Murder in the navy

Three

“You’re just assuming it was an enlisted man,” the exec said to Masters. “That’s officer prejudice.”

“No, sir, it is not,” Masters said. “It is nothing of the sort. It is sheer calculation, worthy of Sherlock Holmes himself. I’m wasting my time in this goddamned Navy, that’s all.”

“All right, Sherlock, let me hear it.”

“Right. I figured it was an officer at first because I couldn’t think of any way for an enlisted man to meet a nurse socially. They don’t go to dances together, and they usually don’t frequent the same dives. So it had to be an officer. Assuming, of course, that whoever killed Claire Cole knew her.”

“Go on.”

“All right, so this Dvorak girl tells me Claire went on a Wilmington week end with somebody. Two weeks ago. I checked the ship’s list. Three officers went off that week end.”

“And who were they?”

“Carlucci. He went to New York to see his wife. Haverford. He went to Norfolk, and you know what he did there. He came back stinking blind. I know he left the ship with thirty dollars and with no change of clothing. He sure as hell wasn’t preparing for a week end in Wilmington. Besides, I saw him in Norfolk that Sunday.”

“So who was the third officer?”

“You, Mike.”

“I’ll be damned,” Reynolds said.

“So the officer assumption is out. Unless you killed her.”

“Don’t be silly,” Reynolds said, a little miffed.

“I didn’t think you did, Mike. So I started looking over the list of enlisted men who had that week end.”

“There must have been plenty.”

“There were. The entire second-watch section.”

Reynolds pulled a face. “That narrowed it down considerably, didn’t it?”

“Hardly. Something else did, though.”

“What?”

“Claire Cole was killed in the radar shack. On Navy Day, the shack was locked. That meant whoever killed her had a key.”

“We’ve already gone through every man’s locker,” Reynolds said. “If you think—”

“I’m not saying he still has it, Mike. But he had it in order to get into the shack. That’s for sure.”

“All right, go on.”

“I asked myself who among the enlisted men would possess a key to the radar shack.”

“Who indeed?” Reynolds asked.

“A radarman, of course. That was my first thought. You know the radar bunch. They’re always in there making coffee and what the hell, and if one has a key, they all have it. But someone else could get a key, too.”

“Who?”

“A yeoman.”

“I don’t follow.”

“There are keys to every room and compartment on this ship in the yeoman’s office.”

“The key to the radar shack is still there,” Reynolds said.

“Sure, but that doesn’t mean anything. If whoever killed her was planning on having her aboard, he’d also plan on where to take her when she was aboard. He could have had a duplicate key made from the one in the yeoman’s office.”

“All right, I’ll grant you that. So it could have been either a radarman or a yeoman. How many of each went on liberty that week end?”

“Six radarmen and three yeomen.”

“That really does narrow it down.”

“Considerably. And I’ve narrowed it down even further.”

“How?”

“Well, I wondered how an enlisted man could meet a nurse, and get to know her well enough to propose a week end in Wilmington. The answer was simple.”

Reynolds sighed heavily. “What was the answer?”

“He was in the hospital.”

Reynolds’ eyes narrowed in interest. “Go on, Chuck,” he said.

“I checked, Mike. Since we pulled into the base, thirty men have been to the hospital. Twelve were there within the last three months, and of those, eleven were there for a week or more. Of the eleven, eight were on Claire Cole’s ward.”

“So?”

“Two of those eight men were radarmen. Three were yeomen.”

“Seems to indicate a high sick rate among the white-collar ratings, doesn’t it? What else did you find?”

“I carried it all the way down, Mike. Of the two radarmen, one had liberty on that week end Claire spent in Wilmington. Of the yeomen, two had liberty then.”

“So what have you got now?”

“Names. Three names. Each of the three men had an opportunity to meet and know Claire Cole. Each of the three had week-end liberty when she did. And each of the three had access to a radar-shack key.”

“And who are they?”

“Alfred Jones, radarman third class; Perry Daniels, yeoman second class; and Richard Schaefer, yeoman second class — the recorder on your investigation board.”

Reynolds considered this for a moment. Then he said, “One thing. Chuck.”

“What’s that?”

“I think the FBI already knows all this.”

“Go to hell,” Masters said.

He looks honest enough, Masters thought. He certainly doesn’t look like a killer.

He studied the thin boy standing before the table in the wardroom. He was tall, with penetrating blue eyes and an angular face. He had large hands, and he clenched and unclenched them nervously now.

“Your name is Alfred Jones?” Masters asked.

“Yes, sir. You know me, sir. I’m in the radar gang.”

“Rank?” Masters asked, ignoring Jones’s comment.

“Radarman third, sir. Sir, the G-men have already questioned me. I mean, if it’s about—”

“At ease, Jones.”

Masters looked at the boy and then across the room to where Schaefer, the board recorder, was busily taking notes. “Sit down, Jones,” he said. He waved his hand at a chair, and Jones sat in it. He sat on the edge of the seat. Masters noticed. Quickly Masters dipped into the pocket of his shirt, pulled out a pack of cigarettes, and extended it to Jones.

“Smoke?”

Jones shook his head, and his eyes narrowed. “Are you trying to find out whether or not I smoke, sir?”

He surprised Masters. Masters kept his hand out, and he said slowly, “Yes, I am.”

“I figured. They found two dead butts in the radar shack, didn’t they? One belonged to the broad and one to the guy who strangled her.”

“You’re well informed, Jones.”

Jones shrugged. “Scuttlebutt, sir. I also heard the G-men couldn’t find anything but smeared prints on the guy’s cigarette.” He paused and smiled. “I smoke, sir.”

“Have one,” Masters said.

“No, thanks.”

Masters returned the package to his pocket. “Do you know why you’re here, Jones?”

“Sure. I’m a radarman. You figure since the radar shack was locked on Navy Day, it had to be a radarman who opened it. I’m way ahead of you, sir.”

“Do you have a key to the radar shack, Jones?”

“I had one.”

“What’d you do with it?”

“The same thing every other guy in the radar gang did the minute the nurse turned up. I deep-sixed it.”

“Why?”

“Pardon me, sir, but how long have you been in the Navy? I tossed it over the side because all the guys were doing it. I wasn’t going to be the only one caught with a key.”

“I see.”

There was a moment’s silence, and Masters glanced across the room at Schaefer. The yeoman’s head was bent over his pad, and his pencil worked furiously.

“Are we going too fast for you, Schaefer?” Masters asked.

Schaefer looked up. He had a wide face, expressionless now, with large brown eyes that looked moist. “No, sir.”

Masters nodded and turned back to the radarman. “Did you know Claire Cole, Jones?”

“No, sir. I never seen her ever. Not dead or alive.”

“Where’s Wilmington, Jones?”

“Sir?”

“Where’s Wilmington?”

“In Delaware, I guess, ain’t it?”

“You ever been there?”

“No, sir.”

“When was your last week-end liberty, Jones?”

“A couple of weeks ago.”

“When, exactly?”

“I don’t remember the date, sir. It was a few weeks back. Two weeks ago, I think.”

“Where’d you go, Jones?”

“Newport News.”

“Where in Newport News?”

“One of the flea bags. I don’t remember.”

“Were you with anyone?”

“Part of the time.”

“Who?”

Jones smiled. “You’re getting personal, sir.”

“Don’t get snotty, Jones. Who were you with?”

“Some broad. I picked her up in a bar.”

“What was her name?”

“Who knows?”

“When were you with her?”

“Saturday night.”

“Think you can find her again.”

“Maybe. Why? What’s so important?”

“You sure you don’t remember what her name was, Jones?”

“All right, I remember. Agnes. All right?”

“Agnes what?”

“I don’t know. You want to know what kind of birthmarks she had on her—”

“That’ll be all, Jones.”

Jones stood up sullenly. “You don’t think I killed that nurse, do you? You don’t think that.”

“Shove off, Jones,” Masters said.

Jones seemed undecided. He wavered for a moment and then said, “I don’t feel like no railroad, sir. You get a bunch of brass together and pick on an enlisted man, and I’ll be making small ones out of big ones. I never saw that goddamned nurse, and I—”

“Get out, Jones,” Masters said, “before you really get into trouble.”

Jones snapped to attention, did an abrupt about-face, and headed for the door.

When he was gone. Masters turned to Schaefer and said, “What do you think, boy?”

“About what, sir?”

“This character who was just in here. Was he telling the truth?”

“I wouldn’t know, sir,” Schaefer said slowly.

“Do you remember Claire Cole, Schaefer?”

“Sir?”

“You were at the base hospital, weren’t you?”

“Oh. Oh, yes, sir.”

“Do you remember seeing her?”

“Yes, sir,” Schaefer said. “Yes, I do.”

“Pretty?”

“Yes, sir.”

“Would a man remember her if he’d seen her?”

“I–I suppose so, sir.”

“Then why do you suppose Jones said he never saw her? Dead or alive. He was on Claire Cole’s ward, too.”

Schaefer said nothing.

“Why do you suppose, Schaefer?”

“Perhaps he’s frightened, sir.”

“Are you frightened, Schaefer?”

Schaefer hesitated a long time before answering. Finally he said, “Why should I be, Mr. Masters?”

In the wardroom that evening, after the Old Man had gone up to his cabin, Reynolds and Masters shared a pot of coffee. Reynolds held his steaming white mug in his browned hands, and the vapor framed his face, giving him an evil satanic look. Masters looked at the exec through the rising steam and said, “You look like hell.”

“What?”

“Nothing. A private pun.”

“Did you see the Old Man?” Reynolds asked suddenly.

“I saw.”

“Brother, don’t cross his path, that’s all. He could scar the paint off a gun turret, the way he feels.”

“Tough,” Masters said. “Why the hell doesn’t he leave it all to the FBI, the way he’s supposed to?”

“He is. But he’s still getting chewed out. Homicide on a Navy ship. Hell, it’s like the chain of command in reverse. The dead broad’s family and friends write letters and send wires to their Congressmen. The Congressmen read them and then begin pressuring BuPers. BuPers hops on its white horse and starts riding CinCLant. CinCLant turns the screws on the squadron commander, and that old bastard jumps on the Old Man, wanting to know why and what for. Now the Old Man has a hair across, and if the FBI or somebody doesn’t find out who killed that nurse, this ship is going to resemble nothing in the Atlantic Fleet, brother. I can’t blame the Old Man. They’re acting as if he killed the goddamn broad.”

“Maybe he did,” Masters said.

“Maybe flippant attitude is unbecoming,” Reynolds said. “Oh, relax, Mike. What the hell are we supposed to do? We’re sailors, not policemen!”

“The nurse was killed on this ship. Everyone is making it the Old Man’s headache.”

“Sure. Except it’s our headache.”

“How’d you make out with Jones?”

“He’s a snotty bastard, you know? As soon as this is over, I’m going to ride him hard.”

“Unless he’s the murderer.”

“If he’s the murderer,” Masters said, “he’s beyond riding.”

“You talk to Daniels or Schaefer yet?”

“I’ll talk to Daniels in the morning. I’m saving Schaefer.”

“Why?”

“First of all, he knows all the questions I’m going to ask. He’s our recorder, remember?”

“And second of all?”

“That’s all. Just first of all.”

Masters found Perry Daniels in the aft sleeping compartment the next morning after sweep-down. The yeoman was sitting on a foot locker, polishing his shoes. A cigarette dangled from the corner of his mouth, and the smoke trailed up past the short-cropped hair on his head. Masters stood at the top of the ladder and studied the man for a few moments. Daniels was twenty-six or so, narrow-boned, with tough sinew covering those bones. He worked the brush over his shoes, and the muscles of his arm rippled with the movement. His eyes were squinted against the rising smoke of the cigarette, and his dog tags rattled as he worked.

Masters cleared his throat and started down into the compartment. There was the sweaty odor of cramped living in the compartment, and Masters wondered if it had been a good idea to come here to talk to the man. Well, it was too late now.

“Daniels?” he asked.

The yeoman looked up still squinting past the smoke from his cigarette. He put down the brush, plucked the cigarette from his lips, and dropped it to the deck. He was barefoot, so he did not step on it.

“Yes, sir,” he said.

He made a motion to rise, and Masters said, “At ease.”

With his hand inside one shoe, Daniels reached down for the glowing butt on the deck, crushing it beneath the heel of the shoe.

“I want to ask you a few questions, Daniels,” Masters said.

“Certainly, sir.” Daniels seemed completely at ease, but Masters wondered if that weren’t just a pose. The yeoman unwrapped a polishing cloth, slipped one shoe onto a bare foot, and proceeded to polish it.

“Were you ever confined to the hospital ashore, Daniels?”

“Yes, sir.”

“Do you remember a nurse named Claire Cole?”

“Yes, sir. She was the one got killed in the radar shack.”

Masters sat down on the locker opposite Daniels. Daniels spat onto the top of his shoe and began working the cloth in earnest, giving the shoe a high gleam.

“You knew her at the hospital?” Masters asked.

“Yes, sir. To talk to. She was very pleasant. Always a cheerful word. A nice girl.” Daniels slipped the remaining shoe onto his other foot, spat on it, and got to work with the cloth again.

“Did you ever try to date her?”

Daniels’ eyes opened wide. “Me, sir?”

“Yes, you. Why not?”

“Hell, sir, she was a j.g. I mean, you know.”

“What? What do I know?”

“Well, sir, that’s fraternization. That ain’t allowed.”

Daniels’ voice held a combination of awe and solemn respect for authority, and Masters wondered if such naive innocence weren’t affected. The squawk box on the bulkhead suddenly cleared its throat, and Masters grimaced. He heard the bosun’s whistle, and then a raucous voice announced, “Now hear this. Now hear this. All hands air your bedding. All hands air your bedding.”

Masters cursed silently. That meant there’d be a rush into the compartment. Daniels was standing already, stepping out of the shoes and reaching into his locker for a pair of regulation black socks. He pulled the socks on quickly, laced the shoes, and then put his shine kit back into the locker.

“Forget your bedding,” Masters said to him. “Come on topside before the rest of the men come down.”

“I want to get a spot up there, sir,” Daniels said. “If I don’t take my bedding up now—”

“I’ll find a spot for you, Daniels. Later. Come on.”

“All right, sir,” Daniels said doubtfully.

They climbed the ladder together and Masters walked to the twin five-inch mount forward of the fantail. He leaned against the mount and looked out over the water. Daniels stood beside him, breathing softly.

“You married, Daniels?”

Daniels hesitated a moment. “Sir?”

“Are you married?”

“No, sir. No, I’m not.”

“Got a girl?”

“No, sir,” he said quickly.

“What’d you think of this Cole dame?”

“Sir?”

“Climb off it, Daniels. Man to man, what’d you think of her?”

“Well, sir, I really...”

“Forget my bars, Daniels. What’d you think of Claire Cole?”

Daniels grinned briefly. “I wouldn’t kick her out of bed, sir.”

“Where’d you go on your week end, Daniels?”

“Norfolk, sir.”

“Why that rat town?”

“I was broke, sir.”

“Did you see anyone in town?”

“Few of the boys, I guess. I don’t really remember.”

“Were you alone, then?”

“Yes, sir.” Daniels paused. “I like to operate alone, sir. A sailor wolf pack don’t get no place.”

“Who were the boys you saw in town?”

“I don’t remember, sir.”

“You didn’t go to Wilmington?”

“Sir?”

“Wilmington. Did you go there on your week end?”

“Where’s that, sir?”

The men were coming topside with their mattresses now, cursing or laughing or joking. Masters watched them as they plopped their bedding down on top of the depth charges, over the rails, on ammo boxes, everywhere. Daniels shifted uneasily.

“I suppose you can go now, Daniels,” Masters said.

“Thank you, sir. It’s just I want to find a spot for my bedding, that’s all.”

“If you have any trouble, look for me, Daniels. I’ll make a spot for you.”

“Yes, sir, thank you, sir.”

“By the way, Daniels. It’s Delaware.”

Daniels blinked his eyes. “What’s Delaware, sir?”

“Never mind,” Masters said.