The sailcloth shroud - By Charles Williams Page 0,37

a man named Wendell Baxter?”

“No. And would you mind telling me just who you are and what this is all about? Are you drunk?”

“I’m not drunk,” I said. “I’m in trouble up to my neck, and I’m trying to find somebody who knew this man. I’ve got a wild hunch that he knew you. Let me describe him.”

“All right,” she said wearily. “Which shall we take first? Mr. Hardy, or the other one?”

“They’re the same man,” I said. “He would be about fifty years old, slender, maybe a little over six feet tall, brown eyes, graying brown hair, distinguished looking, and well educated. Have you ever known anybody who would fit that?”

“No.” I thought I detected just the slightest hesitancy, but decided I was reaching for it. “Not that I recall. Though it’s rather general.”

“Try!” I urged her. “Listen. He was a quiet man, very reserved, and courteous. He didn’t use glasses, even for reading. He was a heavy smoker. Chesterfields, two or three packs a day. Not particularly dark-complexioned, but he took a good tan. He was a superb small-boat sailor, a natural helmsman, and I would guess he’d done quite a bit of ocean racing. Does any of that remind you of anyone you’ve ever known?”

“No,” she said coldly. “It doesn’t.”

“Are you sure? No one at all?”

“Well, it does happen to be an excellent description of my father. But if this is a joke of some kind, I must say it’s in very poor taste.”

“What?”

“My father is dead.” The receiver banged in my ear as she hung up.

I dropped the instrument back on the cradle and reached dejectedly for a cigarette. Then I stopped, and stared at Bill. How stupid could I get? Of course he was. That was the one thing in common in all the successive manifestations of Wendell Baxter; each time you finally ran him down, he was certain to be dead.

I grabbed up the phone and put in the call again. After it had rung for three minutes with no answer I gave up.

* * *

“Here’s your ticket,” Bill said. “But I still think you ought to take the car. Or let me drive you down there.”

“If they picked me up, you’d be in a jam too. I’ll be safe enough on the bus, this far from the Miami terminal.”

It was after sunrise now, and we were parked near the bus station in Homestead, about thirty miles south of Miami. I’d shaved and changed into a pair of Bill’s slacks and a sport shirt, and was wearing sun glasses.

“Don’t get your hopes too high,” Bill cautioned. He was worried about me. “It’s flimsy as hell. She’d know whether her own father was dead or not.”

“I know,” I said. “But I’ve got to talk to her.”

“Suppose it’s nothing, then what? Call me, and let me come after you.”

“No,” I said. “I’ll call the FBI. I’m not doing myself any good, running like this, and if I keep it up too long Bonner and those other goons may catch up with me.”

The bus pulled in. Bill made a gesture with his thumb and forefinger. “Luck, pal.”

“Thanks,” I said. I slid out of the car, and climbed aboard. The bus was about two-thirds filled, and several passengers were reading copies of the Herald with my description on the front page, but no one paid any attention to me. There was no picture, thank God. I found a seat in the rear beside a sailor who’d fallen asleep, and watched Bill drive away.

In a little over an hour we were on Key Largo and beginning the long run down the Overseas Highway. It was a hot June morning with brilliant sunlight and a gentle breeze out of the southeast. I stared out at the water with its hundred gradations of color from bottle green to indigo and wished I could wake up from this dream to find myself back aboard the Orion somewhere in the out islands of the Bahamas. How long had it been going on now? This was—what? Monday? Only forty-eight hours. It seemed a month. And all it ever did was get worse. I’d started out with one dead Baxter, and now I had three.

And what would I prove, actually, if I did find out who he was? That wouldn’t change anything. It would still be my unsupported word against the rest of the world as to what had become of him and that money he’d said he had. I was beating my brains out