– a hurricane took that in the eighteen-seventies-and the family rebuilt on the mainland. There's nothing out there now but a chain of little islets and one real island about a mile by a half with a stand of pines and a few old ruins, all cut off from the mainland by a mile of shallows and an eight-foot channel washed out by the tide."

I said, "Geography is interesting, honey-history, too- but I like erotic stimulation better."

I hoped my voice was level and casual; and I hoped my words wouldn't discourage her from telling me more, but I didn't really think they would. She wanted to tell me all this-she wanted to tell Lash Petroni all this. The question was, why?

She said, "I used to play there as a girl. We'd sail down and have picnics. I took Louis once, just to show him, before we were married; but he's not the picnic type. It wasn't until a few years ago that he began to act interested. He had us anchor in the little bay a few times, cruising in the Freya, while he rowed ashore and explored, That was before the government took it. I have a feeling that whatever he's got himself into, it's got something to do with Mendenhall Island."

I said, "But if the Marine Corps has got it now, and it's restricted as you say-"

She laughed. "You're not a sailor, are you? They don't build many fences in the water, Jim. On a dark night, in a sailing vessel like the Freya down there, I could ghost right into Mendenhall Bay without a sentry noticing a thing. I don't think they use their radars except when they're actually firing. The question is, just what is Louis up to? There was that strange business about Norman; all kinds of government people were around asking questions."

It was time for me to ask some more questions about the mysterious Norman, or maybe it wasn't. I didn't like that casual reference to government people.

I said, "Look, honey, this is fascinating as hell, but what's it got to do with me?"

She said, "It depends on Louis. I don't mind so much his trying to have me killed, although it does seem to indicate he's cracking up, doesn't it? And if he slipped out in a boat and hit Norman over the head with an oar that afternoon because he was jealous, well, I gave him lots of provocation. It would be kind of nice to think he still cared that much." She shook her head abruptly. "I don't believe it for a moment. I think he's mixed up in something big and nasty. And if he thinks he's going to involve the family and me in some dirty scandal- He'll get caught, of course. He hasn't got the brains not to. Unless-"

"Unless what?"

She drained her glass and set it down on the table. It was low enough, and she was tall enough, so that she had to bend down a bit to make it.

"I'll pay well, of course," she said in a matter-of-fact tone.

"Sure," I said. "For what, and how well?"

She smiled at me, and made a slight gesture towards the drink in my hand. I finished it off, and put the glass down beside hers.

"I'd pay very well indeed, Jim Petroni," she said, holding out her hands.

"I like cash," I said.

She laughed, unoffended. "You're a cold, stubborn man. There'll be cash, too."

Then she was in my arms, or vice versa. I can't lay claim to having originated the idea; but I saw no reason to fight it for that reason. Jimmy the Lash wouldn't be likely to put up a violent defense for his virtue. As for that sterling government employee, Matt Helm, I found it difficult to remember exactly who I was, of all the people I'd pretended to be, feeling the warmth of her lips and of her long, taut body, unconfined beneath the lace and nylon of the dignified gown. Some men prefer naked women, but I guess I like my presents gift wrapped, to start with, at least.

"You'll do it, won't you?" she breathed at last. "You'll get rid of him for me?" She laughed, her breath warm on my ear. "I'm rather bored with Louis, anyway, and divorces are so messy and expensive."

I found myself thinking, vaguely, that I'd never come across such a murderous bunch of citizens in my long and bloody career; but to be perfectly honest, I wasn't paying all the attention I might have. Only so much can be accomplished standing up; and I had a certain leather sofa rather strongly in mind.

"Sure, baby," I said thickly. "Anybody. Just name him and he's dead."

That was Lash Petroni speaking, but his voice seemed to come from far away. I drew a long breath and straightened up and looked into Robin Rosten's face. It wouldn't focus clearly; it seemed to waver before me; but I could see that she was smiling oddly. I glanced quickly toward the glasses on the coffee table.

"You bitch," Petroni said, a long ways off.

She laughed, watching me with speculative interest. I had a choice to make; and I reached out and took her by the throat before she could step back. I saw her eyes go shocked and wide.

"Too bad, lady," Petroni said. "Too bad. You shouldn't have tried-"

I made the voice trail off incoherently. The apprehension went out of her eyes as my fingers relaxed. I went to my knees and pitched forward, grasping at her skirt. After a little, I felt her bend over me and free the filmy nylon, tougher and more elastic than it looked.

"Good night," she murmured. "Good night, Matthew Helm-or should I call you Eric?"

As I closed my eyes, I knew I found what I'd been looking for: the muffled voice on the telephone, Jean's contact, the person who'd known all along I wasn't a gangster named Petroni…

SEVENTEEN

I AWOKE ON a boat. I knew this much about my surroundings before I opened my eyes. There were small, distant wave noises, and there was a certain amount of nautical creaking and groaning-the really big ships don't talk much in ordinary weather, but the smaller ones do, and once you've heard the sound, even if it was a long time ago, you don't forget it. I could hear footsteps on the deck over my head. There was some motion: the limited, rather jerky motion of a vessel lying at a dock and bumping up against it once in a while.

I knew all this, and I knew there was someone in the room, or cabin, with me. He wasn't noisy, but he breathed and, now and then, shifted position slightly. I opened my eyes and looked at him where he stood leaning against the door because the cabin offered no facilities for sitting except the bunk on which I lay.

He was one of the biggest men I'd ever seen, very black, with a bony shaved head adorned with a curving white scar that looked as if someone had tried to split his skull with a meat cleaver but had failed simply because the tool wasn't up to the job. It would take an ax. He had broad nostrils and a broad, thick-lipped mouth. I suppose you'd call him ugly. He certainly wasn't pretty, but there was a kind of magnificence about him, even in faded denim shirt and pants, that reminded me, somehow, of his mistress-who was also pretty magnificent, I recalled ruefully, if in a different way.

"Hi, Nick," I said.

He leaned there lazily, unmoving. "You know me, man?"

"Nicodemus Jackson," I said, repeating information I'd got from Washington over the phone. "Six-five, two hundred and sixty pounds."

"Two hundred and sixty-five," he said. "I put on a little weight, loafing around up the creek there with nothing to do but polish the brass. I'll go tell Miz Rosten you're awake. She figured you'd be coming around about now." He straightened up, towering above me in the little cabin, and grinned, showing large white teeth. "She's a welded steel schooner, man. Built in Germany before World War II, but still sound as the day she was launched. The hull's steel. The bulkheads are steel. Even this here door-" he gave it a blow that made it ring dully, "is steel, and it's got a powerful strong bolt. The porthole's dogged down tight; you couldn't budge it without a two-foot wrench.