The sailcloth shroud

by Charles Williams

  “I don’t know a thing about it I haven’t told you,” I said.

  “All right. We have to take your word for it; you’re the only one left, and we’ve got no real evidence to the contrary. But I can smell these goons. They’re pros, and I don’t think they’re local. I’ve put the screws on every source I’ve got around town, and nobody knows anything about ‘em at all. Our only chance to get a lead on ‘em would be to find out who Baxter was, and what he was up to.”

  “That’s great,” I said. “With Baxter buried at the bottom of the Caribbean Sea.”

  “The thing that puzzles me the most is what the hell he was doing on that boat of yours in the first place. The only way you can account for that money of Keefer’s is that he stole it from Baxter. So if Baxter was running from a bunch of hoodlums and had four thousand in cash, why would he try to get away on a boat that probably makes five miles an hour downhill? Me, I’d take something faster.”

  “I don’t know,” I said. “It gets crazier every time I look at it. The only thing I’m sure of any more is that I wish to Christ I’d never heard of Baxter or Keefer.”

  “Okay. There’s nothing more we can do now. I’ve got a hunch the FBI is going to want to take a long, slow look at this, but they can pick you up in the morning. We’ll send you back to your boat in a squad car. And if you have to go chasing around town at night, for God’s sake take a taxi.”

  “Sure,” I said. “They struck me as being scared to death of taxi drivers.”

  “They’re scared of witnesses, wise guy. They all are. And you’ve always got a better chance where they can’t get a good look at you.”

  It was 12:20 a.m. when the squad car dropped me off before the boatyard gate and drove away. I glanced nervously up and down the waterfront with its shadows and gloomy piers and tried to shrug off the feeling of being watched. It was as peaceful as the open sea, with nobody in sight anywhere except old Ralph, the twelve-to-eight watchman, tilted back in a chair just inside the gate reading a magazine in his hot pool of light. He glanced curiously at the police car and at my muddy shoes, but said nothing. I said good night, and went on down through the yard. As I stepped aboard the Topaz and walked aft to the cockpit, I reached in my pocket for the key. Then I saw I wasn’t going to need it.

  The hatch was open and the padlock was gone, the hasp neatly cut through, apparently with bolt cutters. I looked down into the dark interior of the cabin, and felt the hair raise along the back of my neck. I listened intently, standing perfectly still, but knew that was futile. If he was still down there, he’d heard me already. Well, I could find out. The light switch was right beside the ladder, accessible from here. I stepped to one side of the hatch, reached down silently, and flipped it on. Nothing happened. I peered in. He was gone. But he’d been there. The whole cabin looked as if it had been stirred with a giant spoon.

  6

  The bunks had been torn apart. The bedding was piled on the settee and in the sink. My suitcase and duffel bag were emptied into the bunks, the drawers beneath them dumped upside down on the deck. Food lockers were emptied and ransacked. Charts, nautical almanacs, azimuth tables, magazines, and books were scattered everywhere. I stared at it in mounting rage. A hell of a security force they had here, one creaky old pensioner sitting up there calmly reading a magazine while thieves tore your boat apart. Then I realized it wasn’t his fault, nor Otto’s. Whoever had done this hadn’t come in the gate, and was no ordinary sneak thief. The watchmen made the round of the yard once every hour with a clock, but there was no station out here on the pier. I grabbed a flashlight and ran back on deck.

  The Topaz lay near the outer end of the pier, bow in and starboard side to. There was a light at the shoreward end of the pier, but out here it was somewhat shadowy, especially aft. The marine railway and the shrimp boat that was on it blocked the view from the gate. There was a high wire fence, topped with barbed wire, on each side of the yard, so no one could go in or out afoot except through the gate, but the bayfront was wide open, of course, to anyone with a boat.

  I threw the beam of the flashlight over the port side, and found it almost immediately. Freshly painted white topsides are both the joy and the curse of a yachtsman’s life; they’re beautiful and dazzling as a fresh snowfall, and just as easily marred. Right under the cockpit coaming was a slight dent, with green paint in it. Skiff, I thought, or a small outboard; it had bumped as it came alongside. If they had a motor, they had probably cut it some distance out and sculled in. Probably happened on Otto’s watch, right after I left. That meant, then, that there were at least four of them. But what were they looking for?

  I was just straightening up when I saw something else. I stopped the light and looked again to make sure. There was another dent, about ten feet forward of this one. What the hell, had they come alongside at twenty knots and ricocheted? I stepped forward and knelt to have a closer look. There was a smear of yellow paint in this one. Two boats? That made no sense at all. One of the dents must have been made before, I thought. But it couldn’t have been very long ago, because it was only Thursday I’d painted the topsides.

  Well, it didn’t make any difference. The point was that they’d been here, and they could come back. If I wanted to get any sleep I’d better move to a hotel; this place was too easy to get into. I went below and straightened up the mess. So far as I could tell, nothing was missing. I changed into a lightweight suit—the only one I had with me—put on some more shoes, and packed a bag with the rest of my gear. I gathered up the sextant and chronometer, the only valuable items aboard, and went up to the gate.

  The old man was shocked and apologetic and a little frightened when I told him about it. “Why, I didn’t hear a thing, Mr. Rogers,” he said.

  “It probably happened on Otto’s shift,” I said. “But it doesn’t matter; nobody would have heard them, anyway. Just keep this chronometer and sextant in your shack till Froelich gets here in the morning.” Froelich was the yard foreman. “Turn them over to him, and tell him to put a new hasp and padlock on that hatch. At yard expense, incidentally. And tell him not to let anybody down in the cabin until the police have a chance to check it for fingerprints. I’ll be back around nine o’clock.”

  “Yes, sir,” he said. “I’ll sure do that. And I’m awful sorry about it, Mr. Rogers.”

  “Forget it,” I told him. I called the police and reported it, with a request that they notify Willetts when he came on shift again. This had to be explained, because Willetts was in Homicide and had nothing to do with burglary. We got it straightened out at last, and I called a cab. The driver recommended the Bolton as a good commercial hotel.

  I watched the empty streets as we drove through the warehouse and industrial district. No one followed us. Even the thought of violence seemed unreal. The Bolton was in the heart of the downtown business district, about three blocks from the Warwick. It was air-conditioned.

  I registered, and followed the boy through the deserted corridors of two a.m., reminded of the description of a hotel in one of Faulkner’s novels. Tiered cubicles of sleep. The room was a cubicle, all right, but it had a night latch and a chain on the door. When the boy had gone I slipped the chain in place, took a shower, and lay down on the bed with a cigarette.

  Who was Baxter?

  He’s a legacy, I thought. An incubus I inherited, with an assist from Keefer. Baxter to Keefer to Rogers—it sounded like the infield of a sandlot baseball team. Why had he come aboard the Topaz? He’d obviously lied about the job and about wanting to save plane fare home. He hadn’t struck me as a liar, either; aloof, maybe, and close-mouthed, but not a liar. And certainly not a criminal. I’d liked him.

  Who were the men after him? And why wouldn’t they believe he had died of a heart attack? And just what did I do now? Spend the rest of my life looking under the bed, sleeping behind locked doors on the upper floors of hotels? It was chilling when you thought of it, how little the police could actually do about a thing like this, unless I wanted t
o go down there and live in the squad room and never go out at all. And trying to convince myself that I was any match for professional hoodlums was farcical. Violence was their business. It wasn’t a sport, like football, with rules, and time out when you got hurt. Even if I had a gun and a permit to carry it, it would be useless; I was no gunman, and didn’t want to be one.

  I lighted another cigarette, and looked at my watch. It was almost three a.m.

  The only way to get a line on them, Willetts had said, was to find out who Baxter was. And since the physical remains of Baxter were buried beyond the reach of the human race for eternity, the only thing left was trailing him backward in search of some clue. That, obviously, was a job for the FBI. But so far the FBI didn’t even have a place to start. I had four days.

  Take it from where you left off, I thought: the morning we sailed. After breakfast the three of us had turned to, replacing the stainless-steel lower shroud on the port side of the mainmast. Baxter was a willing worker and he was good with wire, but his hands were soft and he apparently had no gloves. I noted also that he was working in the pair of gray flannel slacks. While we were still at it, the stores came down. We carried them aboard and stowed them. There was a discrepancy in the bill that I wanted to take up with the ship chandler, so I asked the driver for a ride back to town in the truck. Just as I was going ashore, Baxter came up from below and called to me.

  He handed me twenty dollars. “I wonder if you’d mind getting me two pairs of dungarees while you’re uptown? The stores were closed last night.”

  “Sure,” I said. “What size?”

  “Thirty-two waist, and the longest they have.”

  “Right. But why not come along yourself? We’re in no bind.”

  He declined apologetically. “Thanks, but I’d just as soon stay and finish that wire. That is, if you don’t mind getting the dungarees.”

  I told him I didn’t. He took an airmail letter from his pocket and asked if I’d drop it in the box for him—

  Paula Stafford!

  I sat up in bed so suddenly I dropped my cigarette and had to retrieve it from the floor. That’s where I’d heard the name. Or had seen it, rather. When I was mailing the letter I’d noticed idly that it was addressed to somebody at a hotel in New York. I wasn’t prying; it was merely that the New York address had struck me, since he was from San Francisco, and I’d glanced at the name. Stanford? Sanford? Stafford? That was it; I was positive of it.

  God, what a dope! I’d forgotten all about her call. She was probably over at the Warwick Hotel right now, and could clear up the whole mystery in five minutes. I grabbed the telephone.

  I waited impatiently while the operator dialed. “Good morning,” a musical voice said. “Hotel Warwick.”

  “Do you have a Paula Stafford registered?” I asked.

  “One moment, please. . . . Yes, sir. . . .”

  “Would you ring her, please?”

  “I’m sorry, sir. Her line is busy.”

  Probably trying to get me at the boatyard, I thought. I sprang up and began throwing on my clothes. It was only three blocks to the Warwick. The traffic lights were blinking amber, and the streets were empty except for a late bus or two and a Sanitation Department truck. I made it to the Warwick in three minutes. The big ornate lobby was at the bottom of its day’s cycle; all the shops were closed, and some of the lights were turned off around the outlying areas with only the desk and switchboard and one elevator still functioning, like the nerve centers of some complex animal asleep. I headed for the house phones, over to the right of the desk.

  She answered almost immediately, as if she had been standing beside the instrument. “Yes?”

  “Miss Stafford?” I asked.

  “Yes,” she said eagerly. “Who is it?”

  “Stuart Rogers. I’m down in the lobby—”

  “Oh, thank Heavens!” She sounded slightly hysterical. “I’ve been trying to get you at that shipyard, but the man said you were gone, he didn’t know where. But never mind. Where are you?”

  “Down in the lobby,” I repeated.

  “Come on up! Room 1508.”

  It was to the right, the boy said. I stepped out of the elevator and went along a hushed and deep-carpeted corridor. When I knocked, she opened the door immediately. The first thing that struck me about her were her eyes. They were large and deeply blue, with long dark lashes, but they were smudged with sleeplessness and jittery with some intense emotion too long sustained.

  “Come in, Mr. Rogers!” She stepped back, gave me a nervous but friendly smile that was gone almost before it landed, and shook a pill out of the bottle she was holding in her left hand. She was about thirty-five, I thought. She had dark hair that was a little mussed, as if she’d been running her hands through it, and was wearing a blue dressing gown, belted tightly about her waist. Paula Stafford was a very attractive woman, aside from an impression that if you dropped something or made a sudden move she might jump into the overhead light fixture.

  I came on into the room and closed the door while she grabbed up a tumbler of water from the table on her left and swallowed the pill. Also on the table was a burning cigarette in a long holder, balanced precariously on the edge, another bottle of pills of a different color, and an unopened pint bottle of Jack Daniel’s. To my left was the partly opened door of the bathroom. Beyond her was a large double bed with a persimmon-colored spread. The far wall was almost all window, covered with a drawn Venetian blind and persimmon drapes. Light came from the bathroom door and from the floor lamp beside the dresser, which was beyond the foot of the bed, to my left. A dress, apparently the one she’d been wearing, was thrown across the bed, along with a half slip, her handbag, and a pair of sun glasses, while her suitcase was open and spilling lingerie and stockings on the luggage stand at the foot of it. It was hard to tell whether she’d taken up residence in the room or had been lobbed into it just before she went off.

  “Tell me about him!” she demanded. “Do you think he’s all right?” Then, before I could open my mouth, she broke off with another nervous smile and indicated the armchair near the foot of the bed, at the same time grabbing up the bottle of Jack Daniel’s and starting to fumble with the seal. “Forgive me. Won’t you sit down? And let me pour you a drink.”

  I lifted the bottle of whisky out of her hands before she could drop it, and placed it on the table. “Thanks, I don’t want a drink. But I would like some information.”

  She didn’t even hear me, apparently, or notice that I’d taken the whisky away. She went right on talking. “. . . half out of my mind, even though I know there must be some perfectly good reason he hasn’t got in touch with me yet.”

  “Who?” I asked.

  This got through to her. She stopped, looked at me in surprise, and said, “Why, Brian—I mean, Wendell Baxter.”

  It was my turn this time. It seemed incredible she didn’t know. I felt rotten about having to break it to her this way. “I’m sorry, Miss Stafford, but I took it for granted you’d read about it in the papers. Wendell Baxter is dead.”

  She smiled. “Oh, of course! How stupid of me.” She turned away, and began to rummage through her handbag on the bed. “I must say he made no mistake in trusting you, Mr. Rogers.”

  I stared blankly at the back of her head, and took out a cigarette and lighted it. There was a vague impression somewhere in my mind that her conversation—if that was what it was—would make sense if only you had the key to it.

  “Oh, here it is,” she said, and turned back with a blue airmail envelope in her hand. I felt a little thrill as I saw the Canal Zone postmark; it was the one I’d mailed for him. At last I might find out something. “This should clear up your doubts as to who I am. Go ahead and read it.”

  I slid out the letter.

  Cristobal, C.Z.

  June 1st

  Dearest Paula:

  There is time for just the briefest of notes. Slidell is here in the Zone and has seen me. He has the airport covered, but
I have found a way to slip out.

  I am writing this aboard the ketch Topaz, which is sailing shortly for Southport, Texas. I have engaged to go along as deckhand, using the name of Wendell Baxter. They may find out, of course, but I might not be aboard when she arrives. As soon as we are safely at sea I am going to approach Captain Rogers about putting me ashore somewhere farther up the Central American coast. Of course it is possible he won’t do it, but I hope to convince him. The price may be high, but fortunately I still have something over $23,000 in cash with me. I shall write again the moment I am ashore, either in Southport or somewhere in Central America. Until then, remember I am safe, no matter what you might hear, and that I love you.

  Brian

  Twenty-three thousand dollars ... I stood there dumbly while she took the letter from my fingers, folded it, and slid it back into the envelope.

  She looked up at me. “Now,” she cried out eagerly, “where is he, Mr. Rogers?”

  I had to say something. She was waiting for an answer. “He’s dead. He died of a heart attack—”

  She cut me short with a gesture of exasperation, tinged with contempt. “Aren’t you being a little ridiculous? You’ve read the letter; you know who I am. Where did you put him ashore? Where was he going?”

  I think that was the moment I began to lose my head. It was the utter futility of it. I caught her arms. “Listen! Was Baxter insane?”

  “Insane? What are you talking about?”

  “Who is Slidell? What does he want?”

  “I don’t know,” she said.

  “You don’t know?”

  She jerked her arms free and moved back from me. “He never told me. Slidell was only one of them, but I don’t know what he wanted.”