Charles Williams - The Sailcloth Shroud

“Apparently what had happened was that this stuff had been delivered between the time the police were there last—shortly after the accident—and the time somebody finally got around to notifying the Post Office he was dead. Anyway, it was all postmarked in April. The detective opened it, but none of it amounted to anything. There were two or three bills and some circulars, and this letter and the book. They were both postmarked Santa Barbara, California, and the letter was from the author of the book. It was just a routine sort of thing, saying the book was being returned, autographed, as he’d requested, and thanking him for his interest. The detective kept them both, of course, but he let me read the letter, and I got another copy of the book out of the public library. Just a minute.”

He went into the living room and came back with it. I recognized it immediately; in fact, I had a copy of it aboard the Orion . It was an arty and rather expensive job, a collection of some of the most beautiful photographs of sailing craft I’d ever seen. Most of them were racing yachts under full sail, and the title of it was Music in the Wind . A good many of the photographs had been taken by the girl who’d collected and edited the job and written the descriptive material. Her name was Patricia Reagan.

“I’m familiar with it,” I said, looking at him a little blankly. I couldn’t see what he had in mind. “They’re beautiful photographs. Hey, you don’t mean—”

He shook his head. “No. There’s no picture of anyone in here who resembles the description of Brian Hardy. I’ve already looked.”

“Then what is it?” I asked.

“A couple of things,” he replied. “And both pretty far out. The first is that he had hundreds of books, but this is the only one that was autographed. The other thing is the name.”

“Patricia!” I said.

He nodded. “I checked on it. When he bought that fishing boat its name was Dolphin III, or something like that. He was the one who changed it to Princess Pat.”

9

“You both have a boarding-house reach,” Lorraine said.

“Where I’m sitting, I need one,” I replied. “How was the letter worded? Any indication at all that she knew him?”

“No. Polite, but completely impersonal. Apparently he’d written her, praising the book and sending a copy to be autographed. She signed it and sent it back. Thank you, over, and out. The only possibility is that she might have known him by some other name.”

“You don’t remember the address?”

He looked pained. “That’s a hell of a question to ask a reporter. Here.” He fished in his wallet and handed me a slip of paper. On it was scrawled, “Patricia Reagan, 16 Belvedere Pl., Sta. Brba., Calif.”

I looked at my watch and saw that even with the time difference it would be almost one a.m. in California. “Hell, call her now,” Bill said. I went out in the living room, dialed the operator, gave her the name and address, and held on. While she was getting Information in Santa Barbara I wondered what I’d do if somebody woke me up out of a sound sleep from three thousand miles away to ask me if I’d ever heard of Joe Blow the Third. Well, the worst she could do was hang up.

The phone rang three times. Then a girl said sleepily, “Hello?”

“Miss Patricia Reagan?” the operator asked. “Miami is calling.”

“Pat, is that you?” the girl said. “What on earth—”

“No,” the operator explained. “The call is for Miss—”

I broke in. “Never mind, Operator. I’ll talk to anyone there.”

“Thank you. Go ahead, please.”

“Hello,” I said. “I’m trying to locate Miss Reagan.”

“Oh, I’m sorry,” the girl replied. “She’s not here; I’m her roommate. The operator said Miami, so I thought it was Pat that was calling.”

“You mean she’s in Miami?”

“Yes. That is, Florida. Near Miami.”

“Do you know the address?”

“Yes. I had a letter from her yesterday. Just a moment.”

I waited. Then she said, “Hello? Here it is. The nearest town seems to be a place called Marathon. Do you know where that is?”

“Yes,” I said. “It’s down the Keys.”

“She’s on Spanish Key, and the mailing address is care of W. R. Holland, RFD One.”

“Does she have a telephone?”

“I think so. But I don’t know the number.”

“Is she a guest there?” I didn’t like the idea of waking up an entire household with a stupid question.

“She’s staying in the house while the owners are in Europe. While she works on some magazine articles. I don’t know how well you know her, but I wouldn’t advise interrupting her when she’s working.”

“No,” I said. “Only while she’s sleeping. And thanks a million.”

I hung up. Bill and Lorraine had come into the living room. I told them, and put in the call to the Marathon exchange. The phone rang, and went on ringing. Five. Six. Seven. It was a very big house, or she was a sound sleeper.

“Hello.” She had a nice voice, but she sounded cross. Well, I thought, who wouldn’t?

“Miss Reagan?” I asked.

“Yes. What is it?”

“I want to apologize for waking you up this time of morning, but this is vitally important. It’s about a man named Brian Hardy. Did you ever know him?”

“No. I’ve never heard of him.”

“Please think carefully. He used to live in Miami, and he asked you to autograph a copy of Music in the Wind . Which, incidentally, is a very beautiful book. I have a copy of it myself.”

“Thank you,” she said, a little more pleasantly. “Now that you mention it, I do seem to have a hazy recollection of the name. Frankly, I’m not flooded with requests for autographs, and as I recall he mailed the book to me.”

“That’s right. But as far as you know, you’ve never met him?”

“No. I’m positive of that. And his letter said nothing about knowing me.”

“Was the letter handwritten or typed?”

“Typed, I think. Yes, I’m sure of that.”

“I see. Well, did you ever know 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.