“Island?” Curlie stared. “There is no island off that shore.”
“Oh, but there is one, a mile and a half long. There are to be others. Men make them with dredges and dump trucks.
“It’s really quite an old island,” she continued. “Trees on it twenty feet tall and some shacks where men live; three or four shacks.”
“Shacks? Men?” Curlie’s voice was full of suppressed excitement. “Perhaps the man who stole that package lives there. Perhaps the package is there still.”
“Yes,” she agreed, “that may be true. Shall we go and see?”
Curlie paused for thought. A film seemed to close over his eyes.
“No,” he said, shaking his head. “No. Not now. I’ve reached my limit. I’m no good.”
“You need rest,” she said quickly. “But can’t I come back for you later? It’s really considerable of an island. I go there often. And truly I think it’s worth looking into.”
“Yes,” Curlie acquiesced, “you come. Any time after six.”
Ten minutes later in the airport bunkroom he lay quite still, lost in deep sleep.