He tried to think what it would mean to come into possession of such a plane. “All depends upon who those fellows are,” he mused. “If they are our allies and I swiped their plane, I would very likely be put in the brig. But if they are Germans, and I got their secret weapon away from them, my picture would make the front page of every paper in America. I’d probably be made an admiral.” He laughed huskily. “What a life!”
A protracted search was at last rewarded. An insignificant sketch clipped from some British magazine told him that it had not been necessary to change the manner of operation for this plane. “You turn on the gas, release the brakes, step on the accelerator, and away you fly,” he read.
“Just like that!” he exclaimed. “Perfect!”
As he returned the book to its place on the rock, then turned to go up the trail, he realized that though the mystery of the strange plane had, in part, been solved, that mystery had been supplanted by even more important problems. Who were these men who came and went so mysteriously? They had told him very little. The book had told him less. Since the clippings were printed in four languages, and these men had collected them, they might be friends or enemies—Englishmen, Australians, or Germans. These islands were in enemy waters, but were too small and rugged to be considered important. Perhaps these men were Germans placed here to spy on Allied ships and to watch the islands.
But in that case they’d have nabbed me, he thought. Well, maybe not. They knew I couldn’t get away. Perhaps they thought they could find out things from me, the ship I’d sailed on, number of ships in the task force, and all that.
But then, they spoke English. He laughed lightly. Probably Englishmen. But why are they here? He gave it up and started back toward their camp.
On his way back to camp he made discoveries that deepened the already ominous mystery of the island. He had covered half the distance when a fluttering bit of white against the dark trunk of a huge teakwood tree caught his eye. He hurried toward it.
He discovered that it was pinned there by three thorns. It was a note written on paper made from a thin slice cut out of the stem of a palm frond and bleached in the sun. The message was printed, but not crudely done. It read:
Don’t trust those men with the strange plane. We think they are dangerous. We have heard them talking German.
That was all. The note was not signed. Who were “we”? To this there was no answer.