Rourke rolled down his window and settled back with cigarette papers and tobacco.

His companion took out a pack of Camels and growled, “Don’t go fouling up this car with that junk. Take one of these.”

A saturnine grin lighted Rourke’s face. “Thanks,” he said.

The man snapped a silver lighter and held the flame to Rourke’s cigarette, then settled back and pensively studied the polished tips of his shoes.

Monk had turned north and was driving at an easy speed between rows of coco palms and modest bungalows. Presently he turned to cross a bridge onto one of the small man-made islands dotting the shore of the bay. He followed a winding course to a big sprawling one-story clubhouse on the waterfront and pulled into a deserted parking-lot.

Rourke knew this to be the Sunrise Club, formerly a private clubhouse for wealthy householders on the island, now converted into a swanky gambling establishment. He asked, “End of the line?”

The tall man unfolded himself and got out. Rourke followed him to a side entrance in a concrete wall draped with red and purple bougainvillea. Monk plodded along behind them.

Rourke’s self-appointed “pal” unlocked a rear door opening onto a narrow dark passageway. He switched on a ceiling light and went on to a door at the end of the narrow hall and turned the knob. They entered a spacious office carpeted with rich red carpeting. Venetian blinds at the wide windows let slatted sunlight into the room. Walls of robin’s-egg blue rose to meet the warm creamy ceiling centered with a magnificent chandelier.

A tall spare man sat behind a leather-covered desk. His jaw was square, his mouth tight-lipped, but his blue eyes twinkled as he half-rose and nodded pleasantly to Rourke. He said, “It was nice of you to come, Mr. Rourke,” and looked inquiringly at the two men behind the reporter.