Want me to call them now?”

“Sure.”

He reached for the telephone on one of the small end-tables. While the operator put through the call he sat frowning thoughtfully at the chart. What could they have been doing out there? He was connected then with the office at Windsor Field in Nassau. McAllister had left for the night, but one of the pilots was still around, a man named Avery. He said they were still flying the amphibians.

“What’s their range?” he asked.

“It depends on the load. What do you want to carry?”

“Just a couple of passengers. Here’s the deal. . . .” He explained briefly, and asked, “Do you have a chart handy, any general chart that takes in the area west of Andros?”

“Yes, sir. There’s one right in front of me.”

“Good. Take a look at the outer edge of the Bank, opposite Cay Sal. Got it? They picked up the dinghy at about 23.30 north, just off the hundred-fathom curve in the Santaren Channel. If we wanted to fly a search pattern around that point, how much of the area could we cover and still not have to walk home?”

“Hmmm . . . Just a minute . . . We could stay down there close to two hours and still get back all right.”

“What’s the rate?”

“A hundred and twenty-five dollars an hour.”

“Just a minute.” He placed a hand over the transmitter and relayed the figure to Mrs. Osborne.

She nodded. “Tell him we’ll be there as soon as we can.”

He spoke into the instrument. “Okay. I think there’s a Pan American flight out of here early in the morning—”

“Yes. Flight 401. Arrives Nassau at nine a.m.”

“Check. And if we can’t get space on it, I’ll cable you what flight we will be on. That okay?”

“Yes, sir. So unless we hear from you, we’ll have her fueled and ready for nine a.m.”

He broke the connection, got the hotel operator again, and asked for Pan American Airways. They were in luck; space was available on flight 401.