“Baxter?” I put a hand up over my eyes to shield them I from
the light. “Ashore?”
“He couldn’t be that stupid.” This seemed to be a different
voice. Tough, with a rasping inflection. “Let me belt him
one.”
“Not yet.” This was the first one again—incisive,
commanding, a voice with four stripes.
A random phrase, torn from some lost context, boiled up
through the pain and the jumbled confusion of my thoughts. .
. . Professional muscle . . . That policeman had said it.
Willard? Willetts? That was it. Sounds like professional
muscle to me. . . .
“We’re going to have to soften him up a little.”
“Shut up. Rogers, where did you land him? Mexico?
Honduras? Cuba?”
“I don’t know what you’re talking about,” I said.
“We’re talking about Wendell Baxter.”
“Baxter is dead,” I said. “He died of a heart attack—”
“And you buried him at sea. Save it, Rogers; we read the
papers. Where is he?”
My head was clearing a little now. I had no idea where I
was but I could make out that I was sitting on a rough
wooden floor with my back propped against a wall and that
The Sailcloth Shroud — 41
the light glaring in my face was a powerful flashlight held by
someone just in front of and above me. Now that I looked
under it I could see gray-trousered legs and a pair of
expensive-looking brogues. To my right was another pair of
shoes, enormous ones, size twelve at least. I looked to the
left and saw one more pair. These were black, and almost as
large, and the right one had a slit along the welt about where
the little toe would be, as if the wearer had a corn. In my
groggy state I fastened onto details like that like a baby
seeing the world for the first time. Water ran out of my
clothing; I was sitting in a puddle of it. My hair and face
were still dripping, and when I licked my lips I realized it was
salt. We must be on a pier, or aboard a boat.
“Where was Baxter headed?”
Maybe they were insane. “He’s dead,” I repeated patiently.
“We buried him at sea. For God’s sake, why would I lie about
it?”
“Because he paid you.”
I opened my mouth to say something, but closed it. A little
chill ran down my spine as I began to understand.
‘Let me work him over.”
“Not yet, I tell you. You want to scramble his brains again
and have to wait another hour? He’ll talk. All right, Rogers,
do you want me to spell it out for you?”
“I don’t care what you spell out. Baxter is dead.”
“Listen. Baxter came aboard the Topaz on the night of May
thirty-first in Cristobal. The three of you sailed the next
morning, June first, and you and Keefer arrived here on the
sixteenth. Baxter paid you ten thousand dollars to land him
somewhere on the coast of Central America Mexico, or Cuba,
and cook up that story about the heart attack and having to
bury him at sea—”
“I tell you he died!”
“Shut up till I’m finished. Baxter should have had better
sense than to trust a stupid meathead like Keefer. We know
all about him. The night before you sailed from Panama he
was down to his last dollar, mooching drinks in a waterfront
bar. When you arrived here sixteen days later he moved into
the most expensive hotel in town and started throwing
money around like a drunk with an expense account. They’re
The Sailcloth Shroud — 42
holding twenty-eight hundred for him in the hotel safe, and
he had over six hundred in his wallet when his luck ran out.
That figures out to somewhere around four grand altogether,
so you must have got more. It was your boat. Where’s Baxter
now?”
“Lying on the bottom, in about two thousand fathoms,” I
said hopelessly. What was the use? They’d never believe me;
Keefer had fixed that, for all time. I thought of the pulpy
mess the gun barrels had made of his face, and shuddered.
These were the men who’d done it, and they’d do the same
thing to me.
“Okay,” the voice said in the darkness beyond the
flashlight. “Maybe you’d better prime him a little.”
A big arm swung down and the open hand rocked my face
around. I tried to climb to my feet; another hand grabbed the
front of my shirt and hauled. I swayed weakly, trying to
swing at the shadowy bulk in front of me. My s were caught
from behind. A fist like a concrete block slugged me in the
stomach. I bent forward and fell, writhing in agony, when the
man behind turned me loose.
“Where’s Baxter?”
I was unable to speak. One of them hauled me to a sitting
position again and slammed me against the wall. I sobbed for
breath while the light fixed me like some huge and
malevolent eye.
“Why be stupid?” the voice asked. “All we want to know is
where you put him ashore. You don’t owe him anything; you
carried out your end of the bargain. He’s making a sucker of
you, anyway; he knew he was letting you in for this, but he
didn’t tell you that, did he?”
“Then why would I lie about it?” I gasped. “If I’d put him
ashore, I’d tell you. But I didn’t.”
“He promised you more money later? Is that it?”
“He didn’t promise me anything, or give me anything. I
don’t know where Keefer got that money, unless he stole it
out of Baxter’s suitcase. But I do know Baxter’s dead. I
sewed him in canvas myself, and buried him.”
The rasping voice broke in. “Cut out the crap, Rogers!
We’re not asking if you put him ashore. We know that
already, from Keefer. But he didn’t know where, because you
The Sailcloth Shroud — 43
did all the navigation. It was the mouth of some river, but he
didn’t know which one, or what country it was in.”
“Was this after you’d broken all the bones in his face?” I
asked. “Or while you were still breaking them? Look, you
knew Baxter, presumably. Didn’t he ever have a heart attack
before?”
“No.”
“Is Baxter his right name?”
“Never mind what his name is.”
“I take it that it’s not. Then why are you so sure the man
who was with me is the one you’re looking for?”
“He was seen in Panama.”
“It could still be a mistake.”
“Take a look.” A hand extended into the cone of light,
holding out a photograph.
I took it. It was a four-by-five snapshot of a man at the
topside controls of a sport fisherman, a tall and very slender
man wearing khaki shorts and a long-visored fishing cap. It
was Baxter; there was no doubt of it. But it was the rest of
the photo that caught my attention—the boat itself, and the
background. There was something very familiar about the
latter.
“Well?” the voice asked coldly.
I held it out. “It’s Baxter.” Lying was futile.
“Smart boy. Of course it is. You ready to tell us now?”
“I’ve already told you. He’s dead.”
“I don’t get you, Rogers. I know you couldn’t be stupid
enough to think we’re bluffing. You saw Keefer.”
“Yes, I saw him. And what did it buy you? A poor devil out
of his mind with pain trying to figure out what you wanted
him to say so he could say it. Is that what you want? I’m no
braver with a broken face than the next guy, so I’ll probably
do the same thing.”
“We’ve wasted enough time with him!” This was the tough
voice again. “Grab his arms!”
I tried to estimate the distance to the flashlight, and
gathered myself. It was hopeless, but I had to do something.
I came up with a rush just before the hands reached me
The Sailcloth Shroud — 44
pushing myself off the wall and lunging toward the light. A
hand caught my shirt. It tore. The light swung back, but I
was on it; it fell to the floor and rolled, but didn’t go out. The
beam sprayed along the opposite wall. There was an open
doorway, and beyond it a pair of mooring bitts, and the dark
outline of a barge. A blow knocked me off balance; a hand
groped, trying to hold me. I spun away from it, driving
toward the door. Shoes scraped behind me, and I heard a
grunt and curses as two of them collided in the darkness.
Something smashed against the side of my head, and I
started to fall. I hit the door frame, pushed off it, and
wheeled, somehow still on my feet, and I was in the open.
Stars shone overhead, and I could see the dark gleam of
water beyond the end of the barge.
I tried to turn, to run along the pier. One of them crashed
into me from behind, and tackled me around the waist. Our
momentum carried us outward toward the edge. My legs
struck one of the mooring lines of the barge, and I shot
outward and down, falling between it and the pier.
Water closed over me. I tried to swim laterally before I
surfaced, and came up against solid steel. I was against the
side of the barge. I kicked off it and brushed against
barnacles that sliced into my arm. It was one of the pilings. I
grabbed it, pulled around to the other side, and came up.
“Bring the light! Somebody bring the light!” a man was
yelling just above me. Apparently he’d caught the mooring
line and saved himself from falling. I heard footsteps
pounding on the wooden planking overhead. They’d be able
to see me, unless I got back farther under the pier, but the
tide was pushing me out, against the barge. I tried to hold
onto the piling and see if there was another one farther in
that I could reach, but the darkness in that direction was
impenetrable. The current was too strong to swim against.
Light burst on the water around me. “There he is! There’s
the creep!” somebody yelled. “There’s his hand!” I took a
deep breath and went under, and immediately I was against
the side of the barge again. I might swim alongside it for
some distance, but when I surfaced I’d still be within range
of that light. I did the only thing left. I swam straight down
against the side of the barge. My ears began to hurt a little,
so I knew I was below twelve feet when the plates bent
inward around the turn of the bilge and there was only
The Sailcloth Shroud — 45
emptiness below me. It was frightening there in the pitch
darkness, not knowing how wide she was or how much water
there was under the flat bottom, but it wasn’t half as deadly
as the three goons back there on the wharf. There was no
turning back, anyway; the current was already carrying me
under. I kicked hard, and felt the back of my head scrape
along the bottom plates.
Then there was mud under my hands. For a moment I
almost panicked; then I regained presence of mind enough to
know that the only chance I had was to keep on going
straight ahead. If I turned now I’d never get out. Even if I
didn’t lose all sense of direction and get lost completely, I’d
never be able to swim back up against the current. I kicked
ahead. The water shoaled a little more; my knees were in
mud now, with my back scraping along the bottom of the
barge.
Suddenly there was only water below me and I was going
faster. My lungs began to hurt. I passed the turn of the bilge
and shot upward. My head broke surface at last, and I
inhaled deeply—once, twice, and then I went under again
just as the light burst across the water not ten feet 0ff to my
left. They had run across the barge and were searching this
side. I stayed under, kicking hard and letting the tide carry
me. When I surfaced again I was some fifty yards away. They
were still throwing the light around and cursing. I began
swimming across the current toward the dark line of the
beach. In a little while I felt bottom beneath my hands and
stood up. I turned and looked back.
I was a good two hundred yards from the pier and the
barge now. The flashlight was coming along the shore in my
direction. I eased back out until just my head was above
water, and waited. I could hear them talking. When they
were almost opposite me, they turned and went back. A few
minutes later a car started up, near the landward end of the
pier. The twin beams swung in an arc, and I watched the red
taillights fade and disappear. I waded ashore in the dark. The
reaction hit me all of a sudden, and I was weak and very
shaky in the knees, and I had to sit down.
After a while I took off my clothes and squeezed some of
the water out of them. I still had my wallet and watch and
cigarette lighter. I pressed as much water as I could out of
the soggy papers and the money in the wallet and threw
The Sailcloth Shroud — 46
away the mushy cigarettes. It was hard getting the wet
clothes back on in the darkness. There was no wind, and
mosquitoes made thin whining sounds around my ears. Far
off to my right I could see the glow of Southport’s lights
reflected against the sky. I stood up, located Solaris to orient
myself, and started walking.
* * *
“Where is it?” Willetts asked. “Can you describe the place?”
“Yes,” I said. “It must be eight or ten miles west of town. I
walked about three before I could flag a patrol car. It’s a
single wooden pier with a shed on it. There’s a steel barge
moored to the west side of it. The buildings ashore
apparently burned down a long time ago; there’s nothing left
but foundations and rubble.”
He exchanged a glance with Ramirez, and they nodded.
“Sounds like the old Bowen sugar mill. It’s outside the city
limits, but we can go take a look. You better come along and
see if you can identify it. You sure you’re all right now?”
“Sure,” I said.
It was after ten p.m. We were in Emergency Receiving at
County Hospital, where the men in the patrol car had
brought me. They had radioed in as soon as I gave them the
story, and received word back to hold me until it could be
investigated. A bored intern checked me over, said I had a
bad bruise on the back of my head but no fracture, cleaned
the barnacle cuts on my arms, stuck on a few Band-Aids, and
gave me a cigarette and two aspirins.
“You’ll live,” he said, with the medic’s vast non-interest in
the healthy.
I wondered how long. They’d given up for the moment, but
when they found out I hadn’t drowned they’d be back. What
should I do? Ask for police protection for the rest of my life?
That would be a laugh. A grown man asking protection from
three pairs of shoes.
Who was Baxter? Why did they want him? And what in the
name of God had given them the idea we had put him
ashore? I was still butting my head against the same blank
wall twenty minutes later when Willetts and Ramirez showed
The Sailcloth Shroud — 47
up. They’d been off duty, of course, but were called in
because Keefer was their case. I repeated the story.
“All right, let’s go,” Willetts said.
We went out and got in the cruiser. Ramirez drove—quite
fast, but without using the siren. My clothes were merely
damp now, and the cool air was pleasant; the headache had
subsided to a dull throbbing. We rode a freeway for a good
part of the distance, and the trip took less than fifteen
minutes. As soon as we came out to the end of the bumpy
and neglected shell-surfaced road and stopped, I recognized
it. Willetts and Ramirez took out flashlights and we walked
down through the blackened rubble to the pier.
We found the doorway into the shed, opposite the barge.
Inside it was black and empty. The floor against the opposite
wall was still wet where I’d vomited and they’d thrown water
on me, and nearby was the fire bucket they’d used. It had a
piece of line made fast to the handle. Willetts took it along to
be checked for fingerprints. There was nothing else, no trace
of blood or anything to indicate Keefer had been killed there.
We went out on the pier. Ramirez shot his light down into the
water between the piling and the side of the barge. “And you
swam under it? Brother.”
“There wasn’t much choice at the time,” I said.
We went back to the police station, to the office I’d been in
that morning. They took down my statement.
“You never did see their faces?” Willetts asked.
“No. They kept that light in my eyes all the time. But there
were three of them, and at least two were big and plenty
rough.”
“And they admitted they killed Keefer?”
“You’ve got their exact words,” I said. “I wouldn’t say there
was much doubt of it.”
“Have you got any idea at all why they’re after Baxter?”
“No.”
“Or who Baxter really is?”
“Who Baxter really was,” I said. “And the answer is no.”
“But you think now he might be from Miami?”
The Sailcloth Shroud — 48
“At some time in his life, anyway. I don’t know how long
ago it was, but that picture they showed me was taken on
Biscayne Bay. I’m almost positive of it.”
“And they didn’t give any reason for that idea you’d put
him ashore? I mean, except that Keefer turned up with all
that money?”
“No.”
He lighted a cigarette and leaned across the desk. “Look,
Rogers. This is just a piece of advice from somebody who’s in
the business. Whatever happened in Panama, or out in the
middle of the ocean, is out of our jurisdiction and no skin off
our tail, but you’re in trouble. If you know anything about
this you’re not telling, you’d better start spilling it before you
wind up in an alley with the cats looking at you.”
“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.”
The Sailcloth Shroud — 49
“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.
The Sailcloth Shroud — 50
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