Murder in the Navy

by Ed McBain

  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 got 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 you?”

  “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 shake down 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 anv 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 if. 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. God-damnit.”

  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 air-tight 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.