The sailcloth shroud - By Charles Williams Page 0,36
see what he had in mind. “They’re beautiful photographs. Hey, you don’t mean—”
He shook his head. “No. There’s no picture of anyone in here who resembles the description of Brian Hardy. I’ve already looked.”
“Then what is it?” I asked.
“A couple of things,” he replied. “And both pretty far out. The first is that he had hundreds of books, but this is the only one that was autographed. The other thing is the name.”
“Patricia!” I said.
He nodded. “I checked on it. When he bought that fishing boat its name was Dolphin III, or something like that. He was the one who changed it to Princess Pat.”
9
“You both have a boarding-house reach,” Lorraine said.
“Where I’m sitting, I need one,” I replied. “How was the letter worded? Any indication at all that she knew him?”
“No. Polite, but completely impersonal. Apparently he’d written her, praising the book and sending a copy to be autographed. She signed it and sent it back. Thank you, over, and out. The only possibility is that she might have known him by some other name.”
“You don’t remember the address?”
He looked pained. “That’s a hell of a question to ask a reporter. Here.” He fished in his wallet and handed me a slip of paper. On it was scrawled, “Patricia Reagan, 16 Belvedere Pl., Sta. Brba., Calif.”
I looked at my watch and saw that even with the time difference it would be almost one a.m. in California. “Hell, call her now,” Bill said. I went out in the living room, dialed the operator, gave her the name and address, and held on. While she was getting Information in Santa Barbara I wondered what I’d do if somebody woke me up out of a sound sleep from three thousand miles away to ask me if I’d ever heard of Joe Blow the Third. Well, the worst she could do was hang up.
The phone rang three times. Then a girl said sleepily, “Hello?”
“Miss Patricia Reagan?” the operator asked. “Miami is calling.”
“Pat, is that you?” the girl said. “What on earth—”
“No,” the operator explained. “The call is for Miss—”
I broke in. “Never mind, Operator. I’ll talk to anyone there.”
“Thank you. Go ahead, please.”
“Hello,” I said. “I’m trying to locate Miss Reagan.”
“Oh, I’m sorry,” the girl replied. “She’s not here; I’m her roommate. The operator said Miami, so I thought it was Pat that was calling.”
“You mean she’s in Miami?”
“Yes. That is, Florida. Near Miami.”
“Do you know the address?”
“Yes. I had a letter from her yesterday. Just a moment.”
I waited. Then she said, “Hello? Here it is. The nearest town seems to be a place called Marathon. Do you know where that is?”
“Yes,” I said. “It’s down the Keys.”
“She’s on Spanish Key, and the mailing address is care of W. R. Holland, RFD One.”
“Does she have a telephone?”
“I think so. But I don’t know the number.”
“Is she a guest there?” I didn’t like the idea of waking up an entire household with a stupid question.
“She’s staying in the house while the owners are in Europe. While she works on some magazine articles. I don’t know how well you know her, but I wouldn’t advise interrupting her when she’s working.”
“No,” I said. “Only while she’s sleeping. And thanks a million.”
I hung up. Bill and Lorraine had come into the living room. I told them, and put in the call to the Marathon exchange. The phone rang, and went on ringing. Five. Six. Seven. It was a very big house, or she was a sound sleeper.
“Hello.” She had a nice voice, but she sounded cross. Well, I thought, who wouldn’t?
“Miss Reagan?” I asked.
“Yes. What is it?”
“I want to apologize for waking you up this time of morning, but this is vitally important. It’s about a man named Brian Hardy. Did you ever know him?”
“No. I’ve never heard of him.”
“Please think carefully. He used to live in Miami, and he asked you to autograph a copy of Music in the Wind. Which, incidentally, is a very beautiful book. I have a copy of it myself.”
“Thank you,” she said, a little more pleasantly. “Now that you mention it, I do seem to have a hazy recollection of the name. Frankly, I’m not flooded with requests for autographs, and as I recall he mailed the book to me.”
“That’s right. But as far as you know, you’ve never met him?”
“No. I’m positive of that. And his letter said nothing about knowing me.”
“Was the letter handwritten or typed?”
“Typed, I think. Yes, I’m sure of that.”
“I see. Well, did you ever know