Murder in the Navy

Thirteen

The B-26 was painted yellow, and it hung against the gray sky like an egg yolk on a city pavement. Its nose was pointed toward the New Jersey coastline, and its engines droned monotonously. Up in the cabin, the pilot and copilot damn near fell asleep.

On the island of Brigantine, off the New Jersey coast, there stood a hotel. The hotel had once been headquarters for Father Divine and his angels, but it had been taken over by the Navy for a radar school, and its roof bristled with antennae now. The Sugar Roger antenna, the large bedspring type attached to the air-search gear, revolved with methodical precision, circumscribing a 360-degree impenetrable area of electronic impulses. The impulses leaped through the air, reaching out and out, striking the metal skin of the B-26, bouncing off that skin, echoing back through the nonresisting atmosphere, were caught again by the all-seeing eyeless bedspring antenna, channeled down into the depths of the hotel via a thick cable, translated onto the circular P.P.I. scope in terms of short electronic visual spurts of brightness, and retranslated by the radar operator in terms of range and bearing.

Fred Singer depressed the button on top of his sound-powered phones. “Bogey,” he said, “three-one-zero, range thirty.”

A radarman named Rook, wearing sound-powered phones, one earpiece in place, the other shoved onto his temple so that he could hear messages on the phones and orders from Mr. Masters simultaneously, picked up a thick black crayon and applied it to the plastic surface that stretched in front of him. The plastic was etched with a large wheel, the hub of which was the hotel, the spokes of which were the relative bearings from 360 degrees, around to 090 degrees, to 180 degrees, to 270 degrees, back to 360 degrees. Circles within circles, marking off the ranges — ten miles, twenty miles, thirty miles, forty miles, and out, out, out — crossed the bearing markers. Automatically, Rook found 310, followed the range markers out to thirty miles, marked a large X on the plastic at the intersection. Writing backward, so that the writing was visible and intelligible for Mr. Masters, standing on the other side of the clear plastic, he jotted down the time in minutes and quarter minutes: 07³.

Singer called in another reading a minute later. Rook marked another X and connected both X’s with a straight line. Another reading, another X, another reading, another X. On the plastic, writing backward. Rook drew a box and inside the box he indicated: Course, 190. Speed, 250.

From the radar gear, Singer asked, “Request permission to stop Sugar Roger antenna.”

Masters snapped down his button. “Permission granted,” he said.

Singer snapped a dial, adjusted another. The operation couldn’t have taken more than forty seconds. Into his phone he said, “Single bogey.”

Rook automatically wrote this onto the plastic. They now knew they had an unidentified aircraft (which they’d known all along, since the B-26 was simulating an enemy plane and they had been informed of this before the practice session began) that was traveling at a speed of 250 miles an hour on a course of 190, which meant it would be on the hotel in a matter of minutes.

Masters pulled down a hand mike. “Blue One, this is Blue Base,” he said. “Over.”

Caldroni, who was playing the role of the squadron commander leading the interceptor planes known as Blue One, answered, “This is Blue One. Over.”

“Single bogey,” Masters said, glancing at the plastic again. “Three-one-zero, range twenty-two, course one-nine-zero, speed two-fifty.” Rapidly he calculated an intercepting course. “Vector two-one-zero, angels five. Over.”

“Wilco and out,” Caldroni said.

On the plotting board before him Caldroni plotted his own squadron’s progress, together with the progress of the oncoming B-26. The B-26 moved relentlessly toward its target, which was the hotel. Caldroni’s squadron, for which they had calculated a top speed of 350 miles an hour, had a hell of a long way to go before visual contact could be made.

Masters picked up the hand mike again. “Blue One, this is Blue Base. Over.”

“This is Blue One,” Caldroni said. “Over.”

“Tallyho?” Masters asked, wanting to know if, according to the plotting Caldroni was doing, the squadron had as yet sighted the enemy aircraft.

“Not yet, sir,” Caldroni said. “Over.”

“Out,” Masters said sourly. The men all looked up as they heard the sound of the B-26 overhead. “We were just blown off the map,” Masters informed them. “You all did one hell of a sloppy job.” He picked up a live mike and said, “Yellow One, this is Charley Horse. Over.”

Static erupted into the darkened room. Then the pilot of the B-26 answered, “Go ahead, Charley Horse.”

“Want to take another run, please? Over.”

“Roger. Give us a vector. Over.”

“Vector three-one-zero, angels three. Choose your own approach. We want to be surprised. Start out at about a hundred and fifty, will you? We want to see what kind of range pickup we’ve got.”

“Hope you’ve got plenty of time,” the pilot said. “This buggy can’t do much more’n two hundred and fifty per. This ain’t a jet, you know.”

“I know,” Masters said. “We’ll be ready for you when you come back.”

“They should’ve put this crate in moth balls years ago,” the pilot muttered, and then he added, “Out.”

Masters turned to Singer. “What the hell’s wrong with you, Singer? Were you asleep?”

“I was getting a lot of land-mass echo, sir.”

“Baloney,” Masters said. “There’s nothing between you and England but the Atlantic ocean.”

“Must be high waves, then, sir.”

“Come on, Singer, get on the ball. You pick him up at thirty miles, and he’s on us before we can get a plane to him. All right, let’s leave this for now. I want all of you in Room Thirty-three in ten minutes. Take a smoke, and be there on the button. We’re going to try a few torpedo runs.”

“We did that already,” Kraus, another of the radarmen, complained.

“And we’ll keep doing it until we get it right,” Masters snapped. “Go take your smokes.”

Andrew Brague, an ensign fresh out of communications school, walked over to Masters. “Think we’re riding them too hard, sir?”

“What?” Masters said, wondering why every idiot ensign in the world eventually came under his wing.

“The men, sir. Don’t you think you’re being a little hard on them?”

“How so?” Masters asked, annoyed.

“No liberty since we’ve been here. Round-the-clock watches. Classes every minute except for chow and smoke breaks. I don’t know, sir.”

Masters eyed Brague sourly. “Tell me, Ensign,” he said, “just what the hell you think this is — a picnic?”

“Sir?” Brague said, startled.

“We’re here to unify these men into a smoothly working machine. We’re going to be a picket ship, Brague. Do you know what that means? It means that the life of the Sykes and the life of the task force behind the Sykes will depend upon the efficiency of our radar screen. Do you know what the average life span of a picket ship on station is, Brague?”

“No, sir.”

“It’s measured in minutes, Brague,” Masters said. “I don’t want to wind up as a statistic. So I’m trying to pound some working knowledge into the heads of these men. This may all be a joke to them now, but someday it may be serious, damned serious, and I think we should be ready, don’t you?”

“Well, of course, sir.”

“Then don’t tell me I’m riding the men too hard. I’ll ride them as hard as I have to, and there’ll be no liberty until I can see something sinking in. Have I been ashore yet, Brague?”

“No, sir.”

“Damn right I haven’t. And I’ll tell you something else, Brague. There’s a girl I’ve been dying to call for the past week. She’s in Norfolk right now, and that’s where I’d like to be, and I want her to know that. But every time I come within six yards of that phone booth in the lobby, there’s always somebody coming along with another damn order from the C.O. of this joint. I haven’t even had time to write her a letter! So don’t come weeping to me about the men. We’re all ‘men,’ Brague, and to hell with Navy jargon. And I don’t like this any more than the rest of us.”

“Yes, sir.”

“Don’t look so damn sad. Round up the rest of the officers, and we’ll have a conference on thus torpedo stuff before the run-through. Bring your cigarettes.”

“Yes, sir.”

“Brague?”

“Yes, sir?”

“Would you like to take my mid-watch tonight? So that I can finally get that letter off?”

Brague looked militantly disappointed. “If you say so, sir.”

“Skip it. I was just kidding. Get your cigarettes and your fellow officers. We’ve got a lot of work to do.”

On the base at Norfolk there was talk, lots of talk.

“Sure, I knew Greg Barter,” the talkers said. “Hell of a nice guy. But I understand he was an attendant in the booby hatch at Bethesda. That stuff’s contagious, you know.”

“Greg Barter, yes,” the talkers said, “a good man, one of my best. Inclined toward melancholia, however. Should have foreseen this, should have sensed it coming. Well, you never know when a suicidal tendency will emerge full blown, do you? Eh?”

“I spotted him for a nut from go,” the talkers said.

The talkers said, “Greg thank too much. When you start thinking, you find out you don’t like yourself so much. Bang! You jump out the window.”

And the talkers said, “I liked Greg. You can’t tell me he jumped through that glass. He musta slipped.”

“All alone in the solarium,” the talkers said. “Who the hell knows what happened, really?”

“One guy knows,” the talkers said, “and that’s Greg Barter, and he ain’t telling it to nobody but Saint Peter.”

There were two men who knew.

One of them might or might not have been telling it to Saint Peter.

The second was telling it to nobody.

He stood in the head and shaved carefully, very carefully. He wanted to look good tonight. This was the first time she’d be seeing him in anything but pajamas or a robe, and he felt that the first impression was the most important one.

Jean Dvorak, Lamb Being Led to Slaughter.

Well, not exactly to slaughter. To Wilmington would be more like it. And not tonight, of course. Tonight was the preliminary bout, so to speak. The main event would come later, depending on what happened tonight. He had no doubts about how tonight would turn out. He was sure of her already. She was a confused kid, yes, but the confused kids were the best kind. She didn’t know which end was up, and she wouldn’t know until he showed her, and he was looking forward to the demonstration with considerable relish.

Confused, but gorgeous. With that nice pure beauty, that unspoiled kind of beauty, like a field of snow waiting for footprints. Oh, Jesus, how innocent!

Her innocence pained him. It was almost too excruciating to bear. Claire had been beautiful, but she was wise and knowing, and a little hard, he supposed, but beautiful, yes, beautiful, hell, you couldn’t take that away from her. But you couldn’t deny she was hard either. He’d spotted her instantly, spotted her as an easy mark — if he appealed to her. He knew she was the kind you had to appeal to. She was hard, but she wasn’t petrified. And he’d appealed to her because he knew which approach to take. The right approach was the most important thing, of course. With Jean, you had to put things on an emotional plane, the undying-love pitch. Well, he was ready to give her his undying devotion, but there were strings, of course, and the strings weren’t too painful, were they? Shouldn’t love be unselfish? Of course, Jean. And isn’t our love a beautiful, fragile, tender thing? Jean, can’t we... Couldn’t we...

Damn right we can, he thought, smiling.

From the sink opposite him, Petroff, a gunner’s mate said, “You back already?”

“Yeah,” he answered.

“Wha’d you have?”

“Cat fever.”

“Yeah, I had that once,” Petroff said. “Hey, was you there when that pecker checker took the plunge?”

“Was I where?” he asked.

“At the hospital, natch.”

“Oh. Yes.”

“Musta been a psycho, huh?”

“Definitely nuts,” he answered.

“Boy, Norfolk’s sure gettin’ it’s share.”

“Yeah.”

“First the dead broad, then Schaefer, then this jerk. This town is jinxed.”

“I’m trying to shave,” he answered.

“O.K., O.K., shave.” Petroff turned away angrily, obviously hurt by his shipmate’s indifference.

He watched Petroff in the mirror for a moment, and then turned his attention from the gunner’s mate, smiling. Jean Dvorak was still on his mind, a ripe fig waiting to be plucked and swallowed whole. One bite. Zoom, down the hatch. And after that... Hell, after the first time, it was easy.

Like murder.

He didn’t like thinking about murder, but he had to admit it got a little easier each time. Especially when you got away with it. And getting away with it was almost as easy as the actual killing. Now there was a disgusting word. Well, that’s what it was. A rose by any other name... Jesus, but Jean smells sweet. Not a perfume smell, no, just a good soap smell, clean, like everything about her. Oh, this is going to be a peach, this is going to be like nothing ever.

That sonofabitch Greg, of course, never knew what hit him. An object lesson for all practical jokers. Play with fire, and you wind up with your brains scattered on the concrete. I should have spotted his bluff right away, but Jesus, he sounded like he had the goods. Well, he’s got the goods now, but a lot it’s going to get him. Maybe a cloud and a harp. Or maybe a pitchfork and an asbestos suit. Serve the bastard right. He shouldn’t have played with me that way. I can’t take chances now. Murder has come easy, but it won’t be so easy if I’m caught, and so I’ve got to be careful, very careful now. The slightest hint, and then I move again. I have to. I can’t take chances. Claire was a snap, and so was Schaefer — but Schaefer knew, and so did Greg. Well, he knew for a second before he found himself doing a swan dive. Anybody who knows is a danger to me. Anybody who knows is leading me straight to the gallows, helping me slit my own throat.

He rinsed his razor, and then he washed the lather from his face. He ran the back of his hand along his cheek. Smooth. Jean would like that. Jean didn’t go for the gorilla type. Jean wanted it tender and gentle, like an opening bud. Well, Bud, I’m just the man to fill the bill. Shake hands.

She was waiting in front of the movies at eight sharp. She wore a sweater and skirt and, because it was a brisk night, a tweed topper. She wore seamless stockings and dark-blue pumps. A long string of pearls trailed over the rise of her bosom beneath the topper. She had tucked her blonde hair under a kerchief, but a pale wisp had come loose, and it hung limply on her forehead now.

She was slightly nervous, and she watched the faces of the passers-by, alternately looking for him and then for someone who might be able to identify her. She was aware of the pounding of her heart beneath the woolen sweater. She was very ill at ease, and she felt sneaky, but she did want to see him because she had to know exactly what she felt, had to determine in her own mind just what was what.

When the car pulled to the curb, she figured it for a pickup attempt. She glanced at it quickly, and then turned her head away.

“Jean,” he called.

She turned to the car again. It was he, behind the wheel of the car!

He opened the door for her, not getting out of the car, and she walked to it hastily and climbed in, slamming the door behind her.

“Hi,” he said.

“Hi. Where’d you get the car?”

“I hired it. You don’t really feel like going to a movie, do you?”

“Well, I don’t know. What did you have in mind?” She hoped she hadn’t sounded coy, because she honestly hadn’t intended to.

“A drive, I thought. Look at all those stars, Jean. Millions of them.”

“Yes,” she said. “They’re lovely, aren’t they?”

“And maybe a hamburger and some good hot coffee afterward. Are you game?”

“Whatever you say,” she said, smiling.

He pulled the car away from the curb. It was a late-model convertible, but the top was leaky, and she felt chilly.

“You look pretty,” he said.

“Thank you.”

“How do I look?”

She glanced over at him. He was wearing a heavy tweed overcoat, and a blue suit, she supposed; it was very hard to tell in the dim interior of the car. She thought he looked very handsome, though, and she said, “You look nice.”

“Disappointed?”

“No.”

“Good. Where to?”

“Anywhere. You’re driving.”

“O.K., fine. You didn’t feel like a movie, did you?”

“To tell you the truth, I’m still a little nervous,” she said.

“Well, relax. That’s one of the reasons I got the car. I figured you’d feel more secure.”

“I do.”

“Good.”

“I guess it’s just— Oh, things have been in an uproar at the hospital. I mean, it may be that. It may have something to do with this.”

“What kind of an uproar?” he asked.

“Well, you saw the bedlam when you checked out this morning, didn’t you?”

“Greg, you mean?”

“Yes. Wasn’t that a terrible thing? He was such a nice boy.”

“Yeah, he seemed like a nice guy.”

“Sometimes I think— Oh, never mind.”

“What?”

“Well, we were always very friendly, Greg and I. He was a nice person to work with, do you know what I mean? Always a cheerful word. We talked a lot, especially when we had the night duty together. He played the violin, did you know that?”

“No.”

“Yes, he did. Not very well, I suppose, but he had a feeling for it. He was really a very gentle person under that rough exterior of his.”

“Yes, he seemed to be a nice gentle guy.”

“And I got to know him pretty well, which is why I feel... well, it’s almost like the kiss of death. Everything I touch. Claire Cole and now Greg.”

“Jean, that’s a silly way to feel. You don’t mind my saying so, do you?”

“I can’t help it, it’s just the way I feel.”

“Well, it’s just silly, really. Hell, Claire Cole was killed on my ship. Now, I don’t feel any—”

“Are you off the Sykes?” she asked suddenly.

“Yes. Didn’t you know?”

“No. No, I didn’t.”

“Well, sure. And she was killed right there, and so was this guy Schaefer. According to your logic, the whole crew should go around feeling guilty. Now, that’s silly.”

“Schaefer,” she said softly. “The yeoman. Yes.”

“You didn’t know him, did you?”

“No. I just... knew of him.”

“Oh, yeah. Nice guy.”

“He... he committed suicide, too, didn’t he?”

“Yes,” he said.

“Funny.”

“What’s funny?”

“Two suicides. So close together.”

“Yeah. Say, are you chilly in here? I can turn on the beater.”

“No, no, I’m fine.” She shook her head. “Poor Greg. You were in the solarium with him just before he — he jumped, weren’t you?”

“Who?”

“You. I thought—”

“What gave you that idea?”

“Guibert said so. He said he left you and Greg alone up there.”

“Oh. Oh, sure. Yeah, I went down a few minutes after Guibert. Nice kid, that Guibert, isn’t he? It’s a pity he’s got that dis—”

“Did Greg say anything to you that might indicate he was—”

“Oh, nothing really. He was just looking sort of morose. In fact, that’s why I left. He was too damn sad for me.”

“Yes.” She was very quiet now, thinking.

“Mind if I stop the car?” he asked.

“What?”

“The car. All right if I pull over?”

“Oh. Oh, yes, if you want to.” She looked up at her surroundings. The road was very dark, and he was pulling off the road, into a little clearing in the woods. He cut off the motor and then leaned back against the seat. “Look at those stars, Jean.”

“Yes.” She paused. “You never mentioned you were off the Sykes before.”

“No? Guess it never came up.”

“Did you know Schaefer well?”

“To talk to.” He put his arm on the seat behind her.

“Do you know Lieutenant Masters?”

“Yes.” He moved closer to her. “You know, you talk an awful lot for such a pretty girl.”

“Lieutenant Masters has a theory,” she said, absorbed in her thoughts. “Lieutenant Masters thinks—” She cut herself off suddenly, turning her head slowly to look at him.

His arm tightened around her shoulder. “What does he think?” he asked idly.

“Nothing,” she said. Her mind was racing, suddenly alert. She tried to think clearly, tried to think of the names Chuck had mentioned. Yes, yes. That night on the bay...

“And you still think one of those two men did it? What were their names?”

“Daniels and Jones. Perry Daniels and Alfred Jones.”

She was cold all at once. Why hadn’t she made the connection before? How could she have been so stupid?

“Jean?”

She sat bolt upright. “Yes?”

“Anything wrong?”

“No,” she said. I may be sitting here with a murderer, she thought. He may have killed Claire and Schaefer. And Greg! Oh, God, Greg!

He pulled her to him, and his lips sought hers, and they left her strangely cold this time, but she returned his kiss, wondering how she could know for sure, how she could find out for sure. She was breathing rapidly now, her breasts rising and falling. He kissed her feverishly, mistaking the tempo of her breathing for something else.

“Jean,” he whispered, “I love you.”

She was silent. His kisses traveled over her neck, her ear, her cheeks, her closed eyes, the tip of her nose. His hands were tight on her shoulders. “I love you, I love you, I love you,” he repeated endlessly, and she listened to the crooning of his voice, and she thought only that he could be a murderer, that he could have pushed Greg off the solarium. The thought frightened her, and she began to tremble, and again he mistook the harsh breathing and the trembling, and his hand dropped idly to the pearls around her neck, his fingers toying with them, close to her breasts, rising and falling.

“Aren’t you going to say anything?” he asked, his fingers exploring each separate bead, fondling the pearls.

“What... what do you want me to say?”

“Something. I’ve just put my heart on my sleeve. Doesn’t that call for a comment?”

“I... I don’t know yet.”

His hand dropped from the pearls casually, almost accidentally. She felt the warmth of his fingers on her, and her first reaction was to pull away, but she controlled her fear, and she asked, “Have you loved many girls?”

“None like you,” he said.

“But many?”

His band moved in a gently stroking motion, the fingers tightening, tightening. He pulled her closer to him, more sure of himself now, sure of the freedoms he could take with her body, sure of his charm. “I’ve never really loved anyone, Jean,” he said. “This is really love.”

“How do you know?” she asked, feeling the fingers caressing her, wanting him to stop, but not daring to stop him because she wanted to hear what he had to say, wanted to lead him to say what she wanted to hear.

“I just know. I want you terribly and so I know I love you. I’ve never felt like this before.”

“It’s biology,” she said. “You don’t really care about me. You just want—”

“No, no.” His hand tightened on her involuntarily. “No, Jean, honestly. I want you because I love you.”

“I think you’re... you’re in love with my uniform. The idea of — getting a nurse — an officer.”

“No, I swear. That isn’t it.”

“It is. I can feel it. I know it is.”

“Jean, believe me—”

She stopped his hand and moved to the other side of the car. “No,” she said feigning injury. “I know that’s what it is. I’m an officer. You’re just excited by the idea, that’s all.”

He scrabbled across the seat toward her. “Jean that’s not so. Jean...” He pulled her to him, kissing her, his hand lingering on her throat and then dropping again, fumbling with the buttons on the cardigan, grasping. “Jean, I’m nuts about you. I want you so bad I could—”

“Stop,” she said. “Please stop! You’re lying to me.”

“What the hell do I care whether or not your’re an officer?” he shouted desperately, his hand touching thin silk now. “You think that matters to me? You think I care about that?”

“Yes. That’s all you care about.”

“I’ve been out with officers before!” he blurted.

She caught his hand at the wrist, holding it away from her body. “Not a nurse!” she said.

“Yes, a nurse. Yes, Jean, I’ve been out with a nurse.”

“Who?”

“Somebody. Jean...”

She released his hand and he caught at her body again. “Who?” she asked.

“A nurse. We were very close.”

“How close?”

“Very close. Jean, we could be close, too.”

“Yes,” she said reflectively, wanting him to tell her more.

“Monday,” he said almost crooning the word, his confidence back now, his confidence strong and firm in the fingers that candidly caressed her body. “Are you free Monday?”

“Yes,” she murmured.

“We could go somewhere. Just the two of us.”

“Where could we go?”

“I know places. We could be together, Jean.”

“Like you and this other nurse?” she probed.

“Just you and me, Jean,” he said, ignoring her question. “Just the two of us. We could be... very close, darling, very close.”

“Where?”

“There’s a place in Wilmington,” he said.

“Wilmington,” she repeated dully.

“Yes. We’d go in civvies. No questions asked. Jean, you want to, don’t you?”

“I don’t know,” she said.

“I’ll call you. I’ll call you tomorrow. You’ll know by then, won’t you?”

“I don’t know.” She stopped his hand again. “I think we’d better go now.”

“I’ll call you tomorrow,” he said. “Tomorrow morning. You sleep on it, Jean. I’ll call you.”

“All right,” she said.

“When I call I don’t want to take any chances on anybody listening in. I’ll say I’m... I’m Frank, O.K.? I’ll say I’m Frank, and you’ll know who it is.”

“Yes.”

He kissed her again, longingly, and his hands traveled to her waist and she sat up and squeezed her eyes shut tightly and moved away from him.

“Monday,” he said. “Monday.”

“I’ll see,” she answered.