The sailcloth shroud

by Charles Williams

  “Yes, sir.” He punched the starter. We pulled away from the loading zone. As we headed for the street I looked back. Bonner was climbing into the second cab. We had a lead of about a block. I took a twenty from my wallet and dropped it on the front seat beside the driver.

  “There’s a cab following us,” I said. “Can you lose him?”

  His eyes flicked downward at the money and then straight ahead. “Not if he’s a cop.”

  “He’s not.”

  “That’s what you say.”

  “Why would he take a cab?” I asked. “There’s a sheriffs car right there at the terminal.”

  He nodded. Swinging into the street, he bore down on the accelerator. “Mister, consider him lost.”

  I looked back. The other cab was weaving through traffic slightly less than a block behind us now. We wouldn’t have a chance, I thought, if he had one of his fellow professionals at the wheel, but now the odds were even. No, they were a little better than even. We knew what we were going to do, but he had to wait till we’d done it to find out. It took less than ten minutes. The second time we ran a light on the amber and he tried to follow us through on the red, he locked fenders with a panel truck in the middle of the intersection.

  “Nice going,” I said. “Now the Greyhound Bus terminal.”

  I got out there and paid him for the meter in addition to the twenty. As soon as he was out of sight, I walked through the station and over to a taxi stand in front of a hotel, and took another cab to a Hertz agency. Thirty minutes later I was headed south on US 41 in a rented Chevrolet. There was no telling how long my luck would last, but for the moment I’d lost them.

  My head began to ache again and I was having trouble staying awake. I suddenly realized it was Sunday afternoon now and I hadn’t been to bed since Friday night. When I reached Punta Gorda I pulled into a motel and slept for six hours. I rolled into Miami shortly after 2 a.m. Going out to the airport to claim my bag would be too dangerous, even if I got a porter to pick it up. Bonner would be there, or he’d have somebody watching it. I turned the car in, and took a cab to a hotel on Biscayne Boulevard, explained that my bag had got separated from me when I changed planes in Chicago, and registered as Howard Summers from Portland, Oregon. They wouldn’t locate me this time merely by calling the hotels. I asked for a room overlooking Bayfront Park, bought a Herald, and followed the boy into the elevator. The room was on the twelfth floor. As soon as he left I went over to the window and parted the slats of the Venetian blind. Just visible around to the left was City Yacht Basin. Sticking up out of the cluster of sightseeing and charter fishing boats were the tall sticks of the Orion. It made me sick to be this near and not be able to go aboard.

  I turned away and reached for the telephone. Bill Redmond should be home by now. He answered on the first ring.

  “Stuart—” I began.

  He cut me off. “Good God, where are you?”

  I told him the hotel. “Room 1208.”

  “You’re in Miami? Don’t you ever read the papers?”

  “I’ve got a Herald, but I haven’t looked at—”

  “Read it. I’m on my way over there now.” He hung up.

  The paper was lying on the bed, where I’d tossed it when I came in. I spread it open, put a cigarette in my mouth, and started to flick the lighter. Then I saw it.

  LOCAL YACHT CAPTAIN

  SOUGHT IN SEA MYSTERY

  The police had Baxter’s letter.

  8

  It was datelined Southport.

  The aura of mystery surrounding the voyage of the ill-fated yacht Topaz deepened today in a strange new development that very nearly claimed the life of another victim.

  Still in critical condition in a local hospital this afternoon following an overdose of sleeping pills was an attractive brunette tentatively identified as Miss Paula Stafford of New York, believed by police to have been close to Wendell Baxter, mysterious figure whose death or disappearance while en route from Panama to Southport on the Topaz has turned into one of the most baffling puzzles of recent years. . . .

  I plunged ahead, skipping the parts of it I knew. It was continued in a back section. I riffled through it, scattering the pages, and went on. Then I sat down and read the whole thing through again.

  It was all there. The hotel detective had gone up to her room shortly after 3:30 a.m. when guests in adjoining 100ms reported a disturbance. He found her wildly upset and crying out almost incoherently that somebody had been killed. Since there were no evidences of violence and it was obvious no one else was there, dead or otherwise, he had got her calmed down and left her after she’d taken one of her sleeping pills. At 10 a.m., however, when they tried to call her and could get no response, they entered the room with a pass key and found her unconscious. A doctor was called. He found the remaining pills on the table beside the bed, and had her taken to a hospital. It wasn’t known whether the overdose was accidental or a suicide attempt, since no note could be found, but when police came to investigate they found the letter from Baxter. Then everything hit the fan.

  My visit came out. The elevator boy and night clerk gave the police my description. They went looking for me, and I’d disappeared from the boatyard. The letter from Baxter was printed in full. There was a rehash of the whole story up to that time, including Keefer’s death and the unexplained $4000.

  Now apparently $19,000 more was missing, I was missing, and nobody had an idea at all as to what had really happened to Baxter.

  ... in light of this new development, the true identity of Wendell Baxter is more deeply shrouded in mystery than ever. Police refused to speculate as to whether or not Baxter might even still be alive. Lieutenant Boyd parried the question by saying, “There is obviously only one person who knows the answer to that, and we’re looking for him.”

  Local agents of the Federal Bureau of Investigation had no comment other than a statement that Captain Rogers was being sought for further questioning.

  I pushed the paper aside and tried the cigarette again. This time I got it going. The letter itself wasn’t bad enough I thought; I had to make it worse by running. That’s the way it would look; the minute I read it I took off like a goosed gazelle. By this time they would have traced me to the Bolton and then to the airport. And I’d rented the car in Tampa under my own name, and then turned it in here. As soon as the man in the Hertz agency read the paper he’d call them; the taxi driver would remember bringing me to the hotel. Then it occurred to me I was already thinking like a fugitive. Well, I was one, wasn’t I? There was a light knock on the door.

  I went over. “Who is it?”

  “Bill.”

  I let him in and closed the door. He sighed and shook his head. “Pal, when you get in a jam, you’re no shoestring operator.”

  We’re the same age and about the same height, and we’ve known each other since we were in the third grade. He’s thin, restless, blazingly intelligent, somewhat cynical, and one of the world’s worst hypochondriacs. Women consider him handsome, and he probably is. He has a slender reckless face, ironic blue eyes, and dark hair that’s prematurely graying. He smokes three packs of cigarettes a day, and quits every other week. He never drinks. He’s an AA.

  “All right,” he said, “let’s have it.”

  I told him.

  He whistled softly. Then he said, “Well, the first thing is to get you out of here before they pick you up.”

  “Why?” I asked. “If the FBI is looking for me, maybe I’d better turn myself in. At least they won’t kill me. The others will.”

  “It can wait till morning, if that’s what you decide. In the meantime I’ve got to talk to you. About Baxter.”

  “Have you got any lead on him at all?” I asked.

  “I’m not sure,” he said. “That’s the reason I’ve got to talk to you. What I’ve come up with is so goofy if I tried to tell the police they might have me committed. Let’s go”

  “Where?” I asked.

  “Home, you g
oof. Lorraine’s scrambling some eggs and making coffee.”

  “Sure. Harboring a fugitive’s just a harmless prank. Be our guest in charming, gracious Atlanta.”

  “Oh, cut it out, Scarface. How would I know you’re a fugitive? I never read anything but the Wall Street Journal.”

  I gave in, but insisted we leave the hotel separately. He told me where the car was, and left. I waited five minutes before following. The streets were deserted. I climbed in, and he swung onto Biscayne Boulevard, headed south. They lived close to downtown, in a small apartment house on Brickell Avenue. From habit, I looked out the rear window. As far as I could tell, nobody was following us.

  “The Stafford woman’s still alive, the last we got,” he said, “but they haven’t been able to question her yet.”

  “I’ve got a sad hunch she doesn’t know too much about him, anyway,” I said. “She told me she didn’t know who those men were, or what they wanted, and I think she was telling the truth. I’m beginning to doubt Baxter even existed; I think he’s an hallucination people start seeing just before they crack up.”

  “You haven’t heard anything yet,” he said. “When I tell you what I’ve come up with you’ll think we’re both around the bend.”

  “Well, be mysterious about it,” I said sourly. “That’s just what I need.”

  “Wait’ll we get inside.” He swung into a driveway between shadowy palms and parked beside the building. It had only four apartments, each with its own entrance. Theirs was the lower left. We came back around the hibiscus-bordered walk, and went in the front. The living room was dim and quiet, and cool from the air-conditioner. There were no lights on, but there was enough illumination from the kitchen to find our way past the hi-fi and record albums and rows and stacks of books, and the lamps and statuary Lorraine had made. She does ceramics.

  At the moment she was scrambling eggs, a long-legged brunette with a velvety tan, rumpled dark brown hair, and wide, humorous, gray eyes. She was wearing Bermuda shorts and sandals, and a white shirt that was pulled together and knotted around her waist. Beyond the stove was a counter with a yellow formica top and tall yellow stools, a small breakfast nook, and a window hung with yellow curtains.

  She stopped stirring the eggs long enough to kiss me and wave a hand toward the counter. “Park it, Killer. What’s this rumble you’re hot?”

  “Broads,” Bill said. “Always nosy.” He set a bottle of bourbon and a glass on the counter in front of me. His theory was that nobody could be sure he didn’t drink if there was none around. I poured a big slug and downed it, had a sip of scalding black coffee, and began to feel better. Lorraine put the eggs on the table and sat down across from me, rested her elbows on the counter, and grinned.

  “Let’s face it, Rogers. Civilization just isn’t your environment. I mean land-based civilization. Any time you come above high tide you ought to carry a tag, the way sandhogs do. Something like “This man is not completely amphibious, and may get into trouble ashore. Rush to nearest salt water and immerse.’“

  “I’ll buy it,” I said. “Only the whole thing started at sea. That can scare you.”

  “Have you told him yet?” she asked Bill.

  “I’m going to right now.” He pushed the untouched eggs off his plate onto mine and lighted a cigarette. “Try this on for size—your man was forty-eight to fifty, six feet, a hundred and seventy pounds, brown hair with a little gray in it, brown eyes, mustache, quiet, gentlemanly, close-mouthed, and boat-crazy.”

  “Right,” I said. “Except for the mustache.”

  Somebody may have told him about razors. He came here about two and a half years ago—February of nineteen-fifty-six, to be exact—and he seemed to have plenty of money. He rented a house on one of the islands—a big, elaborate one with private dock—and bought that sport fisherman, a thirty-foot sloop, and a smaller sailboat of some kind. He was a bachelor, widower, or divorced. He had a Cuban couple who took care of the house and garden, and a man named Charley Grimes to skipper the fishing boat. Apparently didn’t work at anything, and spent nearly all his time fishing and sailing. Had several girl friends around town, most of whom would have probably married him if he’d ever asked them, but it appears he never told them any more about himself than he told anybody else. His name was Brian Hardy, and the name of the fishing boat was the Princess Pat. You begin to get it now?”

  “It’s all fits,” I said excitedly. “Every bit of it. That was Baxter, beyond a doubt.”

  “That’s what I’m afraid of,” Bill replied. “Brian Hardy’s been dead for over two months. And this is the part you’re going to love. He was lost at sea.”

  It began to come back then. “No!” I said. “No—”

  Lorraine patted my hand. “Poor old Rogers. Why don’t you get married, so you can stay out of trouble? Or be in it all the time and get used to it.”

  “Understand,” I said, “I’m not prejudiced. Some of my best friends are married. It’s just that I wouldn’t want my sister to marry a married couple.”

  “It happened in April, and I think you were somewhere in the out islands,” Bill went on. “But you probably heard about it.”

  “Yeah,” I said. “Explosion and fire, wasn’t it? Somewhere in the Stream.”

  “That’s right. He was alone. He’d had a fight with Grimes that morning and fired him, and was taking the Princess Pat across to Bimini himself. He’d told somebody he planned to hire a native skipper and mate for a couple of weeks’ marlin fishing. It was good weather with hardly any wind, and the Stream was as flat as Biscayne Bay. He left around noon, and should have been over there in three or four hours. Afterward, there were two boats that reported seeing him drifting around, but he didn’t ask for help so they didn’t go over. Some time after dark he called the Coast Guard—”

  “Sure,” I broke in. “That was it. I remember now. He was talking to them right at the moment she blew up.”

  Bill nodded. “It was easy enough to figure out what happened. When he got hold of them, he said he’d been having engine trouble all afternoon. Dirt or rust in the fuel tanks. He’d been blowing out fuel lines and cleaning strainers and settling bowls and probably had the bilges full of gasoline by that time. He’d know enough not to smoke, of course, so it must have been the radio itself that set it off. Maybe a sparking brush on the converter, or a relay contact. That was the Coast Guard theory. Anyway, he went dead right in the middle of a sentence. Then about fifteen minutes later a northbound tanker pretty well out in the Stream off Fort Lauderdale reported what looked like a boat afire over to the eastward of them. They changed course and went over, and got there before the Coast Guard, but there wasn’t anything they could do. She was a mass of flame by then and in a matter of minutes she burned to the waterline and sank. The Coast Guard cruised around for several hours, hoping he’d been able to jump, but if he had he’d already drowned. They never found any trace of him. There wasn’t any doubt, of course, as to what boat it was. That was just about the position he’d reported. He’d been drifting north in the Stream all the time his engines were conked out.”

  “Did they ever recover his body?” I asked.

  “No.”

  “Did his life-insurance companies pay off?”

  “As far as anybody could ever find out, he didn’t carry any life insurance.”

  We looked at each other in silence. We both nodded.

  “When they come after you,” Lorraine said, “tell them to wait for me. I think so too.”

  “Sure,” I said excitedly. “Look—that’s the very thing that’s been puzzling me all the time. I mean, why those three goons were so sure I’d put him ashore somewhere, without even knowing about the letter. It’s simply because he’d done it to ‘em once before.”

  “Not so fast,” Bill cautioned. “Remember, this happened at least twenty miles offshore. And on his way out that day he stopped at a marine service station in Government Cut and gassed up. They were positive he didn’t have a dinghy. Sport
fishermen seldom or never do, of course, so they’d have noticed if he had.”

  “That doesn’t prove a thing,” I said, “except that we’re right. He wanted it known he didn’t have another boat with him. Somebody else took him off, and five will get you ten it was a girl named Paula Stafford. The Stream was flat; she could have come out from Fort Lauderdale in any kind of power cruiser, or even one of those big, fast outboard jobs. Finding him in the dark might be a tough job for a landlubber, unless he gave her a portable RDF and a signal from the Princess Pat to home on, but actually she wouldn’t have to do it in the dark. She could have been already out there before sundown, lying a mile or so away where she wouldn’t have any trouble picking up his lights. Or if there were no other boats around, she could have gone alongside before it got dark.”

  “But neither the tanker nor the Coast Guard saw any other boat when they got there.”

  “They wouldn’t,” I said. “Look. They took it for granted the explosion occurred while he was talking to them, because his radio went dead. Well, his radio went dead simply because he turned it off. Then he threw several gallons of gasoline around the cabin and cockpit, rigged a fuse of some kind that would take a few minutes to set it off, got in the other boat, and shoved. It would have taken the tanker possibly ten minutes to get there, even after they spotted the fire. So with a fast boat, Baxter was probably five to seven miles away and running without lights when it showed up, and by the time the Coast Guard arrived he was ashore having a drink in some cocktail lounge in Fort Lauderdale. It would be easy. That’s the reason I asked about the insurance. It would be so simple to fake that if he had a really big policy they probably wouldn’t pay off until after seven years, or whatever it is.”

  “Well, he didn’t have any,” Bill replied, “so that was no strain. He also had no heirs that anybody has been able to locate, and the only estate besides the other boats seems to be a checking account with about eleven thousand in it.”