“It was just after the turn of the century, around 1902, I believe. Saint-Pierre then had a population of thirty thousand people. Early one morning, as the city slept, Mt. Pelée erupted. It shot forth a sheet of flame and molten lava. In a matter of only a few seconds, thirty thousand people were dead. Most of them died in their beds.”
“The whole city wiped out? In seconds?” Biff asked incredulously.
“That’s right, Biff,” Charlie Keene said. “There was only one survivor.”
“How could one person survive when thirty thousand others perished?” Biff demanded.
“It’s a most unusual story. This person was a prisoner in Saint-Pierre. He was in solitary confinement. The cell he was in had stone walls several feet thick. That’s what saved him. The walls were so thick they resisted the heat. The prisoner didn’t even know about the catastrophe until several days later when rescue crews explored the prison.”
Biff could only shake his head.
That night they camped on top of the volcano and went into Saint-Pierre the next morning. “As you can see,” Uncle Charlie pointed out, “the town has been partly rebuilt. But today, only six thousand persons live here where, fifty years ago, Saint-Pierre had thirty thousand residents.”
Inquiries were made at the police station. The three searchers could hardly believe their ears. They received their first lead.
“No, I do not know the man’s name,” the police officer said, “but a man of such a description as you give has been staying in a small pension just outside the city for the last few months.”
“Where? Where is it?” Derek cried out.