Free The Sailcloth Shroud by Charles Williams

Warwick. It was air-conditioned.
    I registered, and followed the boy through the deserted corridors of two a.m., reminded of the description of a hotel in one of Faulkner’s novels. Tiered cubicles of sleep. The room was a cubicle, all right, but it had a night latch and a chain on the door. When the boy had gone I slipped the chain in place, took a shower, and lay down on the bed with a cigarette.
    Who was Baxter?
    He’s a legacy, I thought. An incubus I inherited, with an assist from Keefer. Baxter to Keefer to Rogers—it sounded like the infield of a sandlot baseball team. Why had he come aboard the Topaz? He’d obviously lied about the job and about wanting to save plane fare home. He hadn’t struck me as a liar, either; aloof, maybe, and close-mouthed, but not a liar. And certainly not a criminal. I’d liked him.
    Who were the men after him? And why wouldn’t they believe he had died of a heart attack? And just what did I do now? Spend the rest of my life looking under the bed, sleeping behind locked doors on the upper floors of hotels? It was chilling when you thought of it, how little the police could actually do about a thing like this, unless I wanted to go down there and live in the squad room and never go out at all. And trying to convince myself that I was any match for professional hoodlums was farcical. Violence was their business. It wasn’t a sport, like football, with rules, and time out when you got hurt. Even if I had a gun and a permit to carry it, it would be useless; I was no gunman, and didn’t want to be one.
    I lighted another cigarette, and looked at my watch. It was almost three a.m.
    The only way to get a line on them, Willetts had said, was to find out who Baxter was. And since the physical remains of Baxter were buried beyond the reach of the human race for eternity, the only thing left was trailing him backward in search of some clue. That, obviously, was a job for the FBI. But so far the FBI didn’t even have a place to start. I had four days.
    Take it from where you left off, I thought: the morning we sailed. After breakfast the three of us had turned to, replacing the stainless-steel lower shroud on the port side of the mainmast. Baxter was a willing worker and he was good with wire, but his hands were soft and he apparently had no gloves. I noted also that he was working in the pair of gray flannel slacks. While we were still at it, the stores came down. We carried them aboard and stowed them. There was a discrepancy in the bill that I wanted to take up with the ship chandler, so I asked the driver for a ride back to town in the truck. Just as I was going ashore, Baxter came up from below and called to me.
    He handed me twenty dollars. “I wonder if you’d mind getting me two pairs of dungarees while you’re uptown? The stores were closed last night.”
    “Sure,” I said. “What size?”
    “Thirty-two waist, and the longest they have.”
    “Right. But why not come along yourself? We’re in no bind.”
    He declined apologetically. “Thanks, but I’d just as soon stay and finish that wire. That is, if you don’t mind getting the dungarees.”
    I told him I didn’t. He took an airmail letter from his pocket and asked if I’d drop it in the box for him—
    Paula Stafford!
    I sat up in bed so suddenly I dropped my cigarette and had to retrieve it from the floor. That’s where I’d heard the name. Or had seen it, rather. When I was mailing the letter I’d noticed idly that it was addressed to somebody at a hotel in New York. I wasn’t prying; it was merely that the New York address had struck me, since he was from San Francisco, and I’d glanced at the name. Stanford? Sanford? Stafford? That was it; I was positive of it.
    God, what a dope! I’d forgotten all about her call. She was probably over at the Warwick Hotel right now, and could clear up the whole mystery in five minutes. I grabbed the telephone.
    I waited impatiently while the operator dialed. “Good