Blake pulled up, "Seсorita, I only wish to talk to you… about Peter Sellingham."
"I know no one of that name!"
"Then why did you run away?" Blake asked grimly.
Before she could reply he took a photograph of Sellingham from his pocket and held it out to her. "Does this help?"
The girl looked at the picture and the expression on her face changed sharply. The eyes lit up with sudden recognition.
"Where did you get this?" she demanded.
"Never mind where I got it from. You recognise him; that's enough. Where is he?"
"I don't know. Let me go-" She turned hurridly to make off, but Blake intercepted her, blocking her path.
"Listen! I've got to find him! I believe this man is in great danger!"
She looked up into his eyes. "What do you know about this man?"
"I know that he's been trying to help Juan Callas and the rebels," Blake said quietly. "I've been sent here from England by his father - to find him. His father believes he may have been caught and imprisoned by the government."
A look of scorn spread across the girl's face. "If he had been caught by those fascist beasts he would not have been imprisoned," she said contemptuously. "He would have been executed like all the others!"
"Then he's not in prison?"
"Nor executed," she said. "You must tell his father that he is alive and well. Now let me pass-"
"Where is he?" Blake asked.
"I do not know."
"Did you know he was trying to help the rebels?"
The girl hesitated. "Who are you?"
"I'm a British private detective."
There was a long pause. The girl Francesca looked at Blake - and it was a long, searching look. The a smile came to her dark eyes.
She liked what she saw; somehow she felt she could trust this tall, handsome stranger. There was sincerity and honesty in his voice, and his blue-grey eyes did not look at her in the way of other men who were strangers.
She said quietly: "Certainly I knew that the man you call Peter Sellingham was helping the rebels. It was I who put him in touch with Juan Callas!"
"You?" Blake's eyebrows arched.
"Why else do you think I frequent that filthy cantina?" The girl demanded. "I am a recruiting agent for the rebel army. It was there that I met your friend. I have met him there often and we have worked together - but I did not know his name was Peter Sellingham. Now let me go."
Again Blake blocked the girl's path.
"Are you in love with him?" he asked.
"I am betrothed, seсor."
"To Sellingham?" Blake frowned.
"No, seсor, not to Sellingham," the girl sighed wearily.
"Then who?"
"I do not see that it is any business of yours, but if you must know, I am engaged to Juan Callas, the Leader of the Maliban Liberation Forces."
"Callas!" Blake exclaimed. It was a genuine shock, despite the warning words of the man in the bar. Then suddenly excitement seized the detective at the importance of his find.
"I've got to talk to you! It's vital to you and Callas and the whole of your movement and to the future of Maliba - I must talk to you!"
"You are talking to me, seсor," the girl said dryly.
"Not here!" snapped Blake. "Where are you going?"
"I am trying to reach my car," the girl said tiredly. "It is parked on the public square at the end of here…"
She began walking and Blake fell into stride beside her.
"You ask a lot of questions, seсor," she said.
"I need a lot of answers," Blake replied grimly. "And I'd like to start with you. How do you come to be engaged to Juan Callas? He's been an outlaw in the hills for three years now…"
"And we have been engaged for four," she replied. "Were were to be married a few days after Doctor Nonales and his thugs assassinated President Vanan and seized power."
"Go on."
"On that day," she explained, "both Juan's family and mine were wiped out by the gunmen of the Nonales gang. Both our father's were ministers in President Vanan's government. Nonales destroyed the government because President Vanan had drawn up a programme of reform and modernisation. He wanted to do away with poverty and disease. For that, Nonales destroyed him and all his cabinet. And on that day, Juan swore to me that he would not rest until Maliba was free. He left for the hills with only a rifle and two friends."
"And now?" Blake demanded.
"Now he has an army of thousands. Properly trained and armed with modern equipment. Soon - very soon now - the Army of Liberation will strike. And I shall be by Juan's side when he speaks to the people. As soon as Nonales is dead, Juan will broadcast to the Maliba people and his army will march into the capital…" Her voice tailed off as she dwelt on the rapture of it; her long-cherished dream of the future.
Blake wondered bleakly if it would be as she imagined - or if Craille's predictions about communist infiltration would turn it into a very different story…
They had reached the end of the alleyway and now they entered an open square of fountains and maple trees.
The swift dusk of the tropics was falling, and soon it would be dark.
A long, white, American convertible stood at one corner of the square. The girl led Blake across to it and they both got in.
"We can talk quite freely here, seсor," she told him. "No-one can hear us. Now what is it you wish to say?"
"I want to make contact with the rebel forces," Blake said quietly. "I want to see Juan Callas, and you can help me - you can get a message to him."
"Why do you wish to see Juan?" she asked.
"I want to tell him something."
"What?" the girl eyed Blake steadily.
"I want to warn him," Blake said grimly, "that his organisation has been penetrated by communist agents who are determined to take it over."
11. "THE CHARGE IS MURDER!"
Francesca regarded him steadily for fully ten seconds before saying quietly: "I thought you said you were a private detective, seсor?"
"I am. But I happen to have some political information which your movement needs and hasn't got. Unless I can talk to Juan Callas his revolution is going to hand Maliba to the Russians. There is a Soviet espionage network operating here which is just waiting for your Juan to do all the hard work - all the fighting - then step in and take over control of the new government."
The girl said thoughtfully: "How do you know all this, seсor?"
"It doesn't matter how I know it," Blake said grimly. "What matters is that it's the truth!"
There was a brief pause before Francesca looked at Blake again and gently shook her head. "It was the truth, seсor. But it is true no longer. All the communists were dealt with - forty-eight hours ago. Thanks to your Mr. Sellingham and his friend."
"Friend?" Blake frowned. "What friend? And what do you mean, dealt with?"
"I will explain," said Francesca. "When I first met your young Englishman at the Ostra, we had already recruited enough men for Juan's army. What we needed was guns - but we had no money to buy them and no means of shipping them into the country. The young Englishman was a gift from heaven - he not only had the money, he actually wanted to give it to us! He wanted to buy arms for the Liberation."
"That sounds like him," Blake nodded.
"Only the shipping problem remained, and fortunately he had another English friend who was very experienced in such matters. Within two weeks we had all the weapons we needed…"
"Who's this friend?" Blake demanded. "This other man - what's his name?"
"He is not a man, seсor," Francesca smiled. "It is a woman. A woman called Miss Amelia Tucker."
"Tucker?" Blake exclaimed in alarm. "Good grief! Surely she's the last person you should have trusted?"