Murder in the Navy

by Ed McBain

  The debate assumed major proportions in his mind. He was an officer of the United States Navy, he reminded himself, and his conduct should become an officer of the United States Navy, but the thigh persistently winked at him in the reflection. The girl had put down her magazine now, and he caught a glimpse of the title. One of the romance magazines, and that too weighed heavily in the young lady’s favor. She sucked in a deep breath that threatened the strength of her upper garments, and Masters was almost ready to rise and make the young lady’s acquaintance when he thought of Jean Dvorak. At the same time, one of the radarmen walked down the aisle and plopped into the vacant seat beside Masters, so that he never really knew whether it was the radarman or Jean Dvorak who prevented him from getting to meet and perhaps know the redhead with the extroverted thigh.

  “Hello, Mr. Masters,” the radarman said.

  “Hello,” Masters answered. He did not turn his head. If a redhead could not budge him from the dubious comfort he had at last achieved, a radarman certainly wasn’t going to turn the trick.

  “Mind if I sit here?” the radarman asked.

  “Go right ahead,” Masters said.

  The radarman, who was already sitting anyway, made himself comfortable. “Ah, this is nice,” he murmured.

  Masters wondered about his sanity, until he realized the radarman was sitting directly opposite the redhead, without the slightly smudged hindrance of a reflection in the window.

  “Ain’t it, sir?” the radarman said.

  “The ride, or the scenery?” Masters asked.

  “Oh, both, sir. Both.”

  Masters grunted, not moving his head.

  “Very nice,” the radarman said, apparently very comfortable in the seat now, apparently planning to spend the night there, or perhaps the rest of the month, or even the rest of his life. “When you think we’ll be there, sir?”

  “Early in the morning,” Masters said.

  “Think we’ll get liberty?”

  “I doubt it.”

  “Oh.”

  “I can’t see your face,” Masters said, “and I don’t want to turn.”

  The radarman looked at him curiously, wondering if the Lieutenant were sick or something.

  “Who are you?” Masters asked.

  “Me?” the radarman asked back.

  “Yes.”

  “Oh. I’m Caldroni. Hey, don’t you know me? Sir?”

  “Yes, Caldroni. I know you very well.”

  “For a minute there—”

  “Where are the other men?”

  “Oh, all in this car.”

  “Good.”

  “Yes, sir.” Caldroni was silent for a long while. “Sir?” he whispered at length.

  “Mmm?”

  “She’s something, ain’t she, sir?” he whispered.

  “The redhead?”

  “Yes, sir.”

  “Yes, she’s something.”

  “Begging your pardon, sir, but is there anything outside that window that is important to our mission, sir? What I mean to say, sir, is that if you are concerned with duty, I can understand your interest. But if you are not, sir, then may I suggest—”

  “I am concerned with comfort, Caldroni,” Masters said.

  “To be sure, sir. Aren’t we all?” His voice dropped to a whisper again. “This one is built for comfort, sir.”

  “Yes, I know.”

  “Yes, sir.” Caldroni glanced at the redhead again. “Sir, have you ever been to Atlantic City?”

  “No,” Masters said.

  “A very nice place, I understand. One of the fellows lives in Jersey. He says Atlantic City is real gone.”

  “I’m glad to hear that.”

  “Yes, sir. You think there won’t be no liberty at all, sir? None at all?”

  “We’ll see,” Masters said. He paused. “Did the others send you, Caldroni?”

  “The others? What others, sir?”

  “The men in the radar gang.”

  “Oh, no, sir. Send me where, sir?”

  “Send you here. To find out if there’d be liberty in Atlantic City or not.”

  “Oh, no, sir. Nossir, sir. Why, whatever put that idea into your head, Mr. Masters?”

  “Just an idle thought, Caldroni. Well there may be liberty, we’ll see.”

  “That’s very good, sir.”

  “And now I suppose you’ll be leaving my company?”

  “Well, sir, if you don’t mind—that is, I rather like this seat, you know?” Caldroni looked at the redhead again and wet his lips.

  “I see.” Masters paused. “Liberty is a funny word, isn’t it? It implies imprisonment.”

  “Sir?”

  Masters shrugged. “Another idle thought,” he said. “Forget it.” He paused again. “What do you do on liberty, Caldroni?”

  “Prowl,” Caldroni said, smiling.

  “Do all the men prowl?”

  “Most of ’em, I guess. Unless they’re dead. Or married.”

  Daniels, Masters thought. Perry Daniels. Married.

  “Not many married men in our crew, are there Caldroni?”

  “No, not many,” Caldroni agreed. “A few, though.”

  “Do you know Perry Daniels?”

  “Oh, yes, sir.”

  “Well?”

  “Very well, sir. I had a personal interest in Daniels at one time. A sort of a professional interest, so to speak. What about him, sir?”

  “Is he married?”

  “Daniels?” Caldroni chuckled. “Hell, no, sir, you’ll pardon me.”

  Masters turned his head, forsaking the comfort he’d attained. “How do you know, Caldroni?”

  “Well, it’s just a fact, that’s all. Daniels ain’t married. I mean, you’ll forgive me, sir, I think he’s a regular ladies’ man, you know what I mean?”

  “No. What do you mean?”

  “Well, sir, when you get aboard a ship, you don’t know nobody from a hole in the wall, you know what I mean? A hole in the bulkhead, of course.” Caldroni seemed embarrassed by his nonnautical slip.

  “Yes, go on.”

  “So you start putting out feelers, you know? First you find out which of the officers is O.K., and which of them stinks. Present company excluded, naturally.”

  “Naturally?”

  “A chicken officer can make things tough for you, Mr. Masters, and I ain’t casting no aspersions, but the Sykes sure got its quota of chicken officers. Present company excluded, naturally.”

  “Naturally. Go on.”

  “So you learn which officers you can live with, and which officers you wished was dead, and you avoid the ones you can’t get along with. You see them strolling down the deck, you cut into a passageway, you follow? In a ship’s politics, you got to know which politicians can do the most for you. It’s like making a choice—you belong to either the Republican Club or the Democratic Club. O.K., so it’s the officers first, because they’re most important in making your life comfortable. Then you start looking around and figuring which of the enlisted men you want to buddy with.”

  “I see.”

  “We’re lucky ’cause the radar gang is a nice bunch of guys. But like I said, that’s lucky. They could’ve been a bunch of lemons, and then I’d have been up the creek without a paddle. I didn’t take no chances, anyway. When I come aboard, I started making my own private inquiries.”

  “What’s all this got to do with Perry Daniels?”

  “Well, sir, you got to choose who you want on liberty, you follow? You don’t want a slob, and you don’t want a guy’s too eager, and at the same time you don’t want some jerk doesn’t know how to part his hair right, you see? If you’re going to prowl, you got to choose a good prowling mate. Now, Singer is just about the best prowling mate a buddy could have. Now, he really knows how to approach a girl. You can put Singer ashore in any town in the world, and I can guarantee—”

  “But what about Daniels?”

  “Daniels? He’s got a rep. He makes out. So naturally, I wante
d to latch onto him. But he operates solo.”

  “How’d you find that out?”

  “By circulating, how you think? You drop a query here and a query there, you know how it works. You see the way the guy dresses, whether he’s got tailor-mades or the reg blues, whether he makes the most of his uniform in a good sailor town, or whether he wears civvies, things like that. I got to admit Daniels threw me at first. That crew cut, you know? I figured him for a boot. But he’s a smart cookie. That haircut gives him a nice boyish look, makes the broads want to clutch him to their bosoms, you’ll pardon me. He arouses—what would you call it—sympathy, I guess.”

  “And he’s not married? You’re sure of that?”

  “If he is, sir, he’s sure kept it a big secret.”

  “Yes, he certainly has.”

  “Now, maybe you’re confusing his liberty maneuvers with marriage, sir.”

  “How do you mean, Caldroni?”

  “Well, like I told you, this Daniels is good. He’s nothing like Singer, you understand, because Singer never misses, never, sir, and that’s the God’s truth. But Daniels ain’t bad, so maybe you’re confusing … Well, sir, it’s almost like being married, when you get right down to it, I guess.”

  “What is, Caldroni?”

  “You keep this under your hat, sir?”

  “Certainly.”

  “Daniels, he don’t confine his activities to the Norfolk theatre of operations, sir.”

  “He doesn’t?”

  “No, sir.”

  “Newport News?”

  “Oh, without saying, sir. But Daniels got more far-reaching operations in hand, sir.”

  “How far-reaching?”

  “Pretty far-reaching, sir. Leastwise, that’s what Schaefer, Lord rest his soul, told me.”

  Masters sat rigidly at attention now. “Schaefer told you something about Perry Daniels?”

  “Oh, yes, sir. ’Course, Schaefer turned out to be a killer and all, so maybe his word ain’t so good, Lord rest his soul. But he told me this long before he bumped off that nurse, so maybe it’s the truth. In fact, sir, I know part of it’s the truth, ’cause I done some checking on my own.” Caldroni paused. “Like I said, this is when I first come aboard, when I was still casting around for a prowlmate. Now, I got Singer, so I—”

  “Never mind Singer, damnit! What’d Schaefer tell you? What’d you find out about Daniels?”

  Caldroni’s eyes opened wide. “Well, sir, I got to talkin’ to Schaefer coupla times when I first come aboard. It don’t hurt to know somebody in the Ship’s Office. Never know when you’re going to need a new I.D. card or a liberty—”

  “What’d Schaefer tell you?”

  “He was the one first tipped me off Daniels was a big man with the broads.”

  “What’d he say?”

  “Said Daniels had a big network of steady shack-ups all over the country. Now, I don’t know about all over the country, but I know Daniels was operating outside Norfolk. I checked.”

  “How?”

  “Well, I figured this Daniels was a man to know, you know? So I begun watching the way he operated. Not in Norfolk, that boy. Oh, no. I followed him all the way to the train station once, just trying to find out where this boy had his deal. Asked the ticket guy after Daniels bought his ticket, Mr. Masters.”

  “Where did he go?”

  “Shrewd cookie, this boy. This was when I was interested in becoming partners, so to speak. When I found out he was a lone wolf, well, hell, there wasn’t no sense studyin’ his operation no more. That’s about when I run across Singer, right in the radar gang, right in my own backyard.”

  “Where was Daniels going? The time you followed him to the railroad station?”

  “Oh. Wilmington, sir.”

  “Wilmington,” Masters repeated.

  “Yeah, he’s got a nice little shack-up there, I’ll bet,” Caldroni said.

  “Had,” Masters said, and Caldroni eyed him quizzically.

  A tall radarman with his white cap tilted back on his head sauntered down the aisle and sat in the seat next to the redhead.

  “My name’s Fred Singer,” he said, smiling. “What’s yours?”

  12

  It was early morning at N.O.B., Norfolk, Virginia.

  The mist that had clung to the front lawns of the base, spreading down from the barracks to the wide, winding concrete streets, had risen slowly, like a specter being called back to the grave at dawn, leaving the brick and the concrete drenched with a wintry sunlight. The men on the base lined up for chow, or made their sacks, or brushed their teeth. The four-to-eight watch was relieved, and on the ships tied up alongside the docks or moored in the bay the men lined up for muster.

  In the hospital, a pharmacist’s mate named Greg Barter brought breakfast to the man in 107. He wheeled the food in on a cart, and he put the glass of orange juice, the steaming bowl of cereal, the soft-boiled eggs, the slices of toast, the glass of milk onto a tray methodically and then shifted the tray to his patient’s lap.

  “Good morning, sir,” he said cheerily, imitating the manner and friendliness of a hotel bellhop. “Is everything all right this morning, sir?”

  “Everything’s fine, thank you.”

  “Fever coming along nicely?” Greg asked.

  “Very nicely, thank you.”

  “Does that mean it’s going down, or steady as she goes?”

  He looked at Greg warily. There was something about this bastard, something that needed watching. It was just his luck to have a character like this one rung in on him. Greg’s eyebrows were raised in mild anticipation now, his face smug and wisely apprehensive.

  “Steady as she goes, sir?” Greg asked.

  “I think it’s going down some,” he answered.

  “Ah, good, good. Nothing I like better than to see a man getting well. That’s our job, you know. That’s what all we poor hospital lackeys get paid for, isn’t it? We’re essentially pan handlers, but we like to see our dear little patients get on their feet again. Humanitarians, we are.”

  “I’ll bet,” he said.

  “Ah, but we are,” Greg answered. “Say, mate, would you like to hear an occupational joke? Sort of brighten up your morning, eh, speed you on the way to recovery?”

  “If you like.” He drank the orange juice and looked over at Greg.

  “Where’d you go through boots?” Greg asked.

  “What’s it to you?”

  “You don’t like answering questions, do you?”

  “No, I don’t.”

  “Well, no matter,” Greg said. “I went to Great Lakes. You familiar with Section Eight?”

  “Yes.”

  “The nut-house unit, you know? Where they keep the psychos. Well, this story takes place in Section Eight. You listening?”

  “I’m listening.” He put some salt on his eggs and picked up a spoon.

  “Want to eat that cereal, mate,” Greg said kindly. “Give you your strength back.”

  “My eggs’ll get cold.”

  “Sure, but eat your cereal, anyway.”

  He shrugged and picked up a tablespoon instead, digging into the cereal.

  “Good, ain’t it?” Greg asked.

  “Yes.”

  “Well, this story. It’s really a sort of a riddle. You ready?”

  “I’m ready.”

  “This pharmacist’s mate,” Greg said, “is making the rounds in Section Eight, carrying the pan around, you see.”

  “Yeah?”

  “So, what did the pharmacist’s mate say to one of the psychos?”

  “I don’t know. What did the pharmacist’s mate say to one of the psychos?”

  “Wanna peanut?”

  “Huh?”

  “Wanna peanut? Don’t you get it? He’s carrying around the pan, you see, and—”

  “I get it,” he said.

  Greg shrugged. “Where’s your sense of humor?”

  “Listen, don’t you have any other stops to make?”

&
nbsp; “You’re my last stop, Lover. Ain’t you glad?”

  “I’m tickled.”

  “You ever get a breakfast like that on your ship?”

  “Sure,” he said.

  “Nah, not like this one. There’s nothing like hospital duty, is there, mate?”

  “My ship’s a good one,” he said.

  “Which ship is that?” Greg asked.

  He hesitated. “The Sykes,” he said at last.

  “The Sykes. What’s that, a DE?”

  “A DD.”

  “Oh, a D … The Sykes, did you say?” Greg’s eyes narrowed. “You off the Sykes, huh?”

  “Yeah. What’s the matter with that?”

  “Nothing.” Greg paused, thinking. “You boys had a lot of trouble there recently, didn’t you?”

  “No trouble at all,” he answered.

  “I’m talking about Miss Cole,” Greg said, his eyes squinched up tightly now.

  “Oh, yeah. That.” He shoved his cereal bowl aside and started on his eggs.

  “FBI and everything, huh?”

  “Yeah.”

  “What was this guy’s name who did it?”

  “Schaefer,” he answered, his eyes on the egg.

  “Schaefer. Sounds familiar. He ever pull duty here?”

  “I wouldn’t know.”

  “Yeoman, wasn’t he?”

  “Yeah.”

  “Mmmm.”

  “What’s wrong with being a yeoman? Listen, ain’t you got anyplace else to go? What’s this? The local hangout?”