Murder in the Navy

Fifteen

Masters read the name rapidly, and then crushed the latter in his fist. Of course. Jesus Christ, of course. It had to be. It couldn’t be otherwise; not now, it couldn’t. He got to his feet quickly.

What was today? Sunday? No, no, it was Monday already! Then... oh, Jesus, they were already on that train to Wilmington! Could he get to them? Could, hell! He had to!

He left his room and rang for the elevator in the hallway. When the car came, he got in quickly, taking it up to the Commanding Officer’s floor. He walked rapidly into the office, gave the yeoman there his name, and asked to see the CO immediately on an urgent matter. He looked at his watch and then paced the floor anxiously while he waited. The time was 1036.

At 1041, he was ushered into Lieutenant Commander Whitley’s office. The CO rose, extended his hand, and shook Masters’ hand warmly.

“Sit down,” he said, “sit down. Been keeping you hopping this past week, haven’t we?”

“Yes, sir,” Masters said. “Sir, I’d like permission to go ashore immediately on a matter of extreme importance.”

Whitley cocked his head and stared at Masters. “Important, huh?” he asked.

“Yes, sir. Extremely so.”

“And you have to go into Atlantic City, eh? Well, I can’t see any reason why—”

“Not Atlantic City, sir. Wilmington. Delaware.”

“Wilmington?” Whitley was already shaking his head.

“Sir, I have to—”

“I can’t grant that permission, Masters. You should know that.”

“Why not, sir? This is—”

“I can grant you liberty, sure. But Wilmington! Masters, you’re under orders from the captain of your ship. Those orders sent you to Brigantine. I can’t countermand those orders.”

“But, sir—”

“If it’s that important, get a wire off to your skipper. If he replies with permission, you can take off at once, of course.”

“Thank you, sir.” Masters rose and started for the door. He turned abruptly, remembering Whitley. “I’m sorry, sir. I—”

“Go right ahead, Masters. Good luck.”

He sent the wire from the pay telephone on the main floor, and then he began waiting for the reply. The answer came at 1251. He tore open the envelope frantically.

He cursed Carlucci, and then he cursed the Navy, and then he cursed Whitley for not being decent enough to grant him a sort of extended liberty without running into any “countermanding” red tape. And after he had cursed out everyone he could think of, he went up to his room and packed a bag, and then he began looking for Ensign Andrew Brague, the new meathead communications man they’d given him.

When he found him, he said, “I’m shoving off, Brague. You’re in command.”

“Sir?”

“I’m going to Wilmington. I’m jumping ship, goddamnit. Keep it under your lid until I’m off the island. Then you can scream all you want to.”

“But... but, sir...”

“So long, chum.”

It was 1320 before he got to the station. He asked at the information booth for the next train to Wilmington, and they told him it would leave at 1355, making a stop in North Philly at 1440, and leaving there at 1454 to arrive in Wilmington at 1532.

Fifteen-thirty-two! Ten minutes earlier than the train Jean would be on. He could be waiting for them at the station in Wilmington when they arrived. He thanked his guardian angel, bought a ticket, and then looked for a pay phone. It had suddenly occurred to him that perhaps Jean had changed her mind at the last moment, in which case he’d want to get another wire off to Carlucci, asking him to restrict his man to the ship. He haggled with the operator until he made it clear he wanted the nurses’ quarters on the base, and then was told he’d have to wait until they had a free line. He asked the operator to ring him back, and then he sat in the booth and watched the black hands of the clock on the wall march steadily toward traintime. At 1321 the phone rang, and he hastily snatched the receiver from its hook.

“Hello,” he shouted.

“I can make your call now, sir.”

“Well, Jesus, make it!”

He heard some interoperator gobbledegook, and then the honeyed Southern tones of the Norfolk operator came onto the line. His operator gave her the number, and there was a series of clicks on the line, and then the steady on-and-off hum that told him the line was busy. He nearly rammed his fist against the wall of the booth, and then the operator said, “I’m sorry, sir, the line is busy.”

“This is an emergency, operator. Can’t you cut in?”

“I’m sorry, sir. If you’ll wait, I’ll ring you back.”

He looked at the clock on the wall. “Operator, I’m getting aboard a train in... eleven minutes. Make it fast, will you?”

“I’ll do my best, sir.”

He hung up and waited, and he heard the train pull into the station, saw the passengers in the waiting room straggle out to meet it. At 1330 the phone rang again, and he grabbed the receiver eagerly.

“Yes?”

“I have your call now, sir.”

“Thank you.”

“Hello?”

“Hello, Jean?”

“I beg your pardon.”

He realized he hadn’t made a person-to-person call, and he rapidly said, “Get me Jean Dvorak on the double, miss. This is an emergency.”

“Yes, sir,” the voice on the other end said, recognizing authority.

He waited for three minutes, and at 1333 she came on the line again.

“Sir?”

“Yes?”

“I’m sorry, sir, but Miss Dvorak is not aboard, sir.”

“When did she leave?”

“Early this morning, sir.”

Outside, on the track, he heard the conductor yell, “Board! Board!”

“Thanks,” he said, and then he hung up rapidly, ran out of the booth, and hopped onto the train just as it started rolling out of the station.

The train pulled into North Philly at 1449, as scheduled. It was supposed to leave again at 1454, after a five-minute wait in the station. It did not leave until 1520, twenty-six minutes behind schedule. When Masters arrived in Wilmington, at 1600 that afternoon, the train from Norfolk had already arrived and left again.

Masters searched the station for Jean frantically. At 1605 he resigned himself to the fact that she was somewhere in Wilmington with a murderer as her escort.

Where? he wondered.

And then he began looking.

They sat on opposite sides of the small table. The table had been set up by a bellboy who assumed the couple in 201 were honeymooners. The waiter who brought the two steak dinners and the bottle of champagne had assumed the same thing. He had served them with polite aloofness, having learned long ago that honeymooners did not relish conversation or any other kind of intrusion. He had left them quietly and unobtrusively, closing the door gently behind them.

The two plates rested on the small table now. Jean’s steak was hardly touched. His steak had been devoured in apparent good appetite, and his crossed fork and steak knife rested on his bone-cluttered platter now.

“Drink your champagne,” he said.

She reached for her glass, her hand trembling. She put the rim to her lips and took a tiny sip.

“More,” he said. “Champagne is good for you.”

“I don’t want to get dizzy.”

“I get dizzy just looking at you,” he said. He paused. “Why don’t you take off your jacket?”

“It’s... it’s a little chilly in here.”

“I’ll keep you warm,” he said, smiling. “Go ahead, take it off.”

She unbuttoned her jacket, conscious of the thrust of her breasts, and his eyes coveting them.

“That’s a pretty blouse,” he said.

“Thank you.”

“Are you nervous?”

“Y... yes.”

“Don’t be. We didn’t have any trouble registering, did we?”

“No. How did you know about this place?”

“The David Blake? I just knew it, that’s all.”

“Did you bring that... that other nurse here?”

“What other nurse?” he asked, smiling. “I don’t know what you’re talking about.”

“You said you’d dated another nurse.”

“Oh, her.”

“Did you bring her here?”

He shoved back his chair and walked around the table, standing behind her chair, putting his hands on her shoulders. “What do you care about any other nurse for?” he asked softly.

“I...” She tilted her head coyly, trying to smile, the smile giving the lie to the hammering fear within her. “I guess I’m just jealous.”

“Well, it certainly wouldn’t make you happier to know I brought anyone else here, would it?”

“Yes, I think it would.”

“Why?”

“I don’t know. I guess I want reassurance. I’m still afraid someone will... will catch us.”

“Don’t worry about that,” he said. He bent down and kissed the side of her neck, and she shivered involuntarily. His hands were still tight on her shoulders. “Come on,” he said. “Finish your drink.”

She lifted the glass again, not drinking. “Did you bring her here?” she insisted.

“Yes. If it’ll make you feel more secure, yes, I did.”

“And... and no one found out?”

“Not a soul.”

“Was she from the hospital at Norfolk? The other nurse, I mean?”

“You talk too much, Jean,” he said, and he pulled her out of the chair, his arms encircling her, his mouth reaching for hers.

He was unfamiliar with Wilmington, and so he didn’t know where to go, didn’t know where they could have gone. And, not knowing where to go, where to look, Masters felt a futile sense of desperation. Time was a trap, and he was enmeshed in the whirling, grinding gears. Time tried to crush him, and there was nothing he could do against time, nothing he could do against the steadily advancing hands and the knowledge that she was alone with him somewhere. The clock on the station wall grinned at him with evil intent, and then the smaller replica on his wrist when he left the depot, the steady tick-tick, the hands biting into the face of the watch, ripping off minutes, steadily advancing, and he didn’t know where to go.

You walk toward the center of town, he thought.

You have to evolve some sort of plan, he figured. You have to plan or you get crushed in the wheels of time. But what’s my plan? How do I stop a murderer when I don’t even know where he is? Where, where? A big hotel, a small hotel? A rooming house? A motel on the outskirts of town? A friend’s apartment somewhere in town? Where? Oh, for Christ’s sake, where?

He stopped a passer-by, and he asked about hotels and rooming houses and motels, and he came up with a mental list, and then he kept walking toward the center of town, thinking, I’ll take them as I come to them. I can’t bother with any special kind of order now. Time is my trap, but time can be my ally if I work this right. I’ll walk and I’ll stop at each one I pass on any street. And then I’ll take the next street, and the next, and maybe, maybe...

He quickened his pace and ducked his head against the wind.

Jean stood in the circle of his arms and turned her head, avoiding his lips. “No,” she said. “Couldn’t we... couldn’t we talk a little first?”

“Well, honey, we haven’t all day, you know. We’ve got to get a train at—”

“I know, but talk to me. Please.”

“Sure,” he said, sighing. “What do we talk about?”

“Your... your other nurse.”

“Oh, Jesus!”

“Was she from Norfolk?”

“Yes, she was from Norfolk,” he said wearily.

“Did I know her?”

“Aw, come on, Jean,” he pleaded, “what’s the sense in this?” He took her hand and pulled her to a chair with him. He sat abruptly, yanking her onto his lap. He tilted her back then, and his mouth clamped down onto hers, his lips moving savagely. She tried to pull away from him, but his grip was strong, and she could barely move in the tightness of his embrace. There was real fear inside her now, a pounding, staccato fear that drummed in her blood. She shouldn’t have come here. No, she knew that now. This was senseless, this was idiotic. He could... he could...

His hand dropped to the top button of her blouse, and suddenly dropped again, and again, and she looked down to see that the three top buttons were unbuttoned. She could see the dark valley between her breasts, and his hand moving swiftly on the blouse, button after button.

“No!” she said sharply, and he glanced up quickly, surprised. “I... Let me do it myself,” she added hastily.

He smiled and released her. “All right,” he said.

She got off his lap and walked across the room, the table with the empty plates and glasses, the soiled forks and steak knives between them.

How many buttons are there on this blouse? she wondered. How long will it take me? Oh, God, what do I do next?

“A blonde,” Masters said. “A pretty blonde. With a man.” The man with the eyeshade studied him curiously.

“Can you hear me?” Masters asked, his voice rising.

“I c’n hear yuh, awright,” the man with the eyeshade said. “Well, did they register?”

“Um,” the man said.

“They did?” Masters asked eagerly.

“No, didn’t say that, young feller. Just trying to think.”

“Did they? For Christ’s sake, did they?”

The man with the eyeshade blew his nose. He folded the handkerchief carefully, put it into his back pocket, and then cleared his throat. “Nope,” he said. “Don’t believe so. You lookin’ for a room, I think I might be able to—”

Masters turned from the desk and walked through the small lobby and then down the steps onto the sidewalk. The elm in front of the small establishment cast a long shadow on to the pavement, and he glanced unconsciously toward the sun, saw it poised close to the horizon.

Darkness soon, he thought. Night.

He glanced in both directions.

Where now? Which next?

At the end of the street, he saw a small swinging sign with the legend “Rooms for Rent.”

He began walking rapidly, his shadow darting before him, his strides devouring the long stretches of concrete.

How many has it been now? That woman with the wart, and then the starched clerk with the carnation, and the old man who was reading the newspaper and who wouldn’t talk business until we went inside to the desk, and the pretty brunette in black (a recent widow?), and now this one with the eyeshade and the green shadow over his face. How many have there been, and how many more do I hit before I find them?

Give me radar now, give me a radar set that can tear down these goddamn walls and see what he’s doing to her, and where!

“Rooms for Rent,” the sign read. Masters climbed the steps rapidly.

Her fingers trembled on the buttons of her blouse. He watched her from across the room. “Did I know this nurse?” she asked again.

“You’re beautiful, Jean,” he whispered.

She finished unbuttoning the blouse, and it hung open over the protective nylon of her slip. She felt absolutely naked, his eyes hot upon her.

“Why don’t you take it off?” he suggested.

She hesitated, and he made a slight movement, as if he would rise from the chair to help her. She slipped out of the blouse then, folded it neatly, stalling, and then draped it over the back of a chair.

“Did... did I know her?” she asked again. Answer me, she pleaded silently. Please, please answer me!

“The skirt,” he said gently. “Shall I help you?”

“No! no, it’s all right.” The skirt. One button, and a short zipper. Only a button and a zipper. Oh, my God.

Her hand moved to the button, and she felt it come undone, and then the zipper slid down, almost of its own volition, and the skirt slithered past her thighs like a live thing. She felt the static electricity as the wool caught at the nylon of her slip, and then the skirt was mounded at her ankles, and she stepped out of it quickly as he came out of the chair.

She stood in her slip and watched him advance, aware of the floor lamp in the corner, knowing the lamp was throwing harsh light through the sheer nylon, knowing she might just as well be stark naked, seeing the emotion flooding up into his eyes. She backed away a pace, involuntarily, and then, as if she could think of no other protection from his gaze and his advance, she shouted, “Did I know the other nurse?”

The table was between them now, and he stopped on the other side of it and stared at her curiously, and all the fear crawled up into her throat until she thought she would be sick.

“What do you mean by that?” he asked.

“The other nurse. I wanted to know—”

“You said ‘did’! What did you mean by that? Why ‘did’? Why past tense?”

Her hand went to her throat. “I–I didn’t mean anything. I just thought—”

“Why didn’t you say, ‘Do I know the other nurse?’ Answer me, Jean! Goddamnit, answer me!”

She could not speak. He was crouched over the table now, his palms flat, the forks and the steak knives alongside his hands. His eyes were narrow now, and all desire seemed to have fled them.

“Answer me!”

“I... I...”

“Who sent you to spy on me?” he shouted. “Masters?”

“No! Chuck doesn’t—”

“Chuck, is it? Chuck?” His eyes were wild now. He knew he was in danger, and she could feel the knowledge triggering inside his head, ricocheting off the walls of his skull. He was like an animal now, trapped, and his eyes raked her body angrily, lashing at her.

“What do you know about Claire Cole?” he snapped.

“Nothing.”

“What’d she tell you?”

“Nothing, I swear. We were roommates, but she never—”

“Roommates!” He hurled the word across the room, and then his hands moved on the table and one of them closed around the gleaming, razor-sharp steak knife.

The street lights were coming on when Masters entered the lobby of the David Blake. He walked directly to the desk, annoyed when he saw no clerk in attendance. He rapped on the bell, and a small man in a dark-brown suit emerged from the shadows, a smile magically appearing on his face.

“Yes, sir,” he said, “may I help you?”

“I’m looking for a girl,” Masters said. “She may have—”

The clerk’s face clouded. He cocked his head to one side and said, “I’m sorry, Lieutenant, but this isn’t that kind of hotel.”

Masters slammed his fist onto the desk. “Don’t be a fool!” he shouted. “She may have registered here, with a man. She’s a blonde, very pretty, registered sometime this afternoon.”

“Her name, sir?” the clerk asked, flustered.

“They probably used phony names. Did a blonde register with anyone this afternoon? Any time after about four o’clock?”

“Well, we get a lot of guests, sir,” the clerk said, plainly miffed. “It would be almost impossible to distinguish one from—”

“A blonde!” Masters shouted. “Look, you idiot, I’ve been looking all over town, and you’re just about the last goddamn stop, and this girl is in danger!”

“We had several blondes this afternoon, sir,” the clerk said, a little frightened by the gleam in Masters’ eyes.

“With men?”

“One with a man, sir.”

“Where?”

“A honeymoon couple, sir.”

“Where, goddamnit!”

“Surely, sir, you don’t want us to disturb a honeymoon couple.”

Masters reached across the desk. “What room? Take me up there, or I’ll—”

The clerk’s eyes popped wide, and his mouth worked fitfully. He reached for the passkey behind him and said, “Y-y-y-y-yes, sir. This way, sir.”

He picked up the knife in a lithe, smooth motion, his hand surrounding the handle intimately.

“Did she tell you about us?”

“No!” Jean said, backing away now, moving across the room in her slip. He followed her relentlessly, his fingers tight around the handle of the knife, the knife deadly cold and poised in his fist.

“Was this Masters’ idea? Did he put you onto this? Are you trying to find out if I killed her or not?”

“You...” She swallowed and then gulped for air. “You did kill her, didn’t you? You killed her... and the others.”

He took a fast step toward her, seizing her wrist and swinging her back across the room, onto the bed. Her slip pulled back over her thighs, and he advanced on her with the knife, and then he stopped and looked down at the taut, ribbed tops of her stockings, and his eyes grew reflectively canny, and his mouth quirked into a strange smile.

“Yes,” he said softly, “I killed her.”

He kept staring at her legs, as if remembering something, remembering it vividly.

“I shouldn’t have killed her,” he whispered. “All that woman lying on the deck, worthless, dead.” His mouth was twitching now, twitching wildly. “It’ll be different with you, you bitch! No regrets this time. No eating my heart out afterward! You’re going to die, but this time the memory’s going to be fresh. This time—”

“No!” she screamed. “Please!”

He reached out suddenly, his free hand grasping the front of her slip, yanking her off the bed. She came toward him, her back arching, and then the nylon gave with a rasping screech, and she fell back onto the bed, released, the slip torn to her waist.

Slowly he advanced, wetting his lips, the knife poised and ready.

He must have heard the door, the frantic knocking, and then the harsh splintering sound as the wood ripped free from the lock. But he did not whirl until Masters’ voice shouted from the doorway, “Hold it, Jones!”

He whirled and then stepped off on his right foot in one smooth motion, sprinting for the door, the knife high over his head.

“You bastard!” he screamed at Masters, and then the knife came down in a winking arc, and Masters felt fear crackle into his skull. He backed away and stepped to the side, and the blade glittered past his cheek, and then he threw his fist at Jones. He caught the radarman in the stomach, and Jones doubled over, straightening up again when Masters’ fist caught him under the jaw. The knife clattered to the floor, and Jones scrabbled for it wildly. Masters took a quick lunge forward, stepping on Jones’s hand. The radarman let out a sharp cry, pulling his hand back. Masters kicked the knife into a corner of the room, and then stood over Jones, his fists doubled.

“Get up!” Masters said.

“You got nothing on me!” Jones screamed crouched near the floor. “You got nothing on me, you bastard!”

“He killed her, Chuck! He admitted it,” Jean said from the bed. She seemed suddenly to remember her tom slip. She rose quietly and began putting on her jacket.

“Shut up, you bitch!” Jones snarled, turning toward her. “You ain’t going to railroad me. I ain’t just come into the Navy yesterday. I know my rights.”

“You know it’s all over, Jones, don’t you?” Masters said quietly. “You know you haven’t got a chance in hell.”

Jones was silent for a long time. Then he said, “Yeah,” and he paused and said, “Yeah,” again, and then he shook his head and sat down on the floor abruptly, all fight suddenly drained from him, his head bent, his shoulders slumped.

The clerk peeked timidly around the doorjamb.

“Are... are these the people you were looking for?” he asked.

“Yes,” Masters said, smiling. “These are the people. You’d better call the police.”

The clerk nodded, looking at Jones on the floor, and then at the sheer slip showing below Jean’s jacket.

He turned to go, and then he turned back and suddenly said, “You didn’t have to break the door, you know!”