he was. Harding would do somethin"; lie was a colleague, and an old friend.

In the meanwhile he wondered whether the awful solitude of life upon that rock would drive him mad. Nothing hut the sea stretching glassily to the horizon—the sea and the sharks; great, vicious, man-eating brutes, swimming slowly round and round right in close to the shore.

In the «eeret service, news of the fate of missing agents travels by devious paths. Harding read through the inno-cent-looking sentence on the back of the postcard from Saizon a second time, then he went to the telephone. He asked for a certain number—day and night there was always a man at the head office. When a voice answered Harding gave the key word and then rapidly p-.it certain questions. The answers were discreet, but uncompromising; he thanked his informant, hung up the receiver, and went and stood up before the fire, his hands clenched behind his back. So they had got Bob! Well, it had been a dangerous game —as dangerous as anyone in the Eastern section had undertaken for many a day. Harding filled his pipe. Neither the War Office nor the Foreign Office would move a linger, of course. That was the inviolable law of the service. If you were caught, your Government disclaimed all knowledge of your existence. Anything done would have to bo done privately. Hut how to act ? Devil's Island? The one utterly escape-proof prison in the world. Prisoners had escaped from the penitentiaries on the mainland at Cayenne and St. Laurent du Maroni, but in all its history no one had ever got away from the island alive. Harding reviewed the possibilities. Bribe the warders? Impracticable. The warders on that tiny strip of rock were just as much prisoners a* the men they 'guarded. Get a boat? Useless—no boat could possibly approach, night or day, unobserved. A seaplane would be worse still, for the noise of its approach would be heard in the air. and cither boat or seaplane would be riddled with bullets before they had been lying off the island two minutes. It was a bad, bad business; no use blinking the matter. It was not until next morning, in his bath, that inspiration came. Harding leaped on to the mat and slapped his thijjh. Why hadn't he thought of that before? If one could have any faith left in human nature it was all too ridiculously simple. There was, of course, just that "if." Because of the special nature of his calling, Harding had always direct access to certain Ministers (Tf the Cabinet. At 11 o'clock the next morning the youngest and most audacious of these Ministers received a visit from Harding.

Three weeks later the rusty old passenger boat which once a month rolls down the Guiana coast to Cayenne deposited an Englishman on the mudbank which does duty for a wharf for that unsavoury city. Having installed his kit at the hotel, Harding went downstairs and ordered a drink. The first thing to be done was to discover what means of communication there was for the officials between Devil's Island and the mainland. •*

Hardin™ had collected comprehensive data before he left, and he knew that the leading barber in Cayenne was no other than Jacques Hulot. whose trial in France had provided a. sensation ten years previously, and who had himself served a term on Devil's Island. Hulot had been a hairdresser in Marseilles before he got into trouble, and when his innocence had been proved and he had been set at liberty, had returned to his old trade, opening a business in Cayenne.

Harding relied on the natural loquaciousness of all barbers when they are cutting a client's hair. He was not disappointed. In between snips M. Hulot was voluble about his sufferings.

"Figure to yourself, Monsieur, the awful loneliness of the life—to be put on a rock which it takes at most 20 minutes to walk the entire way round. There is nothing to do—nothing at all — only the coconuts saved us from going mad." "The coconuts!" "Yes, Monsieur; there are a few coconut trees on the island, and we used to get the shells and make carvings from them in the hope of earning a few francs. The practice still continues; indeed, there is a store near here where you can buy the coconut carviugs of the prisoners on Devil's Island. "A Chinese is the proprietor. They say the Chinese have gone into every corner of the world in pursuit of commerce, but this one, who has established trade with the Isle du Diable, is truly enterprising."

"Oh! he is allowed to go there?" "Yes, Monsieur, he has the permit of the Governor, and from time to time he goes across and does trade with the waiters in spirits and tobacco."

Later that morning Ah Wong, general store dealer, received a visit from an Englishman who had come to inquire about getting supplies for a journey into the interior.

They conversed for some while in the front shop, then adjourned to drink tea in Ah Wong's parlour. In the privacy of the parlour the Englishman pulled out a canvas qpek and counted o«t 500 golden coins. Ah Wong betrayed no excitement at the sight, but there was the 6ilenee of the tomb in that small parlotir while he considered certain propositions.

At length the Englishman departed. Two days later he returned and bought a piece of coconut carving, for -which he paid £250 in ;jold, and which he took to his room and examined very carefully through a microscope. He then went to the post ofHre and sent a cable to Georgetown: "Mosquito net and tent required." Which being decoded, read, "Midday, Monday." It was noon on Devil's Island, and meal hour for prisoners and warders alike. Meanwhile No. 7593. Ex-Corporal Drouant of Mie lst/4-th Etranger, sat on His piece of rock by the water's edge where the warders had grown accustomed to seeing him sitting the livelong day. Hi* eyes were fixed steadily upon the sea, the same sea that he had been watching all the day before so long as there was light. The sea ran deep by the rock on which he sat, fully 40 feet or more.

From the sun he knew it must be high noon. (iood old Jack Harding. He had not failed. His message had come to the inland by the man that bought coconut carvings from the prisoners, and an answer had been returned.

Now there was nothing to do but wait. No 7593 continued staring at the sea. Suddenly his hand clenched. What was that out there—some 200 yards from shore. It had the appearance of a tin or empty bottle. Was it moving?

Ho stared intently. Wild joy swept through him. That object was coining straight in towards the shore, and hia knew beyond the |K>ssibility of a doubt that he was looking at a periscope. As the submarine felt its way in cautiously towards the rock on which lie «*at, he wondered for a moment if there was anyone watching above who could see the shape beneath the water. Now she was just below him. The periscope came high out of the water. The conning tower showed clear. A trapdoor was flung open and a sailor's cheerful face appeared. "Are you Gore?"' For answer No. 7593 jumped. He had a yard or two to swim, but no sharks to fear, not with that strange monster about. Tn another moment he was on board; the submarine dived once more and headed out to sea.