Murder in the Navy

Fourteen

The room was very warm and very still. The sunlight streamed through the window, illuminating the dust motes, sending them scattering like vagrant flecks of dandruff.

Is it Saturday morning already? Jean thought. Has the night really passed?

She lay naked in bed, the sheet pulled to her throat, the blanket wadded down at the foot of the bed. She soaked in the sunshine, feeling its warmth on the sheet and her body beneath the sheet, not wanting to stir, not wanting to get out of bed, not wanting to face any decisions this morning. It would be so nice just to lie there forever, warm and secure, with the sun toasting her body, covering her with a warm, secure...

Her body.

She stared down the length of the sheet, watching the rise and fall of her breasts, the sharp nipples etched against the thin fabric, the curves of her thighs, the flatness of her stomach. It looked soft and vulnerable, a woman’s body. It did not look like a weapon.

She had never considered her body as a weapon before, but she knew now that it was one, a very formidable weapon. He would call this morning, and he would expect a decision, expect to know about Wilmington on Monday. Wilmington, of course, didn’t matter at all. Anywhere would have done just as well. Wilmington was just a town he’d picked, a town he knew, the town Claire had gone to. He’d told her he’d dated a nurse before — but was that nurse Claire? Was he the one who’d killed her?

Perry Daniels and Alfred Jones, or so Chuck had said. Of course, Chuck might have been all wet to begin with, in which case there was nothing to worry about; in which case she certainly didn’t want to go to Wilmington for a day. But supposing Chuck had been right, and supposing that man were the killer — then what? She could go to the Sykes, that’s what she could do. She could speak to the Captain and say, “This man is a killer. I want you to put him in the brig.”

Except that the case was closed, as far as the Captain was concerned. Chuck had made that point very emphatically. The case was closed as far as everyone but Chuck was concerned. Chuck and the real murderer. And now me. Now I’m in it

And I can find out if this is the man or not, she thought. I can find out easily because my body is a weapon. It’s comical how strong a weapon it’s become, but with this man it definitely is a weapon, and I know he would tell me what I want to know — if I use my body as a weapon. But if he is a murderer, and if I find out what I want to know, what then? If he is a murderer, then he’s killed three times already, and what will he do to me when he finds out I’ve tricked him, when he realizes he’s given me his secret? And will he tell me, anyway? Suppose I do go along with him to Wilmington? What happens when we’re alone? Suppose he tells me nothing? Suppose he refuses to talk, suppose he only wants...

Can I scream for help?

Did Claire Cole scream for help?

If he’s a murderer, he’s dangerous, and if I go with him I’m taking a chance, a great risk. And why should I care, really?

He may be a murderer!

Yes, yes, but why does it have to be me? I don’t want to go with him. I don’t want to be alone with him again, not in Wilmington, not anywhere. Even if he isn’t a killer, he frightens me. Oh, why can’t Chuck be here? Chuck darling, why can’t you be here?

“Jean?”

She turned her head toward the door abruptly, surprised by the voice. “Yes?”

“Telephone for you.”

“Oh.” She lay motionless, the dust motes floating around her.

“You going to answer it? I can tell him you’re not around, it you like.”

“No. No, I’ll take the call.” She waited until the other nurse was gone, and then she got out of bed and slipped on a robe and a pair of loafers, belting the robe tightly at her waist. She went to the phone outside in the corridor, biting her lips, wondering what she would say to him. Nervously she picked up the receiver.

“Hello?” she said in a small voice.

“Jean? Did I wake you?”

“No. I was... I was up.”

“This is Frank.”

“Yes,” she said. “Yes, I know.”

“Well?”

There was a long silence on the line.

“Are you coming with me?” he asked.

“I...” She hesitated, biting her lip again. Then she said, “All right, Frank. I’m coming with you.”

“Good. Jean, I’ve got a fix in. I can get off the ship in time to catch the eight-fifteen bus on Monday morning. That’s the C and O bus to the Hampton Roads transfer, where we can get a train to Wilmington. Do you know where the terminal is?”

“I’ll find it,” she said.

“Good. If we catch that bus, we can be in Wilmington at three-forty-two. And I don’t have to be back until muster the next morning. O.K.?”

“Yes.”

“Look, we won’t even talk to each other until we’re far away from Norfolk, O.K.? Don’t even look at me when we get on the bus. And wear civvies, don’t forget.”

“I won’t.”

“I love you,” he whispered.

She said nothing. She held the phone in a cold hand, waiting for his voice again.

“Jean?”

“Yes?”

“Monday morning, eight-fifteen, the C and O bus. Have you got that?”

“Yes, I’ve got it.”

“You’ll be there, won’t you?”

“I’ll be there.”

“Fine. I’ve got to hurry back before they miss me.” He paused. “Do you love me?”

She didn’t answer. She hung up gently, hoping he would think she’d hung up during his pause. Then she sat down in the chair beside the phone, her temples throbbing.

She went down to the dock that afternoon, as soon as she was off duty. The weather was turning really cold, and a damp gray sky hung over the water. Her coat was buttoned to the throat, and it whipped about her legs as she strode over the wood plankings. An oil tender was tied up at the dock, but it was the only ship in sight, and her heart lurched into her throat in apprehension. Had the Sykes left?

She stared out over the water, trying to distinguish the ships in the harbor. Maybe the Sykes was out for a short run.

When the voice sounded behind her, she wheeled in panic,

“Can I help you, miss?”

He was a young boy, the collar of his pea coat turned up high, the guard belt slung low on his waist. He carried a billy, and his face was raw and red from the wind that blew in over the water.

“I... I’m looking for a ship. The Sykes. A destroyer,” she said.

The boy smiled. “Oh, yeah. She went into dry dock, miss. You can find her there. You know the ship, miss?”

“Yes, I do.”

He gave her directions, and she nodded, and then he saluted her before she left. She felt awkward returning his salute, the way she always felt whenever a man acknowledged her rank. She tried to tell herself it was the same thing as someone tipping his hat to you, but she knew that wasn’t true, and it always left her feeling a little embarrassed. She walked up the dock, her heels clicking on the plankings, terribly aware of her body today, aware of it as she had never been in all her life before. She knew the boy’s eyes were on her back and her legs, and she consciously stiffened, trying to avoid the unconscious feminine swing of her hips. She was glad when she was off the dock, and she told herself she’d imagined the low whistle she’d heard, that it was simply the wind blowing off the water.

There was a great deal of activity in the dry-dock area; trucks and jeeps scurrying over the ground, cables and torches and welding masks. The rusted hulls of ships rested on their metal beds, and the workmen tore out their guts. She picked her way carefully over the ground, avoiding the large spools of cables, the heavy sheets of metal. She spotted the Sykes, high above her, and she saw the narrow wooden planks leading to the ship’s main deck.

Good heavens, she thought, I’ll never get up there.

She was conscious of the eyes of the workmen, conscious too of the fact that his eyes, unseen, might be watching her from somewhere aboard the ship, and she wished she’d never come here. She looked up at the ship again, saw the OD stepping aside to let a workman with a cylinder of oxygen past. She waved abruptly, knowing it was a very unmilitary thing to do, but doing it anyway.

The OD strolled to the rail and shouted over the clamor of the workmen. “Yes, miss?”

“I wonder if you could tell me—”

The OD cocked his head and shouted, “I’m sorry, miss. I can’t hear you. Just a moment.”

She watched as he left the quarter-deck and navigated across the wooden plank. He climbed down to where she was standing, and she saluted when he approached, and he returned the salute casually.

“Now then,” he said, “what can I do for you?”

She turned her back toward the ship. “I’m trying to locate Lieutenant Masters,” she said.

A smile began forming on the OD’s face, and she wondered, God, is that all every man thinks of?

“Well,” the OD drawled slowly, “I’m awfully sorry, miss, but Masters isn’t aboard. In fact, there’s hardly anyone aboard.”

“Yes, I know. But I was wondering... do you know where I can reach him?”

“In Atlantic City.” The smile was broader now.

“Where in Atlantic City?” Jean asked.

“Well, not exactly Atlantic City,” the OD said. “He’s at radar school, miss. Brigantine, New Jersey.”

“Brigantine,” she repeated thoughtfully.

“Maybe... ah... I can help, miss?”

“I don’t think so,” Jean said. “Do you know when he’ll be back?”

“Yes, miss. In a week or so.”

“I see.” He kept smiling at her, and she felt warm and hoped she wasn’t blushing. “If I were to write a letter — I mean, do you know the address?”

“If you just address it U.S.N. Radar School, Brigantine, New Jersey, I’m sure he’d get it,” the OD said.

“Thank you.”

“Not at all.” He paused, seemingly debating his next words. “Are you sure I can’t help?” His voice rose hopefully.

“No, I’m afraid not. Thank you, sir.” She saluted smartly, and then turned, walking rapidly. She felt his eyes on her, and when she stepped over a girder and her skirt was caught by the wind, lifting at the back of her legs, she almost ran headlong away from the ship.

She did not turn, but she knew the OD was smiling.

There is something completely desolate and forsaken about a seashore resort in the winter, Masters thought. He looked out over the water as the PT boat sped for Brigantine Island. Beyond the waves rushing white and green against the sides of the boat, he could see the lobster joint that crouched alongside the boat landing. Far down the stretch of tan beach, the Steel Pier jutted out into the water, a huge structure that insinuated its presence on the seascape.

He lighted a cigarette and watched the coxswain at the wheel of the boat. He handles the boat well, Masters thought. And this was a damned fine jamming run. The boys are learning. If the boys back at the hotel did as well with the junk we threw them, we’re going to be all right. He puffed on the cigarette complacently and turned his eyes to the heavy gray clouds piling up on the horizon. Rain will be just dandy, he thought. Rain’ll ground the B-26, and that’ll shoot our night air exercise all to hell.

He flipped the cigarette over the side when the boat nudged the island’s dock. He counted heads as his radarmen leaped ashore, and then he returned the ensign’s salute and gave him permission to shove off. He watched while the crew of the boat, led by the young ensign CO, edged the boat away from the dock, and then swung it around in a wide, foaming arc out onto the water. He began walking back to the hotel with his men then.

The airmail special-delivery letter was waiting in his room.

He threw his cap onto his bunk and shrugged out of his coat, and then he picked up the letter. It was postmarked late Saturday, in Norfolk, Virginia, and this was Monday. The name J. R. Dvorak was in the left-hand corner, and for a moment the initials threw him. When he realized it was from Jean, he ripped open the flap rapidly, unfolded the letter, and sat on the edge of his bunk to read it.

She had a neat hand, he noticed. He put the letter in his lap, lighted a cigarette, and then leaned back against the pillow, picking up the letter again.