The question lay heavy in Blake's mind as he turned a corner and came in sight of his first port of call.
He had reached the poorest, dirtiest part of Carabanos where the hotels tried to compensate for their abysmal sleaziness by adopting the most grandiose names.
Young Peter Sellingham's last dwelling-place must have been the sleaziest of all, for it boasted the most pretentious possible name - HOTEL MALIBA.
Peter Sellingham had obviously elected to suffer with the poor. It looked just the place a young idealist might have chosen to live in - especially if he had money.
But whereas the poor were used to the tatty squalor, Blake guessed that the rich man's son had really suffered.
Strong garlic greeted the detective as he pushed open the wooden door of the hotel and went inside; but at least it was cooler in the narrow, distempered hallway.
There was a bell, but no reception desk.
Blake rang the bell.
No-one answered. Blake rang again.
Eventually a greasy man with a greasier smile shuffled in, wearing a dirty vest and filthy blue jeans. He sported a partly waxed mustache and a chin in need of a shave.
"Buenos dias, seсor," he said through thick, bestial lips.
"I understand that a Seсor Sellingham resides here?" Blake spoke the formal Spanish of Castille.
"Before two or three days. He departed. He did not return." The voice was surly, insolent.
"I was supposed to meet him here this morning." Blake feigned anxiety. "Where could he be?"
The other shrugged.
Absent-mindedly Blake drew a ten peso note from his pocket and released it into the man's greedy clutch.
"Perhaps the seсor will find the man he seeks at the Ostra…"
"Ostra?" Blake frowned. The word meant oyster.
"A cantina," the bestial lips muttered, "a drinking-bar two streets from here on the right. You will see it."
Blake nodded his thanks and left.
Out in the sunlight he glanced at his watch. It was unlikely that young Sellingham would be in the bar suggested by the man in the hotel.
A visit to the Ostra could wait.
Before the fatal hour of siesta descended to paralyse the island and bring his inquiries to a halt, the detective wanted to form some idea of how he stood with the authorities.
Moving instinctively away from the seamier part of the city, Blake headed towards the distant main streets in search of the Police Headquarters.
6. END OF A MASTER SPY
The headquarters of the Maliba State Polica were situated, as Blake had instinctively anticipated, in the most grandiose building on the island. It stood in the capital's main plaza, directly opposite the Presidential Palace; a hugh, multi-storey building of immaculate white concrete, elaborately adorned with rococco guttering and ornate facing.
Once again, Blake found himself at a strategic key-point. The building was surrounded by a high barbed-wire fence along with sand-bag emplacements stood at intervals, bristling with machine-guns.
A Sherman tank stood at each corner and soldiers with rifles watched warily as Blake entered the narrow gate to the main steps of the bulding.
Police guards, armed with submachine-guns mounted watch inside the entrance, but the detective was allowed to approach the reception desk unhindered.
The sergeant behind the desk wore a bottle-green uniform with abundant gold braid and more medals than had ever been won on any western battlefield. He greeted Blake with a wide-mouthed smile and eyed the investigator's suit with envy.
"How can I help you, senor?"
"I wish to see the Chief of Police, "Blake said crisply. He took an envelope from his pocket and handed it to the man. It was addressed to the Chief of Police in person. The sergeant looked impressed.
"Please wait one moment." With a gesture of reassurance he disappeared down a corridor. A few moments later he returned - smiling.
"Captain Tarratona will be very pleased to see you, senor."
Blake allowed himself to be ushered along a corridor and up a flight of stairs, where the sergeant came to a halt before a highly-polished double-door and knocked.
A languid voice called: "Enter."
Blake entered - and the sergeant withdrew.
The room was large and high-ceilinged. In the centre was a desk which any Victorian industrialist would have been proud of, and against one wall stood a row of gleaming metal filing cabinets.
A white, gold-edged cap hung from a rack on one wall.
A big man got up from behind the desk as Blake entered. He was handsome in a dark, Latin way, but fast running to fat. He was in his forties and his thick, dark hair ended in sleek side-boards at the temples. A large moustache curled widely round his upper lip above a big-toothed smile.
His uniform was the same bottle-green as the sergeant's, but with more gold braid and even more medals.
He shook Blake's hand warmly and drew up a chair for the visitor. "I am Captain Juan Tarratona, Mr. Blake - Welcome to Maliba!"
As Blake sat down the police chief glanced again at the letter which the sergeant had delivered.
It was one of the letters which Sir Gordon Sellingham had provided for Blake before he left London. Blake knew what was running through the police chief's mind because he knew what the letter said. It read:
Dear Captain Tarratona,
This is to introduce to you Mr. S. Blake, a personal friend of mine who is visiting Maliba on business. Anything you can do to make his stay a pleasant one I shall regard as a personal flavour.
Yours, etc.,
Gordon Sellingham
The police chief scratched his chin thoughtfully before putting the letter aside and giving Blake another smile.
"Sir Gordon Sellingham is a great man in these parts senor. He has brought much prosperity to the island…"
And, Blake thought, to you in particular.
"…Any friend of Sir Gordon's is a friend of mine," the policeman continued, "and I shall be only too glad to do what he asks - to give you any help you need while you are here on business. Although -" he went on with a quizzical frown. "-Sir Gordon has omitted to say what business you are in…"
It was a question.
"I'm here on behalf of a marine insurance company," Blake replied blandly. "I'm an investigator."
"Ah, so!" the captain smiled. "I thought I knew your name. How can I be of service to you?" He sat down and proffered a box of cigars.
"Just general information," Blake said easily. "Thank you." He took a cigar. "I arrived this morning, so I haven't had time to get my bearings, yet. But before I left London I heard there was some kind of political trouble here; so I thought I'd come to have a talk to you, just to be in the picture. I shouldn't want t infringe any of your emergency laws or security regulations through not being acquainted with the facts…" Blake made his voice sound anxious.
"What charming courtesy!" Tarratona smiled broadly. "And what a pity that the rest of our island's visitors so not show such thoughtful consideration…" He struck a match and leaned over to light Blake's cigar. "However, I am pleased to inform you that their is no cause for anxiety…"
"No?" Blake's eyebrows arched.
Tarratona shook his head with another easy smile. "There is no trouble in Maliba. A few hotheaded students, no more."
"I'm pleased to hear it," Blake said. "The newspapers made it sound quite alarming…"
"Newspapers are the same the world over, Mr. Blake! They always exaggerate!" He grinned.
Blake forced a smile of relief. "Well, that's very good news."
"What else can I do for you?" the police chief asked.
"I don't think anythign…" Blake began. Then: "Oh - yes, there is one thing. Before I left London I promised Sir Gordon I would look up his son, Peter. He was supposed to be staying at the Hotel Maliba - but when I went there just now they said he'd left three or four days ago. Have you any idea where I might find him?"