Murder in the Navy

by Ed McBain

  “Sir?”

  “Understand that in my mind absolute justice has been done.”

  “I understand, sir.”

  Glenburne studied his fingertips. “This … ah, ashore. You said you wanted to go ashore for a minute. Is it important?”

  “Fairly so, sir.”

  “A girl?”

  Masters hesitated. “Yes, sir.”

  “I see.” Glenburne cleared his throat. “Perhaps … perhaps a little diversion is what you need. I mean, to take your mind off this … other business.”

  “Perhaps, sir.”

  “Had you planned on seeing this girl?”

  “Yes, sir, I had hoped to. Before your announcement, of course.”

  “Of course, your full complement probably won’t arrive at Brigantine until tomorrow sometime.”

  “Oh, is that right, sir?”

  “Yes. I thought it might be advisable for you to get there first—you know, sort of get acquainted with the setup.” Glenburne considered for a moment. “But if this girl will take your mind off the dead nurse …” He paused. “Do you think she might, Chuck?”

  Masters smiled at the blackmail attempt. “She might, sir.”

  “Then why don’t we postpone the trip until first thing in the morning? Give the office a little time to get the necessary papers for you and your men, anyway. No sense rushing them, they’ve been pretty jammed, what with the promotions business, and now the leave schedule. How about that, Chuck? Give you a chance to see this girl of yours.”

  “I’d like that, sir,” Masters said. “Thank you.”

  “Not at all,” Glenburne said. “You just need a little relaxation, that’s all.” He smiled fraternally. “Little relaxation never hurt anyone, eh, Chuck?”

  “No, sir.”

  “That’s why I always see to it that my men get sufficient leave. A good policy, don’t you agree?”

  “Oh, yes, sir.”

  The two men were silent for a moment. “Well, there’s nothing else on my mind, Chuck,” Glenburne said at last.

  Masters rose. “Thank you again, sir,” he said, starting for the door. When his hand was on the doorknob, Glenburne said, “And Chuck?”

  “Yes, sir?”

  Glenburne smiled. “Enjoy yourself, boy.”

  The leave schedule and the promotions list were posted side by side on the bulletin board amidships.

  He studied them both very carefully, and then shoved his way through the knot of men crowding the passageway. When he reached the rail, he tossed his cigarette butt over the side.

  He walked toward the fantail, and when one of the men greeted him in passing, he did not answer. His mouth was a hard line across his face, and his brows were tightly knotted.

  So that’s the way it is, he thought. That’s the way it’s going to be.

  He was angry, and the anger showed in his face and in the purposeful strides he took. When he reached the fantail, he sat on one of the depth-charge racks and lighted another cigarette.

  Dry dock, he thought. Dry dock while they rip out the goddamn guts of the ship. That’s great, just great.

  He thought again of the names he’d seen posted on the bulletin board. The thought angered him once more, and he viciously flipped the barely smoked cigarette away.

  He was sitting near the fantail, but he did not think of the man he’d thrown overboard so short a time ago. He thought only of his own personal anger, and of officers shoving enlisted men around, and his thoughts made him angrier.

  He shoved his hat onto the back of his head, stood abruptly, and headed for the quarter-deck. He’d show them, by Christ! Do that to a man, and you get beans in return. Beans, and cold. He’d show them.

  Besides, it was time enough. It was time enough now, and even Masters would be up to his neck with all this conversion. They wouldn’t suspect now, and those names on the bulletin board were all he needed to prompt him to action.

  He stepped into the passageway amidships and then through the hatch just outside sick bay. The hatch to sick bay was open, and he saw Connerly, one of the pharmacist’s mates, inside reading a comic book.

  “You open for business?” he asked.

  Connerly looked up. He was a young boy with a wild spatter of freckles across his nose and cheeks. He had bright green eyes, and he widened them now and said, “Jesus; you again?”

  “I don’t feel good,” he answered.

  “You never do,” Connerly said. “You spend more time in the hospital than the medics do.”

  “If you chancre mechanics did it right the first time,” he cracked, “I wouldn’t be coming back so often.”

  “Yeah, yeah. What is it now?” Connerly stood and dumped the comic book onto one of the racks. “You get a dose or something?”

  “Don’t get smart, Connerly. I think I’ve got a fever.”

  “Well, we’ll find out,” Connerly said wearily. He took a thermometer from where it stood in a jar of alcohol. He wiped the bulb clean with a wad of absorbent cotton.

  “You see the lists they posted?”

  “What lists?” Connerly asked.

  “Amidships. Leave and promotions. Both. Maybe you hit the jackpot, boy.”

  “No joke? You’re not snowing me?”

  “No joke,” he said. “Go take a look.”

  “Sure. Here, boy, stick this in your mouth. Three minutes. I’ll be back before then. Leaves and promotions, huh? Man!”

  Connerly handed him the thermometer and then left the compartment. He waited until Connerly was well out of sight and then he held the thermometer in the palm of his hand and watched the rising silver line of mercury. He took the book of matches from his shirt pocket then, struck one, and held it beneath the bulb of the thermometer. He let the mercury go up to 103 degrees, and then blew out the match. It would probably go down some before Connerly came back. Maybe he should have brought it up to 104. Hell, no. A man’s probably dead at 104.

  He allowed the bulb to cool slightly, and then put the thermometer back into his mouth. He had it there for thirty seconds when Connerly burst into the compartment.

  “Christ, mate!” he said in delight. “I hit second class! And I’m up for leave in two weeks. Brother, how’s that?”

  He nodded at Connerly, and the pharmacist’s mate seemed to remember the thermometer abruptly. He crossed the deck, took the slender glass rod between his thumb and forefinger, and then looked at it carefully.

  “Boy,” he said. “Boy.”

  “What is it?”

  “A hundred and two point eight,” Connerly said. “I guess you really are sick.”

  “You think I’d snow you?”

  “I guess not. We’ll get you over to the hospital. It’s probably cat fever or some damn thing.”

  “The hospital again,” he complained. “Jesus, a man can’t—”

  “Second class!” Connerly said, still not able to believe it. “And a leave in two weeks.” He paused and turned suddenly. “Hey, how’d you make out?”

  “All right. Listen, if I’m going to the hospital, let’s get started. I feel like hell.”

  “Sure. Sure. I’ll talk to the Chief. You can walk, can’t you? I mean, we don’t need a stretcher or an ambulance?”

  “Go talk to the Chief,” he said.

  That evening, on his way to the quarter-deck and his date with Jean Dvorak, Masters passed through the midships passageway. He saw the posted lists standing side by side on the bulletin board, and he went over for a closer look. His eyes scanned first one list and then the other.

  Jones had made radarman second class. He nodded, remembering approving the promotion a long while ago. He looked for Daniels’ name on the promotion sheet. It was not there. The yeoman had not advanced.

  On the leave schedule, Daniels was up for a leave in three weeks.

  Jones’s name was not on the leave schedule at all.

  8

  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.”

&nb
sp; “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 he 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.