The sailcloth shroud - By Charles Williams Page 0,21

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?”

“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.”

“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