Murder in the Navy

Seven

Masters heard reveille sounded over the ship’s p.a. system the next morning, but it didn’t get him out of his sack. He heard Le Page come grumbling awake in the bunk opposite him. He rolled over his face to the bulkhead, pulling the pillow over his head. Le Page shuffled around for his shoes, and Masters wondered why the hell they’d put a meathead like the Ensign in with him. A man should be quiet in the morning. A man should come to terms with life again slowly. He shouldn’t stumble around until life slapped him right in the face like a wet mackerel.

What the hell was Le Page doing now? Masters could hear the rattle of his dog tags, and beneath that another sound he couldn’t immediately identify. He placed it then, and he was tempted to throw his pillow at Le Page’s empty head. The goddamn jackass was making up his sack!

“Hey, Masters,” Le Page said. “Wake up, Masters. Reveille.”

Masters played dead. Maybe if he lay still, without moving a muscle, without breathing, Le Page would go away. Maybe Le Page would wander out to the boat deck and jump over the side.

“Hey, Masters!” Le Page shouted. “Come on, boy. Reveille! Don’t want to miss chow.”

From under the pillow and the blanket, Masters ominously intoned, “Le Page, you are a goddamned jackass.”

“You awake, Masters?” Le Page asked, apparently having heard the sullen mumble from beneath the bedclothes.

Masters held his breath.

“You awake?” Le Page repeated.

“Yes, goddamnit, I am awake!” Masters shouted. “A dead man couldn’t sleep in here with all the goddamn racket you’re making.”

“Well, gee, Chuck,” Le Page said, “I thought you wanted chow.”

“I don’t want chow,” Masters said.

“Well, how was I to know?”

“I don’t want anything. I just want silence. Complete silence,” Masters said. “I just want to sleep a little.”

“A rough night last night?” Le Page asked.

“I don’t want an hour-long discussion,” Masters said patiently. “I want to sleep. Go, Le Page. Go eat your chow. Eat my helping, too. Eat until you’re gorged. Eat until you bust! But just get the hell out of here and leave me alone!”

“Well, sure, Chuck. I mean, if you want—”

“That’s an order!” Masters roared.

“Yes, sir,” Le Page said. He scurried for the curtained doorway, and Masters smiled grimly and rolled over again.

He closed his eyes and tried to capture sleep again, but it was no use. He was awake. Well, I’m awake, he thought. Well, another goddamn day blooming on the horizon. Well, what’s so special about...

Jean. Jean Dvorak.

The name popped into his mind, and he suddenly remembered everything that had happened the night before, and a smile blossomed involuntarily on his face. He nodded in satisfaction. A nice girl. A real nice girl, one of the nicest he’d ever run across. Had he promised to call her today?

He didn’t remember. But he would call her, whether he’d promised or not, as soon as he could get off the ship. In that case, he thought, leave us get the hell out of our sack.

He swung his legs over the side of his bunk and scratched his chest idly, listening to the rattle of his dog tags. He yawned cavernously, stretched his muscular arms over his head, and then sighed.

His blues were thrown over the back of a metal chair, looking rumpled and disconsolate. He abruptly remembered all the Scotch he’d drunk the night before. Drunk was the word for it, all right. He wondered if he’d behaved all right with Jean. Yes, he was pretty sure he had. But a hell of a thing to mess up with a girl like that. You don’t run across a girl like that every day of the week.

“Tor-ay-oh-dor,” he sang suddenly, “don’t spit on the floor. Use the cuspidor. That’s what it’s for.”

Of course, this did not apply to a Navy vessel. There were no floors on a Navy vessel. There were only decks. “Tor-ay-oh-dor,” he sang again, “don’t spit on the deck. Use Le Page’s neck. Make the low-down sonofabitch a wreck.”

He smiled and pulled on his gray trousers. He went to the sink and washed his face. How many songs like that were there? he wondered, and then he wondered why he was so concerned with things musical this morning. Songs that could be twisted around, of course.

“My Devotion.” There was one.

“My abortion,” he sang, “was painful, and cost me a fortune...”

That was an old one. He’d learned it years back when the song was popular. He’d learned another one at that time, too, and it was probably the most disgusting distortion he’d ever heard. It was a take-off on “Jealousy.”

Leprosy, he sang silently, you’re making a mess of me. There goes my right ear. There goes my left ear.

He brushed his teeth vigorously, taking the taste of the song and the preceding night’s Scotch out of his mouth. Does Le Page ever wash? he wondered. I think all the sonofabitch does is eat. I don’t think he’s taken a shower since he came aboard. Someday I’ll tell him. Le Page, I’ll say, I have put up with this godawful stink for a good many moons now, Le Page my good man.

What godawful stink, Chuck? he will ask.

The godawful stink emanating from your rotund little form, Le Page, I shall answer. I suggest you take a shower, Le Page. I suggest you wash off all the crawling little vermin that are suffocating the opening of your navel and perhaps other apertures, Le Page. I suggest you do that right this minute, Le Page, and in case you were wondering about the strength of my motivations, that is an order, Le Page, that is a goddamned order! Now hop to it!

Someday.

Not now. Not right now. Right now I’m going to the wardroom, where I’ll stuff myself full of the garbage they call morning mess, which is exactly what it is. And then quarters for muster, and then I shall sneak away from this floating cracker box and make a call to the nurses’ quarters, and perhaps Jean will agree to see me this evening.

He dried his face and hands, flipped the towel onto his sack, and then walked out into the passageway and then onto the main deck. When he got to the wardroom, he studiously avoided sitting next to Le Page. He sat between Reynolds and Carlucci instead, and then he waited for the steward’s 64 mate to take his order. There was a choice of eggs this morning. He chose scrambled, and then asked for an immediate cup of coffee, which he downed almost the instant it was poured.

“How do you feel this morning?” Reynolds asked.

“Just dandy,” Masters said. “How do you feel?”

“Lousy. I always feel lousy. What I meant, though, you weren’t very chipper yesterday.”

“That was yesterday. I feel fine today.”

“You’ve forgotten all about dead people?”

“I didn’t say that,” Masters said.

“Hey,” Carlucci said, “how do you rate pancakes, Mike?” He glared at Reynolds’ plate, and then looked back to the sunnysides on his own plate.

“I’m executive officer,” Reynolds answered, smiling. “I’ve grown accustomed to the privileges of rank.”

“How about spreading the largess a bit?” Carlucci asked. “You’re better off with the eggs,” Reynolds answered. “Where’s the Old Man this morning?” Masters asked.

“I think he’s still asleep. When have you ever seen him at morning mess, anyway?”

“Never. I was just hoping he’d fallen over the side or something.”

“You’re too hard on him,” Reynolds said seriously. “He’s got a lot of headaches.”

“Even now that the FBI has cleared up our nasty little scandal? Hell, I thought the Old Man’s worries were over.”

“How’d you ever get to be an officer, Chuck?” Reynolds asked.

“I brown-nosed my way through boot camp,” Masters replied.

“Shake, pal,” Carlucci said, starting to eat his eggs, an obvious look of distaste on his face.

“No, seriously,” Reynolds said.

“Seriously? Truth is, I wanted to be an FBI man. I—”

“Oh, horse manure.”

“God’s truth, s’help me. I flunked the course, though. Wretched was that day,” Masters said woefully. “But, still being obsessed with the idea of performing a government service, I joined the Navy. The Secretary of the Navy immediately gave me a commission. That’s the story, Mike.”

“Yeah,” Reynolds said dryly.

“And here are my eggs,” Masters said. He took the plate from the steward’s mate and began eating. He glanced over to where Le Page was seated, marveling at the amount of food the Ensign could stuff into his mouth and apparently swallow without chewing.

Reynolds and Carlucci left before he finished his eggs. He ordered another cup of coffee, sat drinking that and smoking until the boatswain announced quarters for muster. He swallowed the remainder of his coffee, squashed the cigarette in an ash tray, and left the wardroom.

The men he passed seemed happier today. A ship was a funny thing, all right. Nothing but a small community. A tight little community of men living in extremely close quarters. You find a dead nurse in the radar shack, and the smell of the corpse will most naturally spread to the rest of the ship. People don’t like corpses where they live. And nobody likes the idea of a killer roaming the decks, which are the streets of the community that is the ship. Nobody likes that idea at all. So Schaefer put an end to the crew’s discomfiture. Schaefer, allegedly, leaped over the fantail. He took the stink of the corpse with him, and he also rid the streets of the killer.

The crew, one-track-minded as it was, probably liked Schaefer better now than they had when he was alive. Schaefer had lifted the pall for them. And he had also, incidentally, lifted the restriction. The crew could go awhoring now. The crew could inhabit the dimly lighted dime-a-dance joints in the city that was Norfolk. Or the crew could shoot their pay at the many penny arcades and shooting galleries. Or the crew could get tattooed, or buy tailor-mades, or spend their time and their money in various other ways, none of which were particularly entertaining.

But would the crew ever stop to wonder whether Schaefer had actually strangled the nurse? Does an ordinary citizen ever wonder about the methods of the police? If a rapist is plaguing a neighborhood, and the police claim they’ve captured him, does the community still lie awake nights wondering? No. The community relaxes.

The crew had relaxed, too. There were smiles now. There was whistling. The cursing had always been there, but it seemed more forceful now. Things were back to normal.

Almost.

They were not back to normal if either Jones or Daniels was a killer. They were not back to normal at all, if that were the case.

And no one cares but me, Masters thought.

Charles Stanton Masters, protector of the innocent, upholder of the righteous, seeker of justice.

Charles Stanton Masters, Jerk First Class.

I should have stood in bed.

Colombo, the quartermaster first, handed Masters the master sheet. Colombo was tall and lean, and he always showed up for muster with clear eyes and a smiling mouth. Masters envied that fresh look. He never seemed able to attain it in the morning. The communications crew — consisting of radiomen, radarmen, sonarmen, signalmen, and quartermasters thrown in for good measure — lined up every morning in the space between the aft sleeping compartment hatch and the rail. They faced the sea, and they inevitably faced it bleary-eyed. Masters and Colombo faced the men. On the mornings when Masters was too groggy to read the sheet, Colombo took over. Colombo was never groggy. Aft of this muster spot, the gunnery men lined up between the aft mounts. Elsewhere along the ship, the other members of the crew faced other officers with similar muster sheets.

The names were read off. If a man were AOL or even AWOL, it was T.S. for him. If a man were below catching forty winks, someone would always answer to his name — but only if they knew he was there. The officer always knew that someone else was answering for an absentee. In fact, he usually sent someone down below to rustle him out of his sack.

In addition to checking attendance, the officer usually gave his men pertinent bits of information concerning the ship’s day. For example, he told them there would be an inspection at noon. Or he wanted every man in his division to get a haircut that day. Or pay would be distributed at 1500. Or everyone would be restricted to the ship because a dead nurse had been found in the radar shack. Things like that. For this sailor’s life was not a simple matter of waking up in the morning and going about your business. There were men who explained exactly how you should go about your business, and Masters was one of these men.

This morning, there was nothing special to say. He read off the names in his division listlessly, and each man answered with his own peculiar variation of “Here.” The variations ranged from “Yah” to “Yo” to “Yay” to “Present” to “On deck” to — in rare moments — “Here.” Jones answered to his name by saying, “Yo.” “Yo” was the saltiest answer. It didn’t take a sailor long to catch on to the fact that “Here” was an answer reserved strictly for guys straight out of boot camp. The muster-reading was accomplished without a hitch. Everyone was present and accounted for. The men hung around, slouching wearily, talking among themselves, until the boatswain tooted his pipe and announced cleaning stations. The men dispersed. Colombo took his time. He was a first-class petty officer. First-class petty officers didn’t have to rush.

Masters was only a lieutenant, so Masters went back to his sleeping quarters to see just what the hell was on tap for today. Today was the last day for submitting promotions. The list had already been typed up, but additions could be made today before the list was posted. He had already granted his quota of petty officers, but he thought it would be a good idea to give some of the strikers seaman first. He tossed some names around in his head, and then put them on paper. He thought he’d bring them to the Ship’s Office, leave them with the yeomen, and then get the hell ashore to make his call to Jean.

He took the starboard side of the ship down to the midships passageway, and then cut in to where the Ship’s Office was set in the bulkhead. He leaned on the counter railing and peeked in.

Perry Daniels was sitting at a desk, typing.

“Hello, Daniels,” Masters said.

Daniels did not look up until he reached the end of the line and threw the carriage. When he saw Masters, he said, “Oh, hello, Mr. Masters. What can I do for you?”

He shoved back his chair and walked to the counter.

“Few names I want added to the promotions list. From seaman second to seaman first.”

“We can take care of that, sir,” Daniels said.

“I imagine you’ve been pretty busy in here, eh, Daniels?”

Daniels looked at Masters levelly. “How do you mean, sir?”

“Now that Schaefer’s dead.”

“Oh.”

“Leaves you a little short-handed, doesn’t it?”

“Well, sir, O’Brien has been helping out a lot. He’s a striker, but he’s probably making third class today. He’s a good man.”

“Then you don’t miss Schaefer at all, eh, Daniels?”

“Oh, no, sir. I didn’t say that, sir.”

“Did you two get along well? You and Schaefer?”

“Oh, yes, sir,” Daniels said. “We never had any trouble. Of course, I never even guessed he was the one killed that nurse. He seemed like such a nice fellow, if you know what I mean.”

“Yes, I know what you mean,” Masters answered.

“You never can tell, I suppose.”

“No, you never can.”

“I’ll take care of that promotions list for you, sir. Don’t worry about it.”

“I won’t, Daniels. And don’t worry about Wilmington.”

Daniels’ brows lifted just a fraction of an inch. He blinked his eyes and then said, “Sir?”

“We think the fellow who said he saw you there was lying,” Masters went on, improvising.

“Somebody said he saw me in Wilmington, sir?” Daniels asked. His complexion had turned a ghastly white, and he kept staring at Masters.

“Yes,” Masters said.

“Who? I mean, who would want to say something like that?”

“Why? What difference does it make, Daniels? Nothing wrong with going to Wilmington, is there?”

“Well, no. Hell, no. But I mean, why would I want to go all the way up there?”

“All the way up where, Daniels?”

“All the way up to Wilmington.”

“I thought you didn’t know where it was. Daniels.”

“Well, I don’t,” Daniels said, wetting his lips. “What I meant was, it must be up North someplace, isn’t it?”

“Yes,” Masters said thoughtfully. “Yes, it is.”

“I’ve no reason for going up there, sir,” Daniels said.

“Not any more, no.”

“Sir?”

“Skip it, Daniels. Listen, may I come in and look at some of your records?”

Daniels hesitated again. “Well, uh, sure, if you want to. I... I had to see about something anyway. You’ll save me the trouble of locking up.”

Masters lifted the counter top and stepped into the office. Daniels walked past him and was stepping through the hatch when Masters caught his arm.

“You do know where Wilmington is, don’t you, Daniels?” he said.

“No, sir,” Daniels answered. “I do not.”

“Schaefer’s already taken the rap, Daniels. There’s no reason to lie any more.”

“I don’t know what you’re talking about, sir,” Daniels said.

“Don’t your?”

“No, sir. If you’ll excuse me, I’ve got to see someone.”

“Sure.”

“I’ll be back soon, sir. You’ll find any keys you need on the board there.”

“The key to the radar shack, too?”

“Why, yes. Yes, that key, too.”

“All right, Daniels, shove off.”

“I’d appreciate it if you hung around until I got back, sir. This won’t take a minute.”

“Where are you going, Daniels?”

“Well, sir, I loaned a guy my fountain pen, and he didn’t return it. I want to grab him before he forgets and thinks it’s his own.”

“I see. You’ll handle that promotion stuff for me later?”

“Oh, yes, sir.”

“How’d you make out, Daniels?”

“You mean on the promotions list?”

“Yes.”

“I haven’t seen the yeomen list, sir. Arnecht — he’s our yeoman first — he doesn’t like us to see it until it’s posted. I’ve seen the list for every division, but he’s kept the yeomen promotions away from us.”

“I see.”

“May I go now, sir?”

“Sure, go ahead.”

Masters watched Daniels as he crossed the midships passageway and headed aft. He stood in the hatchway and wondered why Daniels had lied about Wilmington. He had sure as hell lied, there was no question about that. Was Daniels his man? Was Daniels the bastard who’d shacked up with Claire Cole somewhere in Wilmington? Was he the one who’d strangled her in the radar shack? Had he shoved Schaefer overboard? He didn’t look like a killer. But neither did Jones, for that matter. And when you got right down to it, what the hell did a murderer look like? Shifty eyes? Slack mouth? Sinister nose? Horse manure.

Masters grunted and unlocked the file containing the service records of every man on the ship. He checked over Schaefer’s record again, looking through the folder, confirming what he’d seen earlier. Yes, Schaefer had applied for underwater demolition school. That fact hadn’t changed one damn bit, nossir. He continued looking through the folder. The yeoman had been twenty-two years old. This was his first hitch in the Navy, a move probably calculated to keep him out of the Infantry. Well, that was normal enough. He kept turning pages. At the end of Schaefer’s folder, the FBI and investigation-board reports terminated the yeoman’s naval career.

Masters sighed and looked through the folders for the one belonging to Jones, the radarman. Boot camp at Great Lakes. To Fort Lauderdale for radar school. Receiving station in Miami. Destroyer training at Norfolk. Up to Boston for a month’s stay at the Fargo Building receiving station. Then to the yards for commissioning of and assignment to the Sykes. He’d been with the ship since, up to the time they’d pulled into Norfolk again after their shakedown cruise to Guantanamo Bay, Cuba. Nothing unusual. Never been AOL or AWOL. Never had a captain’s mast. An ideal sailor.

Masters grunted and slammed the folder shut. He looked through the pile and pulled out the one belonging to Perry Daniels.

He waded through the introductory garbage, and was ready to turn the page when his eye caught a single item.

“Married.”

His eyes sought the typed word again.

“Married.”

Christ, that’s what it said. Married, married! Perry Daniels was married!

Now hold on a minute, just hold on a minute.

Hadn’t he asked Daniels that? Hadn’t he asked him the first time he talked to him? Hadn’t he said, “Are you married. Daniels?”

And hadn’t Daniels answered, “No”?

Well, sure he had. But the records said he was married. The records told Masters that an allotment went to Daniels’ wife every month. Now, what the hell...

Did Daniels’ wife live in Wilmington? Was that why he’d lied about knowing the town, or about being married at all? Had he known about the rendezvous with the dead nurse in Wilmington? Had he known that and lied to keep himself out of hot water?

But how could he have known unless he were a part of that rendezvous?

Now hold it, Masters, let’s just hold it a minute. Let’s just see where the hell that allotment check goes each month. How about doing that instead of running off half-cocked? He checked carefully. The allotment went to an address in North Dakota. It went to Mrs. Perry Daniels.

All right, his wife doesn’t live in Wilmington.

All right, let’s take it from there.

Let’s take an affair with Claire Cole, let’s take that if it agrees with you, Masters. It agrees with me, so let’s take it Does anyone know about the affair? Well, no, no one knows about it. Then why the hell lie about Wilmington?

And why lie about being married?

Hell, did anyone aboard ship know that Daniels was married? Whoever sent the allotment check each month, naturally. Dave Berson, lieutenant j.g. He sends the allotment checks. He knows Daniels is married. But do any of the enlisted men know? Do any of Daniels’ neighbors — so to speak — know about it?

Hell, what had Daniels said? He preferred to lone-wolf it when he was ashore. Well, that figured. If a married man were going to play around, he didn’t want every guy on the ship to know about it.

That still left the Wilmington lie unexplained. Unless you drew the obvious conclusion, and that conclusion was a rendezvous with Claire Cole, an incriminating rendezvous that would point the finger right at Daniels.

Had Claire Cole mentioned anything about a married man? Had she mentioned it to Jean? If only she’d said something about it, just dropped something, something that could be interpreted...

Well, if he’d needed any excuse for calling Jean, this was it. Damnit, but Daniels was the sly bastard, wasn’t he? Well, sure, it figured. And it provided a possible motive, too. Maybe she threatened to tell the wife all about it. Now, wait a minute, don’t jump to conclusions. Maybe she didn’t threaten a damned thing. Maybe he didn’t like the way she was wearing her lipstick that day. Or maybe she said something that offended him. Remember that she was an officer and he was an enlisted man, and that could have had something to do with it. If Daniels were the man.

And if Daniels weren’t the man, why had he lied?

It was worth checking on. It was worth checking on damned fast. He put the folder back into the file, and then left the Ship’s Office. Let Daniels worry about the property. That was his headache.

Masters cut through the midships passageway and was heading for the gangway when the squawk box erupted.

“Now hear this. Now hear this. Will all officers report to the wardroom immediately, please? Will all officers report to the wardroom immediately, please?”

Masters snapped his fingers and walked over to Donnelly, who was standing the OD watch.

“What’s this all about, Jack?” he asked.

“Search me. The Old Man called it down a few minutes ago. Said to announce it right away.”

“Damnit,” Masters said.

“You better get up there. His voice held what I laughingly call an urgent undertone.”

“His voice always holds an urgent undertone. Goddamnit.”

He looked longingly at the gangway. Well, he could call Jean later. He shook his head and walked rapidly to the wardroom, entering without knocking.

Some of the officers were already there, and Masters sidled over to Reynolds and asked, “What’s up, Mike?”

“Search me. Probably a cleanliness drive or some damn thing.”

“Be just like him,” Masters said.

“Listen.” Reynolds told him, “you’ve never had a command. You don’t know what it’s like.”

“You’ve been in charge of the Atlantic Fleet for years,” Masters said, smiling.

“Oh, go to hell,” Reynolds answered.

They waited around until everyone had shown up, and then the door opened to admit Commander Glenburne. His eyes were very serious. He wore gray trousers and shirt, with the shirt open at the throat, the silver maple leaves gleaming on his collar.

“At ease, gentlemen,” he said. “Please be seated.”

They took their places at the table, with the Captain at the head of it. He remained standing, and he placed one hand on the table, the knuckles flat.

“All right, gentlemen,” he said, “I’ll make this short. We’re being turned into a picket ship.”

Masters looked up suddenly.

“That’s what I said, gentlemen, a picket ship. Some of you may not be familiar with the term, so I’ll explain it further. A picket ship scouts ahead of the task force, anywhere from ten to seventy-five miles out. It forms an airtight screen through the use of radar. We’re also using picket ships up in the arctic, to supplement our land-based radar screen there. That’s it.”

The men remained silent Glenburne cleared his throat and leaned over the table.

“What does it mean to us? It means our torpedo tubes will be ripped out and replaced by a tripod mast and antenna for altitude-finding radar. It means we’ll get jamming gear aboard, probably in the compartment alongside Ship’s Service. It means our radarman, radio-technician, and communications-officer complements will practically double in the next few weeks.” He looked at Masters. “It means you’ll be damned busy from now on, Chuck.”

“Yes, sir,” Masters said, nodding.

“All right,” the Old Man said. “We move into dry dock at eleven hundred today. Work will begin on the ship then. I think this’ll be a good time to grant leave to the men, so let’s start the ball rolling. Division heads will turn in their leave schedules by fifteen hundred this afternoon. No radarmen on that list of yours, Masters.”

Masters frowned. “Why not, sir? I mean...”

“I’ll explain it to you when the others are gone. I don’t want to take up their time now.” He glanced at his watch. “We’ll get under way at ten hundred. You’ll set the watches, Mike.”

“Yes, sir.”

“Any questions?” He waited. “All right, then. You’d better get started. If you’ll stay, Chuck, we’ll go into this further.”

“Yes, sir,” Masters said. He remained seated until the other officers cleared the wardroom. Glenburne took out a package of cigarettes and offered one to Masters. Masters took it and lighted it.

“All right, Chuck, this is it. Our new radarmen. Sugar Peter boys mostly, and some men who’ve had jamming schooling, are already on their way to Brigantine, New Jersey.”

“Where, sir?”

“Brigantine. It’s a small island off Atlantic City. The Navy operates a specialized radar training school there. This change means special tactics, Chuck, for both officers and men.”

“I see, sir.”

“The new men are with the new communications officers. You’re to meet them there, at the school.”

“When, sir?” Masters asked.

“You’re shoving off as soon as the office can make out your papers. That shouldn’t take more than a half hour. That’s why I want no radarmen on your leave schedule. They’re all going with you.”

“The men won’t like it,” Masters said.

“Tough,” the Old Man said curtly. “You’d better get started with your packing, Chuck.”

“I’d wanted to go ashore for a minute, sir. I thought—”

“That’ll have to wait. I’m afraid.”

“Yes, sir,” Masters said. “Will that be all?”

“One other thing, Chuck.”

“What’s that, sir?”

“About the dead nurse,” Glenburne said.

“Yes, sir.”

“You’re a good officer, Chuck, one of my best. When it comes time for a fitness report, you can be certain you’ll get a good one from me.”

“Thank you, sir,” Masters said.

“I’ve heard talk I don’t like, Chuck. About the nurse. And about you.”

“I don’t understand, sir.”

“Maybe it’s just scuttlebutt. If it is, all right, we’ll just forget it. If it isn’t — well, I thought I should tell you I don’t like it. The situation has been cleared up, Chuck. Everybody is finally off my ass, and I want it to stay that way.”

“Even if the wrong man—”

“That’s just what I mean,” Glenburne said, stabbing the air with his forefinger. “Just that kind of talk. Now give a listen here, Chuck. Schaefer killed that nurse. Now you just remember that. Schaefer killed her, and then he committed suicide when the going got too rough. Those are the facts as recorded, and those are the facts as I want them to be.”

“You mean you have your doubts, too?”

“No, I haven’t any doubts. The Federal Bureau of Investigation is good enough for me. If they say Schaefer did it, he did it. I’m satisfied. Do you get what I’m driving at?”

“I think so.”

“All right. I don’t want the ashes sifted again. I don’t want this damned business repeated. The Squadron Commander has finally cooled down, invited me to a party next week, in fact. If he starts hearing talk about the case being closed when it should be open... well, I just don’t want him to hear that kind of talk.”

“Even if it’s true, sir?” Masters asked.

“Goddamnit, Masters, it is not true! Schaefer killed that nurse!”

“I wish I could believe that, sir.”

“You’d goddamn well better start believing it, Masters, and damned soon.” Glenburne paused, gaining control of himself. “Maybe this Atlantic City trip will clear your head.”

“Maybe, sir.”

“You’re going to be damned busy, Chuck, I told you that. You’re not going to have time to run around playing detective.”

“No, sir.”

“So put all of this nonsense out of your mind.”

“Yes, sir, I’ll try, sir.”

“Never mind trying, just see that you do, that’s all.”

“Yes, sir.”

“Understand, Chuck...” Glenburne paused.

“Sir?”

“Understand that in my mind absolute justice has been done.”

“I understand, sir.”

Glenburne studied his fingertips. “This... ah, ashore. You said you wanted to go ashore for a minute. Is it important?”

“Fairly so, sir.”

“A girl?”

Masters hesitated. “Yes, sir.”

“I see.” Glenburne cleared his throat. “Perhaps... perhaps a little diversion is what you need. I mean, to take your mind off this... other business.”

“Perhaps, sir.”

“Had you planned on seeing this girl?”

“Yes, sir, I had hoped to. Before your announcement, of course.”

“Of course, your full complement probably won’t arrive at Brigantine until tomorrow sometime.”

“Oh, is that right, sir?”

“Yes. I thought it might be advisable for you to get there first — you know, sort of get acquainted for the setup.” Glenburne considered for a moment. “But if this girl will take your mind off the dead nurse...” He paused. “Do you think she might, Chuck?”

Masters smiled at the blackmail attempt. “She might sir.”

“Then why don’t we postpone the trip until first thing in the morning? Give the office a little time to get the necessary papers for you and your men, anyway. No sense rushing them, they’ve been pretty jammed, what with the promotions business, and now the leave schedule. How about that, Chuck? Give you a chance to see this girl of yours.”

“I’d like that, sir,” Masters said. “Thank you.”

“Not at all,” Glenburne said. “You just need a little relaxation, that’s all.” He smiled fraternally. “Little relaxation never hurt anyone, eh, Chuck?”

“No, sir.”

“That’s why I always see to it that my men get sufficient leave. A good policy, don’t you agree?”

“Oh, yes, sir.”

The two men were silent for a moment. “Well, there’s nothing else on my mind, Chuck,” Glenburne said at last.

Masters rose. “Thank you again, sir,” he said, starting for the door. When his hand was on the doorknob, Glenburne said, “And Chuck?”

“Yes, sir?”

Glenburne smiled. “Enjoy yourself, boy.”

The leave schedule and the promotions list were posted side by side on the bulletin board amidships.

He studied them both very carefully, and then shoved his way through the knot of men crowding the passageway. When he reached the rail, he tossed his cigarette butt over the side.

He walked toward the fantail, and when one of the men greeted him in passing he did not answer. His mouth was a hard line across his face, and his brows were tightly knotted.

So that’s the way it is, he thought. That’s the way it’s going to be.

He was angry, and the anger showed in his face and in the purposeful strides he took. When he reached the fantail, he sat on one of the depth-charge racks and lighted another cigarette.

Dry dock, he thought. Dry dock while they rip out the goddamn guts of the ship. That’s great, just great.

He thought again of the names he’d seen posted on the bulletin board. The thought angered him once more, and he viciously flipped the barely smoked cigarette away.

He was sitting near the fantail, but he did not think of the man he’d thrown overboard so short a time ago. He thought only of his own personal anger, and of officers shoving enlisted men around, and his thoughts made him angrier.

He shoved his hat onto the back of his head, stood abruptly, and headed for the quarter-deck. He’d show them, by Christ! Do that to a man, and you get beans in return. Beans, and cold. He’d show them.

Besides, it was time enough. It was time enough now, and even Masters would be up to his neck with all this conversion. They wouldn’t suspect now, and those names on the bulletin board were all he needed to prompt him to action.

He stepped into the passageway amidships and then through the hatch just outside sick bay. The hatch to sick bay was open, and he saw Connerly, one of the pharmacist’s mates, inside reading a comic book.

“You open for business?” he asked.

Connerly looked up. He was a young boy with a wild spatter of freckles across his nose and cheeks. He had bright green eyes, and he widened them now and said, “Jesus, you again?”

“I don’t feel good,” he answered.

“You never do,” Connerly said. “You spend more time in the hospital than the medics do.”

“If you chancre mechanics did it right the first time,” he cracked, “I wouldn’t be coming back so often.”

“Yeah, yeah. What is it now?” Connerly stood and dumped the comic book onto one of the racks. “You get a dose or something?”

“Don’t get smart, Connerly. I think I’ve got a fever.”

“Well, we’ll find out,” Connerly said wearily. He took a thermometer from where it stood in a jar of alcohol. He wiped the bulb clean with a wad of absorbent cotton.

“You see the lists they posted?”

“What lists?” Connerly asked.

“Amidships. Leave and promotions. Both. Maybe you hit the jackpot, boy.”

“No joke? You’re not snowing me?”

“No joke,” he said. “Go take a look.”

“Sure. Here, boy, stick this in your mouth. Three minutes. I’ll be back before then. Leaves and promotions, huh? Man!”

Connerly handed him the thermometer and then left the compartment. He waited until Connerly was well out of sight and then he held the thermometer in the palm of his hand and watched the rising silver line of mercury. He took the book of matches from his shirt pocket then, struck one, and held it beneath the bulb of the thermometer. He let the mercury go up to 103 degrees, and then blew out the match. It would probably go down some before Connerly came back. Maybe he should have brought it up to 104. Hell, no. A man’s probably dead at 104.

He allowed the bulb to cool slightly, and then put the thermometer back into his mouth. He had it there for thirty seconds when Connerly burst into the compartment.

“Christ, mate!” he said in delight. “I hit second class! And I’m up for leave in two weeks. Brother, how’s that?”

He nodded at Connerly, and the pharmacist’s mate seemed to remember the thermometer abruptly. He crossed the deck, took the slender glass rod between his thumb and forefinger, and then looked at it carefully.

“Boy,” he said. “Boy.”

“What is it?”

“A hundred and two point eight,” Connerly said. “I guess you really are sick.”

“You think I’d snow you?”

“I guess not. We’ll get you over to the hospital. It’s probably cat fever or some damn thing.”

“The hospital again,” he complained. “Jesus, a man can’t—”

“Second class!” Connerly said, still not able to believe it. “And a leave in two weeks.” He paused and turned suddenly. “Hey, how’d you make out?”

“All right. Listen, if I’m going to the hospital, let’s get started. I feel like hell.”

“Sure. Sure. I’ll talk to the Chief. You can walk, can’t you? I mean, we don’t need a stretcher or an ambulance?”

“Go talk to the Chief,” he said.

That evening, on his way to the quarter-deck and his date with Jean Dvorak, Masters passed through the midships passageway. He saw the posted lists standing side by side on the bulletin board, and he went over for a closer look. His eyes scanned first one list and then the other.

Jones had made radarman second class. He nodded, remembering approving the promotion a long while ago. He looked for Daniels’ name on the promotion sheet. It was not there. The yeoman had not advanced.

On the leave schedule, Daniels was up for a leave in three weeks.

Jones’s name was not on the leave schedule at all.