New York? Must be a mistake, I thought as I went up the
pier. I didn’t know anybody there who would be trying to
phone me. The watchman’s shack was just inside the gate,
with a door and a wide window facing the driveway. Johns
set the instrument on the window counter. “Here you go.”
I picked it up. “Hello. Rogers speaking.”
It was a woman’s voice. “Is this the Mr. Stuart Rogers who
owns the yacht Topaz?”
“That’s right.”
“Good.” There was evident relief in her voice. Then she
went on softly, “Mr. Rogers, I’m worried. I haven’t heard
from him yet.”
“From whom?” I asked blankly.
“Oh,” she replied. “I am sorry. It’s just that I’m so upset.
This is Paula Stafford.”
It was evident from the way she said it the name was
supposed to explain everything. “I don’t understand,” I said.
“What is it you want?”
“He did tell you about me, didn’t he?”
I sighed. “Miss Stafford—or Mrs. Stafford—I don’t know
what you’re talking about. Who told me about you?”
“You’re being unnecessarily cautious, Mr. Rogers. I assure
you I’m Paula Stafford. It must have been at least two weeks
The Sailcloth Shroud — 31
now, and I still have no word from him. I don’t like it at all.
Do you think something could have gone wrong?”
“Let’s go back and start over,” I suggested. “My name is
Stuart Rogers, age thirty-two, male, single, charter yacht
captain—”
“Will you please—” she snapped. Then she paused,
apparently restraining herself, and went on more calmly. “All
right, perhaps you’re right not to take chances without some
proof. Fortunately, I’ve already made plane reservations. I’ll
arrive at two-twenty a.m., and will be at the Warwick Hotel.
Will you please meet me there as soon as I check in? It’s
vitally important.” She hung up.
I shrugged, replaced the instrument, and lighted a
cigarette. There was a weird one.
“Some nut?” Johns asked. He was a gaunt, white-haired
man with ice-blue eyes. He leaned on the window shelf and
began stoking a caked and smelly pipe. “I got a son-in-law
that’s a cop, and he says you get your name in the paper
you’re pestered with all kindsa screwballs.”
“Probably a drunk,” I replied.
“Too bad about that Keefer fella,” Johns went on. “Did I tell
you he was here Iookin’ for you the other night?”
I glanced up quickly. “He was? When was this?”
“Hmmm. Same night they say he was killed. That’d be
Thursday. I reckon I must have forgot to tell you because
when you come in Ralph’d just relieved me and we was
shootin’ the breeze.”
“What time was he here?”
“About seven, seven-thirty. Wasn’t long after you went
out.”
I frowned. It was odd that Blackie hadn’t mentioned it
when I ran into him at the Domino. “You’re sure it was
Keefer?”
“That’s the name he said. Dark-haired kind of fella. Said he
was the one that sailed up from Panama with you. I told him
you’d gone uptown to a movie and wouldn’t be back till
around eleven.”
“Was he in a car?” I asked. “And was there a girl with
him?”
The Sailcloth Shroud — 32
Johns shook his head. “He was by hisself. And I didn’t see
no car; far as I know he was afoot. I reckon he’d had a couple
snorts, because he got pretty hot under the collar when I
wouldn’t let him go aboard the boat. He told me again about
bein’ a friend of yours and comin’ up from Panama on it, and
I said it didn’t make no difference to me if he’d helped you
sail it here from Omaha, Nebraska. Long as he wasn’t in the
crew no more he wasn’t goin’ aboard without you was with
him.”
“What did he want?” I asked. “Did he say?”
“Said he forgot his razor when he was paid off. I told him
he’d have to see you about that. He left, and didn’t come
back.”
“Oh,” I said. “The companion hatch was locked; he couldn’t
have got aboard anyway. He should have known that.”
I went back aboard the Topaz. It was after six now; I might
as well knock off for the day. I walked over to the washroom,
showered, shaved, and dressed in clean slacks and a fresh
sport shirt. Back in the cabin, as I was putting away my
shaving gear, I thought of Keefer. Odd, with all that money
he had, that he would come clear back out here just to pick
up the cheap shaving kit he’d bought in Panama. I paused.
Now that I thought about it, I hadn’t even seen it since
Keefer had left. Was it just an excuse to get aboard? Maybe
the man was a thief. I pulled open the drawer under the bunk
Keefer had occupied. There was no razor in it. Why, the dirty
. . . Well, don’t go off half-cocked, I thought; make sure it’s
not aboard. I stepped into the head and pulled open the tiny
medicine cabinet above the basin. There it was, the styrene
case containing a safety razor and a pack of blades. My
apologies, Blackie.
I went up the companion ladder. The deck now lay in the
lengthening shadows of the buildings ashore, and with a
slight breeze blowing up bay from the Gulf it was a little
cooler. I sat down in the cockpit, took out a cigarette, and
then paused just as I started to flip the lighter.
Paula.
Paula Stafford.
Was there something familiar about the name? Hadn’t I
heard it before, somewhere? Oh, it was probably just
imagination. I dropped the lighter back in my pocket, and
The Sailcloth Shroud — 33
inhaled deeply of the smoke, but the nagging idea persisted.
Maybe Keefer had mentioned her sometime during the trip.
Or Baxter.
Baxter . . . For some reason I was conscious again of that
strange sensation of unease I had felt there in the office of
the FBI. Merely by turning my head I could look along the
port side of the deck, between mizzen and main, where I had
stood that day with head bared to the brazen heat of the sun
and watched the body as it faded slowly and disappeared,
falling silently into the depths and the crushing pressures
and eternal darkness two miles below. It was the awful
finality of it—the fact that if the FBI couldn’t find out
something about him, pick up his trail somewhere, they
might never know who he was. There’d never be a second
chance. No fingerprints, no photograph, no possibility of a
better description, nothing. He was gone, forever, without
leaving a trace. Was that it? Was it going to bother me the
rest of my life—the fact that I had failed to bring the body
ashore where it might have been identified?
Oh, hell, I thought angrily, you’re just being morbid. You
did everything humanly possible. Except remove the
stomach; that would have helped, but you chickened out. So
you did like the man; that’s no excuse. It’s done. But it
wouldn’t have changed anything in the long run. You were
still three hundred miles from the Canal. And in that heat,
trying to stretch it any longer would have been more than
just unpleasant; it could have become dangerous. Burial was
a practical necessity long before it became a ritual.
But there must be some clue. We’d been together for four
days, and in that length of time even a man as
uncommunicative as Baxter would have said something that
would provide a lead as to where he was from. Think back.
What was it Soames had said about association? Right here
within this span of forty feet was where it had all taken
place. Start at the beginning, with the first time you ever saw
Baxter, and go over every minute.
I stopped. Just why was it necessary? Or rather, why did I
feel it was? Why this subconscious fear that they weren’t
going to find anybody in Panama who knew Baxter? The man
said he’d worked there. If he had, the FBI would run him
down in a day. Was it merely because the San Francisco
address had proved a dead end? No, there must be more. . . .
The Sailcloth Shroud — 34
* * *
It had rained during the afternoon, a slashing tropical
downpour that drummed along the deck and pocked the
surface of the water like hail, but it was clear now, and the
hot stars of the southern latitudes were ablaze across the
sky. The Topaz was moored stern-to at a low wooden wharf
with her anchor out ahead, shadowy in the faint illumination
from a lamp a half block away where the row of palms along
the street stirred and rustled in the breeze blowing in from
the Caribbean.
It was eight p.m. Keefer had gone off to the nearest bar
with two or three dollars he had left from the twenty I’d
advanced him. I went below to catalogue and stow the charts
I had bought. I switched on the overhead light and stood for
a moment at the foot of the companion ladder, looking
forward. She was all right. She had a good interior layout,
and the six-foot-two-inch headroom was adequate.
The small bottled-gas stove and stainless-steel sink of the
galley were on the port side aft, with the wooden refrigerator
below and stowage above. To starboard was a settee. Above
it was the RDF and radiotelephone, and a chart table that
folded back when not in use. Just forward of this area were
two permanent bunks, and beyond them a locker to port and
the small enclosed head to starboard. These, and the curtain
between them, formed a passage going into the forward
compartment, which was narrower and contained two
additional bunks.
The charts were in a roll on the settee. I cut the cord
binding them, and pulled down the chart table. Switching on
the light above it, I began checking them off against my list,
rolling them individually, and stowing them in the rack
overhead. It was hot and very still here below, and sweat
dripped off my face. I mopped at it, thinking gratefully that
tomorrow we would be at sea.
I had a Hydrographic Office general chart of the Caribbean
spread out on the table and was lighting a cigarette when a
voice called out quietly from ashore, “Ahoy, aboard the
Topaz.”
I stuck my head out the companion hatch. The shadowy
figure on the wharf was tall but indistinct in the faint light,
and I couldn’t see the face. But he sounded American, and
The Sailcloth Shroud — 35
judging from the way he’d hailed he could be off one of the
other yachts. “Come on aboard,” I invited.
I stepped back, and the man came into view down the
companion ladder—heavy brogues first, and then long legs in
gray flannel slacks, and at last a brown tweed jacket. It was
an odd way to be dressed in Panama, I thought, where
everybody wore white and nothing heavier than linen. The
man’s face appeared, and he stood at the foot of the ladder
with his head inclined slightly because of his height. It was a
slender, well-made face, middle-aged but not sagging or
deeply lined, with the stamp of quietness and intelligence
and good manners on it. The eyes were brown. He was
bareheaded, and the short-cropped brown hair was graying.
“Mr. Rogers?” he asked politely.
“That’s right,” I said.
“My name is Baxter. Wendell Baxter.”
We shook hands. “Welcome aboard,” I said. “How about
some coffee?”
“Thank you, no.” Baxter moved slightly to one side of the
companion ladder, but remained standing. “I’ll get right to
the point, Mr. Rogers. I heard you were looking for a hand to
take her north.”
I was surprised, but concealed it. Baxter had neither the
appearance nor the bearing of one who would be looking for
a job as a paid deckhand. College students, yes; but this man
must be around fifty. “Well, I’ve already got one man,” I said.
“I see. Then you didn’t consider taking two? I mean, to cut
the watches.”
“Watch-and-watch does get pretty old,” I agreed. “And I
certainly wouldn’t mind having two. You’ve had experience?”
“Yes.”
“Offshore? The Caribbean can get pretty lumpy for a fortyfoot
yawl.”
Baxter had been looking at the chart. He glanced up
quickly, but the brown eyes were merely polite. “Yawl?”
I grinned. “I’ve had two applicants who called her a
schooner, and one who wanted to know if I planned to
anchor every night.”
A faint smile touched Baxter’s lips. “I see.”
The Sailcloth Shroud — 36
“Have you had a chance to look her over?” I asked.
“Yes. I saw her this morning.”
“What do you make of her?”
“This is just a guess, of course, but I’d say she was
probably an Alden design, and New England built, possibly
less than ten years ago. She seems to have been hauled
recently, probably within two months, unless she’s been lying
in fresh water. The rigging is in beautiful shape, except that
the lower shroud on the port side of the main has some
broken strands.”
I nodded. I already had the wire aboard to replace that
shroud in the morning before sailing. Baxter was no farmer. I
nodded toward the chart. “What do you think of the course,
the way I’ve laid it out?”
He studied it for a moment. “If the Trades hold, it should
be a broad reach most of the way. Once you’re far enough to
the north’ard to weather Gracias a Dios, you can probably lay
the Yucatán Channel on one course. Do you carry genoa and
spinnaker?”
“No,” I said. “Nothing but the working sails. We’ll probably
be twelve days or longer to Southport, and all I can offer you
is a hundred for the passage. Are you sure you want to go?”
“The pay isn’t important,” he replied. “Primarily, I wanted
to save the plane fare.”
“You’re an American citizen, I suppose.”
“Yes. My home’s in San Francisco. I came down here on a
job that didn’t work out, and I’d like to get back as cheaply
as possible.”
“I see,” I said. I had the feeling somehow that behind the
quiet demeanor and well-bred reserve Baxter was tense with
anxiety, wanting to hear me say yes. Well, why not? The man
was obviously experienced, and it would be well worth the
extra hundred not to have to stand six-and-six. “It’s a deal,
then. Can you be aboard early in the morning? I’d like to get
away before ten.”
He nodded. “I’ll have my gear aboard in less than an hour.”
He left, and returned in forty-five minutes carrying a single
leather suitcase of the two-suiter variety. “Keefer and I are in
these bunks,” I said. “Take either of those in the forward
compartment. You can stow your bag in the other one.”
The Sailcloth Shroud — 37
“Thank you. That will do nicely,” he replied. He stowed his
gear, removed the tweed jacket, and opened the mushroom
ventilator overhead. He came out after a while and sat
silently smoking a cigarette while I rated the chronometer
with a time signal from WWV.
“I gather you’ve cruised quite a bit,” I said tentatively.
“I used to,” he replied.
“In the Caribbean, and West Indies?”
“No. I’ve never been down here before.”
“My normal stamping ground is the Bahamas,” I went on.
“That’s wonderful country.”
“Yes. I understand it is.” The words were uttered with the
same grave courtesy, but from the fact that he said nothing
further it was obvious he didn’t wish to pursue the
discussion.
Okay, I thought, a little hacked about it; you don’t have to
talk if you don’t want to. I didn’t like being placed in the
position of a gossipy old woman who had to be rebuffed for
prying. A moment later, however, I thought better of it and
decided I was being unfair. A man who was down on his luck
at fifty could quite justifiably not wish to discuss his life story
with strangers. Baxter, for all his aloofness, struck me as a
man you could like.
Keefer returned about an hour later. I introduced them.
Baxter was polite and reserved. Keefer, cocky with the beer
he’d drunk and full of the merchant seaman’s conviction that
anybody who normally lived ashore was a farmer, was
inclined to be condescending. I said nothing. Blackie was
probably in for a few surprises; I had a hunch that Baxter
was a better sailor than he ever would be. We all turned in
shortly after ten. When I awoke just at dawn, Baxter was
already up and dressed. He was standing beside his bunk,
just visible past the edge of the curtain, using the side of his
suitcase as a desk while he wrote something on a pad of
airmail stationery.
“Why don’t you use the chart table?” I asked.
He looked around. “Oh. This is all right. I didn’t want to
wake you.”
* * *
The Sailcloth Shroud — 38
I threw the third cigarette over the side, and stood up and
stretched. There was nothing in any of that except the fact
that Baxter’s flannels and tweeds were a little out of place in
Panama. But maybe he merely hadn’t wanted to spend
money for tropical clothes, especially if the job had looked
none too permanent.
It was dusk now, and the glow over the city was hot against
the sky. I snapped the padlock on the hatch, and walked up
to the gate. Johns looked up from his magazine. “Goin’ out
for supper?”
“Yes. What’s a good air-conditioned restaurant that has a
bar?”
“Try the Golden Pheasant, on Third and San Benito. You
want me to call you a cab?”
I shook my head. “Thanks. I’ll walk over and catch the
bus.”
I crossed the railroad tracks in the gathering darkness and
entered the street. The bus stop was one block up and two
blocks to the right. It was a district of large warehouses and
heavy industry, the streets deserted now and poorly lighted. I
turned right at the corner and was halfway up the next block,
before a shadowy junkyard piled high with wrecked
automobiles, when a car turned into the street behind me,
splashing me for an instant with its lights. It swerved to the
curb and stopped. “Hey, you,” a voice growled.
I turned, and looked into the shadowy muzzle of an
automatic projecting from the front window. Above it was an
impression of a hat brim and a brutal outcropping or jaw.
“Get in,” the voice commanded.
The street was deserted for blocks in each direction.
Behind me was the high, impassable fence of the junkyard. I
looked at the miles of utter nothing between me and the
corner. “All right. The wallet’s in my hip pocket—”
“We don’t want your wallet. I said get in!” The muzzle of
the gun moved almost imperceptibly, and the rear door
opened. I stepped toward it. As I leaned down, hands
reached out of the darkness inside and yanked. I fell inward.
Something slashed down on my left shoulder. My arm went
numb to the fingertips. I tried to get up. Light exploded just
back of my eyes.
The Sailcloth Shroud — 39
* * *
My head was filled with a running groundswell of pain. It
rose and fell, and rose again, pressing against my skull in hot
waves of orange, and when I opened my eyes the orange
gave way to a searing white that made me shudder and close
them again. Muscles tightened spasmodically across my
abdomen as nausea uncoiled inside me. I was conscious of a
retching sound and of the sensation of strangling.
“Prop him up,” a bored voice said. “You want him to drown
in it?”
I felt myself hauled upward and pushed against something
behind me. I retched and heaved again. “Throw some water
on him,” the voice commanded. “He stinks.”
Footsteps went away and came back. Water caught me in
the face, forcing my head back and running up my nostrils. I
choked. The rest of it splashed onto the front of my shirt. I
opened my eyes again. The light burned into them. I reached
for it to push it away, but found it was apparently glaring at
me from some incalculable distance, because my fingertips
could not reach it. Maybe it was the sun. Maybe, on the other
hand, I was in hell.
Somewhere in the darkness beyond my own little cosmos
of light and pain and the smell of vomit, a voice asked, “Can
you hear me, Rogers?”
I tried to say something, but only retched again. More
water slapped me in the face. When it had run out of my nose
and mouth I tried again. This time I was able to form words.
They were short words, and very old ones.
“Rogers, I’m talking to you,” the voice said. “Where did you
put him ashore?”
I groped numbly around in my mind for some meaning to
that, but gave up. “Who? What are you talking about?”
“Wendell Baxter. Where did you put him ashore?”
The Sailcloth Shroud — 40
No comments:
Post a Comment