The sailcloth shroud - By Charles Williams Page 0,32
it in here. As soon as the man in the Hertz agency read the paper he’d call them; the taxi driver would remember bringing me to the hotel. Then it occurred to me I was already thinking like a fugitive. Well, I was one, wasn’t I? There was a light knock on the door.
I went over. “Who is it?”
“Bill.”
I let him in and closed the door. He sighed and shook his head. “Pal, when you get in a jam, you’re no shoestring operator.”
We’re the same age and about the same height, and we’ve known each other since we were in the third grade. He’s thin, restless, blazingly intelligent, somewhat cynical, and one of the world’s worst hypochondriacs. Women consider him handsome, and he probably is. He has a slender reckless face, ironic blue eyes, and dark hair that’s prematurely graying. He smokes three packs of cigarettes a day, and quits every other week. He never drinks. He’s an AA.
“All right,” he said, “let’s have it.”
I told him.
He whistled softly. Then he said, “Well, the first thing is to get you out of here before they pick you up.”
“Why?” I asked. “If the FBI is looking for me, maybe I’d better turn myself in. At least they won’t kill me. The others will.”
“It can wait till morning, if that’s what you decide. In the meantime I’ve got to talk to you. About Baxter.”
“Have you got any lead on him at all?” I asked.
“I’m not sure,” he said. “That’s the reason I’ve got to talk to you. What I’ve come up with is so goofy if I tried to tell the police they might have me committed. Let’s go”
“Where?” I asked.
“Home, you goof. Lorraine’s scrambling some eggs and making coffee.”
“Sure. Harboring a fugitive’s just a harmless prank. Be our guest in charming, gracious Atlanta.”
“Oh, cut it out, Scarface. How would I know you’re a fugitive? I never read anything but the Wall Street Journal.”
I gave in, but insisted we leave the hotel separately. He told me where the car was, and left. I waited five minutes before following. The streets were deserted. I climbed in, and he swung onto Biscayne Boulevard, headed south. They lived close to downtown, in a small apartment house on Brickell Avenue. From habit, I looked out the rear window. As far as I could tell, nobody was following us.
“The Stafford woman’s still alive, the last we got,” he said, “but they haven’t been able to question her yet.”
“I’ve got a sad hunch she doesn’t know too much about him, anyway,” I said. “She told me she didn’t know who those men were, or what they wanted, and I think she was telling the truth. I’m beginning to doubt Baxter even existed; I think he’s an hallucination people start seeing just before they crack up.”
“You haven’t heard anything yet,” he said. “When I tell you what I’ve come up with you’ll think we’re both around the bend.”
“Well, be mysterious about it,” I said sourly. “That’s just what I need.”
“Wait’ll we get inside.” He swung into a driveway between shadowy palms and parked beside the building. It had only four apartments, each with its own entrance. Theirs was the lower left. We came back around the hibiscus-bordered walk, and went in the front. The living room was dim and quiet, and cool from the air-conditioner. There were no lights on, but there was enough illumination from the kitchen to find our way past the hi-fi and record albums and rows and stacks of books, and the lamps and statuary Lorraine had made. She does ceramics.
At the moment she was scrambling eggs, a long-legged brunette with a velvety tan, rumpled dark brown hair, and wide, humorous, gray eyes. She was wearing Bermuda shorts and sandals, and a white shirt that was pulled together and knotted around her waist. Beyond the stove was a counter with a yellow formica top and tall yellow stools, a small breakfast nook, and a window hung with yellow curtains.
She stopped stirring the eggs long enough to kiss me and wave a hand toward the counter. “Park it, Killer. What’s this rumble you’re hot?”
“Broads,” Bill said. “Always nosy.” He set a bottle of bourbon and a glass on the counter in front of me. His theory was that nobody could be sure he didn’t drink if there was none around. I poured a big slug and downed it, had a sip of scalding black coffee, and began to feel better. Lorraine put the eggs on the