I shook my head in bewilderment. “I don’t get it. Are you
sure about all this?”
“Of course we’re sure. Where you think we first got a lead
on the identification? We got a body, with no name. Traffic’s
got a wrinkled Thunderbird with rental plates somebody
walked off and abandoned after laying a block on a fire
hydrant with it, and a complaint sworn out by the Willard
Rental Agency. The Willard manager’s got a description, and
a local address at the Warwick Hotel, and a name. Only this
Francis Keefer they’re all trying to locate hasn’t been in his
room since Thursday, and he sounds a lot like the stiff we’re
trying to identify. He’d been tossing big tips around the
Warwick, and told one of the bellhops he’d just sailed up
from Panama in a private yacht, so then somebody
remembered the story in Wednesday’s Telegram. So we look
you up, among other things, and you give us this song and
dance that Keefer was just a merchant seaman, and broke.
Now. Keefer lied to you, or you’re trying to con me. And if
you are, God help you.”
The whole thing was crazy. “Why the hell would I lie about
it?” I asked. “And I tell you he was a seaman. Look, weren’t
his papers in his gear at the hotel?”
“No. Just some new luggage, and new clothes. If he had
any papers, they must have been on him when he was killed,
and ditched along with the rest of his identification. We know
The Sailcloth Shroud — 10
he had a Pennsylvania driver’s license. That’s being checked
out now. But let’s get back to the money.”
“Well, maybe he had a savings account somewhere. I’ll
admit it doesn’t sound much like Keefer—”
“No. Listen. You docked here Monday afternoon. Tuesday
morning you were both tied up in the US marshal’s office on
that Baxter business. So it was Tuesday afternoon before you
paid Keefer off. What time did he finally leave the boat?”
“Three p.m. Maybe a little later.”
“Well, there you are. If he sent somewhere for that much
money, it’d have to come through a bank. And they were
closed by then. But when he checked in at the Warwick, a
little after four, he had the money with him. In cash.”
“It throws me,” I said. “I don’t know where he could have
got it. But I do know he was a seaman. You can verify that
with the US marshal’s office and the Coast Guard. He had to
witness the log entries and sign the affidavits, so they’ve got
a record of his papers.”
“We’re checking that,” Willetts cut in brusquely. “Look—
could he have had that money on the boat all the time
without you knowing it?”
“Of course.”
“How? It’s not a very big boat, and you were out there over
two weeks.”
“Well, naturally I didn’t prowl through his personal gear. It
could have been in the drawer under his bunk. But I still say
he didn’t have it. I got to know him pretty well, and I don’t
think he had any money at all.”
“Why?”
“Two reasons, at least. If he hadn’t been on his uppers, he
wouldn’t even have considered working his way back to the
States on a forty-foot ketch. Keefer was no small-boat man.
He knew nothing about sail, and cared less. His idea of going
to sea was eighteen knots, fresh-water showers, and
overtime. So if he’d had any money he’d have bought a plane
ticket—except that he’d have gone on another binge and
spent it. When I met him, he didn’t have the price of a drink.
And he needed one.”
The Sailcloth Shroud — 11
“All right. So he left Panama flat broke, and got here with
four thousand dollars. I can see I’m in the wrong racket. How
much money did you have aboard?”
“About six hundred.”
“Then he must have clouted it from Baxter.”
I shook my head. “When Baxter died, I made an inventory
of his personal effects, and entered it in the log. He had
about a hundred and seventy dollars in his wallet. The
marshal’s office has it, along with the rest of his gear, to be
turned over to his next of kin.”
“Maybe Keefer beat you to it.”
“Baxter couldn’t have had that kind of money; it’s out of
the question. He was about as schooner-rigged as Keefer.”
“Schooner-rigged?”
“Short of clothes and luggage. He didn’t talk about it, any
more than he did anything else, but you could see he was
down on his luck. And he was sailing up because he wanted
to save the plane fare. But why is the money so important,
even if we don’t know where Keefer got it? What’s it got to
do with his being butchered and dumped in the bay?”
Before Willetts could reply, Ramirez appeared in the
doorway. He motioned, and Willetts got up and went out. I
could hear the murmur of their voices in the hall. I walked
over to the window. A fly was buzzing with futile monotony
against one of the dirty panes, and heat shimmered above
the gravel of the roof next door. They seemed to know what
they were talking about, so it must be true. And if you knew
Keefer, it was in character—the big splash, the free-wheeling
binge, even the wrecked Thunderbird—a thirty-eight-year-old
adolescent with an unexpected fortune. But where had he
got it? That was as baffling as the senseless brutality with
which he’d been killed.
The two detectives came back and motioned for me to sit
down. “All right,” Willetts said. “You saw him Thursday
night. Where was this, and when?”
“Waterfront beer joint called the Domino,” I said. “It’s not
far from the boatyard, up a couple of blocks and across the
tracks. I think the time was around eleven-thirty. I’d been
uptown to a movie, and was coming back to the yard. I
The Sailcloth Shroud — 12
stopped in for a beer before I went aboard. Keefer was there,
with some girl he’d picked up.”
“Was there anybody with him besides the girl?”
“No.”
“Tell us just what happened.”
“The place was fairly crowded, but I found a stool at the
bar. Just as I got my beer I looked around, and saw Keefer
and the girl in a booth behind me. I walked over and spoke to
him. He was pretty drunk, and the girl was about halfcrocked
herself, and they were arguing.”
“What was her name?”
“He didn’t introduce us. I just stayed for a moment and
went back to the bar.”
“Describe her.”
“Brassy type. Thin blonde, in her early twenties. Dangly
earrings, plucked eyebrows, too much mascara. I think she
said she was a cashier in a restaurant. The bartender seemed
to know her.”
“Did they leave first, or did you?”
“She left, alone. About ten minutes later. I don’t know what
they were fighting about, but all of a sudden she got up,
bawled him out, and left. Keefer came over to the bar then.
He seemed to be relieved to get rid of her. We talked for a
while. I asked him if he’d registered at the hiring hall for a
job yet, and he said he had but shipping was slow. He wanted
to know if I’d had any offers for the Topaz, and when I
thought the yard would be finished with her.”
“Was he flashing money around?”
“Not unless it was before I got there. While we were sitting
at the bar he ordered a round of drinks, but I wouldn’t let
him pay, thinking he was about broke. When we finished
them, he wanted to order more, but he’d had way too much. I
tried to get him to eat something, but didn’t have much luck.
This place is a sort of longshoremen’s hangout, and in the
rear of it there’s a small lunch counter. I took him back and
ordered him a hamburger and a cup of black coffee. He did
drink the coffee—”
“Hold it a minute,” Willetts broke in. “Did he eat any of the
hamburger at all?”
The Sailcloth Shroud — 13
“About two bites. Why?”
They looked at each other, ignoring me. Ramirez turned to
go out, but Willetts shook his head. “Wait a minute, Joe. Let’s
get the rest of this story first, and you can ask the lieutenant
for some help in checking it out.”
He turned back to me. “Did you and Keefer leave the bar
together?”
“No. He left first. Right after he drank the coffee. He was
weaving pretty badly, and I was afraid he’d pass out
somewhere, so I tried to get him to let me call a cab to take
him back to wherever he was staying, but he didn’t want one.
When I insisted, he started to get nasty. Said he didn’t need
any frilling nurse; he was holding his liquor when I was in
diapers. He staggered on out. I finished my beer, and left
about ten minutes later. I didn’t see him anywhere on the
street.”
“Did anybody follow him out?”
“No-o. Not that I noticed.”
“And that would have been just a little before twelve?”
I thought about it. “Yes. As a matter of fact, the four-tomidnight
watchman had just been relieved when I came in
the gate at the boatyard, and was still there, talking to the
other one.”
“And they saw you, I suppose?”
“Sure. They checked me in.”
“Did you go out again that night?”
I shook my head. “Not till about six-thirty the next
morning, for breakfast.”
Willetts turned to Ramirez. “Okay, Joe.” The latter went
out. “There’s no way in and out of the yard except past the
watchman?” Willetts asked.
“I don’t think so,” I replied.
Ramirez came back, carrying a sheet of paper. He handed
it to Willetts. “That checks, all right.”
Willetts glanced at it thoughtfully and nodded. He spoke to
me. “That boat locked?”
“Yes,” I said. “Why?”
“Give Joe the key. We want to look it over.”
The Sailcloth Shroud — 14
I stared at him coldly. “What for?”
“This is a murder investigation, friend. But if you insist,
we’ll get a warrant. And lock you up till we finish checking
your story. Do it easy, do it hard—it’s up to you.”
I shrugged, and handed over the key. Ramirez nodded,
pleasantly, nullifying some of the harshness of Willetts’
manner. He went out. Willetts studied the paper again,
drumming his fingers on the table. Then he refolded it “Your
story seems to tie in okay with this.”
“What’s that?” I asked.
“The autopsy report. I mean those two bites of hamburger
he ate. It’s always hard to place the time of death this long
afterward, especially if the body’s been in the water, so
about all they had to go on was what was in his stomach. And
that’s no help if you can’t find out when he ate last. But if
that counterman at the Domino backs you up, we can peg it
pretty well. Keefer was killed sometime between two and
three a.m.”
‘It couldn’t have been much later than that,” I said. “They
couldn’t dump him off a pier in broad daylight, and it’s dawn
before five o’clock.”
“There’s no telling where he was thrown in,” Willetts said.
“It was around seven-thirty this morning when they found
him, so he’d have been in the water over twenty-four hours.”
I nodded. “With four changes of tide. As a matter of fact,
you were probably lucky he came to the surface this soon.”
“Propellers, the Harbor Patrol said. Some tugs were
docking a ship at Pier Seven and washed him to the surface
and somebody saw him and called them.”
“Where did they find the car?”
“The three-hundred block on Armory. That’s a good mile
from the waterfront, and about the same distance from the
area that beer joint’s in. A patrol car spotted it at one-twentyfive
Thursday morning. That’d be about an hour and a half
after he left the joint, but there wasn’t anybody in sight, so
they don’t know what time it happened. Could have been
within a few minutes after you saw him. The car’d jumped
the curb, sideswiped a fireplug, pulled back into the street
again, and gone on another fifty yards before it jammed over
against the curb once more and stopped. Might have been
The Sailcloth Shroud — 15
just a drunken accident, but I don’t quite buy it. I think he
was forced to the curb by another car.”
“Teen-age hoodlums, maybe?”
Willetts shook his head. “Not that time of morning. Any
ducktails blasting around in hot-rods after midnight get a
fast shuffle around here. And there wasn’t a mark on his
hands; he didn’t hit anybody. That sounds like professional
muscle to me.”
“But why would they kill him?”
“You tell me.” Willetts stood up and reached for his hat
“Let’s go in the office. Lieutenant Boyd wants to see you
after a while.”
We went down the corridor to a doorway at the far end.
Inside was a long room containing several desks and a
battery of steel filing cabinets. The floor was of battered
brown linoleum held down by strips of brass. Most of the
rear wall was taken up with a duty roster and two bulletin
boards festooned with typewritten notices and circulars. A
pair of half-open windows on the right looked out over the
street. At the far end of the room a frosted glass door
apparently led to an inner office. One man in shirtsleeves
was typing a report at a desk; he glanced up incuriously and
went on with his work. Traffic noise filtered up from the
street to mingle with the lifeless air and its stale smells of old
dust and cigar smoke and sweaty authority accumulated over
the years and a thousand past investigations. Willetts nodded
to a chair before one of the vacant desks. I sat down,
wondering impatiently how much longer it was going to take.
I had plenty to do aboard the Topaz. Then I thought guiltily
of Keefer’s savagely mutilated face down there under the
sheet. You’re griping about your troubles?
Willetts lowered his bulk into a chair behind the desk, took
some papers from a drawer, and studied them for a moment.
“Did Keefer and Baxter know each other?” he asked. “I
mean, before they shipped out with you?” “No,” I said.
“You sure of that?”
“I introduced them. So far as I know, they’d never seen
each other before.”
“Which one did you hire first?”
The Sailcloth Shroud — 16
“Keefer. I didn’t even meet Baxter until the night before we
sailed. But what’s that got to do with Keefer’s being killed?”
“I don’t know.” Willetts returned to his study of the papers
on his desk. Somewhere in the city a whistle sounded. It was
noon. I lighted another cigarette, and resigned myself to
waiting. Two detectives came in with a young girl who was
crying. I could hear them questioning her at the other end of
the room.
Willetts shoved the papers aside and leaned back in his
chair. “I still don’t get this deal you couldn’t make it ashore
with Baxter’s body. You were only four days out of the
Canal.”
I sighed. Here was another Monday-morning quarterback.
It wasn’t enough to have the Coast Guard looking down your
throat; you had to be second-guessed by jokers who wouldn’t
know a starboard tack from a reef point. It was simple,
actually; all you had to be was a navigator, seaman,
cardiologist, sailmaker, embalmer, and a magician’s mate
first class who could pull a breeze out of his hat. Then I
realized, for perhaps the twentieth time, that I was being too
defensive and antagonistic about it. The memory rankled
because I was constitutionally unable to bear the sensation
of helplessness. And I had been helpless.
“The whole thing’s a matter of record,” I said wearily.
“There was a hearing—” I broke off as the phone rang on an
adjoining desk. Willetts reached for it.
“Homicide, Willetts. . . . Yeah. . . . Nothing at all? . . .
Yeah. . . . Yeah. . . .” The conversation went on for two or
three minutes. Then Willetts said, “Okay, Joe. You might as
well come on in.”
He replaced the instrument, and swung back to me.
“Before I forget it, the yard watchman’s got your key. Let’s
go in and see Lieutenant Boyd.”
The room beyond the frosted glass door was smaller, and
contained a single desk. The shirtsleeved man behind it was
in his middle thirties, with massive shoulders, an air 0f tough
assurance, and probing gray eyes that were neither friendly
nor unfriendly.
“This is Rogers,” Willetts said.
The Sailcloth Shroud — 17
Boyd stood up and held out his hand. “I’ve read about you,”
he said briefly.
We sat down. Boyd lighted a cigarette and spoke to
Willetts. “You come up with anything yet?”
“Positive identification by Rogers and the manager of the
car-rental place. Also that bellhop from the Warwick. So
Keefer’s all one man. But nobody’s got any idea where he
found all that money. Rogers swears he couldn’t have had it
when he left Panama.” He went on, repeating all I’d told him.
When he had finished, Boyd asked, “How does his story
check out?”
“Seems to be okay. We haven’t located the girl yet, but the
night bartender in that joint knows her, and remembers the
three of ‘em. He’s certain Keefer left there about the time
Rogers gave us; says Keefer got pretty foul-mouthed about
not wanting the taxi Rogers was going to call, so he told him
to shut up or get out. The watchman at the boatyard says
Rogers was back there at five minutes past twelve, and didn’t
go out again. That piece of hamburger jibes with the autopsy
report, and puts the time he was killed between two and
three in the morning.”
Boyd nodded. “And you think Keefer had the Thunderbird
parked outside the joint then?”
“Looks that way,” Willetts conceded.
“It would make sense, so Rogers must be leveling about
the money. Keefer didn’t want him to see the car and start
getting curious. Anything on the boat?”
“No. Joe says it’s clean. No gun, no money, nothing.
Doesn’t prove anything, necessarily.”
“No. But we’ve got nothing to hold Rogers for.”
“How about till we can check him out with Miami? And get
a report back from the Bureau on Keefer’s prints?”
“No,” Boyd said crisply.
Willitts savagely stubbed out his cigarette. “But, damn it,
Jim, something stinks in this whole deal—”
“Save it! You can’t book a smell.”
“Take a look at it!” Willetts protested. “Three men leave
Panama in a boat with about eight hundred dollars between
‘em. One disappears in the middle of the ocean, and another
The Sailcloth Shroud — 18
one comes ashore with four thousand dollars, and four days
later he’s dead—”
“Hold it!” I said. “If you’re accusing me of something, let’s
hear what it is. Nobody’s ‘disappeared,’ as you call it. Baxter
died of a heart attack. There was a hearing, with a doctor
present, and it’s been settled—”
“On your evidence. And one witness, who’s just been
murdered.”
“Cut it out!” the lieutenant barked. He jerked an impatient
hand at Willetts. “For Christ’s sake, we’ve got no jurisdiction
in the Caribbean Sea. Baxter’s death was investigated by the
proper authorities, and if they’re satisfied, I am. And when I
am, you are. Now get somebody to run Rogers back to his
boat. If we need him again, we can pick him up.”
I stood up. “Thanks,” I said. “I’ll be around for another
week, at least. Maybe two.”
“Right,” Boyd said. The telephone rang on his desk, and he
cut short the gesture of dismissal to reach for it. We went
out, and started across the outer office. Just before we
reached the corridor, we were halted by the lieutenant’s
voice behind us. “Wait a minute! Hold everything!”
We turned. Boyd had his head out the door of his office.
“Bring Rogers back here a minute.” We went back. Boyd was
on the telephone. “Yeah. . . . He’s still here. ... In the
office. . . . Right.”
He replaced the instrument, and nodded to me. “You might
as well park it again. That was the FBI.”
I looked at him, puzzled. “What do they want?”
“You mean they ever tell anybody? They just said to hold
you till they could get a man over here.”
The Sailcloth Shroud — 19
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