Free The Sailcloth Shroud by Charles Williams Page B

right on talking. “. . . half out of my mind, even though I know there must be some perfectly good reason he hasn’t got in touch with me yet.”
    “Who?” I asked.
    This got through to her. She stopped, looked at me in surprise, and said, “Why, Brian—I mean, Wendell Baxter.”
    It was my turn this time. It seemed incredible she didn’t know. I felt rotten about having to break it to her this way. “I’m sorry, Miss Stafford, but I took it for granted you’d read about it in the papers. Wendell Baxter is dead.”
    She smiled. “Oh, of course! How stupid of me.” She turned away, and began to rummage through her handbag on the bed. “I must say he made no mistake in trusting you, Mr. Rogers.”
    I stared blankly at the back of her head, and took out a cigarette and lighted it. There was a vague impression somewhere in my mind that her conversation—if that was what it was—would make sense if only you had the key to it.
    “Oh, here it is,” she said, and turned back with a blue airmail envelope in her hand. I felt a little thrill as I saw the Canal Zone postmark; it was the one I’d mailed for him. At last I might find out something. “This should clear up your doubts as to who I am. Go ahead and read it.”
    I slid out the letter.
    Cristobal, C.Z.
    June 1st
    Dearest Paula:
    There is time for just the briefest of notes. Slidell is here in the Zone and has seen me. He has the airport covered, but I have found a way to slip out.
    I am writing this aboard the ketch Topaz, which is sailing shortly for Southport, Texas. I have engaged to go along as deckhand, using the name of Wendell Baxter. They may find out, of course, but I might not be aboard when she arrives. As soon as we are safely at sea I am going to approach Captain Rogers about putting me ashore somewhere farther up the Central American coast. Of course it is possible he won’t do it, but I hope to convince him. The price may be high, but fortunately I still have something over $23,000 in cash with me. I shall write again the moment I am ashore, either in Southport or somewhere in Central America. Until then, remember I am safe, no matter what you might hear, and that I love you.
    Brian
    Twenty-three thousand dollars ... I stood there dumbly while she took the letter from my fingers, folded it, and slid it back into the envelope.
    She looked up at me. “Now,” she cried out eagerly, “where is he, Mr. Rogers?”
    I had to say something. She was waiting for an answer. “He’s dead. He died of a heart attack—”
    She cut me short with a gesture of exasperation, tinged with contempt. “Aren’t you being a little ridiculous? You’ve read the letter; you know who I am. Where did you put him ashore? Where was he going?”
    I think that was the moment I began to lose my head. It was the utter futility of it. I caught her arms. “Listen! Was Baxter insane?”
    “Insane? What are you talking about?”
    “Who is Slidell? What does he want?”
    “I don’t know,” she said.
    “You don’t know?”
    She jerked her arms free and moved back from me. “He never told me. Slidell was only one of them, but I don’t know what he wanted.”
    “Has anybody read this letter except me?”
    “Mr. Rogers, are you crazy? Of course nobody else has seen it.
    “Well, look,” I went on, “do you think he had twenty-three thousand dollars with him?”
    “Yes. Of course he did. But why are you asking all these questions? And why don’t you answer mine? Where is he?”
    “I keep trying to tell you,” I said. “He died of a heart attack four days after we left Cristobal. And in those four days he never said anything at all about wanting to be put ashore. I made an inventory of his personal effects, and he didn’t have any twenty-three thousand dollars. He had about a hundred and seventy-five. Either Baxter was insane, or we’re not even talking about the same man.”
    Her face became completely still then. She stared at me, her eyes growing wider and