Blake thanked her and went up to her office, grateful for the chance of a wash and brush-up.
He found an electric razor in the bathroom and shaved off his twenty-four hour growth of beard.
A few minutes later one of the girls in the neighbouring office brought him a cup of coffee and some biscuits, and the detective sat down at Amelia Tucker's desk to await her arrival.
Miss Amelia Tucker, he decided, thoughtfully sipping the coffee, was a very remarkable woman. She had a lot of guts and a lot of brains. But above all, she had a lot of nerve, and Blake thought he knew why.
The detective still had a lot of questions to ask the woman - and one question in particular. But before he asked her there was something he had to check.
Blake reached for the telephone.
He dialled the number of the British Consulate and asked to speak to the Vice-Consul. A moment later Henderson's voice came on: "Blake! Is that you? I've been waiting-"
"This is an open line," Blake cut in warningly. "Just answer my questions. What's the word on my two American friends?"
"Positive," came the reply. "Definately working on your side of the industry."
"And the price-list I gave you?"
"Your London office says negative. Repeat, negative. Trade references won't stand up. Regard it as spurious."
"Got it. Thanks, Henderson." Blake hung up.
He knew then.
In that moment he knew for certain that he'd been right all along.
He knew for certain, and beyond all doubt, that Peter Sellingham was dead!
Blake was standing by the window when Amelia Tucker entered the office. He did not turn around immediately. He was staring out across the compound of the refinery and was thinking was a marvellous set-up it was.
What a brilliant headquarters.
An island within an island. A state within a state.
It was a classic location - one for the book. But his admiration would have to wait. Right now he had to ask his question.
Blake turned round and regarded Amelia Tucker with eyes that were cold and hard and blue. With a face that was grim and remorseless and in a voice that was bitterly taut, he asked his question:
"When," he demanded softly, "did you join the Communist Party?"
13. THE CORPSE IN QUESTION
Amelia Tucker gave a short, nervous laugh.
"Communist Party?" Her voice was pitched high; a fixed smile played about her mouth.
"That's right," Blake said grimly. "When did you join?"
"Wha-?" She went white.
Sexton Blake's eyes burned brightly. "That list of communist agents you gave the rebels was false. The real communists are still at large! Juan Callas has made prisoners of his most loyal supporters. You set it up like that. Deliberately. You've been getting your orders from the Soviet agent - Harben!"
"Harben…?" she echoed, numbed.
"And now that Jules Harben isn't around any more," Blake went on savagely, "you're giving all the orders yourself! That makes you a pretty big fish in the Soviet millpond. I'd say you've been a member of the party for a long, long time…"
"You are calling me a communist?!" Amelia Tucker rallied her strength for a sudden show of vehemence. "You calling me a communist? You're being utterly fantastic! Would I have got you out of that Fascist gaol if I was Red-?"
Blake gave a slow, grim nod. "Yes, you would. First you framed me for Worple's murder to get me in - and out of the way - but then you met Francesca who told you how much I'd already learned. From then on you were frightened because I knew too much and you were scared I'd talk to the authorities. So you had to get me out again - and get rid of me some other way. You were going to have me quietly killed - just as you killed Sellingham when he found out that the list of agents you planted was phoney! Is that how it happened? Did young Sellingham stumble on the truth?"
Amelia Tucker had gone as white as chalk. Faltering, almost groping, she reached for her desk and leaned against it for support. "It's not true--" she choked. "It simply isn't true-" She began pulling herself together.
Too late, Blake saw the swift, sharp movement of her left hand as it sped at the heavy cigarette case beside the desk blotter…
In the next instant the woman had spun around, all trace of her distraut condition gone, as she flicked up the lid of the box and grabbed the midget-sized automatic which lay inside.
The gun pointed steadily ar Blake's abdomen.
"All right, Mr. clever Blake-" a leer of triumph was spread across the woman's face "-so you're a very smart detective! It's a pity you weren't smart enough to stay out of other people's business! You're right - I am a communist! I've been communist since nineteen forty-five and proud of it!"
She paused for breath, he eyes glittering. "We're going to take over this country and clean it up. Juan Callas is a fool; he wouldn't know where to begin reforming this hotbed of corruption! This country's going to be cleaned up the proper way - only you, Mr. smart-alec Blake, aren't going to be around to see the results!"
"Killing me," Blake said quietly, "isn't going to solve anything. I'm not the only person who knows about you. Your days are numbered…" It was a desperate lie, but Blake knew it was the one slim chance that might save him. "You can't get away with it! The real list of Red agents is already in Western hands-"
Amelia Tucker threw back her head and laughed in scorn. "You fool!" she exclaimed. "You poor, idiotic fool. The real list of agent's will never be found by anyone. It died with Peter Sellingham - the only copy in existance! He died because he found it; stumbled on it by pure chance. But you, Mr. Sexton Blake - you are going to die for nothing!"
With a final hiss of venomous triumph, Amelia Tucker gripped the midget pistol. Her finger tightened on the trigger.
Blake braced himself for the end.
He heard the shot ring out; stunningly loud, like the crack of a whip. But he felt nothing. Nothing touched him.
Then incredibly, unbelievably, he saw an expression of blank, choking astonishment on Amelia Tucker's face.
She lurched forward. Steadied herself. She clutched a hand to her neck which was suddenly pulsing out blood.
Then with a final, unbelieving gasp she rocked backwards, tottered for a bare instant - and crashed earthwards in a lifeless heap.
Blake's eyes slowly rose and moved towards the door.
In the open doorway, Captain Juan Tarratona of the Maliba State Police stared at the corpse with a faint, quizzical frown before blowing the smoke from his revolver and slipping it into the holster at his belt.
"It is amazing, Seсor Blake," he said thoughtfully, "how much trouble in this world is caused by misguided idealism."
Still frowning thoughtfully he looked back at the dead body and added: "Of all the people in Maliba, she was the last person I ever suspected. It would seem," he sighed, "there are no true ladies any more."
"How much did you hear?" Blake demanded as soon as he recovered from his surprise.
"Enough to justify the expenditure of my bullet," said Tarratona. "Perhaps I should explain my presence: just after you left headquarters, a report came in from one of my informers that Miss Tucker was observed at the scene of the murder last night. I thought it odd that she did not mention it to me. Even so, I only came here to ask. It did not occur to me that such a woman could have committed the crime. She must have been a very clever woman…"
"A very highly-trained one," Blake said grimly.
"Si," Tarratona nodded. "I never suspected that it was she who was controlling the Communists…"