"Do you know where he is now?"
"Nope. Maybe the Maliba Government had him bumped off - he was pretty free with his dough and gave a lot to the rebel riff-raff around the waterfront. I wouldn't know. He may have gone into hiding… we're not interested in Sellingham."
Kellaher turned to the Mexican. "I think this guy's straight, Navarro."
The Mexican still looked suspicious but he said: "Okay, Blake, you can go. But keep your nose clean, huh?"
Blake rose. He nodded to Kellaher then turned without a word and left the cabin.
On deck he found Curtis leaning over the ship's rail. The Professor turned with a faint smile.
"So you're in the clear?"
"Yes - some misunderstanding." Blake hesitated. "Just so there's no mistale about the dead man's identity - do you think I could be here tomorrow when you salvage the sphere?"
Curtis shrugged. "Why not?"
Blake smiled and thanked him.
"Okay," Curtis said, "I'll see you." His face was grim as he watched Blake go.
Blake was deep in thought as he climbed down the ladder into his motor boat and began his return journey to the harbour.
If Professor Curtis's account of the bathysphere incident was true, there could no longer be any doubt about Harben's fate.
Jules Harbem alias Jakob Kraski, Soviet Master-Spy, was dead. In twenty-four hours, all being well, Blake would even be able to see him buried!
That would be good news for Craille.
But meanwhile, other problems remained.
Blake had still to locate Peter Sellingham; he had still to get the list of Soviet agents Craille had asked for; he had still to learn exactly how Harben had died; and he had still to learn why the Maliba police had imposed censorship on the bathysphere incident.
Had Captain Tarratona censored news of the bathysphere at the request of Navarro and Kellaher? Where did the two FBI men fit in - if indeed they were FBI men?
The business of the censorship was puzzling.
But even more puzzling was something else:
If Captain Tarratona was so anxious to suppress all details of the bathysphere incident, wht had be been so ready to reveal the name of the murdered man - Jules Harben?
8. OUR MAN IN MALIBA
The question uppermost in Blake's mind was one that had to be answered without delay. And it was to answer it that Blake made steps, as soon as he was ashore, towards the Consulate of Her Britannic Majesty's Government.
It was very rarely, on Blake's missions for Craille, that the detective could allow himself the luxury of indulging in "feedback" - of communicating directly with his superior and passing his problem back to London.
But in certain circumstances, when the situation warranted it, an emergency means of communication did exist.
And it was to use this emergency system that Blake arrived in the early afternoon at the large white villa which stood in a well-kept garden on the western sea-cliffs above the city.
A small Union Jack flew from a discreet white flagpole above an immaculate lawn, and a gleaming Rolls-Royce stood in a wide, adjacent garage.
Blake entered an air-conditioned reception and was greeted by an English girl in her twenties who looked up from her desk with a pleasant smile. "Yes?"
Blake showed her a business card. "Have you a full time security officer?"
The girl's eyebrows arched imperceptibly. "Just one moment sir,…" She rose and crossed the marble hallway, disappearing into a nearby office.
A moment later she was back. "Will you come this way, please?"
Blake followed her into the office. A lean, middle-aged man with a pipe rose from a paper-strewn desk. "All right, Judy." He dismissed the girl with a nod.
He shook hands with Blake. "We've no permanent security man. I'm Henderson, the Vice-Consul…" His eyes were thoughtful. "What's the problem?"
"Sexton Blake," replied the detective. "Special Service Operative, PANSAC. I want to send a message to London."
"Hmm…" Henderson frowned. He took a bunch of keys from his pocket and crossed to the safe behind his desk. "Is it urgent?"
"Very."
Henderson opened the safe and pulled out a thick file.
He skimmed through it and found a page. "What's your service number?"
Blake told him.
Henderson nodded and closed the book. "All right, Mr. Blake. Come through into the communications room." He closed the safe, locking it. Then with another key from the bunch he opened to door of a small adjoining office and lead Blake inside.
Two teleprinters stood side by side beneath a shelf of radio equipment.
"We only work to London once a day," said Henderson. "I'll set it up for you…" He began switching on power circuits and adjusting dials. "… You want to use the keyboard yourself?"
"Yes please."
"All right. Just a moment…" He leaned over one of the keyboards and tapped out half a dozen code words. "Who's your addressee?"
"DISCO/SINSEC," Blake told him.
Henderson tapped it out. A moment later the red light went on. "Okay, you're through."
Blake took the seat behind the keyboard as the printer began to chatter:
SINSEC SINSEC GO AHEAD MALIBA
Blake typed:
EMERGENCY FOR CRAILLE PERSONAL
There was a brief pause before the keys chattered back:
STAND BY
Then Blake waited, knowing that the girl at the other end had gone to fetch Craille. He wondered grimly what the old man would be thinking. He certainly wouldn't be pleased.
Blake was right. A moment later Craille was on the other end tapping out tersely:
WHAT'S WRONG?
Blake sent his message:
PLEASE ADVISE URGENTLY ON SECURITY REPEAT SECURITY OF SOURCE INFORMING YOU OF HARBEN'S TRUE INDENTITY
There was another brief pause before Craille came back:
SOURCE WAS AGENT OF FRIENDLY BUT BACKWARD SOUTH AMERICAN REPUBLIC OKAY?
Blake pursed his lips. What did Craille think he was, a mind-reader? He tapped out:
NO. PLEASE ELUCIDATE: A-RELIABILITY B-SECURITY
Craille replied tersely:
A-AS IN ALLIED COUNTRY
B-AS IN BANANA STATE
WHAT DID YOU EXPECT?
Obviously Craille was exasperated. But just as Blake was about to reply, the old man added kindly:
INFORMATION IS RELIABLE BUT NOT SECURE STOP YOU MUST ASSUME HARBEN KNOWS HE IS COMPROMISED STOP DOES THAT ANSWER YOUR QUESTION?
Blake grinned. It told him what he wanted to know. He replied:
GOT IT THANKS GOODBYE
Craille signed off:
GOOD LUCK GOOD HUNTING
The red light went off and Blake rose from the chair.
"All right?" Henderson asked.
Blake nodded. "Yes, thank you. I'll try not to bother you again."
Henderson only nodded. "Were you seen coming here?"
"No." Blake was definate.
"Okay," said Henderson. "I'll show you out the back way."
Now, more than ever, Blake had to find Peter Sellingham! He had to make contact with the rebel forces of Juan Callas - and young Sellingham was his only link.
Blake didn't like what he had learned from Craille.
There was an old axiom of British Intelligence which had sprung to mind at Police Headquarters and had kept running through his head ever since:
"Believe nothing you hear and only half of what you see!"
Blake thought it was time to obey that axiom.
After leaving the British Consulate he returned to the centre of town where siesta was at last drawing to a close and the city was beginning to come to life again.
Blake located a car-hire firm and succeeded in hiring an Oldsmobile covertible for a not-too-exhorbitant fee.
Once behind the wheel, he took the main road out of town towards the airport and Sir Gordon Sellingham's main sugar refinery which was situated three miles inland.