"The reason for that is probably here…" Blake strode across to the corpse and unbuttoned the pockets on what remained of the dead man's denim overalls.
In the third pocket he found what he was looking for - a sheaf of sodden, but still readable, typescript pages.
"Harben," Blake explained quietly, "was a Soviet agent plotting to infiltrate the Maliban Liberation Movement with a view to turning this island into a Russian satellite. The murdered man here, Sellingham, had found out; he also found out the names of every red agent on the island - here on this list."
Blake held up a pulpy mass of papers.
"This list was originally compiled by the Maliban Secret Police. Later it was stolen by the communists who substituted it for a phoney list - knowing that the phoney list, in turn, was to be stolen by the rebels."
"Because Sellingham sympathised with the rebel movement and had learned of the communist scheme, Harben had to kill him. At the same time, Harben had to arrange for himself to disappear. The bathysphere offered a foolproof was of killing two birds with one stone. Sellingham, being an amateur in the espionage game, wasn't aware that Harben knew how much he'd learned. It must have been easy enough to lure him out there with the promise of a deep sea dive…"
Blake broke off. He concluded thoughtfully: "Only the purest chance - a ledge of rock eleven hundred feet down - prevented the crime from remaining a perpetual mystery. It was very nearly the perfect murder."
Lieutenant Navarro of the FBI was looking at the detective with narrow eyes. "Mr. Blake, I'd like to see that list…"
"I'm sure you would," Blake smiled. "But I need it. You needn't worry though - your government will be getting a copy in due course."
For the first time Blake produced his official credentials and showed Navarro his PAN-SAC card.
Navarro whistled. "I'm sure glad you're on our side! I thought you were going to be a sticky problem. Listen, there's something I've gotta know - how did the Reds manage to switch the list of agents?"
"They had an agent working inside the Nonales government," said Blake, "the same man who imposed press censorship on the bathysphere story to cover up the murder."
"Who?" demanded Navarro. "Where is he? We've got to get him!"
"You've got him," Blake said with a thin smile. "He's right here - aren't you, Captain Tarratona!"
14. VIOLENT FINALE
Captain Tarratona's eyebrows arched in sleepy, Latin astonishment. "Why! Seсor Blake? What are you saying?"
"I'm saying that you're a communist," Blake snapped. "You were the man who imposed press censorship on the bathysphere story. You're the man who did all the inside work for Amelia Tucker, and you're the man who's been trying to impede my investigations ever since I arrived!"
"But this is rubbish!" the police chief protested. "It was I who allowed you to visit this ship in spite of the censorship-"
"Because you wanted me to report back to London that Jules Harben was dead! You even tried to tell me he was!"
"But it was I who saved your life just now - by killing the communist woman, Miss Tucker-"
"You killed her because she was compromised," snapped Blake. "Because if she'd lived she could have compromised you! You suddenly saw where your own interests lay!"
Something glittered behind Tarratona's eyes.
"Get his gun!" Blake shouted.
Kellaher was nearest. He leaped towards the cornered police chief. But long before he got there Tarratona's gun was clearing its holster.
Something else moved then.
From the corner of his eye Blake saw the man beside him move - Navarro the Mexican. His right arm flashed up with the speed of a cat, to his shoulder. It flashed back down again. It held something black and small - something that barked out three staccato shots before Tarratona even fired one!
The Maliban Police Chief froze and shuddered in one great convulsion; his eyes popping in his head, bulging from their sockets in stark disbelief.
Then, very slowly, he leaned over, staggered and pitched headlong on the deck - a lifeless corpse.
Sexton Blake looked at the gun in the Mexican's hand and it was his turn to say fervently: "I'm glad you're on our side."
Navarro looked grim. "I hope you're right about that guy. A G-man needs a good reason for shooting a foreign police chief. Are you sure he's the right guy?"
Blake nodded grimly. "I knew as soon as I was sure why he tried to make me believe Harben was dead - because Harben is really alive."
"Where is he now, this Harben guy?"
"He's with the rebels waiting to seize control," Blake said bleakly, "and I've got to get there before it happens!"
Blake took the police launch back to the harbour and hailed a taxi on the waterfront. He had to get to Juan Callas to warn him that the communists were still a very real menace - that they were still at large!
"Drive me to the Ostra!" he told the cab driver.
Somehow he had to find the girl, Francesca. She was his only link with the rebels.
The cab lurched away from the quayside and soon was tearing towards the centre of town.
It was when they reached the town centre and were turning off towards the narrow slum quarter that Blake heard the shots…
A staccato burst of machine-gun fire, fifty yards away across the main square.
A low-slung, gleaming Cadillac had just come down the central avenue from the Presidential palace, flanked by a police escort of motor-cycle out-riders. One moment it was a serene, swift-moving convoy - and the next, all hell had broken loose!
Blake's cab lurched to a halt as the driver stabbed the footbrake, his eyes bulging in shock towards the scene ahead.
Burst after burst of gunfire raked the Cadillac. It rained down from rooftops on all sides. And the heavy crunch of grenades was added to the din as explosives were thrown in for good measure.
The Cadillac held to its course for a moment, its windscreen shattered and its paintwork punched with bullet holes. Then it went mad.
It veered crazily off the road, swung around in an arch towards the Municipal Museum. It crossed the road, felling and crushing one of the police out-riders. It shot straight across the pavement and began mounting the museum steps.
It got halfway up before gravity brought it to a halt. Then it stood poised. For a bare instant it hung balanced on the side of the steps while the gunfire continued to thunder into it. Then one side rose slowly from the upper steps as the other began to slide.
It did a slow motion somersault and went crashing down to the pavement, its four wheels pointing towards the vacant blue sky.
It began to burn.
Sexton Blake watched grimly as the flames licked hungrily upwards from the naked underbelly of the Cadillac. No screams came from the overturned vehicle. Nothing inside it lived.
Blake knew that President Nonales was dead.
And then he knew something else. From the distant outskirts of the town he heard the first rolling salvo of artillary fire - and he knew the revolution had begun.
The fighting had started and when it stopped there could only be one outcome: the communists would be in control of Maliba! The Caribbean island would be another communist satellite.
Unless someone could intervene - and only one man could.
Blake!
He was the only man who knew. But what could he do? How could he warn the rebels that the communists were in control?
The answer was he couldn't. Because one thing he knew for sure - he would not find Francesca Cardenez at the Ostra bar. This was her day of days - the day she wouldn't be there.
Where was she?