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open door. Inside, the long dim room reeked of pulque and beer. There was another door and beyond it a veranda with checked tablecloths on small tables set along a railing. From the tables there was an unobstructed view of the water.
    A waiter moved toward Knox.
    “Dinner, señor?”
    There was one customer at the moment, a girl who was wolfing
paella
. He indicated her dish and spoke loudly enough for her to hear. “Is that good?”
    She raised her head and turned. It was Nat, dressed much as she had been in Tangier, but not quite so blatantly and with a little less make-up. She had on the absurd foundation garment that made her look all hips and bust, and the blonde wig, but somehow she had managed to tone down the whole outfit.
    “Good,” she said through a mouthful of food. “Handsome.” Her voice was hoarse.
    Knox took a chair at the table behind her so that, they sat back to back.
“Paella,”
he directed the waiter. “A bottle of red wine.”
    The waiter went away and for the moment they were alone. Knox leaned back with one arm draped over the top of his chair. He appeared to find the harbor with its scattering of fishing boats extremely interesting. He spoke in a low voice, barely moving his lips.
    “There’ll be a boy down here tonight. Name of Chuco.”
    Nat did not lift her head from her food or stop chewing, but her voice reached him distinctly. “I know him. He’s made two passes already.”
    “Don’t let it flatter you,” he said. “Tonight you’ll end up in my room. Wait for me. I’m going out to the island.”
    He could hear the sharp intake of her breath. “So soon?”
    “Why not?”
    There was no answer. The waiter had returned, bearing Knox’s plate of
paella
. It was a steaming mixture of rice and vegetables and small hulled shrimp and tiny clams still in their shells, all lightly spiced. It smelled wonderful and, accompanied by the heavy white rolls and the surprisingly good red wine, was as good as it smelled.
    The girl finished first and without a glance in his direction rose and wandered off, a cigarette drooping from one corner of her mouth. Knox smothered a grin in
paella
. She was really something, Nat Tinsley.
    It began to grow dark. Knox could see the pinpricks of light on the water that identified the island. One of them detached itself and began moving at a steady, not too rapid pace shoreward. Soon Knox picked up the soft purring of a powerful motor burbling its exhaust into the water. The light became distinct; shortly a searchlight beam pinpointed itself on a nearby pier. Forrest had arrived.
    Knox paid his bill, lit a cigarette and leaned back in his chair. He had the cigarette half-smoked when a tall blond man with clean, sharply delineated features came onto the veranda and approached him.
    “Mr. Knox?”
    Knox rose. “Forrest?” They shook hands.
    Knox followed Forrest outside and into a sleek cabin cruiser. He needed but a cursory glance to tell him that this cruiser had not only cost a good deal of money but that it was very fast.
    He listened with pleasure to the throaty purr of the engine. And he admired the way Forrest handled the craft, casually yet with full control. Forrest did not speak until they were well under way. Then he said, “We were surprised to hear that you knew Nivolo. Miss Tinsley understood that he was dead.”
    “He is,” Knox said. “He wasn’t when I last talked to him.”
    If he saw the bait, Forrest didn’t bother to rise to it. He said, “I think you’ll like the island. It’s as comfortable as the city and as isolated as a Scotch moor.”
    “So I was told,” Knox said. “You’re quite the subjects of conversation in La Cruz, you know.” Forrest did not answer.
    Knox was surprised when they reached the island. The cruiser was fast and had taken less time than the fifteen minutes he estimated for the trip.
    Forrest let Knox tie up, made a quick inspection to see that everything was shipshape, and then led the way up a dark