There was a refreshing breeze in the open car, and the afternoon was pleasant. But the drive was short-lived.
Six minuted after leaving the city centre he was driving through the gates of the large sugar plant, and a moment later he brought the convertible to a halt outside the main building.
It was a tall, modern, steel and concete structure of the functional American pattern, and it was signposted:
ADMINISTRATION BLOCK.
Inside, a pretty American girl in a blue, halter-style dress, smiled up at him warmly. She had wispy auburn hair which haloed a pleasant, oval face, large blue eyes and a big smile.
"Can I help you sir?" p›Blake produced the second of his letters from Sir Gordon Sellingham. "Where can I find-" he glanced at the envelope "-Miss Amelia Tucker, the manageress?"
The girl pointed to a grey-carpeted stairway: "First floor, sir - you can't miss it - her name's on the door."
Blake saw the doubtful look on the girl's face and explained: "My name's Blake - I believe Miss Tucker is expecting me…"
"Oh - yes sir. Go right on up." The girl smiled again.
News of his coming had gone ahead of him, then…
Blake took the stairs two at a time and found himself on the landing of the first floor. A door directly in front of him bore the words: A. R. TUCKER - MANAGERESS.
Blake recalled that Miss Tucker was a distant cousin of Sir Gordon Sellingham's late wife. He crossed to the door and was about to knock when a violent sound reached him from beyond the door.
A man was yelling angrily. He was furious about something and was making no bones about it:
"You lousy, rotten slave-driver! I'm glad I'm getting out!"
"You have no choice, Worple!" Their was a fruity, female voice which rose stridently above the torrent of already stridant sound: "You have no choice at all! Collect your money downstairs and then leave! There is nothing more to be said!"
"Oh, isn't there, you old hag?" The man's voice was that of someone who had been goaded into a fit of bitter fury. "Nobody calls me a liar and gets away with it like that! I've got plenty to say - and I'm going to say it, Miss blasted Tucker!"
"The company has heard quite enough of you, Worple! You've been given notice for spreading disgusting scandal! When you begin making up lies about the son of our managing director it was clear you were no longer to be trusted-"
"It was true!" shouted the man called Worple. "All true!"
Blake had been about to step away from the door and wait on another part of the landing until it was all over. But suddenly his attention was captured.
"It was a pack of lies!" came the voice of Miss Tucker. "We've no room for gossips in this company!"
"You're lying!" snarled Worple. "And well you might! I saw you with young Sellingham that night! And you're not the only woman I've seen with him. Every tart on the island knows Lover-boy-Sellingham! He hangs out in all the filthiest parts of the city - and you were with him!"
The appeared to be Worple's parting shot. The door was flung open from inside. A small man with a face redder than a pillar-box regarded Blake's chest without comprehension. His expression was one of righteous indignation as he blindly circum-navigated the detective and marched off down the corridor.
Miss Amelia Tucker saw Blake standing there. She said coldly: "Can I help you?" She looked worried, almost scared.
She was a large, angular woman with grey hair. Their was a masculine quality about her lumpy, prissy features and her wide shoulders. She wore a dress which reached well below knee-length and her flat-heeled brown shoes were of the kind generally described as "sensible".
"My name's Blake." The detective stepped inside. "I'm here on behalf of Sir Gordon Sellingham."
"Oh, yes, Mr. Blake." Her tone altered. She tried to smile. She walked fussily over to her desk and lowered herself carefully into her chair.
"I am Miss Tucker."
Blake gave her the letter from Sir Gordon Sellingham which she read carefully before looking up. This time she managed a smile which creased the skin of her face until it seemed it would crack. "And how can I help you Mr. Blake?"
"I want you to tell me what you know of young Peter's movements."
Miss Tucker sighed. "Precious little, I'm afraid. I knew he was on the island, of course. Sir Gordon asked us to keep an eye on him and see that he didn't get into trouble. But-" She shrugged, "-you know what young men are these days, Mr. Blake. Peter goes running about all over the world and it's really quite impossible to keep up with him…"
"What was he doing here, do you know?" Blake asked.
She shrugged. "Seeing the island, meeting the local inhabitants… He mixes with rather - er - unsavoury company, at times… The last news I had of him was when his bank manager in Carabanos phoned me to say he hadn't been in for a while and did I know where he was…"
"Did you?" Blake demanded.
"No," Miss Tucker said firmly. "I've seen him only once. He called here on the day he arrived in Maliba. But I haven't seen him since."
"I see," Blake murmured. "Are you sure there is nothing you can tell me?"
"Nothing that will help you, Mr. Blake." She met his gaze calmly.
"I see," said Blake again. "Then I won't waste any more of your time. Good day, Miss Tucker." He made for the door.
"Good day, Mr. Blake."
The woman watched him leave. Then with a dark frown on her face she turned to one of the two telephones beside her and picked up the receiver. She dialled a number and waited.
One hand clasped the edge of her desk with a grip that made her knuckles turn white, as she waited for the call to go through. Then someone answered and she began to speak in an urgent, low voice:
"It's me - Amelia! I've just seen him and he's asking questions! It looks as though the trouble's started…"
At the foot of the grey-carpeted stairs Blake paused in front of the company notice-board in the lobby.
Amelia Tucker had been covering something up. Blake had no doubt about that - and he wanted to know what it was.
A moment later he saw what he was looking for - a list of the home addresses and telephone numbers of the company's executive staff.
Halfway down the list was the name: Worple, A., Hotel Europa, 57 Avendia Santa Maria, Carabanos.
With a grim smile of satisfaction, Blake turned and left the building. He got into the Oldsmobile, reversed and drove out on to the main road - back towards Carabanos… and the Avenida Santa Maria…
Would the man called Worple be able to tell him what he wanted to know?
9. MAN WITH A GRUDGE
Blake had reached the centre of Carabanos when a backward glance through his driving mirror told him he was being followed… by a sleek, black limousine of the Maliba State Police.
Thoughtfully. the detective drove on through the town past the Presidential Palace and Police Headquarters.
The police car made no attempt to turn off. It stayed doggedly on his tail.
The Avenida Santa Maria came up on Blake's left. He did not turn into it but drove on past, coming to a stop three blocks further on, outside the International Press Club.
He got out of the car and crossed the pavement to a tobacco kiosk. Casually, he turned back to glance at his car and from the corner of his eye saw the sleek, black car with the State Police insignia glide to a halt at the kerb.
Blake did not hurry. He bought a packet of cigarettes at the kiosk and was strolling back towards his car when a peaked-cap was poked out of the police car window and the sleepy voice of Captain Tarratona called out:
"Ah - Seсor Blake."
"Good afternoon, Captain."