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been well aware that Serrano had been watching him through the hut window — comparatively petty theft would not have interested Hiller; what he was after was the pot of gold at the foot of the rainbow and only he, Hamilton, knew where that rainbow ended.

That Hiller and his boss Smith had dreams Hamilton did not for a moment doubt: what he did doubt, and profoundly, was Killer's version of those dreams.

Hiller had wanted to find out if he had been going to contact his two young assistants or other unknown parties. Perhaps he thought that Hamilton might lead him to a larger and worthwhile cache of gold and diamonds. Perhaps he thought Hamilton had gone to make some mysterious phone call. Perhaps anything. On balance, Hamilton thought, it was just because Hiller was of a highly suspicious nature and just wanted to know what, if anything, Hamilton was up to. There could be no other explanation and it seemed pointless to waste further time and thought on it.

Hamilton poured himself a small drink - the nondescript bottle did in fact contain an excellent Highland malt which his friend Curly had obtained for him - and topped 'it up with some mineral water: the Romono water supply was an excellent specific for those who wished to be laid low with dysentery, cholera, and a variety of other unpleasant tropical diseases.

Hamilton smiled to himself. When Serrano came to and reported his woes to his master, neither he nor Hiller would be in any doubt as to the identity of the assailant responsible for the sore and stiff neck from which Serrano would assuredly be suffering. If nothing else, Hamilton mused, it would teach them to be rather more circumspect and respectful in their future dealings with him. Hamilton had no doubt whatsoever that he would be meeting Serrano - officially — in the very near' future and would thereafter be seeing quite a deal of him.

Hamilton took a sip of his drink, dropped to his' knees, ran his hand over the floor under the table, found nothing and smiled in satisfaction. He crossed to the shelving, picked up a solitary cassette, examined it carefully and smiled in even, wider satisfaction. He drained his glass, turned out the light and headed back into town.

In his room in the Hotel Negresco — the famous hotel in Nice would have cringed at the thought that such a hovel should bear the same name -, Hiller was making - or trying to make - a telephone call, his face bearing the unmistakable expression of long-suffering impatience that characterized any person so foolhardy as to try to phone out of Romono. But at long last his patience was rewarded and his face lit up.

'Aha!' he said. His voice, understandably, had a note almost of triumph in it. 'At last, at last! Mr Smith, if you please.'

CHAPTER TWO

The drawing-room of Joshua Smith's villa — the Villa Haydn in Brasilia - demonstrated beyond all question the vast gulf that lay between a bulti-millionaire and the merely rich. The furnishings, mainly Louis XIV and not the shadow of an imitation in sight, the drapes, from Belgium and Malta, the carpets, ancient Persian to the last one,, and the pictures, ranging all the way from Dutch Old Masters to the Impressionists, all spoke not only of immense wealth but also a hedonistic determination to use it to its maximum. But for all that vast opulence there was nonetheless displayed an exquisite good taste in that everything matched and blended in something very, very close to, perfection. Clearly, no modern interior decorator had been allowed within a mile of the place.

The owner matched up magnificently to all this, magnificence. He was a large, well-built and dinner-suited man of late middle age who looked; absolutely at home in one of the huge arm-;' chairs that he occupied close to a sparkling pine. log fire.

Joshua Smith, still dark in both hair and, moustache, the one brushed straight back, the other neatly trimmed, was a smooth and urbane man, but not too smooth, not too urbane, much given to