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beautiful, as was the powerful, narrow-hulled speedboat in the next berth, but there was no mistaking the fact that in heavy seas she would be a good boat to be aboard.
    ‘You can reach further than I can,’ said Alvarez, as he stared across at the stern. ‘D’you think you can get hold of the gangway?’
    ‘Not without risking a ducking in water that looks unhealthily filthy,’ replied Ware. ‘There’s an English yacht four back and I saw a bloke varnishing the coaming. I’ll ask if he’ll lend us a boathook.’
    He was gone less than a minute and he brought back a boathook whose wooden haft was stained and scarred. Using this, he drew the gangway aft until he could catch hold of the end and lower it to the quay. ‘I’ll run this hook back now because we can return the gangway without it.’
    As Ware left, Alvarez began to climb the gangway. Absurdly, it was an ordeal severe enough to make him sweat since he suffered badly from altophobia and it was with an audible expression of relief that he stepped aboard. There was open deck, then an area enclosed by three bulkheads and deckhead that was, in effect, a fair-weather smoke-room. For’d of this was a door which proved to be locked. As Ware boarded, Alvarez took from his pocket a set of skeleton keys which he’d confiscated from a housebreaker several years before. The third one, after some skilful probing, worked the tumblers.
    ‘You’re a man of many talents!’ said Ware.
    He smiled briefly. ‘Some of which I try to keep hidden.’
    The ‘midships and aft accommodation consisted of a master stateroom with bathroom, four other cabins and one bathroom, a saloon—with bar aft—and a galley; for’d were two small cabins and one shower-stall and head, obviously intended for the crew; up top was a very well equipped chartroom and for’d of this a small wheelhouse.
    In the chartroom, Alvarez searched the drawers under the chart table and in the third one down found a log book. He read through the last few entries and whistled with quiet satisfaction. He carried the log through to the wheelhouse, where Ware was searching through a flag locker in which were kept national flags and those of the international code.
    ‘From the look on your face, you’ve found something,’ said Ware, as he straightened up after replacing the black and white ‘third substitute’ flag in its locker.
    ‘Bennett’s a very meticulous man who’s obviously never realized that there are times when it pays to be slipshod. He keeps a detailed log of all his voyages and on the thirteenth he set sail from here at sixteen-thirty hours, arriving at Stivas on Sunday evening at twenty-two hundred; he sailed back from Stivas on Tuesday morning.’
    ‘Where is that?’
    ‘South of Barcelona. It used to be a small fishing port and their sardines, grilled over an open wood fire, were like . . .’ He found it too difficult to do justice to their excellence. ‘Now, it’s one of the largest yacht harbours on the coast. And I haven’t tasted a Stivas sardine in years.’
    Ware leaned against the flag locker and stared out through one of the for’d ports. ‘He sailed to the prearranged spot and showed special lights for identification. Green jumped and with his parachuting skill landed alongside. Once aboard, they continued on to Stivas . . . When they docked, they wouldn’t have had to clear customs or immigration, would they?’
    ‘No. But, of course, the boat might have been boarded by someone to make certain it had sailed from this island, as claimed.’
    ‘Failing that, how do we prove that Green was aboard? How are we going to trace him ashore?’
    ‘There are always people around; boat owners, boat bums, sightseers, port officials. But let’s suppose he was lucky and no one observed him land or we can’t find someone who did. If you’d been Green, what would you have done on arrival, remembering it’s late at night? Would you have stayed aboard until the morning when