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Maybe they were insane.  He s dead, I repeated patiently.  We
buried him at sea. For God s sake, why would I lie about it?
 Because he paid you.
I opened my mouth to say something, but closed it. A little chill
ran down my spine as I began to understand.
 Let me work him over.
 Not yet, I tell you. You want to scramble his brains again and
have to wait another hour? He ll talk. All right, Rogers, do you
want me to spell it out for you?
 I don t care what you spell out. Baxter is dead.
 Listen. Baxter came aboard the Topaz on the night of May
thirty-first in Cristobal. The three of you sailed the next morning,
June first, and you and Keefer arrived here on the sixteenth.
Baxter paid you ten thousand dollars to land him somewhere on
the coast of Central America Mexico, or Cuba, and cook up that
story about the heart attack and having to bury him at sea 
 I tell you he died!
 Shut up till I m finished. Baxter should have had better sense
than to trust a stupid meathead like Keefer. We know all about
him. The night before you sailed from Panama he was down to his
last dollar, mooching drinks in a waterfront bar. When you arrived
here sixteen days later he moved into the most expensive hotel in
town and started throwing money around like a drunk with an
expense account. They re holding twenty-eight hundred for him in
the hotel safe, and he had over six hundred in his wallet when his
luck ran out. That figures out to somewhere around four grand
altogether, so you must have got more. It was your boat. Where s
Baxter now?
 Lying on the bottom, in about two thousand fathoms, I said
hopelessly. What was the use? They d never believe me; Keefer
had fixed that, for all time. I thought of the pulpy mess the gun
barrels had made of his face, and shuddered. These were the men
who d done it, and they d do the same thing to me.
 Okay, the voice said in the darkness beyond the flashlight.
 Maybe you d better prime him a little.
A big arm swung down and the open hand rocked my face
around. I tried to climb to my feet; another hand grabbed the front
of my shirt and hauled. I swayed weakly, trying to swing at the
shadowy bulk in front of me. My s were caught from behind. A fist
like a concrete block slugged me in the stomach. I bent forward
and fell, writhing in agony, when the man behind turned me loose.
 Where s Baxter?
The Sailcloth Shroud  37 
I was unable to speak. One of them hauled me to a sitting
position again and slammed me against the wall. I sobbed for
breath while the light fixed me like some huge and malevolent eye.
 Why be stupid? the voice asked.  All we want to know is where
you put him ashore. You don t owe him anything; you carried out
your end of the bargain. He s making a sucker of you, anyway; he
knew he was letting you in for this, but he didn t tell you that, did
he?
 Then why would I lie about it? I gasped.  If I d put him ashore,
I d tell you. But I didn t.
 He promised you more money later? Is that it?
 He didn t promise me anything, or give me anything. I don t
know where Keefer got that money, unless he stole it out of
Baxter s suitcase. But I do know Baxter s dead. I sewed him in
canvas myself, and buried him.
The rasping voice broke in.  Cut out the crap, Rogers! We re not
asking if you put him ashore. We know that already, from Keefer.
But he didn t know where, because you did all the navigation. It
was the mouth of some river, but he didn t know which one, or
what country it was in.
 Was this after you d broken all the bones in his face? I asked.
 Or while you were still breaking them? Look, you knew Baxter,
presumably. Didn t he ever have a heart attack before?
 No.
 Is Baxter his right name?
 Never mind what his name is.
 I take it that it s not. Then why are you so sure the man who
was with me is the one you re looking for?
 He was seen in Panama.
 It could still be a mistake.
 Take a look. A hand extended into the cone of light, holding
out a photograph.
I took it. It was a four-by-five snapshot of a man at the topside
controls of a sport fisherman, a tall and very slender man wearing
khaki shorts and a long-visored fishing cap. It was Baxter; there
was no doubt of it. But it was the rest of the photo that caught my
attention the boat itself, and the background. There was
something very familiar about the latter.
 Well? the voice asked coldly.
I held it out.  It s Baxter. Lying was futile.
The Sailcloth Shroud  38 
 Smart boy. Of course it is. You ready to tell us now?
 I ve already told you. He s dead.
 I don t get you, Rogers. I know you couldn t be stupid enough to
think we re bluffing. You saw Keefer.
 Yes, I saw him. And what did it buy you? A poor devil out of his
mind with pain trying to figure out what you wanted him to say so
he could say it. Is that what you want? I m no braver with a broken
face than the next guy, so I ll probably do the same thing.
 We ve wasted enough time with him! This was the tough voice
again.  Grab his arms!
I tried to estimate the distance to the flashlight, and gathered
myself. It was hopeless, but I had to do something. I came up with
a rush just before the hands reached me pushing myself off the
wall and lunging toward the light. A hand caught my shirt. It tore.
The light swung back, but I was on it; it fell to the floor and rolled,
but didn t go out. The beam sprayed along the opposite wall. There
was an open doorway, and beyond it a pair of mooring bitts, and
the dark outline of a barge. A blow knocked me off balance; a hand
groped, trying to hold me. I spun away from it, driving toward the
door. Shoes scraped behind me, and I heard a grunt and curses as
two of them collided in the darkness. Something smashed against
the side of my head, and I started to fall. I hit the door frame,
pushed off it, and wheeled, somehow still on my feet, and I was in
the open. Stars shone overhead, and I could see the dark gleam of
water beyond the end of the barge.
I tried to turn, to run along the pier. One of them crashed into
me from behind, and tackled me around the waist. Our momentum
carried us outward toward the edge. My legs struck one of the
mooring lines of the barge, and I shot outward and down, falling
between it and the pier.
Water closed over me. I tried to swim laterally before I surfaced,
and came up against solid steel. I was against the side of the
barge. I kicked off it and brushed against barnacles that sliced into
my arm. It was one of the pilings. I grabbed it, pulled around to
the other side, and came up.
 Bring the light! Somebody bring the light! a man was yelling
just above me. Apparently he d caught the mooring line and saved
himself from falling. I heard footsteps pounding on the wooden
planking overhead. They d be able to see me, unless I got back
farther under the pier, but the tide was pushing me out, against
the barge. I tried to hold onto the piling and see if there was
another one farther in that I could reach, but the darkness in that
The Sailcloth Shroud  39 
direction was impenetrable. The current was too strong to swim
against.
Light burst on the water around me.  There he is! There s the
creep! somebody yelled.  There s his hand! I took a deep breath
and went under, and immediately I was against the side of the
barge again. I might swim alongside it for some distance, but when
I surfaced I d still be within range of that light. I did the only thing
left. I swam straight down against the side of the barge. My ears [ Pobierz całość w formacie PDF ]