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contracts. Is that unethical?”
    Burt shrugged; he couldn’t get rid of his distaste for Rolf. The man was likable enough; handsome, worldly and friendly. That was it. He was a good deal more friendly than the situation warranted.
    But Rolf was telling how fugitive Nazis had led him to South America. There he’d seen an untapped reservoir of wealth in Indian artifacts; gold, silver, jewelry, pottery, and objects of art. For several years he’d moved the stuff out by bribery and smuggling, selling it to private collectors and museums in the States. But there’d been no limit to the money-hunger of South American politicos; the overhead had risen and finally wiped out his profit margin. So he’d liquidated the business and was now at liberty, so to speak, looking for new opportunities.
    And he needs a cop, thought Burt. Here it comes.
    Instead Rolf said, “Your turn now, March.”
    Burt realized that the effort of trying to stay ahead of Rolf Keener had amplified his headache into a throbbing agony.
    â€œI’ll have to save my story. This headache—”
    â€œMy wife can cure that. Ah … Tracy?”
    Burt turned, half-expecting to see Mrs. Keener in her usual all-concealing attire. But she came out the door bareheaded, and in the pale yellow light of the kerosene lamp her face shone faintly with skin-cream. Her nose was short and faintly tilted on the end. Black hair billowed around her shoulders. He tried to see her eyes, but they were squinted as though she’d come out of total darkness. Her beach coat reached only to mid-thigh and somehow suggested that there was nothing beneath it. That was an unwarranted conclusion, Burt decided; something about the island kept a man on the edge of criminal assault.
    â€œTracy, can you give Burt March one of your headache treatments?”
    â€œOf course.” She smiled a polite smile that held no warmth. There was a poised smoothness about the way she walked toward him; the studied glide of a model in a high fashion show. He tightened up as she walked behind him, then he was enclosed in the aura of her perfume, and her cool fingers began drawing the pain from the back of his neck.
    Rolf looked on with the benevolent manner of a father. “She told me how she cooled you this afternoon after you returned her purse. Then I gave you the business in your cabin. You’ve been treated badly by the Keener family, and we’d like to make it up.”
    The words made Burt feel prickly, uncomfortable. He leaned forward, away from the woman. “This isn’t necessary. I’ve got aspirin.”
    â€œLet her,” said Rolf. “She doesn’t mind, do you, Tracy?”
    â€œOf course not,” said the voice behind him. Her warm breath caressed his neck.
    How do you deal with this friendliness, wondered Burt, particularly when you don’t think it’s real? The whole scene had the unreality of a poorly acted but carefully rehearsed play. The lines were perfect, but there were those very small split-second errors in timing. Rolf, particularly, had the manner of a man reading a script; sometimes he forgot to smile, sometimes he remembered at the wrong time …
    All right, Burt decided. Play along. You don’t learn if you don’t listen. He leaned back and let the fingers continue their work. She had achieved an even rhythm which Burt found vaguely sexual. It was difficult to keep from sighing with pleasure. How could a man sit there and let his wife do that to another man?
    Wind ripped through the palm trees. The surf thundered; the house trembled. The fumaroles moaned.
    â€œTide going out,” said Burt.
    Rolf stood up. “I’ll see to the launch. Don’t leave.”
    And Burt sat, aware that there must be method in Rolf’s madness of leaving him alone with his wife. Better relax and see what kind of approach she used.
    She didn’t keep him waiting long. The screen door had