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  Knox paid his bill, lit a cigarette and leaned back in his chair. He had the cigarette half-smoked when a tall blond man with clean, sharply delineated features came onto the veranda and approached him.

  “Mr. Knox?”

  Knox rose. “Forrest?” They shook hands.

  Knox followed Forrest outside and into a sleek cabin cruiser. He needed but a cursory glance to tell him that this cruiser had not only cost a good deal of money but that it was very fast.

  He listened with pleasure to the throaty purr of the engine. And he admired the way Forrest handled the craft, casually yet with full control. Forrest did not speak until they were well under way. Then he said, “We were surprised to hear that you knew Nivolo. Miss Tinsley understood that he was dead.”

  “He is,” Knox said. “He wasn’t when I last talked to him.”

  If he saw the bait, Forrest didn’t bother to rise to it. He said, “I think you’ll like the island. It’s as comfortable as the city and as isolated as a Scotch moor.”

  “So I was told,” Knox said. “You’re quite the subjects of conversation in La Cruz, you know.” Forrest did not answer.

  Knox was surprised when they reached the island. The cruiser was fast and had taken less time than the fifteen minutes he estimated for the trip.

  Forrest let Knox tie up, made a quick inspection to see that everything was shipshape, and then led the way up a dark path toward the lighted house. The path had brought them to the side of the house facing the mainland, but instead of going onto the veranda there, Forrest showed Knox the way through an encircling garden to the far side. Under soft light in a screened-off portion of the veranda, a man and woman sat ending a leisurely appearing meal. A young Mexican girl in a loose cotton dress was removing dishes from the table. Another girl was bringing coffee and brandy. Knox saw that there was a place set for him.

  He stood motionless just inside the screen doorway, looking at the woman who called herself Natalie Tinsley. Even had he not known the real Nat, he would have stared; this woman was one men could not help looking at.

  Forrest said perfunctorily, “Miss Tinsley, Mr. Knox. And Tiber.”

  The woman rose, coming forward. She was quite tall, with a long, finely shaped face. Her eyes were a deep green, and faintly slanted. Her hair was red, almost mahogany, drawn loosely back and knotted at the base of her neck with studied casualness. She had a superb figure, deep-chested and long-legged. Her blouse was of white satin, cut low in front to reveal the deep cleft of a truly magnificent bosom. The blouse was long, covering her well below the hips, and was nipped in tightly at the waist by a wide belt. Only the barest hint of the cuff of a pair of shorts indicated that she wore anything beneath the blouse. On her feet were thong sandals; her toenails were gilded.

  She stopped before Knox, tilting her head slightly. A light smile hovered at the corners of her full, vivid red mouth. “How do you do, Mr. Knox?” She extended her hand.

  He took slender, cool fingers lightly and made a half-bow. “This is kind of you—to a stranger.”

  “It’s our pleasure.” She had a deep, resonant voice.

  Going through the formality of a handshake with Tiber, who looked as Chuco had described him—a hood—Knox sat down. Natalie Tinsley was smoking a Turkish cigarette fitted into a long holder. Crushing out one cigarette, she fitted another into the holder and then leaned forward as Knox extended his lighter. Her eyes lifted over the flame to his and he was willing to swear that she was not mocking him.

  And she should be.

  Because if she had done any checking on Natalie Tinsley’s past, she would know who Paul Knox was. Perhaps not, he thought. Perhaps she thought that she was safe this far from the regular pathways. He sipped the brandy he had been served and waited.

  “And now, Mr. Knox,” she murmured, “tell us about Nivolo.”

  Knox said, “I ran across him some months ago in Tangier. I happened to mention that I was thinking of a vacation in Mexico; he said he thought you were here and, if I should meet you, to give you his regards.”

  He spoke casually and he could feel three pairs of eyes on him, waiting for him to go on. He did. “Then, later, I heard he was dead—killed by an Arab fanatic.” He shrugged. “When I came here, I heard that you were on the island and I remembered.”

  “Tangier,” she murmured. “Vacations in Mexico. You must lead an interesting life, Mr. Knox.”

  Since his arrival, Knox had been debating how to handle this situation. Now he said ingenuously, “I suppose it is. But sometimes I get bored, sitting and waiting.”

  “Sitting and waiting? Is that your occupation?”

  He gave her an easy grin. “I’m a private detective.” He added quickly into the heavy silence that suddenly enveloped the veranda, “Not the kind who sets up divorce evidence and that sort of thing. I’m a missing persons man.”

  “Ah, I see.” It was Forrest, his voice soft.

  Knox nodded toward him. “That’s why I’m here. I intended to come to Mexico for a vacation, but certainly not to a place like La Cruz. To tell you the truth, I never heard of it until I got my orders.”

  He was stretching, but from the way the tension had relaxed about him, he was willing to go ahead.

  “Since La Cruz’s only excitement recently has been a missing person,” Forrest drawled, “I suppose you’re here about Orvil Curtis.”

  Knox lowered his glass to let them see his surprise. “Why, yes. Did you know him?” He grimaced and shook his head. “But I didn’t come here—to the island—on business. I retract the question.”

  Natalie Tinsley laughed, a pleasant, light sound. “There’s no need, Mr. Knox. Since you are here, why not find out what we know? It isn’t very much, I’m sorry to say.”

  She might as well have said, “See how little we have to hide,” he thought. He said, “I don’t want to impose on your hospitality, but it would be unfair to disturb you again when you’ve been so kind.”

  She spread her hands. “We’re open to grilling—if that’s the word I want?”

  Knox smiled to show that he appreciated her feminine lack of worldliness. “You see, his brother hired me to find him. It’s a matter of the estate, as I understand it. Otherwise, I imagine the formal report the police here made would suffice. There seems no doubt from what I’ve heard that he was caught by the weather and drowned.”

  “That’s the only conclusion,” Forrest agreed. “I saw him go out. It was evening and he went by the dock where I was polishing the cruiser. He waved. He wasn’t a hundred yards off the island. Then he went east by north. It was getting dark and that’s the last I saw of him.”

  “Is there much night fishing in these parts?” Knox asked.

  “You can get some very interesting catches at night,” Forrest assured him.

  Knox nodded. “The natives seem to think he got too close to that other island—Fog Island, I think it’s named—and the spirits got him.”

  “If anything got him there,” Forrest said, “it would be the current. It nearly took me one day when we were first here. I’ve learned to do as the natives do—stay strictly away.”

  Knox spread his hands. “That’s about it, I guess. Unless some freak current should wash a trace of this Curtis ashore, I’m going back empty-handed.”

  There was a moment of silence which Natalie Tinsley broke by rising. “Mr. Knox, perhaps you’d like to see the rest of the place. Even though I’m only renting it, I’m awfully proud of it.”

  He rose, murmuring his delight at the prospect. They left the screened veranda and went into the garden which was lighted only by the glow that came from the house. It was a pleasant garden, and had been allowed to run riot, yet was without weeds. Beyond a screen of flowering bush, Knox could see moonlight on water.

  She chatted as they walked, telling him about the book she was writing and how delightful a place this was to write in and what excellent assistants she had. Forrest not only typed rapidly and well but he ran all the errands and k
ept the launch in perfect tune, while Tiber—who, Knox recalled, had not said a word on the terrace—was an excellent research man and a fine gardener as well.

  They went around the screen of flowering bushes and Knox recognized the pool he had seen through the glasses from his cabin.

  The pool, Natalie explained, had been created by damming up a small inlet of the sea. It was screened at the far end to keep out dangerous fish and so was a very pleasant place to swim. Lowering herself into one of the deck chairs on the terrace, she invited him to take another. “Do you like to swim, Mr. Knox?”

  “Very much,” he said. He took a camp stool, facing her at an angle. The lacy fronds of overhanging palms left her almost in darkness, cutting out the moonlight, but he could make out her expression well enough.

  She lay with her arms extended upward so that her breasts thrust against the clinging material of her blouse. “Then you’ll have to come again and swim with me,” she murmured. “But I should warn you—I detest bathing suits.”

  He was puzzled. He had sized her up as a subtle person, but she was not being at all subtle now. “I’d like a cigarette.”

  He gave her one and leaned forward with his lighter. The small flame illumined her briefly. It came to his mind that she was not only beautiful but that she was cruel. There was a hint of that in the curve of her mouth, in the light in her eyes, in the depths of her husky voice. Suddenly, he was afraid of her. Not personally, but of what she represented and what she might control. This was her element. She had established prior right to this territory, and he had no doubt that she would protect it well.

  She spoke lightly, settling back away from him. “Did you really come to find this Mr. Curtis?”

  He said honestly, “Yes. Why else?”

  “You don’t look like my idea of a private detective.” Her laugh was barely audible above the whisper of the palm fronds.

  “And what is your idea of a private detective?”

  “Not someone who wears three-hundred-dollar suits and drives a car like you do,” she answered. “I’ve been spying on you, Mr. Knox. I grow bored sometimes and I have some very powerful field glasses. I watched you drive into La Cruz today.”

  “I like clothes and a car like I have,” Knox said. “I get bored, too. This job takes the edge from it.”

  She said, “In your business did you ever meet my father?”

  It came so casually that it almost took him off guard. “Your father?”

  “Gerard Tinsley. He was—well, not always within the law.”

  “The name doesn’t strike me,” Knox said. “But I’m fairly new in the field.”

  “He was killed last year. One of his own men shot him.”

  “I’m sorry,” Knox said.

  “I thought perhaps you’d come here to see what his daughter was up to.”

  “Have you been up to anything?”

  “Just living my own life, doing what I’ve always wanted to do.” She stirred now, moving in her chair so that she was closer to him. “Will you be here long?”

  “Until I get some evidence, or I’m satisfied there isn’t any.”

  She let him hear her sigh. “It’s nice having someone new for a change. It would be nicer if you didn’t stay a stranger.”

  “I’d like that, too.”

  She stretched, flipping her cigarette over his head and into the pond where it hissed faintly. “Then come and swim with me here some night.”

  “Sans bathing suit?”

  “Of course. I told you my—peculiarity.”

  Knox waited for more, still wondering at her lack of subtlety. She was silent. He rose and said, “I’ll be going now.”

  “Forrest will run you back.” She made no effort to get up. “And I am glad you called, Mr. Knox. Or—Paul?”

  “Paul is fine.”

  She extended a hand and he took it. “Good night—Paul.”

  “Good night, Natalie.”

  • • •

  When Forrest returned to the island, Tiber told him sullenly that the boss wanted to see him. She was still by the pool. Taking a whisky and soda along, he lowered himself onto the stool Knox had used. Natalie sat quietly, smoking a cigarette.

  “Well?” He sounded half-angry.

  “Don’t be a boor, Nige. I didn’t bring him down here to make love to him.”

  “I can believe that. Did you ever make love to anyone?” He gulped at his whisky.

  She was laughing at him. She stopped. “He has all the answers, so maybe he’s just what he claims to be. And maybe he’s another Curtis.”

  “We weren’t sure about Curtis. He could have been a poor guy down here for some cheap fishing.”

  “We’ll know,” she said, “if that friend of yours in Mexico City ever gets through with his investigation.”

  “It takes time,” Forrest said.

  She said, “Call him and have him see about this Knox, too. I’m assuming that Curtis was what we thought he was and that Knox is part of the same package. Let’s not waste any time. You go back to La Cruz and start things going. And I want you to keep an eye on Knox during the siesta. No one in these parts is worth a damn in the afternoons.”

  “All right.” He sounded irritated.

  “Don’t complain. We have too much at stake and the time is getting close. We can’t take any chances.”

  “Why not just get rid of him, then, and stop worrying.”

  “Too much of a good thing. There would be more than a simple-minded police investigation if it happened twice. Do as I say.”

  “All right.”

  “Don’t be sulky, Nige. You may kiss me good night.”

  He wished that he could tell her to go to hell, but he was in no position to do so. He tried to make something of it when he kissed her but she pushed him away. He went to the house, hearing her laughter in his ears.

  CHAPTER VI

  The man who called himself Orvil Curtis awoke to find that he lay on a hard-packed dirt path with one foot dangling on the edge of a swamp. He had never smelled such a stench before, nor had he ever—even with the finest of hang-overs—felt quite as he did now. He moved and groaned as a straight-down sun struck him full in the eyes. Somehow he found the strength to roll back into a slight patch of shade.

  He lay quiescent, his eyes shut. When he opened them, he discovered that he had fallen asleep. The sun had moved some distance and now the high black rock to the west had cut it off, leaving the area where he was in shadow.

  He took stock of himself. Nothing seemed to be broken, but his head ached abominably, his stomach felt as if it would turn itself completely inside out if he so much as opened his mouth, and his throat was on fire from thirst. His eyesight, which had been blurred, began to clear and he looked around.

  Slowly, the realization of what must have happened came back to him. He had tied the dinghy at Horsetail Island and slipped through the trees and brush to the edge of the garden that faced seaward. With the moon still up, he had been very careful, neither making noise nor exposing himself as he moved.

  Finally he had reached a position where he could hear the pair seated by the pool. Natalie Tinsley and Forrest were having a low-voiced discussion. It had been a very interesting discussion, he remembered. Most illuminating. Coupled with the information he already had, it made a number of puzzles clear. He decided that he no longer need risk himself here but could afford to leave La Cruz and make his report.

  He had begun a slow retreat to his dinghy. And had almost made it. He was, in fact, putting one foot over the gunwale and turning to free the painter when the deep voice of Tiber said, “Let’s just hold it like that.”

  And he had held it. There had been little else to do considering the size of the cannon in Tiber’s fist. He had stepped back out of the dinghy and allowed himself to be led to the house. In a few moments the striking woman who called herself Natalie Tinsley and the man Forrest had come in.

  “I found this one trying to leave the island,” Tiber said.<
br />
  “How long has he been here?” Forrest had a deceptively lazy voice. He had smiled, but not the kind of smile Curtis appreciated.

  Curtis answered for himself. “Only a few moments. I was fishing and found my water jug was empty. I saw your light and came here, hoping I could borrow a little.” He smiled a disarming smile that no one bothered to notice.

  “I been watching his dinghy for three quarters of an hour,” Tiber said.

  The woman looked at Forrest and let her eyebrows rise in a silent question. Forrest shrugged. “This is private property, you know—but then when a man needs water …” He paused and moved toward the bar. “Let’s have a drink and talk it over, shall we?”

  That was very kind of them, Curtis said. He watched closely as Forrest made the drinks, gin and tonic, all around. He was willing to swear that there was nothing in his drink that was not in the others. And he was quite right. Forrest had made them openly, put in straws and handed them around. The straws were cellophane, with Curtis’ being a bright pink. It had never occurred to him to doubt the straw.

  When the drug hit, he had tried to fight it, but without luck. He had felt the faint prick of the hypodermic and barely had time to wonder what was coming next when he went under.

  Now he was here. He knew about Fog Island, and if he could believe the natives of La Cruz, there would be neither palatable food nor water here. But Curtis’ value to his job lay a great deal in his lack of imagination. He was a man who had to be shown. Consequently he did not just lie and wait for death but decided that the first thing to do was find water for his throat.

  One sniff, one sip of the swamp water convinced him that thus far the natives were right. It was nauseating stuff, sea water that had worked its way up through the ooze.

  He found that he could stand and, if he was very careful, walk. He walked. And he found the path that led to the tiny cove with the natural rock pier. He lay belly down on the pier for some time, enjoying being away from the stench of the interior but knowing that he was no closer to drinking water than he had been before.