The Sailcloth Shroud by Charles Williams Page A

came back around the hibiscus-bordered walk, and went in the front. The living room was dim and quiet, and cool from the air-conditioner. There were no lights on, but there was enough illumination from the kitchen to find our way past the hi-fi and record albums and rows and stacks of books, and the lamps and statuary Lorraine had made. She does ceramics.
    At the moment she was scrambling eggs, a long-legged brunette with a velvety tan, rumpled dark brown hair, and wide, humorous, gray eyes. She was wearing Bermuda shorts and sandals, and a white shirt that was pulled together and knotted around her waist. Beyond the stove was a counter with a yellow formica top and tall yellow stools, a small breakfast nook, and a window hung with yellow curtains.
    She stopped stirring the eggs long enough to kiss me and wave a hand toward the counter. “Park it, Killer. What’s this rumble you’re hot?”
    “Broads,” Bill said. “Always nosy.” He set a bottle of bourbon and a glass on the counter in front of me. His theory was that nobody could be sure he didn’t drink if there was none around. I poured a big slug and downed it, had a sip of scalding black coffee, and began to feel better. Lorraine put the eggs on the table and sat down across from me, rested her elbows on the counter, and grinned.
    “Let’s face it, Rogers. Civilization just isn’t your environment. I mean land-based civilization. Any time you come above high tide you ought to carry a tag, the way sandhogs do. Something like “This man is not completely amphibious, and may get into trouble ashore. Rush to nearest salt water and immerse.’“
    “I’ll buy it,” I said. “Only the whole thing started at sea. That can scare you.”
    “Have you told him yet?” she asked Bill.
    “I’m going to right now.” He pushed the untouched eggs off his plate onto mine and lighted a cigarette. “Try this on for size—your man was forty-eight to fifty, six feet, a hundred and seventy pounds, brown hair with a little gray in it, brown eyes, mustache, quiet, gentlemanly, close-mouthed, and boat-crazy.”
    “Right,” I said. “Except for the mustache.”
    Somebody may have told him about razors. He came here about two and a half years ago—February of nineteen-fifty-six, to be exact—and he seemed to have plenty of money. He rented a house on one of the islands—a big, elaborate one with private dock—and bought that sport fisherman, a thirty-foot sloop, and a smaller sailboat of some kind. He was a bachelor, widower, or divorced. He had a Cuban couple who took care of the house and garden, and a man named Charley Grimes to skipper the fishing boat. Apparently didn’t work at anything, and spent nearly all his time fishing and sailing. Had several girl friends around town, most of whom would have probably married him if he’d ever asked them, but it appears he never told them any more about himself than he told anybody else. His name was Brian Hardy, and the name of the fishing boat was the Princess Pat . You begin to get it now?”
    “It’s all fits,” I said excitedly. “Every bit of it. That was Baxter, beyond a doubt.”
    “That’s what I’m afraid of,” Bill replied. “Brian Hardy’s been dead for over two months. And this is the part you’re going to love. He was lost at sea.”
    It began to come back then. “No!” I said. “No—”
    Lorraine patted my hand. “Poor old Rogers. Why don’t you get married, so you can stay out of trouble? Or be in it all the time and get used to it.”
    “Understand,” I said, “I’m not prejudiced. Some of my best friends are married. It’s just that I wouldn’t want my sister to marry a married couple.”
    “It happened in April, and I think you were somewhere in the out islands,” Bill went on. “But you probably heard about it.”
    “Yeah,” I said. “Explosion and fire, wasn’t it? Somewhere in the Stream.”
    “That’s right. He was alone. He’d had a fight with Grimes that morning