Murder in the Navy

Eight

There was a moon that night, and it put long yellow fingers of wavering light on the waters of Chesapeake Bay. They stood at the rail of the boat, looking out over the water, hearing the gentle lapping of the waves against the sides of the boat, hearing the sullen swish-swish of the old-fashioned paddle wheels in their circular housings.

“This is what I call a real busman’s holiday,” Masters said.

“It’s very nice, though,” Jean said. “It’s better than a stuffy old movie, isn’t it?”

“Immeasurably,” Masters agreed. “Moonlight becomes you.”

“From the song of the same name,” she said.

“Yes, isn’t it terrible the way popular songs have made clichés of sincere sentiments? Oh, well.”

They were silent for several moments, watching the moonlight, listening to the water.

“How’d you drift into the Navy, Jean?” he asked.

“I thought we weren’t going to discuss the Navy tonight,” she said.

“How’d you drift into the unmentionable?” he asked.

“You sound like Hemingway.”

“Why, thanks. But how?”

“I liked nursing. And the Navy needed nurses. So here I am.”

“In Norfolk.” Masters shook his head sadly. “They should have sent you to a better town.”

“Norfolk isn’t bad,” she said.

“No, but it isn’t good. That’s the big difference.” He paused. “Of course, I’m glad they sent you to Norfolk.”

“You are?”

“I wouldn’t have met you if they hadn’t sent you here.” He saw her embarrassment and added, “I’m sorry. I keep forgetting that compliments fluster you.”

“No, it isn’t that,” she said.

“What then?”

“Nothing.” She lifted her eyes suddenly. “How’d you get into the Navy, Chuck?”

“I thought all red-blooded American boys went into the Navy sooner or later.”

“No, seriously.”

“I think I had some idea that it was a worth-while career,” he said.

“And you don’t have that idea any more?”

“I’m not sure any more,” he said seriously. “Not after what happened with—”

“Ah-ah,” she cautioned. “No talking about that, remember?”

“Oh, sure,” he said. “Sorry.”

“Do you really feel an injustice was done?” she asked after a moment.

“I thought we weren’t going to talk about it.”

“Why does it bother you so much, Chuck?”

“I don’t know. I guess I’m schizophrenic. One half of me says, ‘Forget it.’ The other half says, ‘Two people were killed, and the murderer’s loose.’ Which half am I supposed to listen to?”

“Do you really believe Schaefer’s death was a murder?”

“Yes.”

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

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

“You think one of them is guilty?”

“Yes.”

“I mean, there’s no doubt in your mind? You really believe this?”

“Yes.”

“Then follow it through,” she said.

“It’s going to be a little tough to do that,” he said. “I’m leaving for New Jersey in the morning.”

“Oh?”

“Radar school,” he said.

“Oh,” she said again, disappointed.

“And the Old Man’s on my back to forget it, and the Exec, and oh, what the hell’s the use of shoveling manure against the tide? Why don’t I just let it rest? Except... except...”

“What, Chuck?”

“Did Claire ever mention anything about her secret date being a married man?”

“Married? No, not that I can remember. Why?”

“Well, Perry Daniels is married, according to his records. He told me he was single. Now, why the hell would he do that, unless he had something to conceal? I mean, it adds a new reason for keeping the whole thing secret — aside from the obvious officer-enlisted-man angle. You see, it might provide a possible motive. A married man has much more to lose than a single man. I mean, if his sweetheart suddenly decided to get balky. Do you see what I’m driving at?”

“Yes, of course. But she never mentioned anything about it. Not that I can remember.”

“She probably wouldn’t have, even if she knew. And maybe she didn’t know. Or maybe she didn’t know, and then she found out — which strengthens the motive.” He paused. “Or maybe I’m all wet.”

“No, everything you say sounds possible.”

“Sure, but how do you go about... Oh, why don’t I shut up and kiss you?”

“I’ve been wondering,” she said softly, and then she went into his arms.

He was familiar with the hospital routine. Connerly brought him to the entry desk, and a pharmacist’s mate there took his name, rank, and serial number. Connerly gave him all the pertinent information dully, a matter of routine.

He turned then to his shipmate. “O.K., pal,” he said. “Get well quick, as the civilians say.”

“Thanks.”

Connerly left, and the pharmacist’s mate eyed the man from the Sykes and said, “Want to follow me? Take your pea coat and your ditty bag.”

He followed the pharmacist’s mate to a room at the end of the corridor. “You can put your coat in there, mate.”

“Won’t someone steal it?” he asked.

The pharmacist’s mate shrugged. “What’s the matter? Don’t you trust us?”

“I don’t trust anyone,” he answered.

“Well, you got to put it in there, anyway. Those are the regulations.”

“You know what you can do with regulations, don’t you?”

“Look, Mac...”

“All right, all right,” he said. He took his pea coat into the room and hung it on a hook alongside the other blue jackets.

“We’ll get you some pajamas,” the pharmacist’s mate said. “Come on, follow me.”

He followed the pharmacist’s mate down the antiseptic-smelling corridors of the hospital. They stopped at another room, and a second pharmacist’s mate looked up from a copy of Married Love, put the book down, and handed a pair of pajamas and a towel over the counter top.

“You better go to the head before I show you your bed,” the first pharmacist’s mate said. “You’ll be on bedpan after this. What’s wrong with you, anyway?”

“Cat fever, they said.”

The pharmacist’s mate shrugged. “You can change your clothes in the head, too. You got any valuables you want checked?”

“I’ll keep them with me, thanks.”

“That’s right. You don’t trust nobody.”

“Not even my mother, mate.”

“That’s a bad way to be, mate. I feel for you.”

He smiled and left the pharmacist’s mate. In the head, he put on the pajamas and then put his wallet into his ditty bag, in which he had packed his toilet articles and his stationery. When he came outside again, the pharmacist’s mate was leaning against the wall.

“This way,” he said. “You give me them clothes and I’ll have them checked for you. Ain’t no one going to steal your dungarees.”

“How long you been in the Navy, mate?”

“Why?”

“I’ve had everything from scivvy shorts to shoelaces stolen from me.”

“Well, this is a hospital. We take pity on the sick.”

“I know a guy who had a set of dress blues stolen from him while he was flat on his ass with pneumonia.”

“You got pneumonia?”

“No.”

“Then stop worrying. Here’s your bed.”

He looked through the doorway. “A private room?” he asked happily.

“Yeah. You really rate.”

“How come?”

“The ward is jammed. Besides, this room was just vacated.” The pharmacist’s mate paused. “The guy who had it suddenly dropped dead.”

“Oh.”

“Damn’est thing you ever saw,” the pharmacist’s mate continued. “Comes in with a simple thing, and all of a sudden drops dead.”

“What’d he come in with?”

“Cat fever,” the pharmacist’s mate said sourly. “Sleep tight, mate.”

He went into the room smiling. He had not expected a private room, and the unforseen windfall worked like a shot in the arm. He hung his ditty bag on the bedpost, taking his wallet from it and stuffing it between the pillow and the pillowcase. He tested the mattress with his palm, pleased with the soft comfort of it, pleased with the crisp white sheets. This was a far cry from the sack aboard ship. Ah, yes, there was nothing like hospital duty. Bull’s-eyes and toast tomorrow morning, orange juice. Ah, this was grand.

He pulled back the covers and climbed into bed.

He’d have to act sick in the beginning, of course. He’d really had cat fever once, and so he knew the symptoms he was supposed to show. It wouldn’t do to be suspected of malingering. He’d irritate his throat by chewing on some tobacco shreds, and this was as good a time as any to do that. He reached into his ditty bag, pulled out a package of cigarettes, and then broke one of the cigarettes open, aware of the fact that nicotine was a poison, but not planning on chewing that much of it. He put several shreds on his tongue, wincing when the bitterness filled his mouth. He forced them to the back of his throat, almost choking on them, and then he spat them onto the palm of his hand.

He began clearing his throat, purposely straining it, wanting red to show when the doctors examined him. He didn’t know how he’d raise his temperature again, but he’d figure something. A lighted cigarette in the ash tray, perhaps, and then some subterfuge to get the nurse out of the room. He’d work it. He’d worked it before, and there was no reason to think he couldn’t work it this time.

He was very pleased with the way things were going. He’d been spotted by Schaefer last time, but that was on a ward. He had a private room to himself this time, and that meant he’d be alone with whatever nurse they gave him. He had very rarely met any woman who hadn’t appealed to him in some way, and so be wasn’t anticipating a nurse he couldn’t stomach. Women were very funny that way. If they had ugly phizzes, they generally had good bodies and vice versa. Claire had been exceptional in that she was pretty and also owned a body like a brick— Well, there was no sense thinking about her any more. Besides, even if he did draw a dog, he could die for Old Glory. The punch line amused him. He sat in bed, smiling, anticipating his first encounter with whatever nurse they gave him.

He had to admit that he was very clever.

Oh, sure, there were sluts in Norfolk, Christ knew there were a million sluts in Norfolk, but the day he had to pay for it, that was the day he’d hand in his jock. And there were Waves on the base, too, but the Waves were always surrounded by enlisted men, and you had to fight off ten guys before you got near one.

Nurses were the ticket, all right. Sure, nurses were officers, and as such were strictly reserved for other officers. That was a stupid rule, all right, that nonfraternization thing. That’s a rule against human nature, by Jesus! What is a man supposed to do? Can a man help it if he’s got a normal human appetite? Hell, no, of course he can’t. But try to tell that to the brass, just try to explain that to them.

Well, he was very clever about it all. And he was sure enough of his charm to know that once he got to meet a girl, the rest was in the bag. Sometimes he figured his being an enlisted man was in his favor. There was something pretty exciting about doing something that was forbidden. Like a stolen apple tasting better, that kind of thing. The nurses could get all the officers they wanted, but he guessed there was something dull about that. This way, there was an element of danger involved, and any girl liked that element of danger.

“Hi,” a voice said from the doorway.

He looked up, seeing the pharmacist’s mate again.

“Hi,” he answered.

“Got a chart for you,” the pharmacist’s mate said. “How you feeling?”

“Lousy.”

“You don’t look so lousy.”

“No? What’s that got to do with the way I feel?”

“Nothing. I just don’t trust people. ’Specially people with cat fever.”

“You the doctor here?”

“Nope.”

“Then it ain’t your job to diagnose. Besides, I’m the distrustful guy, remember?”

“Sure. I remember.” The pharmacist’s mate went to the foot of the bed and clipped the fresh chart there. “You been here before, ain’t you?”

“Yeah,” he said slowly.

“I thought I recognized you.”

“So?”

“So nothing. You’re a sickly type, I guess.”

“That’s right. I’m a sickly type.”

“Mmm,” the pharmacist’s mate said, nodding.

“When’s the doctor coming around?”

“You can relax,” the pharmacist said. “He’s made his last rounds for today. He won’t be around again till tomorrow morning. Not unless you’re dropping dead. Are you dropping dead?”

“No,” he answered.

“I didn’t figure. I heard you choking a while back, though, so I figured maybe you was ready to kick off. You want me to get the doc, I’ll be happy to do that for you.”

“I can wait until morning.”

The pharmacist’s mate smiled. “Don’t I know it,” he said.

“If you’re finished piddling around, I’d like to get some rest.”

“Sure,” the pharmacist’s mate said, smiling. “Got to let a sick man get his rest. Had to give you a chart, though, you understand that, don’t you? Can’t tell the sick ones from the fakers without a chart.”

“Are you looking for trouble, mate?” he asked suddenly.

“Me? Perish the thought.”

“Then get the hell off my back.”

“Sure.” He shook his head. “You sure talk tough for a sick man.”

“I’m not so sick that I can’t—”

“G’night, mate. Sleep tight.”

The pharmacist’s mate left the room, and he watched the broad back in the undress blues jumper turn outside the door and vanish. He cursed the bastard, and then leaned back against the pillow, wondering if the pecker checker would cause him any trouble. All he needed was a malingering charge against him. That would mean a captain’s mast, sure as hell. If not a deck court. Goddamnit, why’d people have to stick their noses into your business?

When he heard footsteps again, he thought it was the pharmacist’s mate returning, and then he recognized the hushed whisper of the hospital slippers that were generally handed out to ambulatory cases.

A boy poked his head around the doorjamb tentatively.

He was a tall boy with brown hair and blue eyes, a kid of no more than eighteen or nineteen. He wore the faded blue hospital robe and the fabric slippers, and his face was very pale, as if he’d been isolated from the sun for a long time.

“You just check in?” he asked.

“Yes.”

“My name’s Guibert. You sick?”

“I’m in the hospital, ain’t I?”

Guibert entered the room. “Mind if I come in?”

“Well...”

“I’m the official welcoming committee. I been here for eight months now. I see everybody who comes and goes. Guibert the Greeter, they call me. Ain’t I seen you around before?”

“Maybe,” he answered. Goddamnit, was the whole hospital full of spies?

“What’s your name?” Guibert asked.

“What difference does it make?”

“I just like to know.”

“It’s on the chart,” he said frostily.

Guibert looked briefly at the chart “What’s wrong with you?”

“Cat fever.”

“You’re lucky.”

“Am I?”

“Sure,” Guibert said. “I been here for eight months now, like I told you, and they still don’t know what’s wrong with me.”

“Yeah?” he said dubiously.

“God’s truth, s’help me. I been looked over by every doctor in the Navy practically.” Guibert shrugged. “They can’t figure it out.”

“Are you contagious?” he asked suddenly.

“Me? No, don’t worry about that. They thought so in the beginning, but no more now. They had me isolated for three months, figuring I was carrying a dread disease or something. But I ain’t. They just don’t know what I got.”

“That right?” he asked, interested now.

“Yeah,” Guibert said sadly. “I just run a fever all the time. A hun’ one, a hun’ two, like that. Never goes no higher. But it’s always there, day and night. Man, a fever like that can drain you, you know it?”

“I can imagine,” he said. “And you been here eight months?”

“Eight months and six days, you want to be exact about it. The doctors think I got bit by a bug or something. I was in the Pacific before I come here, on the Coral Sea. They think I got bit by some rare tropical bug. Man, I got a disease unknown to medical science. How’s that for an honor?”

“Nobody else has this disease?” he asked.

Guibert shook his head, a little proudly, a little in awe. “Not that they know of. How’s that for something? You know, they thought I was goofin’ off at first. Malingering, you know? But they couldn’t just pass off the thermometer readings. Every damn day, a hun’ one, a hun’ two. Puzzled the hell out of them.

“So they finally sent me over to see a psychiatrist. He give me that Rorschach test, and a lot of other tests, puttin’ arms and legs on a torso, and fittin’ pegs into holes, things like that. They even give me an electroencephalograph test. You ever hear of that?”

“No,” he said.

“Yeah, it’s a test measures brain waves. They put these little wires on your skull, like they’re gonna electrocute you or something, and this measures your brain waves. They can tell from that whether you got a illness or not, like a tumor or something, you know? Well, I ain’t got nothing like that. My brain waves are perfectly O.K. And the psychiatrist says he never saw nobody as normal as me. Which is why they are all so puzzled. If I ain’t goofing, and if I ain’t nuts, then what’s wrong with me?”

“Search me,” he said.

“Sometimes I wonder myself. I never got bit by no bug, I can swear to that. There was a lot of bugs on Guam, but I never got bit. So how come I run this fever all the time? The way I got it figured, I’ll be in this damn hospital for the rest of my life!”

“Do they give you liberty?”

“No. Hell, no, how can they do that? I’m a walking guinea pig. They find out what’s wrong with me, man, they can lick cancer and the common cold.” Guibert shook his head sadly.

“Well, it can’t be too bad here.”

“Oh, no, it ain’t bad at all. Bunch of nice guys, and some real doll nurses. We got a honey on this floor, wait’ll you meet her. We got four of them, you know, but this one is a real peach. A nice girl.”

“Yeah?” he asked, interested again.

“Yeah, you’ll see her. Hey, are you from Brooklyn?”

“No.”

“Oh. That’s a shame. I’m from Brooklyn. I keep asking guys where they’re from, like in boot camp. When you can’t get out, you’re anxious to meet guys from your neighborhood, you know?”

“Yes,” he said.

“What ship you off?”

“U.S.S. Sykes,” he said.

“What’s that?”

“A tin can.”

“That’s good duty, ain’t it?”

“Well, it’s not bad,” he said.

“The Sykes,” Guibert said. “That sounds familiar. Why should it sound familiar?”

“I don’t know,” he answered, shrugging.

Guibert thought about it for a moment, and then he shrugged, too. “Well, no matter.”

“This nurse...” he started.

“I’m a fire-control man, you know that?” Guibert said.

“No, I didn’t know.”

“Yeah. Went to school for it. You been on a carrier?”

“No.”

“What’s your rate?” Guibert asked.

“I’m a—”

“This is a sick man we got here, Guibert,” a voice from the doorway said.

He turned his head. The pharmacist’s mate was back again.

“Oh, I’m sorry,” Guibert said. “I didn’t realize it, Greg.”

“Yeah, he’s very sick,” the pharmacist’s mate said. “Very, very sick.”

“Well, then, I’ll be running along, Greg.”

“I think you’d better,” Greg said.

“Nice meeting you, mate,” Guibert said.

“Same here,” he answered.

Greg looked at him, and then smiled broadly. “You better get that rest you need. The doc’ll be around in the morning.”

He smiled back at Greg. “Sure,” he said. And he thought. And the nurses, too. The nurses, too.