The sailcloth shroud - By Charles Williams Page 0,7

He’s certain Keefer left there about the time Rogers gave us; says Keefer got pretty foul-mouthed about not wanting the taxi Rogers was going to call, so he told him to shut up or get out. The watchman at the boatyard says Rogers was back there at five minutes past twelve, and didn’t go out again. That piece of hamburger jibes with the autopsy report, and puts the time he was killed between two and three in the morning.”

Boyd nodded. “And you think Keefer had the Thunderbird parked outside the joint then?”

“Looks that way,” Willetts conceded.

“It would make sense, so Rogers must be leveling about the money. Keefer didn’t want him to see the car and start getting curious. Anything on the boat?”

“No. Joe says it’s clean. No gun, no money, nothing. Doesn’t prove anything, necessarily.”

“No. But we’ve got nothing to hold Rogers for.”

“How about till we can check him out with Miami? And get a report back from the Bureau on Keefer’s prints?”

“No,” Boyd said crisply.

Willitts savagely stubbed out his cigarette. “But, damn it, Jim, something stinks in this whole deal—”

“Save it! You can’t book a smell.”

“Take a look at it!” Willetts protested. “Three men leave Panama in a boat with about eight hundred dollars between ‘em. One disappears in the middle of the ocean, and another one comes ashore with four thousand dollars, and four days later he’s dead—”

“Hold it!” I said. “If you’re accusing me of something, let’s hear what it is. Nobody’s ‘disappeared,’ as you call it. Baxter died of a heart attack. There was a hearing, with a doctor present, and it’s been settled—”

“On your evidence. And one witness, who’s just been murdered.”

“Cut it out!” the lieutenant barked. He jerked an impatient hand at Willetts. “For Christ’s sake, we’ve got no jurisdiction in the Caribbean Sea. Baxter’s death was investigated by the proper authorities, and if they’re satisfied, I am. And when I am, you are. Now get somebody to run Rogers back to his boat. If we need him again, we can pick him up.”

I stood up. “Thanks,” I said. “I’ll be around for another week, at least. Maybe two.”

“Right,” Boyd said. The telephone rang on his desk, and he cut short the gesture of dismissal to reach for it. We went out, and started across the outer office. Just before we reached the corridor, we were halted by the lieutenant’s voice behind us. “Wait a minute! Hold everything!”

We turned. Boyd had his head out the door of his office. “Bring Rogers back here a minute.” We went back. Boyd was on the telephone. “Yeah. . . . He’s still here. ... In the office. . . . Right.”

He replaced the instrument, and nodded to me. “You might as well park it again. That was the FBI.”

I looked at him, puzzled. “What do they want?”

“You mean they ever tell anybody? They just said to hold you till they could get a man over here.”

3

At least, I thought morosely as we stepped from the elevator, the Federal Building was air-conditioned. If you were going to spend the rest of your life being questioned about Keefer by all the law-enforcement agencies in the country, it helped a little if you were comfortable. Not that I had anything against heat as such; I liked hot countries, provided they were far enough away from civilization to do away with the wearing of shirts that did nothing but stick to you like some sort of soggy film. The whole day was shot to hell now, but this was an improvement over the police station.

I glanced sidewise in grudging admiration at Special Agent Soames—cool, efficient, and faultlessly pressed. Sweat would never be any problem to this guy; if it bothered him he’d turn it off. In the ten minutes since I’d met him in Lieutenant Boyd’s office, I’d learned exactly nothing about why they wanted to talk to me. I’d asked, when we were out on the street, and had been issued a friendly smile and one politely affable assurance that it was merely routine. We’d discuss it over in the office. Soames was thirty-ish and crew-cut, but anything boyish and ingenuous about him was strictly superficial; he had a cool and very deadly eye. We went down the corridor, with my crepe soles squeaking on waxed tile. Soames opened a frosted glass door and stood aside for me to enter. Inside was a small anteroom. A trim gray-haired woman in a linen suit was typing energetically at a desk