by Ed McBain
“Yes. I want you to restrict all the men to the ship, starting at once. Cancel liberty for all watch sections.”
“Yes, sir,” Reynolds said.
“Captain,” Norton said.
“Yes?”
“That order includes officers, too, I hope.”
“Officers?”
“I assumed that ‘men,’ in Navy jargon, means ‘enlisted men.’ I want the officers restricted, too.”
“But surely you don’t think—”
“Captain, until I know better, even you may have killed that nurse.”
“I see.” Glenburne forced a smile that didn’t quite come off. “All right, Mike,” he said. “Restrict all officers and men to the ship.” He turned to Norton. “I hope this will not include my investigation board.”
Norton shrugged. “All right, give your board free rein.”
“Thank you. Take care of that, will you, Mike?”
“Yes, sir.” Reynolds walked to the door and opened it, catching Masters in the act of raising his fist to knock. Glenburne spotted Masters and said, “Come in, Chuck, come in.” Masters stood to one side while Reynolds stepped into the passageway. He winked at Reynolds and then went into the wardroom, closing the door behind him.
“Chuck,” Glenburne said, “Mr. Norton and Mr. Dickason, the FBI men we’ve been expecting. Gentlemen, this is Mr. Masters, my communications officer.” Glenburne cleared his throat. “He is also a member of the investigation board.”
Norton took Masters’ hand. “How do you do?”
Masters returned the grip, and then shook hands with Dickason. “Gentlemen,” he said.
“I told these gentlemen you’d show them the radar shack, Chuck. You can do that right now, if you like. That is, I have nothing further to say.” The Old Man looked miffed, and Masters wondered what had happened before he’d arrived.
“Yes, sir,” he said. “If you’ll come with me, gentle—”
“Oh, yes,” Glenburne said, “one other thing. If you’d like, I can find quarters for you on the ship. I’m sure some of my officers wouldn’t mind—”
“We’ll stay in town, thank you,” Norton said.
“I see.” Glenburne cleared his throat. “Well, good luck.”
“Thank you,” Norton said. He followed Masters and Dickason out of the wardroom and into the passageway.
“Right up this ladder,” Masters said over his shoulder. The FBI men followed soundlessly. When they were in the passageway outside C.I.C., Masters said, “This is the radar shack. We’ve kept it locked since the day of the murder.”
“The body’s been removed, hasn’t it?”
“Yes. But we chalked the deck for you. So you’ll know where she was lying. We haven’t touched anything in here.”
“Except the doorknob,” Norton said dryly.
“Sir?”
“You’ve got your hand all over it right this minute,” Norton said. “How many other people have smeared the prints that might have been on that knob?”
Masters drew his hand back suddenly, as if the brass knob had magically grown hot. “I’m sorry. I didn’t think.”
“Is the door locked?” Norton asked.
“Yes, sir.”
“Has it been locked since the day of the murder?”
“Yes, sir.”
“Was it locked when you discovered the body?”
“Yes, sir.”
“All right, open it. What’s down the hallway there?”
“The radio shack, sir,” Masters said. “And beyond that, the boat deck. Through the hatch there.”
“All right, open the door.”
Masters unlocked the door and swung it wide. The room was in absolute darkness.
“Were there any lights on when you found the body?” Norton asked.
“Only on one of the plotting boards,” Masters said. “The overhead lights were off.”
“Mmmm.” Norton looked around. “Where’s the light switch?”
“On your left, sir.”
Norton fished a handkerchief out of his breast pocket, opened it over his fingers, and turned the lights on. The radar gear was lined up on the bulkhead to his right. The plotting tables were opposite the gear, with a vertical plotting board diagonally in front of the door leading to the sound shack. Norton looked around the room silently.
“This where you found the body?” Dickason asked, indicating the chalked outline on the deck.
“Yes, sir.”
“She was strangled, that right?”
“Yes, sir.”
“We’ll have to check that, Fred,” Dickason said. “May be prints on her throat.”
“May be,” Norton said pessimistically. “Those cigarettes there when you found her?”
“Yes, sir.”
Norton stooped and picked the cigarettes up with his handkerchief, carefully folding the linen around them. “Anyone touch these?”
“No, sir.”
“Where’s the girl’s body now?”
“At the base hospital, I believe,” Masters said. “They were holding it for you, I think. The girl’s parents—”
“All right, we’ll take a look later,” Norton said. “You can go now. Mr. Masters.”
Masters hesitated, and then said, “I questioned the girl’s roommate. She told me—”
“What’s her name, Mr. Masters?”
“Jean Dvorak.”
“Where can we find her?”
“She’s a nurse here on the base. You can—”
“Thank you. We’ll get to her later.”
“She told me—”
“We’ll get to her later,” Norton said.
Masters nodded blankly. “Well, if you need me …”
“We’ll ask the Captain for you. Thanks again for your assistance, Mr. Masters.”
Masters nodded again and walked to the door. He hesitated, looked back into the room, and then left.
“An investigation board!” Norton said sourly.
Dickason shrugged. “They may turn up something, Fred. You never can tell.”
“You’re new at this business,” Norton said. “Take it from me, boy, they won’t turn up a damned thing. I’ve had experience with this kind of setup before.”
“A Navy ship, you mean?”
“No, but a similar setup. An American Legion post once. Entertainer killed there. We got in on the act because the girl had come over the state line. The veterans worked up what they called an investigating committee. Goddamnit, I wanted to shoot them all before I finally got off it.”
“Well, these guys—”
“These guys are all laymen. Like that doorknob. We might have got something from it. Now all we’ve got is a record of every slob who entered this room since the nurse got it. Oh, hell.”
“Think we’ll get anything from the cigarettes?”
“I don’t know. We’d better send those to Washington for a real run-through. I think you’d better dust this room to see what else you can pick up.”
“What are you going to do, Fred?”
“I want to take a look at the body. And then I’ll question this nurse. Maybe she knows something.”
“That officer said—”
“Yes, I know. He’s already questioned her. He’s probably confused her so that she’ll be worthless now. Why the hell can’t people leave technical jobs to technicians? Suppose I came in and started screwing around with his radar? Christ, he’d blow his top.”
Dickason began laughing suddenly.
“What’s so funny?” Norton asked.
“The Captain. You really laid down the law with him.”
“I had to. Look at it this way, Matt: He’s captain of this ship, used to bossing around everybody he runs into. All right, if I didn’t let him know where he stood, he’d think we were a couple more of his lackeys. He may be the boss here normally, but during the run of this investigation, we’re in charge. I wanted him to know that from go.”
“You really think the old g
uy might have killed her?”
Norton shrugged. “He doesn’t look as if he’d touch a fly.” He paused. “Unless it were unzipped.”
“Yok-yok,” Dickason said.
“Go down and get your gear,” Norton said. “You’d better get started here as soon as possible.”
“While you look at the stiff.”
“While I look at the stiff. Want to come along?”
“No, thanks.”
“I figured. They should have grown a beard on you and sent you to Russia, Matt. That’s the work for you. Cloak and dagger.”
“Up yours,” Dickason said.
Norton snorted and stamped out of the radar shack.
3
“You’re just assuming it was an enlisted man,” the exec said to Masters. “That’s officer prejudice.”
“No, sir, it is not,” Masters said. “It is nothing of the sort. It is sheer calculation, worthy of Sherlock Holmes himself. I’m wasting my time in this goddamned Navy, that’s all.”
“All right, Sherlock, let me hear it.”
“Right. I figured it was an officer at first because I couldn’t think of any way for an enlisted man to meet a nurse socially. They don’t go to dances together, and they usually don’t frequent the same dives. So it had to be an officer. Assuming, of course, that whoever killed Claire Cole knew her.”
“Go on.”
“All right, so this Dvorak girl tells me Claire went on a Wilmington week end with somebody. Two weeks ago. I checked the ship’s list. Three officers went off that week end.”
“And who were they?”
“Carlucci. He went to New York to see his wife. Haverford. He went to Norfolk, and you know what he did there. He came back stinking blind. I know he left the ship with thirty dollars and with no change of clothing. He sure as hell wasn’t preparing for a week end in Wilmington. Besides, I saw him in Norfolk that Sunday.”
“So who was the third officer?”
“You, Mike.”
“I’ll be damned,” Reynolds said.
“So the officer assumption is out. Unless you killed her.”
“Don’t be silly,” Reynolds said, a little miffed.
“I didn’t think you did, Mike. So I started looking over the list of enlisted men who had that week end.”
“There must have been plenty.”
“There were. The entire second-watch section.”
Reynolds pulled a face. “That narrowed it down considerably, didn’t it?”
“Hardly. Something else did, though.”
“What?”
“Claire Cole was killed in the radar shack. On Navy Day, the shack was locked. That meant whoever killed her had a key.”
“We’ve already gone through every man’s locker,” Reynolds said. “If you think—”
“I’m not saying he still has it, Mike. But he had it in order to get into the shack. That’s for sure.”
“All right, go on.”
“I asked myself who among the enlisted men would possess a key to the radar shack.”
“Who indeed?” Reynolds asked.
“A radarman, of course. That was my first thought. You know the radar bunch. They’re always in there making coffee and what the hell, and if one has a key, they all have it. But someone else could get a key, too.”
“Who?”
“A yeoman.”
“I don’t follow.”
“There are keys to every room and compartment on this ship in the yeoman’s office.”
“The key to the radar shack is still there,” Reynolds said.
“Sure, but that doesn’t mean anything. If whoever killed her was planning on having her aboard, he’d also plan on where to take her when she was aboard. He could have had a duplicate key made from the one in the yeoman’s office.”
“All right, I’ll grant you that. So it could have been either a radarman or a yeoman. How many of each went on liberty that week end?”
“Six radarmen and three yeomen.”
“That really does narrow it down.”
“Considerably. And I’ve narrowed it down even further.”
“How?”
“Well, I wondered how an enlisted man could meet a nurse, and get to know her well enough to propose a week end in Wilmington. The answer was simple.”
Reynolds sighed heavily. “What was the answer?”
“He was in the hospital.”
Reynolds’ eyes narrowed in interest. “Go on, Chuck,” he said.
“I checked, Mike. Since we pulled into the base, thirty men have been to the hospital. Twelve were there within the last three months, and of those, eleven were there for a week or more. Of the eleven, eight were on Claire Cole’s ward.”
“So?”
“Two of those eight men were radarmen. Three were yeomen.”
“Seems to indicate a high sick rate among the white-collar ratings, doesn’t it? What else did you find?”
“I carried it all the way down, Mike. Of the two radarmen, one had liberty on that week end Claire spent in Wilmington. Of the yeomen, two had liberty then.”
“So what have you got now?”
“Names. Three names. Each of the three men had an opportunity to meet and know Claire Cole. Each of the three had week-end liberty when she did. And each of the three had access to a radar-shack key.”
“And who are they?”
“Alfred Jones, radarman third class; Perry Daniels, yeoman second class; and Richard Schaefer, yeoman second class—the recorder on your investigation board.” Reynolds considered this for a moment. Then he said, “One thing, Chuck.”
“What’s that?”
“I think the FBI already knows all this.”
“Go to hell,” Masters said.
He looks honest enough, Masters thought. He certainly doesn’t look like a killer.
He studied the thin boy standing before the table in the wardroom. He was tall, with penetrating blue eyes and an angular face. He had large hands, and he clenched and unclenched them nervously now.
“Your name is Alfred Jones?” Masters asked.
“Yes, sir. You know me, sir. I’m in the radar gang.”
“Rank?” Masters asked, ignoring Jones’s comment.
“Radarman third, sir. Sir, the G-men have already questioned me. I mean, if it’s about—”
“At ease, Jones.”
Masters looked at the boy and then across the room to where Schaefer, the board recorder, was busily taking notes. “Sit down, Jones,” he said. He waved his hand at a chair, and Jones sat in it. He sat on the edge of the seat, Masters noticed. Quickly Masters dipped into the pocket of his shirt, pulled out a pack of cigarettes, and extended it to Jones.
“Smoke?”
Jones shook his head, and his eyes narrowed. “Are you trying to find out whether or not I smoke, sir?”
He surprised Masters. Masters kept his hand out, and he said slowly, “Yes, I am.”
“I figured. They found two dead butts in the radar shack, didn’t they? One belonged to the broad and one to the guy who strangled her.”
“You’re well informed, Jones.”
Jones shrugged. “Scuttlebutt, sir. I also heard the G-men couldn’t find anything but smeared prints on the guy’s cigarette.” He paused and smiled. “I smoke, sir.”
“Have one,” Masters said.
“No, thanks.”
Masters returned the package to his pocket. “Do you know why you’re here, Jones?”
“Sure. I’m a radarman. You figure since the radar shack was locked on Navy Day, it had to be a radarman who opened it. I’m way ahead of you, sir.”
“Do you have a key to the radar shack, Jones?”
“I had one.”
“What’d you do with it?”
“The same thing every other guy in the radar gang did the minute the nurse turned up. I deep-sixed it.”
“Why?”
“Pardon me, sir, but how long have you been in the Navy? I tossed it over the side b
ecause all the guys were doing it. I wasn’t going to be the only one caught with a key.”
“I see.”
There was a moment’s silence, and Masters glanced across the room at Schaefer. The yeoman’s head was bent over his pad, and his pencil worked furiously.
“Are we going too fast for you, Schaefer?” Masters asked.
Schaefer looked up. He had a wide face, expressionless now, with large brown eyes that looked moist. “No, sir.”
Masters nodded and turned back to the radarman. “Did you know Claire Cole, Jones?”
“No, sir. I never seen her ever. Not dead or alive.”
“Where’s Wilmington, Jones?”
“Sir?”
“Where’s Wilmington?”
“In Delaware, I guess, ain’t it?”
“You ever been there?”
“No, sir.”
“When was your last week-end liberty, Jones?”
“A couple of weeks ago.”
“When, exactly?”
“I don’t remember the date, sir. It was a few weeks back. Two weeks ago, I think.”
“Where’d you go, Jones?”
“Newport News.”
“Where in Newport News?”
“One of the flea bags. I don’t remember.”
“Were you with anyone?”
“Part of the time.”
“Who?”
Jones smiled. “You’re getting personal, sir.”
“Don’t get snotty, Jones. Who were you with?”
“Some broad. I picked her up in a bar.”
“What was her name?”
“Who knows?”
“When were you with her?”
“Saturday night.”
“Think you can find her again.”
“Maybe. Why? What’s so important?”
“You sure you don’t remember what her name was, Jones?”
“All right, I remember. Agnes. All right?”
“Agnes what?”
“I don’t know. You want to know what kind of birthmarks she had on her—”
“That’ll be all, Jones.”
Jones stood up sullenly. “You don’t think I killed that nurse, do you? You don’t think that.”
“Shove off, Jones,” Masters said.
Jones seemed undecided. He wavered for a moment and then said, “I don’t feel like no railroad, sir. You get a bunch of brass together and pick on an enlisted man, and I’ll be making small ones out of big ones. I never saw that goddamned nurse, and I—”