The sailcloth shroud - By Charles Williams Page 0,3

know is where he got all his money.”

I looked at him. “Money? He didn’t—”

“I know, I know!” Willetts cut me off. “That’s what you keep telling me. You picked him up off the beach in Panama with his tail hanging out. He didn’t have a nickel, no luggage, and no clothes except the ones he was wearing. And all you paid him was a hundred dollars. Right?”

“Yes.”

Willetts gestured with his cigarette. “Well, you better look again. We happen to know that when he came ashore off that boat he had somewhere between three and four thousand dollars.”

“Not a chance. We must be talking about two different people.”

“Listen, Rogers. When they pulled Keefer out of the bay, he was wearing a new suit that cost a hundred and seventy-five dollars. For the past four days he’s been driving a rented Thunderbird, and living at the Warwick Hotel, which is no skid-row flop, believe me. And he’s still the richest stiff in the icebox. They’re holding an envelope for him in the Warwick safe with twenty-eight hundred dollars in it. Now you tell me.”

2

I shook my head in bewilderment. “I don’t get it. Are you sure about all this?”

“Of course we’re sure. Where you think we first got a lead on the identification? We got a body, with no name. Traffic’s got a wrinkled Thunderbird with rental plates somebody walked off and abandoned after laying a block on a fire hydrant with it, and a complaint sworn out by the Willard Rental Agency. The Willard manager’s got a description, and a local address at the Warwick Hotel, and a name. Only this Francis Keefer they’re all trying to locate hasn’t been in his room since Thursday, and he sounds a lot like the stiff we’re trying to identify. He’d been tossing big tips around the Warwick, and told one of the bellhops he’d just sailed up from Panama in a private yacht, so then somebody remembered the story in Wednesday’s Telegram. So we look you up, among other things, and you give us this song and dance that Keefer was just a merchant seaman, and broke. Now. Keefer lied to you, or you’re trying to con me. And if you are, God help you.”

The whole thing was crazy. “Why the hell would I lie about it?” I asked. “And I tell you he was a seaman. Look, weren’t his papers in his gear at the hotel?”

“No. Just some new luggage, and new clothes. If he had any papers, they must have been on him when he was killed, and ditched along with the rest of his identification. We know he had a Pennsylvania driver’s license. That’s being checked out now. But let’s get back to the money.”

“Well, maybe he had a savings account somewhere. I’ll admit it doesn’t sound much like Keefer—”

“No. Listen. You docked here Monday afternoon. Tuesday morning you were both tied up in the US marshal’s office on that Baxter business. So it was Tuesday afternoon before you paid Keefer off. What time did he finally leave the boat?”

“Three p.m. Maybe a little later.”

“Well, there you are. If he sent somewhere for that much money, it’d have to come through a bank. And they were closed by then. But when he checked in at the Warwick, a little after four, he had the money with him. In cash.”

“It throws me,” I said. “I don’t know where he could have got it. But I do know he was a seaman. You can verify that with the US marshal’s office and the Coast Guard. He had to witness the log entries and sign the affidavits, so they’ve got a record of his papers.”

“We’re checking that,” Willetts cut in brusquely. “Look—could he have had that money on the boat all the time without you knowing it?”

“Of course.”

“How? It’s not a very big boat, and you were out there over two weeks.”

“Well, naturally I didn’t prowl through his personal gear. It could have been in the drawer under his bunk. But I still say he didn’t have it. I got to know him pretty well, and I don’t think he had any money at all.”

“Why?”

“Two reasons, at least. If he hadn’t been on his uppers, he wouldn’t even have considered working his way back to the States on a forty-foot ketch. Keefer was no small-boat man. He knew nothing about sail, and cared less. His idea of going to sea was eighteen knots, fresh-water showers, and overtime. So if he’d had any money