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
The Sailcloth Shroud — 51
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.”
The Sailcloth Shroud — 52
“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 to
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 Sailcloth Shroud — 53
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.
The Sailcloth Shroud — 54
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
The Sailcloth Shroud — 55
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.”
The Sailcloth Shroud — 56
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
The Sailcloth Shroud — 57
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.”
“Has anybody read this letter except me?”
“Mr. Rogers, are you crazy? Of course nobody else has
seen it.
“Well, look,” I went on, “do you think he had twenty-three
thousand dollars with him?”
“Yes. Of course he did. But why are you asking all these
questions? And why don’t you answer mine? Where is he?”
The Sailcloth Shroud — 58
“I keep trying to tell you,” I said. “He died of a heart attack
four days after we left Cristobal. And in those four days he
never said anything at all about wanting to be put ashore. I
made an inventory of his personal effects, and he didn’t have
any twenty-three thousand dollars. He had about a hundred
and seventy-five. Either Baxter was insane, or we’re not even
talking about the same man.”
Her face became completely still then. She stared at me,
her eyes growing wider and wider. “You killed him,” she
whispered. “That’s why I’ve never heard from him.”
“Stop it!” I commanded. “There has to be some answer—”
“You killed him!” She put her hands up alongside her
temples and screamed, with the cords standing out in her
throat. “You killed him! You killed him!”
“Listen!”
She went on screaming. Her eyes were completely mad.
I ran.
The Sailcloth Shroud — 59
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