The Sampaguita, he said, was a thirty-foot auxiliary sloop with white hull and red sails. It had once been the private yacht of an American copra planter on Basilan who, alas, had been murdered by his Moro field hands. Santos had not known the Moro guide, and had noticed nothing unusual about him. And there the interview ended. Rick shook his head. They were certainly not making progress.
"Is there anything I can do?" Captain Lim asked.
"I'm afraid not," Zircon replied. "Thank you, Captain. If you don't mind, we'll walk back to the hotel. It's only a short distance. And I'm sure the boys want to see this part of town. I do."
"Of course. Anyway, you must be my guests for dinner at the hotel. At ten o'clock."
"We'll be delighted," Zircon answered. "Will you go back to the fort now?"
"No. If you want me I will be at home, behind the hotel. It is the small white cottage."
The three waved good-by, then turned toward the teeming wharf area, which was also the town's market place. Just beyond the breakwater, native outrigger boats with bright-colored sails in stripes and patterns swept by in a kind of convoy.
Scotty asked an elderly Filipino who was watching, "Sir, may I ask the name of that kind of boat?"
The Filipino smiled. "Colorful, yes? They are vintas. Moro boats from Sulu Sea. They come to sell fish."
Scotty thanked him and the three walked slowly through the market place. By unspoken consent they said nothing about their problem. All of them knew they had reached a dead end, and none knew where to go from this point.