The Sailcloth Shroud Read Online Free

know each other?” he asked. “I mean, before they shipped out with you?” “No,” I said.
    “You sure of that?”
    “I introduced them. So far as I know, they’d never seen each other before.”
    “Which one did you hire first?”
    “Keefer. I didn’t even meet Baxter until the night before we sailed. But what’s that got to do with Keefer’s being killed?”
    “I don’t know.” Willetts returned to his study of the papers on his desk. Somewhere in the city a whistle sounded. It was noon. I lighted another cigarette, and resigned myself to waiting. Two detectives came in with a young girl who was crying. I could hear them questioning her at the other end of the room.
    Willetts shoved the papers aside and leaned back in his chair. “I still don’t get this deal you couldn’t make it ashore with Baxter’s body. You were only four days out of the Canal.”
    I sighed. Here was another Monday-morning quarterback. It wasn’t enough to have the Coast Guard looking down your throat; you had to be second-guessed by jokers who wouldn’t know a starboard tack from a reef point. It was simple, actually; all you had to be was a navigator, seaman, cardiologist, sailmaker, embalmer, and a magician’s mate first class who could pull a breeze out of his hat. Then I realized, for perhaps the twentieth time, that I was being too defensive and antagonistic about it. The memory rankled because I was constitutionally unable to bear the sensation of helplessness. And I had been helpless.
    “The whole thing’s a matter of record,” I said wearily. “There was a hearing—” I broke off as the phone rang on an adjoining desk. Willetts reached for it.
    “Homicide, Willetts. . . . Yeah. . . . Nothing at all? . . . Yeah. . . . Yeah. . . .” The conversation went on for two or three minutes. Then Willetts said, “Okay, Joe. You might as well come on in.”
    He replaced the instrument, and swung back to me. “Before I forget it, the yard watchman’s got your key. Let’s go in and see Lieutenant Boyd.”
    The room beyond the frosted glass door was smaller, and contained a single desk. The shirtsleeved man behind it was in his middle thirties, with massive shoulders, an air 0f tough assurance, and probing gray eyes that were neither friendly nor unfriendly.
    “This is Rogers,” Willetts said.
    Boyd stood up and held out his hand. “I’ve read about you,” he said briefly.
    We sat down. Boyd lighted a cigarette and spoke to Willetts. “You come up with anything yet?”
    “Positive identification by Rogers and the manager of the car-rental place. Also that bellhop from the Warwick. So Keefer’s all one man. But nobody’s got any idea where he found all that money. Rogers swears he couldn’t have had it when he left Panama.” He went on, repeating all I’d told him.
    When he had finished, Boyd asked, “How does his story check out?”
    “Seems to be okay. We haven’t located the girl yet, but the night bartender in that joint knows her, and remembers the three of ‘em. 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