by Ed McBain
“But if reasonable doubt exists, shouldn’t we investigate further?”
“What reasonable doubt?”
“Well …” Dickason hesitated.
“See? There really isn’t any doubt in your mind. Admit it. Would you kill yourself if you hadn’t done anything?”
“I guess not.”
“All right, then. Sign the damned report, and let’s get it off. With a little luck, we’ll be back in Washington before the week is out.”
MR. FREDERICK NORTON
HOTEL FIELDS
NORFOLK, VIRGINIA
RETURN WASHINGTON FOR FURTHER ORDERS. ADVISE COMMANDER GLENBURNE RESUME NORMAL ACTIVITY ABOARD SYKES. CONSIDER FILES CLOSED.
SALVATORE D’OGLIO
FIELD DIRECTOR
MR. AND MRS. PETER SCHAEFER
831 EAST 217 STREET
BRONX 67, NEW YORK
THE MEN AND OFFICERS OF THE USS SYKES, DD 012, WISH TO EXPRESS THEIR SINCERE SYMPATHY ON THE DEATH OF YOUR SON RICHARD SCHAEFER. AS THE WAR DEPARTMENT INFORMED. YOU AN ACCIDENT OF THIS NATURE IS EXTREMELY RARE AND ITS OCCURRENCE IS THUS DOUBLY SHOCKING. YOUR SON’S PERSONAL EFFECTS WILL. BE FORWARDED WITHIN A MATTER OF DAYS AND MEANWHILE BE CERTAIN WE SHARE YOUR LOSS DEEPLY.
JONAS R. GLENBURNE
CMDR., USNR
“It’s disgusting,” Masters said. “The old bastard sounds actually gleeful.”
“He had to send a wire,” Reynolds said. He shrugged. “He was good enough to leave out the fact that Schaefer was a goddamn murderer.”
“If he was a murderer,” Masters said.
“The FBI seems to think so. Look, Chuck, let it lie. The nurse’s home town is happy and CinCLant is happy, and the Squadron Commander is happy, and most of all the Old Man is happy. Let it lie.”
“Sure, let it lie.”
“What’s the matter?”
“Nothing.”
“No, what’s the matter? You think Schaefer didn’t do it?”
“Didn’t do what? Didn’t commit suicide, or didn’t kill the nurse?”
“Take your choice.”
“I don’t think he did either.”
“How so?”
“Did you see his effects? I did.”
“I saw them.”
“All right. If you saw them, you know Schaefer was in the middle of a letter to his folks. The letter was dated the night of the alleged suicide. Now, you can’t tell me that a guy who’s ready to leap over the fantail is going to stop a letter in the middle of a sentence and then take his swim—without even mentioning anything to his own parents.”
“Not all suicides leave notes.”
“No. But most suicides like to leave things in some state of order. Hell, Schaefer had his soap and towel laid out on his sack.”
“What’s your theory?”
“Who the hell knows? Maybe he was troubled by something. Maybe he left the letter to take a walk, or maybe he went to the head. Maybe he saw someone and stopped to talk to him. Maybe somebody shoved him over the fantail.”
“I doubt it. I doubt it very much, Chuck.”
“Yeah? Well, maybe you should take a look at his records. And then maybe you can tell me why a guy like Schaefer chose drowning as his means of suicide.”
“I don’t get it,” Reynolds said, puzzled.
“You don’t, huh? Well, it’s all in his records. Schaefer was an expert swimmer. As a matter of fact, he applied for underwater demolition school when he first entered the Navy. Now you tell me how an expert swimmer expects to drown by jumping over the side!”
“Well …”
“Think it over, Mike. And think over motives while you’re at it. Let’s assume Schaefer did kill the nurse. If he’s caught, the Navy hangs him. That’s the penalty for murder, isn’t it?”
“Yes.”
“All right, all he has to lose is his life, right? He’s in the reserve, so he really doesn’t give a damn about a Navy career or honors or glory or what the hell have you? He’s just putting in time, waiting to get back into civvies. If he gets away with the murder, he’s out of the Navy and free. If he doesn’t, he hangs and loses his life. That’s all he can lose; his life. A man smart enough to kill Claire Cole would also be smart enough to take the gamble. But Schaefer didn’t, or at least you’re telling me he didn’t. He took his own life, the only thing he had to lose.” Masters paused. “I’m sorry. I don’t buy it.”
“What do you buy?”
“I buy a murderer still walking around this goddamned tub. Only now the score is two, and everything is all smoothed out. Activity resumed, nobody restricted to the ship any more. That sonofabitch must be in seventh heaven right now. It burns me up. It makes me sore that somebody thinks he can get away with something like this. And it makes me sorer to-think of the meatheads up the chain of command who are tickled pink over Schaefer’s alleged suicide.”
“Stop calling it ‘alleged,’ Chuck. CinCLant—”
“CinCLant, my bloody foot! CinCLant is just as tickled as everyone else. Now the pressure’s off, and everybody can relax. Everybody can go on bucking for his fourth stripe or a few more scrambled eggs on his hat. Everybody can go to the Officers’ Club and drink a toast to the brilliant investigation board. And everybody can forget all about a dead nurse, and a poor slob who lived in the Bronx! It stinks! For two cents, I’d—”
“Take it easy, Chuck. The case is closed.”
“I know.”
“There’s nothing more to be done.”
“I know.”
“Just relax, Chuck.”
“That’s just what I’m going to do. I’m going to the Club tonight, and I’m going to get stinking blind.”
6
It is very pleasant here, Masters thought.
I like the lighting, and I like the soft music, and I even like the background of muted voices. Most of all, I like the Scotch. You have to hand it to the Navy, they certainly know how to choose Scotch.
And Scotch is a miraculous cure-all, a medicine for the soul. He grinned and twirled the liquid in his glass, listening to the ice cubes clink against its side. It even tastes like medicine the first few times, he thought. Only the first few times, After that, you get used to it, and the bloody stuff has no taste any more, and that’s the highest recommendation you can give any medicine.
He wondered if there were Scotch aboard for medicinal purposes. No, brandy, it would be—and the pharmacist’s mates had probably consumed all that a long time ago. Pity the poor bastard who fell overboa …
Well, now, he thought, here we are back again. Like a merry-go-round, Lieutenant Masters. Around and around, and always back to that poor sonofabitch yeoman who got shoved off the fantail.
One of them did it, that was certain. Either Jones, the radarman, or Daniels, the other yeoman. That was for certain. Now, if this wasn’t the Navy, we would take both those bastards and beat them black and blue until one of them confessed. If this wasn’t the Navy. But this is the Navy, Lieutenant Masters. God, you should certainly know that.
Yes, I most certainly do know that. This is the Navy, and the case is closed, and we’re ready to start another case, Scotch this time. Don’t you ever want to become a lieutenant commander, Lieutenant Masters? If you do, drink up and forget Claire Cole, and forget Richard Schaefer, and go about your business. Drink up.
Eat, drink, and make Mary, for tomorrow …
Tomorrow. Oh, well, tomorrow. Where’s Mary now? That’s the important question before the big investigation board. Where’s Mary now?
He sipped a little more Scotch, aware of the fact that his head was becoming a little muddled and his thinking a bit unclear. He drained the glass and looked around the dimly lighted room and his mind echoed, Where’s Mary?
The hell with Mary, he thought. I don’t even know any Mary. It’s time for another Scotch. Scotty, that’s who I know. He got unsteadily to his feet and made his way to the bar. He plunked down his glass and said, “Scotch and water, please. And go easy on the ice cubes.”
Yes, sir, yes, sir, three bags full. One snoot full that’s all I need. Where the hell’s that Scotch?
“Hey!” he called.
“Coming sir.”
“Yeah, well, today, not sometime next year.”
“Here you are, sir. Scotch and water, easy on the ice.”
Easy on the eyes, indeed! Who’s the punster in our midst? Lowest form of animal life is a punster.
He lifted his face and looked at the man behind the bar, the man who held his drink extended.
“Well, now,” he said aloud.
“Sir?”
“Well, now, Mr. Jones. Mr. Radarman Third Class Jones. Well, now, what the hell are you doing serving me drinks?”
Jones smiled and put the tall glass down on the bartop. “You ordered a Scotch and water, sir,” he said. His eyes secretly amused, as if the sight of an officer three sheets to the wind pleased him.
“I know what I ordered, Jones. I know damn well what I ordered. Now tell me what you’re doing behind that bar, Jones. You standing radar watch at the Officers’ Club?”
“I swung the duty, sir.”
“I thought the duty was reserved for steward’s mates and such, Jones.”
Jones winked slyly. “Not if you know the right people, sir.”
“And you know the right people, huh? Who are these right people, Jones?”
“Connections, sir. A ship ain’t all spit and polish, you know.”
“Maybe I should know your connections, huh, Jones? Maybe I’d stop getting mid-watches, huh?”
Jones smiled again. “Maybe, sir.”
“Tell me, Jones. What’s so special about Club duty? How come you need connections to get it?”
Jones shrugged. “You know, sir.”
“No, I don’t know. I honestly do not know, so help me. Tell me, Jones.”
“Well, there’s liquor around, you know.”
“Ahhh, liquor.”
“Yes, sir.”
“Am I to believe that you have been copping a nip now and then, Jones?”
“Did I say that, sir?” Jones was grinning broadly at him now.
“No, you did not. You very carefully did not say that. You’re a smart cookie, Jones.”
“Thank you, sir.”
“A very smart cookie. You and the other one, only one is smarter than both of you together. He’d have to be to do what he did and do it the way he did it. He’s the real smart one. Are you the real smart one, Jones?”
“Sir?”
“You see, that’s very smart. Pretend ignorance. Very smart. You’re smart, all right, Jones.”
A Wave officer staggered to the bar and banged her glass down on the top. She was a redhead, and she’d taken off her jacket, and her blouse hung out of her skirt in the back.
“Hey, Jonesy,” she called. “Le’s have a little service.”
“Yes, ma’am,” Jones said. He walked down the bar to the Wave, smiled, and took her glass. “The same, ma’am?”
“I’m a miss, not a ma’am,” the Wave complained.
“Yes, miss. The same?”
“The same, Jonesy.”
Well, Masters thought, here’s Mary now. God, is that Mary?
Jones poured a whisky sour and brought it to the Wave, setting it down before her. The Wave took the drink, threw off half of it, and then leaned forward, her breasts pressing against the edge of the bar.
“You’re cute, you know, Jonesy?”
“Thank you, ma’am.”
“Miss, not ma’am. I’m a miss, Jonesy. Remember that.”
“I will, miss.”
“Good. You goddamn better well remember it, ’cause. I outrank you in spades.”
“Yes, miss,” Jones said.
“In spades.” She nodded her head in accord with herself, swept the glass from the bar, and walked with drunken dignity back to her table in the corner.
Masters said, “Nice, huh, Jones?”
“Sir?”
“The broad.”
“Oh. Yes, sir, if you say so, sir.”
“Is that another reason Club duty is desirable, Jones?”
“The broads, you mean?” Jones shrugged. “Officers’ stuff, sir. Not for the lowly.”
“You sound bitter, Jones.”
“Me? Perish it, sir. I’m the world’s happiest.”
“Why?”
“I just am. Why be bitter. Things are tough all—”
“Yeah, I know.”
“You want another drink, sir?”
“No. Thanks, Jones. I think I’ll see if I can’t find Mary.”
“Who, sir?”
“You wouldn’t know her, Jones. Officers’ stuff.”
He turned and put his elbows on the bar, and then began a methodical scrutiny of the room. The Wave with the whisky sour was sitting with a commander, so that was out; she sure as hell was not Mary, not for Masters, anyway. He kept turning his head in short jerks, scrutinizing the place the way he’d scan the horizon for an enemy ship. Perfect lookout procedure, he thought.
When he saw her, he didn’t recognize her at first. She was in dress uniform, and he remembered her in starched white. But he was glad to see her, and he was surprised she was sitting alone.
He lifted his glass and walked across the room, trying to maintain his sense of balance. She was toying with her drink, and. she did not see him as he approached. When he reached her table, he cleared his throat.
“Miss Dvorak,” he said. “Jean Dvorak.”
She seemed flustered, and he hoped to hell she wouldn’t blush. Only roses should blush, not women. “Hello, Mr. Masters,” she said.
“Chuck,” he reminded her. “May I sit down?”
“Well …”
She hesitated and looked around the room, and he quickly asked, “Or are you with someone?”
She bit her lower lip. “Well, I was. But she seems to have disappeared or something.”
Masters sat down. “She?” he asked.
“Yes. She.”
He grinned, and Jean Dvorak grinned back, and her face opened again, and he knew he’d never get over what a smile could do for her.
“You should smile more often,” he said.
“Really? Why?”
He nodded his head. “That was the proper answer. When a gentleman gives a cue for a compliment, the lady should always supply the proper answer. That was the proper answer.”
Jean blushed, and he felt instantly sorry for what he’d said. “I’m sorry,” she said softly. “I had no intention of being coy.”
“Nor I of being a cavalier. You should smile more often because you’re quite beautiful when you do.”
“Thank you,” she said.
“Not at all. What are drinking?”
She looked down at her drink as if seeing it for the first time. “Oh, I really don’t know,” she said, seemingly flustered again. “Mary ordered it for me. She’s the one who was—”
“Mary!” He opened his eyes wide, and then the laugh bubbled from his mouth. “Mary! Oh, God, no. Oh, God, that can’t be true. Mary! Well, no wonder she’s lost.”
Jean looked bewildered. “I’m sorry, I don’t understand.”
“A private gag,” Masters said. “Forgive me, it was rude.”
“That’s quite all right.”
“No, really. I’m very sorry. It was a personal joke, and a somewhat low one, at that.”
“That’s all right.”
“And I’m forgiven?”
“Really, there’s no need for—”
“Say I’m forgiven. Please do.
She smiled, and he unconsciously smiled back. “You’re forgiven.”
“Good. Excellent. I feel much better.”
“I’d say you were feeling pretty good to begin with.”
“Scotch,” he said. “The cure-all. I’m drowning my sorrows.”
“Your sorrows?”
“The postsuicide blues.”
�
��Oh. That boy on your ship.”
“Yes.”
“I saw it in the base newspaper. It was terrible, wasn’t it?”
“More so than you think.”
“I don’t understand.”
“The wrong man, sweetheart. The wrong man.”
She wrinkled her forehead, and he said, “Please don’t do that.”
“What?” she asked.
“Your, forehead, the wrinkles. They’ll stay that way.”
“Oh. I’m sorry. What did you mean about the wrong man?”
“Forget it. It’s all part of the postsuicide blues.” He looked at her and said, “You’re doing it again. You’ll be sorry when you’re forty.”
“You mean you think he’s not the one who murdered Claire?”
“Ah. Yes, that’s what I think. Or that’s what I think I think. Listen, do we have to stay here? Don’t all these commanders and captains and assorted brass give you the willies?”
“Well …”
“I know. Don’t say it. You’re waiting for Mr. Right. I saw it on your face that day I asked you for dinner. O.K., apologies extended. I’ll fold my Scotch, like the Arabs and silently steal away.”
She giggled suddenly, and then covered her mouth. “You’re really quite amusing when you’re … when you’re this way, you know. Forgive me, I shouldn’t have laughed.”
“Honey,” he said, “your laugh outdistances your smile.” He frowned. “That’s a hard word to say, the way I feel. Outdistances. Which is what I shall do right now. Thanks for the use of your table, Miss Dvorak.”
He stood, and she put her hand on his sleeve.
“No, don’t go,” she said. “It’s all right.”
He stared down at her. “What’s all right?”
“I mean …”
“You mean you’ll come with me? We’ll leave all these stripe-happy bastards, pardon me, behind and seek some fresh air that doesn’t stink of the Navy?”
She giggled again. “Well, I wasn’t going to put it exactly that way.”
“Ma’am,” he said, “miss, Jean, there’s only one way to put it. Only one way. Let’s get the hell out of here, but first let me say good-by to a remaining third of the triumvirate.”
“My heavens, who’s that?”
“He poses now as Bacchus, but he may really be Morpheus.”
“Morpheus?”
“The guy who puts people to sleep. I’ll be right back.” He staggered across the room and stopped in front of the bar.