I stopped. Just why was it necessary? Or rather, why did I feel it was? Why this subconscious fear that they weren’t going to find anybody in Panama who knew Baxter? The man said he’d worked there. If he had, the FBI would run him down in a day. Was it merely because the San Francisco address had proved a dead end? No, there must be more. . . .
It had rained during the afternoon, a slashing tropical downpour that drummed along the deck and pocked the surface of the water like hail, but it was clear now, and the hot stars of the southern latitudes were ablaze across the sky. The Topaz was moored stern-to at a low wooden wharf with her anchor out ahead, shadowy in the faint illumination from a lamp a half block away where the row of palms along the street stirred and rustled in the breeze blowing in from the Caribbean.
It was eight p.m. Keefer had gone off to the nearest bar with two or three dollars he had left from the twenty I’d advanced him. I went below to catalogue and stow the charts I had bought. I switched on the overhead light and stood for a moment at the foot of the companion ladder, looking forward. She was all right. She had a good interior layout, and the six-foot-two-inch headroom was adequate.
The small bottled-gas stove and stainless-steel sink of the galley were on the port side aft, with the wooden refrigerator below and stowage above. To starboard was a settee. Above it was the RDF and radiotelephone, and a chart table that folded back when not in use. Just forward of this area were two permanent bunks, and beyond them a locker to port and the small enclosed head to starboard. These, and the curtain between them, formed a passage going into the forward compartment, which was narrower and contained two additional bunks.
The charts were in a roll on the settee. I cut the cord binding them, and pulled down the chart table. Switching on the light above it, I began checking them off against my list, rolling them individually, and stowing them in the rack overhead. It was hot and very still here below, and sweat dripped off my face. I mopped at it, thinking gratefully that tomorrow we would be at sea.
I had a Hydrographic Office general chart of the Caribbean spread out on the table and was lighting a cigarette when a voice called out quietly from ashore, “Ahoy, aboard the Topaz.”
I stuck my head out the companion hatch. The shadowy figure on the wharf was tall but indistinct in the faint light, and I couldn’t see the face. But he sounded American, and judging from the way he’d hailed he could be off one of the other yachts. “Come on aboard,” I invited.
I stepped back, and the man came into view down the companion ladder—heavy brogues first, and then long legs in gray flannel slacks, and at last a brown tweed jacket. It was an odd way to be dressed in Panama, I thought, where everybody wore white and nothing heavier than linen. The man’s face appeared, and he stood at the foot of the ladder with his head inclined slightly because of his height. It was a slender, well-made face, middle-aged but not sagging or deeply lined, with the stamp of quietness and intelligence and good manners on it. The eyes were brown. He was bareheaded, and the short-cropped brown hair was graying.
“Mr. Rogers?” he asked politely.
“That’s right,” I said.
“My name is Baxter. Wendell Baxter.”
We shook hands. “Welcome aboard,” I said. “How about some coffee?”
“Thank you, no.” Baxter moved slightly to one side of the companion ladder, but remained standing. “I’ll get right to the point, Mr. Rogers. I heard you were looking for a hand to take her north.”
I was surprised, but concealed it. Baxter had neither the appearance nor the bearing of one who would be looking for a job as a paid deckhand. College students, yes; but this man must be around fifty. “Well, I’ve already got one man,” I said.
“I see. Then you didn’t consider taking two? I mean, to cut the watches.”
“Watch-and-watch does get pretty old,” I agreed. “And I certainly wouldn’t mind having two. You’ve had experience?”
“Yes.”
“Offshore? The Caribbean can get pretty lumpy for a forty-foot yawl.”
Baxter had been looking at the chart. He glanced up quickly, but the brown eyes were merely polite. “Yawl?”
I grinned. “I’ve had two applicants who called her a schooner, and one who wanted to know if I planned to anchor every night.”
A faint smile touched Baxter’s lips. “I see.”
“Have you had a chance to look her over?” I asked.
“Yes. I saw her this morning.”
“What do you make of her?”
“This is just a guess, of course, but I’d say she was probably an Alden design, and New England built, possibly less than ten years ago. She seems to have been hauled recently, probably within two months, unless she’s been lying in fresh water. The rigging is in beautiful shape, except that the lower shroud on the port side of the main has some broken strands.”
I nodded. I already had the wire aboard to replace that shroud in the morning before sailing. Baxter was no farmer. I nodded toward the chart. “What do you think of the course, the way I’ve laid it out?”
He studied it for a moment. “If the Trades hold, it should be a broad reach most of the way. Once you’re far enough to the north’ard to weather Gracias a Dios, you can probably lay the Yucatán Channel on one course. Do you carry genoa and spinnaker?”
“No,” I said. “Nothing but the working sails. We’ll probably be twelve days or longer to Southport, and all I can offer you is a hundred for the passage. Are you sure you want to go?”
“The pay isn’t important,” he replied. “Primarily, I wanted to save the plane fare.”
“You’re an American citizen, I suppose.”
“Yes. My home’s in San Francisco. I came down here on a job that didn’t work out, and I’d like to get back as cheaply as possible.”
“I see,” I said. I had the feeling somehow that behind the quiet demeanor and well-bred reserve Baxter was tense with anxiety, wanting to hear me say yes. Well, why not? The man was obviously experienced, and it would be well worth the extra hundred not to have to stand six-and-six. “It’s a deal, then. Can you be aboard early in the morning? I’d like to get away before ten.”
He nodded. “I’ll have my gear aboard in less than an hour.”
He left, and returned in forty-five minutes carrying a single leather suitcase of the two-suiter variety. “Keefer and I are in these bunks,” I said. “Take either of those in the forward compartment. You can stow your bag in the other one.”
“Thank you. That will do nicely,” he replied. He stowed his gear, removed the tweed jacket, and opened the mushroom ventilator overhead. He came out after a while and sat silently smoking a cigarette while I rated the chronometer with a time signal from WWV.
“I gather you’ve cruised quite a bit,” I said tentatively.
“I used to,” he replied.
“In the Caribbean, and West Indies?”
“No. I’ve never been down here before.”
“My normal stamping ground is the Bahamas,” I went on. “That’s wonderful country.”
“Yes. I understand it is.” The words were uttered with the same grave courtesy, but from the fact that he said nothing further it was obvious he didn’t wish to pursue the discussion.
Okay, I thought, a little hacked about it; you don’t have to talk if you don’t want to. I didn’t like being placed in the position of a gossipy old woman who had to be rebuffed for prying. A moment later, however, I thought better of it and decided I was being unfair. A man who was down on his luck at fifty could quite justifiably not wish to discuss his life story with strangers. Baxter, for all his aloofness, struck me as a man you could like.