The Best American Mystery Stories 2003

Mike Doogan War Can Be Murder

From The Mysterious North

Two men got out of the Jeep and walked toward the building. Their fleece-lined leather boots squeaked on the snow. One of the men was young, stocky, and black. The other was old, thin, and white. Both men wore olive-drab wool pants, duffel coats, and knit wool caps. The black man rolled forward onto his toes with each step, like he was about to leap into space. The white man’s gait was something between a saunter and a stagger. Their breath escaped in white puffs. Their heads were burrowed down into their collars, and their hands were jammed into the pockets of their coats.

“Kee-rist, it’s cold,” the black man said.

Their Jeep ticked loudly as it cooled. The building they approached was part log cabin and part Quonset hut with a shacky plywood porch tacked onto the front. Yellow light leaked from three small windows. Smoke plumed from a metal pipe punched through its tin roof. A sign beside the door showed a black cat sitting on a white crescent, the words CAROLINA MOON lettered beneath.

“You sure we want to go in here?” the black man asked.

“Have to,” the white man said. “I’ve got an investment to protect.”

They hurried through the door and shut it quickly behind them. They were standing in a fair-sized room that held a half-dozen tables and a big bar. They were the only ones in the room. The room smelled of cigarette smoke, stale beer, and desperation. The white man led the way past the bar and through a door, turned left, and walked down a dark hallway toward the light spilling from another open door.

The light came from a small room that held a big bed and four people not looking at the corpse on the floor. One, a big, red-haired guy, was dressed in olive drab with a black band around one biceps that read mp in white letters. The other man was short, plump, and fair-haired, dressed in brown. Both wore guns on their hips. One of the women was small and temporarily blond, wearing a red robe that didn’t hide much. The other woman was tall, black, and regal as Cleopatra meeting Caesar.

“I tole you, he give me a couple of bucks and said I should go get some supper at Leroy’s,” the temporary blonde was saying.

“‘Lo, Zulu,” the thin man said, nodding to the black woman.

“Mister Sam,” she replied.

“What the hell are you doing here, soldier?” the MP barked.

“That’s Sergeant,” the thin man said cheerfully. He nodded to the plump man. “Marshal Olson,” he said. “Damn cold night to be dragged out into, isn’t it?”

“So it is, Sergeant Hammett,” the plump man said. “So it is.” He shrugged toward the corpse on the floor. “Even colder where he is, you betcha.”

“Look you,” the MP said, “I’m ordering you to leave. And take that dinge with you. This here’s a military investigation, and if you upstuck it, I’ll throw you in the stockade.”

“If I what it?” Hammett asked.

“Upstuck,” the MP grated.

“Upstuck?” Hammett asked. “Anybody got any idea what he’s talking about?”

“I think he means ‘obstruct,’ ” the black man said.

“Why, thank you, Clarence,” Hammett said. He pointed to the black man. “My companion is Clarence Jefferson Delight. You might know him better as Little Sugar Delight. Fought Tony Zale to a draw just before the war. Had twenty-seven — that’s right, isn’t it, Clarence? — twenty-seven professional fights without a loss. Not bad for a dinge, eh?” To the plump man, he said, “It’s been a while since I was involved in this sort of thing, Oscar, but I believe that as the U.S. Marshal you’re the one with jurisdiction here.” To the MP, he said, “Which means you can take your order and stick it where the sun don’t shine.”

The MP started forward. Hammett waited for him with arms hanging loosely at his sides. The marshal stepped forward and put a hand on the MP’s chest.

“Maybe you’d better go cool off, fella,” he said. “Maybe go radio headquarters for instructions while I talk to these folks here.”

The MP hesitated, relaxed, said, “Right you are, Marshal,” and left the room.

“Maybe we should all go into the other room,” the marshal said. The others began to file out. Hammett crouched next to the corpse, which lay on its back, arms outflung, completely naked. He was a young, slim, sandy-haired fellow with blue eyes and full lips. His head lay over on his shoulder, the neck bent much farther than it should have been. Hammett laid a hand on the corpse’s chest.

“Give me a hand, Oscar, and we’ll roll him over,” he said.

The two men rolled the corpse onto its stomach. Hammett looked it up and down, grunted, and they rolled it back over.

“You might want to make sure a doctor examines that corpse,” he said as the two men walked toward the barroom. “I think you’ll find he was here to receive rather than give.”

The temporary blonde told a simple story. A soldier had come into her room, given her $2, and told her to get something to eat.

“He said don’t come back for an hour,” she said.

She’d gone out the back door, she said, shooting a nervous look at the black woman, so she wouldn’t have to answer any questions. When she returned, she’d found the soldier naked and dead.

“She told me,” the black woman said to the marshal, “and I sent someone for you.”

“What did you have to eat?” Hammett asked the temporary blonde.

“Leroy said it was beefsteak, but I think it was part of one of them moose,” she said. “And some mushy canned peas and a piece of chocolate cake. I think it give me the heartburn. That or the body.”

“That’s a story that should be easy enough to check out,” Hammett said.

“And what about you, Zulu?” the marshal asked.

“I was in the office or behind the bar all night, Mister Olson,” the black woman said. “That gentleman came in, had a drink, paid the usual fee, and asked for a girl. When I asked him which one, he said it didn’t matter. So I sent him back to Daphne.”

“Seen him before?” the marshal asked.

“Lots of men come through here,” Zulu said. “But I think he’d been here before.”

“He done the same thing with me maybe three, four times before,” the temporary blonde said. “With some a the other girls, too.” She shot another nervous look at the black woman. “We talk sometimes, ya know.”

“Notice anybody in particular in here tonight?” the marshal said.

“Quite a few people in here tonight,” Zulu said. “Some for the music, some for other things. Maybe thirty people in here when the body was found. I think maybe one of them is on the city council. And there was that banker...”

“That’s enough of that,” the marshal said.

“And he could have let anybody in through the back door,” Zulu said.

The red-haired MP came back into the barroom, chased by a blast of cold air.

“The major wants me to bring the whore in to the base,” he said to the marshal.

“I don’t think Daphne wants to go anywhere with you, young man,” Zulu said.

“I don’t care what a whore thinks,” the MP said.

Zulu leaned across the bar and very deliberately slapped the MP across the face. He lunged for her. Hammett stuck a shoulder into his chest, and the marshal grabbed his arm.

“You probably don’t remember me, Tobin,” Hammett said, leaning into the MP, “but I remember when you were just a kid on the black-and-blue squad in San Francisco. I heard you did something that got you thrown out of the cops just before the war. I don’t remember what. What was it you did to get tossed off the force?”

“Fuck you,” the MP said. “How do you know so much, anyway?”

“I was with the Pinks for a while,” Hammett said. “I know some people.”

“You can relax now, son,” the marshal said to the MP. “Nobody roughs up Zulu when I’m around. You go tell your major that if he wants to be involved in this investigation he should speak to me directly. Now beat it.”

“I’m too old for this nonsense,” Hammett said after the MP left, “but you can’t have people beating up your partner. It’s bad for business.”

“There ain’t going to be any business for a while,” the marshal said. “Until we get to the bottom of this, you’re closed, Zulu. I’ll roust somebody out and have ’em collect the body. Otherwise, keep people out of that room until I tell you different.”

With that, he left.

“I believe I’ll have a drink now, Zulu,” Hammett said.

“You heard the marshal,” the black woman said. “We’re closed.”

“But I’m your partner,” Hammett said, grinning.

“Silent partner,” she said. “I guess you forgot the silent part.”

“Now there’s gratitude for you, Clarence,” Hammett said. “She begs me for money to open this place, and now that she has my money she doesn’t want anything to do with me. Think what I’m risking. Why, if my friends in Hollywood knew I was half owner of a cathouse...”

“They’d all be lining up three deep for free booze and free nooky,” Zulu said. “Now you two skedaddle. I’ve got to get Daphne moved to another room, and I’ll have big, clumsy white folk tracking in and out of here all night. I’ll be speaking to you later, Mister Sam.”

The two men went back out into the cold.

“Little Sugar Delight?” the black man said. “Tony Zale? Why do you want to be telling such stories?”

“Why, Clarence,” Hammett said, “think how boring life would be if we didn’t all make up stories.”

The black man slid behind the wheel and punched the starter. The engine whirred and whined and exploded into life.

“You can drop me back at the Lido Gardens,” Hammett said. “I have a weekend pass, and I believe there’s a nurse who’s just about drunk enough by now.”

Hammett awoke the next morning alone, sprawled fully clothed on the bed of a small, spare hotel room. One boot lay on its side on the floor. The other was still on his left foot. He raised himself slowly to a sitting position. The steam radiator hissed, and somewhere outside the frosted-over window a horn honked. Hammett groaned loudly as he bent down to remove his boot. He pulled off both socks, then took two steps across the bare, cold floor to a small table, poured himself a glass of water from a pitcher, and drank it. Then another. He took the empty glass over to where his coat dangled from the back of a chair and rummaged around in the pockets until he came up with a small bottle of whiskey. He poured some into the glass, drank it, and shuddered.

“The beginning of another perfect day,” he said aloud.

He walked to the washstand and peered into the mirror. The face that looked back was pale and narrow, topped by crew-cut gray hair. He had baggy, hound-dog brown eyes and a full, salt-and-pepper mustache trimmed at the corners of a wide mouth. He took off his shirt and regarded his pipe-stem arms and sunken chest.

“Look out, Tojo,” he said.

He walked to the other side of the bed, opened a small leather valise, and took out a musette bag. Back at the washstand, he reached into his mouth and removed a full set of false teeth. His cheeks, already sunken, collapsed completely. He brushed the false teeth vigorously and replaced them in his mouth. He shaved. Then he took clean underwear from the valise, left the room, and walked down the hall toward the bathroom. About halfway down the hall, a small, dark-haired man lay snoring on the floor. He smelled of alcohol and vomit. Hammett stepped over him and continued to the bathroom.

After bathing, Hammett returned to his room, put on a clean shirt, and walked down a flight of stairs to the lobby. He went through a door marked CAFÉ and sat at the counter. A clock next to the cash register read 11:45. A hard-faced woman put a thick cup down in front of him and filled it with coffee. Hammett took a pair of eyeglasses out of his shirt pocket and consulted the gravy-stained menu.

“Breakfast or lunch?” he asked the hard-faced woman.

“Suit yourself,” she said.

“I’ll have the sourdough pancakes, a couple of eggs over easy, and orange juice,” Hammett said. “Coffee, too.”

“Hey, are these real eggs?” asked a well-dressed, middle-aged man sitting a few stools down. The left arm of his suit coat was empty and pinned to his lapel.

The hard-faced women blew air through her lips.

“Cheechakos,” she said. “A course they’re real eggs. Real butter, too. This here’s a war zone, you know.”

She yelled Hammett’s order through a serving hatch to the Indian cook.

“Can’t get this food back home?” Hammett asked the one-armed man.

“Ration cards,” the man replied. “Or the black market.”

“Much money in the black market?” Hammett asked.

The one-armed man made a sour face.

“Guess so,” he said. “You can get most anything off the back of a truck, most of it with military markings. And they say the high society parties are all catered by Uncle Sam. But I wouldn’t know for certain.” He flicked his empty sleeve. “Got this at Midway. I’m not buying at no goddamn black market.”

A boy selling newspapers came in off the street. Hammett gave him a dime and took a newspaper, which was cold to the touch.

“Budapest Surrenders!” the headline proclaimed.

A small article said the previous night’s temperature had reached twenty-eight below zero, the coldest of the winter. In the lower right-hand corner of the front page was a table headed “Road to Berlin.” It showed that allied troops were 32 miles away at Zellin on the eastern front, 304 miles away at Kleve on the western front, and 504 miles away at the Reno River on the Italian front.

The hard-faced woman put a plate of pancakes and eggs in front of Hammett. As he ate them, he read that the Ice Carnival had donated $1,100 in proceeds to the Infantile Paralysis Fund, the Pribilof Five — two guitars, a banjo, an accordion, and a fiddle — had played at the USO log cabin, and Jimmy Foxx had re-signed with the Phillies. He finished his meal, put a 50-cent piece next to his plate, and stood up.

“Where do you think you are, mister?” the hard-faced woman said. “Seattle? That’ll be one dollar.”

“Whew!” the one-armed man said.

Hammett dug out a dollar, handed it to the woman, and left the 50-cent piece on the counter.

“Wait’ll you have a drink,” he said to the one-armed man.

Hammett walked across the lobby to the hotel desk and asked the clerk for the telephone. He consulted the slim telephone book, dialed, identified himself, and waited.

“Oscar,” he said. “Sam Hammett. Has the doctor looked at that corpse from last night? Uh-huh. Uh-huh. Was I right about him? I see. You found out his name yet and where he was assigned? A sergeant? That kid was a sergeant? What’s this man’s army coming to? And he was in supply? Nope, I don’t know anybody over there. But if you want, I can have a word with General Johnson. Okay. How about the Carolina Moon? Can Zulu open up again? Come on, Oscar. Be reasonable. They didn’t have anything to do with the killing. All right then. I guess we’d better hope you find the killer soon. See you. Oscar. ‘Bye.”

Hammett returned to his room, put on his overcoat, and went out of the hotel. The air was warmer than it had been the night before, but not warm. He walked several blocks along the street, moving slowly over the hard-packed snow. He passed mostly one- or two-story wooden buildings, many of them hotels, bars, or cafés. He counted seven buildings under construction. A few automobiles of prewar vintage passed him, along with several Jeeps and a new, olive-drab staff car. He passed many people on foot, most of them men in work clothes or uniforms. When his cheeks began to get numb, he turned left, then left again, and walked back toward the hotel. A couple of blocks short of his destination, he turned left again, crossed the street, and went into a small shop with BOOK CACHE painted on its window. He browsed among the tables of books, picked one up, and walked to the counter.

“Whatya got there?” the woman behind the counter asked. Her hair was nearly as gray as Hammett’s. “Theoretical Principles of Marxism by V. I. Lenin.” She smiled. “That sounds like a thriller. Buy or rent?”

“Rent,” Hammett said.

“Probably won’t get much call for this,” the woman said. “How about ten cents for a week?”

“Better make it two weeks,” Hammett said, handing her a quarter. “This isn’t easy reading.”

The woman wrote the book’s title, Hammett’s name and barracks number, and the rental period down in a register, gave him a nickel back, and smiled again.

“Aren’t you a little old to be a soldier?” she asked.

“I was twenty-one when I enlisted,” he said, grinning. “War ages a man.”

When it came time to turn for his hotel, Hammett walked on. Two blocks later he was at a small wooden building with a sign over the door that read MILITARY POLICE.

“I’m looking for the duty officer,” he told the MP on the desk. A young lieutenant came out of an office in the back.

“Sam Hammett of General Johnson’s staff,” Hammett said. “I’m working on a piece for Army Up North about military policing, and I need some information.”

“Don’t you salute officers on General Johnson’s staff?” the lieutenant snapped.

“Not when we’re off duty and out of uniform, sir,” Hammett said. “As I’m certain they taught you in OCS, sir.”

The two men looked at one another for a minute, then the lieutenant blinked and said, “What can I do for you, Sergeant?”

“I need some information on staffing levels, sir,” Hammett said. “For instance, how many men did you have on duty here in Anchorage last night, sir?”

Each successive “sir” seemed to make the lieutenant more at ease.

“I’m not sure,” he said. “But if you’d like to step back into the office, we can look at the duty roster.”

Hammett looked at the roster. Tobin’s name wasn’t on it. He took a notebook out of his coat pocket and wrote in it.

“Thank you, sir,” he said. “Now I’ll need your name and hometown. For the article.”

Back at the hotel, Hammett removed his coat and boots. He poured some whiskey into the glass, filled it with water, lay down on the bed, and began writing a letter.

“Dear Lillian,” it began. “I am back in Anchorage and have probably seen the end of my posting to the Aleutians.”

When he’d finished the letter, he made himself another drink and picked up his book. Within five minutes he was snoring.

He dreamed he was working for the Pinkerton National Detective Agency again, paired with a big Irish kid named Michael Carey on the Fatty Arbuckle case. He dreamed he was at the Stork Club, arguing with Hemingway about the Spanish Civil War. He dreamed he was in a watering hole on Lombard with an older Carey, who pointed out red-haired Billy Tobin and said something Hammett couldn’t make out. He dreamed he was locked in his room on Post Street, drinking and writing The Big Knockover. His wife, Josie, was pounding on the door, asking for more money for herself and his daughters.

“Hey mister, wake up.” It was the desk clerk’s voice. He pounded on the door again. “Wake up, mister.”

“What do you want?” Hammett called.

“You got a visitor downstairs. A shine.”

Hammett got up from the bed and pulled the door open.

“Go get my visitor and bring him up,” he said.

The desk clerk returned with the black man right behind him.

“Clarence, this is the desk clerk,” Hammett said. “What’s your name?”

“Joe,” the desk clerk said.

“Joe,” Hammett said, “this is Clarence ‘Big Stick’ LeBeau. Until the war came along, he played third base for the Birmingham Black Barons of the Negro league. Hit thirty home runs or more in seven — it was seven, wasn’t it, Clarence? — straight seasons. If it weren’t for the color line, he’d have been playing for the Yankees. Not bad for a shine, huh?”

“I didn’t mean nothing by that, mister,” the desk clerk said. “You neither, Clarence.” His eyes darted this way and that. “I got to get back to the desk,” he said, and scurried off.

“Welcome to my castle,” Hammett said, stepping aside to let the black man in. “What brings you here?”

“I’ve got to get started to Florida for spring training,” the black man said. “The things you come up with. I didn’t know white folk knew anything about the Birmingham Black Barons. And why do you keep calling me Clarence?”

“It suits you better than Don Miller,” Hammett said. “And it keeps everybody guessing. Confusion to the enemy.”

“You been drinking?” Miller said.

“A little,” Hammett said. “You want a nip?” Miller shook his head. “But I’ve been sleeping more. The old need their sleep. What brings you here?”

“I was at the magazine office working on the illustrations for that frostbite article when I was called into the presence of Major General Davenport Johnson himself. He said you’d promised to go to a party tonight at some banker’s house, and since he knew what an irresponsible s.o.b. you were — those were his words — he was ordering me to make sure you got there. Party starts in half an hour, so you’d better get cleaned up.”

“I’m not going to any goddamn party at any goddamn banker’s house,” Hammett said. “I’m going to the Lido Gardens and the South Seas and maybe the Owl Club.”

“This is Little Sugar Delight you’re talking to, remember,” Miller said. “You’re going to the party if I have to carry you. General’s orders.”

“General’s orders,” Hammett said, and laughed. “That’ll teach me to be famous.” He took off his shirt, washed his face and hands, put the shirt back on, knotted a tie around his neck, put on his uniform jacket and a pair of glistening black shoes that he took from the valise, and picked up his overcoat.

“All right, Little Sugar,” he said, “let’s go entertain the cream of Anchorage society.”

Hammett got out of the Jeep in front of a two-story wooden house. Light spilled from all the windows, and the cold air carried the muffled murmur of voices.

“You can go on about your business,” he told Miller. “I’ll walk back to town.”

“It must be twenty below, Sam,” Miller said.

“Nearer thirty, I expect,” Hammett said. “But it’s only a half-dozen blocks, and I like to walk.”

Indoors, the temperature was 110 degrees warmer. Men in suits and uniforms stood around drinking, talking, and sweating. Among them was a sprinkling of overdressed women with carefully done-up hair. A horse-faced woman wearing what might have been real diamonds and showing a lot of cleavage walked up to Hammett.

“Aren’t you Dashiell Hammett, the writer?” she asked.

Hammett stared down the front of her dress.

“Actually, I’m Samuel Hammett, the drunkard,” he said after several seconds. “Where might I find a drink?”

Hammett quickly downed a drink and picked up another. The woman led him to where a large group, all wearing civilian clothes, was talking about the war.

“I tell you,” a big, bluff man with dark, wavy hair was saying, “we are winning this war because we believe in freedom and democracy.”

Everyone nodded.

“And free enterprise, whatever Roosevelt might think,” said another man.

Everyone nodded again.

“What do you think, Dashiell?” the woman asked.

Hammett finished his drink. His eyes were bright, and he had a little smile on his lips.

“I think I need another drink,” he said.

“No,” the woman said, “about the war.”

“Oh, that,” Hammett said. “First of all, we’re not winning the war. Not by ourselves. We’ve got a lot of help. The Soviets, for example, have done much of the dying for us. Second, the part of the war we are winning we’re winning because we can make more tanks and airplanes and bombs than the Germans and the Japs can. We’re not winning because our ideas are better than theirs. We’re winning because we’re drowning the sonsabitches in metal.”

When he stopped talking, the entire room was quiet.

“That was quite a speech,” the woman said, her voice much less friendly than it had been.

“You’d have been better off just giving me another drink,” Hammett said. “But don’t worry. I can get it myself.”

He was looking at a painting of a moose when a slim, curly-haired fellow who couldn’t have been more than thirty walked up to him. He had a major’s oak leaves on his shoulders.

“That was quite a speech, soldier,” the major said. “What’s an NCO doing at this party, anyway?”

“Ask the general,” Hammett said.

“Oh, that’s right, you’re Hammett, the hero of the morale tour.” The major took a drink from the glass he was holding. “You must be something on a morale tour with speeches like that.” When Hammett said nothing, the major went on, “I hear you’re involved in the murder of one of my sergeants.”

Hammett laughed. “I don’t know about involved,” he said, “but I’ve got a fair idea who did it.”

The major moved closer to Hammett.

“I think you’ll find that in the army, it’s safer to mind your own business,” he said. “Much safer.”

Hammett thrust his face into the major’s face and opened his mouth to speak, but was interrupted by another voice.

“Ah, Sergeant Hammett,” the voice said, “I see you’ve met Major Allen. The major’s the head of supply out at the fort.”

“Thanks for clearing that up, General,” Hammett said. “I thought maybe he was somebody’s kid and these were his pajamas.”

The major’s face reddened and his mouth opened.

“Sergeant!” the general barked. “Do you know the punishment for insubordination?”

“Sorry, General, Major,” Hammett said. “This whiskey just plays hob with my ordinarily high regard for military discipline.”

The major stomped off.

“That mouth of yours will get you into trouble one day, Sergeant,” the general said. He sounded as if he were trying hard not to laugh.

“Yes, sir,” Hammett said. “But he is a jumped-up little turd.”

“Yes, he is that,” the general said. “Regular army. His father was regular army, too. Chief of supply at the Presidio. Did very well for himself. Retired to a very nice home on Nob Hill. This one’s following in the family footsteps. All polish and connections. There, see? See how politely he takes his leave of the hostess. Now you behave yourself.” The general looked at the picture of the moose. “Damned odd animal, isn’t it?” he said, and moved off.

The general left the party a half hour later and Hammett a few minutes after that. He made his way down the short, icy walkway and, as he turned left, his feet flew out from under him. As he fell he heard three loud explosions. Something whirred past his ear. He twisted so that he landed on his side and rolled behind a car parked at the curb. He heard people boil out of the house behind him.

“What was that?” they called. And, “Are you all right?”

Hammett got slowly to his feet. There were no more shots.

“I’m fine,” he called. “But I could use a lift downtown, if anyone is headed that way.”

It was nearly midnight when Hammett walked into the smoke and noise of the Lido Gardens. A four-piece band was making a racket in one corner, and a table full of WACs was getting a big play from about twice as many men in the other. Hammett navigated his way across the room to the bar and ordered a whiskey.

“Not bad for a drunk,” he said to himself and turned to survey the room. His elbow hit the shoulder of the man next to him. The man spilled some of his beer on the bar.

“Hey, watch it, you old bastard,” the man growled, looking up. A broad smile split his face. “Well if it isn’t Dash Hammett, the worst man on a stakeout I ever saw. What are you doing here at the end of the earth?”

“Dispensing propaganda and nursemaiding Hollywood stars,” Hammett said. “Isn’t that why every man goes to war? And what about you, Carey? The Pinks finally figure out how worthless you are and let you go?”

The two men shook hands.

“No, it’s a sad tale,” the other man said. “A man of my years should have been able to spend the war behind a desk, in civilian clothes. But then the army figured out that a lot of money was rolling around because of the war and that money might make people do some bad things.” Both men laughed. “So they drafted me. Me, with my bad knees and failing eyesight. Said I had special qualifications. And here I am, back out in the field, chasing crooks. For even less money than the agency paid me.”

“War is indeed hell,” Hammett said. “Let me buy you a drink to ease the pain.” He signaled to the bartender. When both men had fresh drinks, he asked, “What brings you to Alaska?”

“Well, you’ll get a good laugh out of this,” Carey said. “You’ll never guess who we found as a supply sergeant at Fort Lewis. Bennie the Grab. And he had Spanish Pete Gomez and Fingers Malone as his corporals.”

“Mother of God,” Hammett said. “It’s a surprise there was anything left worth stealing at that place.”

“You know it, brother,” Carey said. “So you can imagine how we felt when all of the paperwork checked out. Bennie and the boys wouldn’t have gotten much more than a year in the brig for false swearing when they joined up if it hadn’t been for some smart young pencil pusher. He figured out they were sending a lot of food and not much of anything else to the 332nd here at Fort Richardson.”

“Don’t tell me,” Hammett said. “There is no 332nd.”

“That’s right,” Carey said. “The trucks were leaving the warehouses, but the goods for the 332nd weren’t making it to the ships. There wasn’t a restaurant or diner or private dinner party in the entire Pacific Northwest that didn’t feature U.S. Army butter and beef. We scooped up Bennie and the others, a couple of captains, a major, and a full-bird colonel. All the requisitions were signed by a Sergeant Prevo, and I drew the short straw and got sent up here to arrest him and roll things up at this end.”

“It seems you got here just a bit late, Michael,” Hammett said. “Because unless there are two supply sergeants named Prevo, your man got his neck broken in a gin mill last night. My gin mill, if it matters.”

“This damned army,” Carey said. “We didn’t tell anybody at this end, because we didn’t know who might be involved. And it looks like we’ll never find out now, either.”

“I don’t know about that,” Hammett said. “I need to know two things. Were the men running the supply operation at Fort Lewis regular army? And what was it a kid named Billy Tobin got kicked off the force in ‘Frisco for? If you can answer those questions, I might be able to help you.”

Before Hammett went down the hall to the bathroom the next morning, he took a small pistol from his valise and slipped it into the pocket of his pants. He left it there when he went downstairs for bacon and eggs. As he ate, he read an authoritative newspaper story about the Jap army using babies as bayonet practice targets in Manila. He spent the rest of the day in his room, reading and dozing, leaving the room to take one telephone call. He ate no lunch. He looked carefully up and down the hallway before his visit to the bathroom. When his watch read 7:30, he got fully dressed, packed his valise, and sat on the bed. Just at nine P.M., there was a knock on his door.

“Mister,” the desk clerk called. “You got a visitor. The same fella.”

Hammett walked downstairs and settled his bill with the clerk. He and Miller went out and got into a Jeep. Neither man said anything. The joints on the far side of the city limits were doing big business as they drove past. The Carolina Moon was the only dark building. As they pulled up in front of it, Hammett said, “You might want to find yourself a quiet spot to watch the proceedings.”

“What you doing this for?” Miller asked. “Solving murders isn’t your business.”

“This one is my business,” Hammett said. “Zulu’s got to eat, and I want a return on my investment. Nobody’s making any money with the Moon closed.”

“You and Miss Zulu more than just business partners?” Miller asked.

“A gentleman wouldn’t ask such a question,” Hammett said, “and a gentleman certainly won’t answer it.”

Hammett hurried into the building. He had trouble making out the people in the dimly lit barroom. Zulu was there, and the temporary blonde. The marshal. The MP. Carey, a couple of tough-looking gents Hammett didn’t know, and the major from the party. The MP was standing at the bar, looking at himself in a piece of mirror that hung behind it. Everyone else was sitting. Hammett went around behind the bar, took off his coat, and laid it on the bar. He poured himself a drink and drank it off. The MP wandered over to stand next to the door to the hallway.

“I see you’ve got everyone assembled,” Hammett said to Carey.

The investigator nodded.

“The major came to me,” he said. “Said as it was his sergeant that was killed, he wanted to be in on this.”

“That’s one of the things that bothered me about this,” Hammett said. “Major Allen seems to know things he shouldn’t. For instance, Major, how did you know I was involved in this affair?”

The major was silent for a moment, then said, “I’m certain my friend Major Haynes of the military police must have mentioned your name to me.”

“We’ll leave that,” Hammett said. “Because the other thing that bothered me came first. Oscar, did you call the MPs the night of the killing?”

The marshal shook his head.

“Then what was the sergeant doing here?”

“Said he was in the neighborhood,” the marshal said.

“But Oscar,” Hammett said, “don’t the MPs always patrol in pairs on this side of the city limits?”

“They certainly do,” the marshal said. “What about that,’ young fella?”

The MP looked at the marshal, then at Hammett.

“My partner got sick,” he said. “I had to go it alone. Then I saw all them soldiers leaving here and came to see what was what.”

“Michael?” Hammett said.

“Like you said, the duty roster said the sergeant wasn’t even on duty that night,” the investigator said.

Everyone was looking at the MP now. He didn’t say anything.

“This is your case, Oscar,” Hammett said, “so let me tell you a story.

“There’s a ring of thieves operating out of Fort Lewis, pretending to send food to a phony outfit up here, then selling it on the black market. The ones doing the work were crooks from San Francisco. Tobin here would have known them from his time with the police there.

“Their man on this end, the fellow who was killed the other night, didn’t seem to have any connection with them. Michael told me on the telephone today that he was from the Midwest and had never been arrested. He seemed to be just a harmless pansy who used the Moon to meet his boyfriend.”

“That’s disgusting,” the major said.

“That’s what happens when the army makes a place the dumping ground for all of its undesirables, Major,” Hammett said. “What did you do to get sent here?”

“I volunteered,” the major grated.

“I’ll bet you did,” Hammett said. “Anyway, last night Michael reminded me that Tobin here had been run off the San Francisco force for beating up a dancer at Finocchio’s. He claimed the guy made a pass at him, but the inside story was that it was a lovers’ quarrel.”

“That’s a goddamn lie!” the MP shouted.

“It’s just one coincidence too many,” Hammett said, his voice as hard as granite. “You know the San Francisco mob. They’re stealing from the government. Prevo was in on the scheme. He was queer. You’re queer. You’re sewn up tight. What happened? He get cold feet and you had to kill him?”

The MP looked from one face to another in the room. Then he looked at Hammett.

“I didn’t kill the guy,” the MP said. “It was him.” He pointed to the major.

Everyone looked at the major, then back at the MP. He was holding his automatic in his hand.

“That’s not going to do you any good, young man,” the marshal said. “This is Alaska. Where you going to run?”

The MP seemed not to hear him.

“I ain’t no queer!” he shouted at Hammett. “I hate queers. I beat that guy up ’cause he made a pass at me, just like I said. I’d have killed him if I thought I’d get away with it. Here, I was just giving the major a little cover in case anything happened. Like the place got raided or something. Then the other day he told me some pal of his had warned him that they’d knocked over the Fort Lewis end of the deal and we were going to have to do something about his boyfriend. ‘Jerry will talk,’ he said. ‘I know he will.’ I told him I wasn’t killing anybody. The stockade was better than the firing squad. So he comes out the back door of this place the other night and says he killed the pansy himself.”

“That’s a goddamn lie,” the major shouted, leaping to his feet. “I don’t even know this man. I’ve got a wife and baby at home. I’m no fairy.”

“You’re for it, Tobin,” Hammett said to the MP. “He doesn’t leave anything to chance. Why, he tried to shoot me last night just on the off chance I might know something. I’ll bet he does have a wife and child. And I’ll bet there’s nothing to connect him to either you or the corpse. And there’s the love letters Michael found in your foot-locker.”

“Love letters?” the MP said. “What love letters?”

He looked at Hammett, then at the major. Understanding flooded his face.

“You set me up!” he screamed at the major. “You set me up as a fairy!”

The automatic barked. The slug seemed to pick the major up and hurl him backwards. The temporary blonde screamed. All over the room, men were taking guns from holsters and pockets. They seemed to be moving in slow motion. The MP swung the gun toward Hammett.

“You should have kept your nose out of this,” the MP said, leveling the automatic. His finger closed on the trigger.

Don Miller stepped out of the hallway behind the MP and laid a sap on the back of his head. The MP collapsed like he was filled with sawdust.

Miller and Hammett looked at one another for a long moment. Hammett took his hand off the pistol in the pocket of his coat.

“I think that calls for a drink,” he said, pouring himself one.

The marshal was putting cuffs on the MP. Carey looked up from where the major lay and shook his head.

“I guess this means you’ll be able to open up again, Zulu,” Hammett said.

The following afternoon Miller found Hammett lying on a table in the cramped offices of the magazine Army Up North, reading Lenin.

“I’ve got some errands to run in town,” he told Hammett.

“Fine by me,” Hammett said, sitting up. “I’ve been thinking I’ll put in my papers. The war can’t last much longer, and this looks like as close as I’ll get to any action.”

“You’d have been just as dead if that MP shot you as you would if it’d been a Jap bullet,” Miller said.

“I suppose,” Hammett said. “This morning the general told me they were going to show Major Allen as killed in the line of duty. They’ll give Tobin a quick trial and life in the stockade. The whole thing’s being hushed up. The brass don’t want to embarrass the major’s father, and they don’t want the scandal getting back to the president and Congress. This is the country I enlisted to protect?”

Miller shrugged. “I got to be going,” he said.

“Right you are,” Hammett said. “And by the way, thanks for stepping in last night. I didn’t want to shoot that kid, and I didn’t want to get shot myself.”

Miller turned to leave.

“I suppose I’ll just give the Moon to Zulu if I go,” Hammett said.

“That’d be real nice,” Miller said over his shoulder.

He went out, got into a Jeep, drove downtown, and parked. He walked into the federal building, climbed a set of stairs, walked down a hallway, and went through an unmarked door without knocking. He sat in a chair and told the whole story to a man on the other side of the desk. “That’s all very interesting,” the man said, “but did the subject say anything to you or anyone else about Marx, Lenin, or communism?”

“Is that all you care about?” Miller asked. “I keep telling you, I’ve never heard him say anything about communism.”

“You’ve got to understand,” the man said. “This other matter just isn’t important. The director says we are already fighting the next war, the war against communism. This war is a triumph of truth, justice, and the American way. And it’s over.”

Miller said nothing.

“You can let yourself out,” the man said. Then he turned to his typewriter, rolled a form into it, and began to type.