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.”